CHAPTER EIGHT ('ish)

Chap 8 - Pt 1 (BUT THEN TWO HOURS THERE BEFORE...)

The ride out to the Lightninged Tree—as Richard preferred to call it—took a little more than fifteen minutes. The road was ragged by all appearances, rough in places where the potholes were deep; but most of the potholes were off on the sides of the road, enabling Sonia to make better time than Nigel would’ve thought possible in an automobile. He could see her smile when she caught him looking at the speedometer.

It’s the type of road, he thought, made for a motorcycle.

The smooth, rolling hills of the Devon countryside were a palette of vibrant colours, and with the morning sun standing bright over the hills, there was a muted haze hanging low in the distance. Endless acres of farmland appeared, separated by a hodgepodge of hedgerows—looking almost as if ribbons of green bunting had been randomly tossed into the distance—while a small stream—a rill, Nigel smiled to himself, remembering the word from some obscure poem he’d read as a child—passed through and around the trees, following the lay of the land. He looked up at tall aspens swaying in the gentle rhythm of a breeze coming up from the south, pushing the few clouds in the sky, northward.

It’s beautiful countryside, he had to admit.

As much as he told himself he wanted to get back to the city, there were times it seemed when the countryside called out to him when he was on his motorcycle; that was when he’d pull over to the side of the road and simply look about as he drank cold tea from a thermos and enjoyed a bowl of his pipe. Willows grew wild, their tentacled branches scraping the ground with the frenzied trauma of a wounded animal.

He was grateful that it was still warm enough to have the top down, and wondered how Richard was faring in the backseat, baring the brunt of the wind and the spray of the larger puddles she hit. The smaller tributaries and streams had flooded with all the rain over the last few days, and he could see large, open ponds in the distance, winking in the morning light.

“It rides nice,” Nigel said over the roar of the engine and the splash of the puddles. He’d wondered if she’d heard him when Richard spoke up.

“And you say your Daddy bought you this car?”

“He did. It was a gift, so to speak,” she said, turning her head and talking over her shoulder.

“What does that mean? ‘So to speak’?” Nigel asked.

“He’s a doctor. Having a nurse—slash—daughter was a dream come true, for him. But then the War came, and by the time it ended, I’d had enough of nursing. I’d served on the Front, at the Battle of the Somme, my first week there.”

“His Lordship’s son died there,” Richard said with a trace of sadness.

A respectful moment of silence passed, unannounced, but not unnoticed.

“That doesn’t answer my question,” Nigel smiled.

“What was it again?” she teased.

“Ha!” he mocked. “A fine detective you’ll make, when you can’t even remember a simple conversation.”

“Touché,” she laughed. “But no. I was sick of it all. I think he understood—my father, I mean. When I came home, I stayed in my room for five days. I never came out. For anything. I had to sort things out in my mind. I saw horrific injuries. I could take that. I could see a man come in, holding his guts in his hands, but I couldn’t handle sitting at their bedsides and holding their hands while they called out for their mothers before they died. That was hard for me.”

“I can see that it might be,” Nigel nodded.

“Can you?” She looked at him for a long moment before turning her attention back to the road. “After I came out of my room, I told my father I was done with nursing. He seemed disappointed, but, like I said, he’s an understanding man. He asked me if I was thinking of going into teaching. I thought he meant being a school teacher, but he said, no. Nursing.”

“But that’s not getting out, is it?”

“That’s what I told him—”

“Take this trail up here, Mum,” Richard said, sitting forward in the backseat and eagerly pointing to the right. Sonia veered off the road following what looked to be little more than an animal trail.

“The trail seems smoother than whatever that is they call a road,” Nigel laughed, and Richard sat back in his seat, saying, “Won’t be far now.”

And it wasn’t.

They topped the hill and Nigel could see the tree in a small lea, sitting behind a small hillock where the hedgerow bisected it. The tree was well weathered at the point where the lightning had struck it some years ago. It appeared ancient with its gnarly, twisted branches, and split trunk. It had started out as an oak he could see, but now resembled something he’d call Gothic.

Somehow seems to suit the house, he thought; well, that’s what Charlie would say.

The trunk had been struck by lightning before Richard was born, he said—probably even before his father’s time. What leaves were left on the tree were brilliant with colours, Nigel saw, and he watched the topmost branches rippling in the light breeze. The tree had to be centuries old for it to have survived a strike like that, he thought. The ground was covered in dead leaves that seemed to lay peacefully at ease in the leeward shadows of the hills around them.

“Stop here,” Nigel said, holding his hand out, as if for emphasis and Sonia hit the brakes. Richard pitched forward, banging his head against the back of Nigel’s seat.

“Are you all right?” Nigel asked, turning to look at him.

“I’ve had worse, lad,” he laughed, rubbing his scalp hard. “I don’t know how many times I’ve been kicked by a horse—none in the head, thank Christ—so something like this is nothing to concern ourselves with.”

“I’m sorry,” Sonia said, trying to suppress her laughter. “I didn’t mean to. I forgot you were back there. I just reacted.”

“It’s quite all right, Mum,” Richard smiled.

“Just wait here a moment and see what you notice,” Nigel said, looking at Sonia as he stuffed his pipe and lit the bowl.

She looked up. “I can see a bird.”

“Very funny. And the tree? Do you see the tree?”

“Yes. I can see it.”

“And what, exactly, do you see?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“And that’s exactly what I mean.”

“What’s that you say there, lad?” Richard asked.

“That man. What was his name? The man who came riding in on the horse?”

He looked directly at Sonia.

“Artemis Spencer.”

“You remembered that, did you?”

“He was a fine looking gentleman,” she laughed. “I made a point of remembering his name.”


“A point of it?” Nigel laughed, turning to look at her.

It was almost as if he was seeing her for the first time. Or perhaps he was no longer seeing her as Special Constable Nazar? He could plainly see, and by anyone’s standards, that she was an attractive woman. Her blonde hair had fallen out of its bun and hung over half of her face. It was an alluring pose, he thought, and he even allowed himself a moment to envy her husband. Nigel thought a man had to be very understanding to allow his wife the opportunity to pursue her dreams.

“I doubt Mr. Nazar will appreciate the competition,” he smiled.

“Believe me, if he were still alive, no man could turn my head,” she laughed.

“Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t know—I mean, of course I didn’t know. How could I? We’ve just met. I mean, I mean, what I mean is—”

“Oh leave off, lad!” Richard said with a shake of his head. “Or should I get you a shovel, so you can dig yourself a deeper hole?”

“I did rather botch that up, didn’t I?” he said, dropping his head and shaking it as if he was playing the conversation over and over again in his mind.

“It’s fine,” Sonia said, opening the door and stepping out. “It’s been eight years now.”

“Stand on the running board.”

“The running board?”

“Eight years?” Nigel asked, opening his door and standing on the running board as well. Richard made to stand up and Nigel turned to look at him. “You’ll have to remain here. I’m sorry Richard. This is a Constabulary matter."

“Don’t you need me to look at the hoof prints?”

“That, my dear man, is exactly the point I'm trying to make about Mr. Artemis Spencer.”

“What’s that?” Richard asked.

“He lied to us,” Sonia said, shading her eyes and looking down at the tree.

“I’m sorry?” Richard said, looking at her.

“There are no hoof prints,” Nigel laughed. “He was never here.”

“Then how did he get the horse?”

“We have to go and look just the same,” Sonia said, stepping off the running board and walking down to the tree. The ground was sodden. There were large puddles under the leaves, and she cried out when her foot sank down over her ankle.

Nigel turned to look at Richard.

“Stay here,” and he jumped off the running board to join her.

“I’m sorry about what I said earlier. It was insensitive,” he said as he joined her.

“What? No, you had no way of knowing. I’ll be fine. I’m not some heroine in a novel about to run off and weep in the corner because someone happens to mention the fact that she’s a widow.”

“Wow,” Nigel said awkwardly. “You’re not the least bit shy about what you say, are you?”

“I can’t afford to be any less sensitive than the next person—or is that more?” she asked. “Makes no never mind, I’m—”

She stumbled.

When she turned to see what she’d tripped on, Nigel was all ready on his knees, digging at the dirt with his hands.

“Do you by any chance have a spade in the boot?” he asked, looking up at her.

“No,” she said with a slow shake of her head, and crouched down beside him to help brush the dead leaves aside.

“They didn’t bother to go very deep,” Sonia pointed out.

“Can you hazard a guess as to how long you think he’s been here?”

“A week. At the most, I’d say a week.”

“Well, whoever he is, we can be certain Mr. Spencer didn’t put him here. But that doesn’t rule him out as a suspect—at worst, a person of interest…at the very least, as a person of interest.”

“Oye, I know him,” Richard said, standing above them and looking down at the body.

“You do?” Nigel asked, looking up.

“He’s that agitator been running about trying to get support for the local Communists in Chumley. They’ve been touting him about town like St. John calling for the Messiah.”

“Not sure what that’s supposed to mean, but are you sure you want to be saying something like that in these parts?” Nigel grinned.

“You said he’s been running about? Running about where?” Sonia asked.

“He’s been trying to talk with the staff at all the major Houses about. He was always with a second man—safety in numbers one would think—what, with the reception they were getting here about.”

“People don’t want to listen to that sort of thing,” Sonia said, brushing the last of the leaves away and looking down at the body. “Not now. The War’s still fresh in their minds, and the last thing they want is getting back into it with the Reds.”

“You seem to know a lot about it,” Richard pointed out.

“I do. I can tell you one thing,” she said, looking at Nigel directly across from her.

“And what would that be?”

“He’s been beaten.”

“You mean someone’s beat him to death?” Richard asked.

“One would almost think that—but for the bullet hole in his forehead,” she added, pointing to her own forehead and tapping it with her index finger. She bent down, trying to at least turn the body, even partially, and look for an exit wound. In the end, she settled for reaching her hand under the skull and feeling about.

“I’d say it was a large calibre weapon,” she said at last.

“Why?”

“The size of the hole—the exit wound,” she corrected herself.

“Well, that’s just great,” Nigel concluded, wiping his hands on a small handkerchief he pulled out of his back pocket. He held it out and offered it to Sonia.

“What do you mean?”

“They’ll send someone out to investigate this now then, won’t they?”

“I suppose that would be the next step,” she agreed.

“But why dump him out here? It doesn’t make any sense,” he asked, looking about.

“They didn’t,” Richard said with a slow shake of his head.

“Do you know something we don’t, Richard?” Sonia smiled.

“It’s the rain. The streams around these parts have been known to flood over the years. I’ve seen this spot under three or four feet of water more times than I can count. I’d say he was dumped somewhere upstream and washed down here when the river crested its banks. This is basically downstream from everywhere. This little stream here leads to a tributary that drains into the Exe.”