exposed beams; golden light made copper and brass gleam. The old pub shone out a welcome.
We went on down the alley, which snaked between tiny brick cottages with garden plots in front.
I looked back at The Hart and Garter before we walked between the first cottages and lost sight of it, picturing the small, rotund couple who ran the place. Recalling Greg Short’s response to my questions, I frowned, convinced he knew something about the Nortons which we, as yet, did not.
The alley took us back to the Pewsey road, which cut through the square on its way to Salisbury. The road widened and after a walk of two minutes we came to a crossroads. A sign pointed to Devizes in the north, Pewsey to the east, Salisbury to the south, and Old Church Lane to the west. Sure enough, a church spire stuck up through the trees farther down the rough, poorly paved, potholed lane. We headed that way.
The sun disappeared behind an unbroken gray bank so high it was barely recognizable as clouds. I’m accustomed to clear blue summer skies which seem to go on forever. The gloom above my head now made me feel penned in.
Four large cottages sat on the left side of the lane. On our right, a grass verge turned into a steeply sloping bank thick with nettle and cowslip topped by a low, untidy hedge, then flattened to a big field of long grass. A couple dozen brown and white cows contentedly grazed near a line of trees which hid whatever lay directly behind them. Past there, a few houses perched atop a hill, and the land rose steeply to the Salisbury Plain beyond.
The brick wall which breasted the first cottage hid all but the roof. A tiny iron gate barred entrance to the front yard; next to that the wall stopped at the end of a narrow driveway where a kid sat on a metallic-blue scooter just in the lane. A motor came to life and a car backed from a garage and down the driveway of the next house. The boy glanced at me. I smiled. He looked back at the car. He must be waiting for the car so he could follow it, or it could follow him.
The car reversed until the rear wheels hit the uneven paving. The driver looked right and left. It happened fast. She put her foot down and shot out into the lane. She didn’t check her rear-view mirror; she didn’t see the boy. I stepped off the curb, threw my hands in the air and shouted, “Look out!”
The car went right through him, straightened out and came to a sudden, grinding stop.
The kid stared at me with a fixed expression: desperation, disbelief, shock.
Jesus! He wasn’t waiting for the car. He didn’t look at it; he thought I was smiling at someone behind him. He was dead.
I dropped my arms as the car pulled alongside. “Can I help you?” a woman with short dark hair asked.
“Um. . . .” Words failed me for a moment.
“I thought you waved me down,” she said uncertainly.
“We thought we recognized you,” Royal put in. “Sorry to have startled you.”
I slanted my eyes and gave him a little smile, a silent thank you.
The woman frowned and shook her head a little. “Not to worry.” Her face cleared as she smiled up at him. “It happens.”
Royal touched his fingers to an imaginary brim and gave her a sexy smile. The rat. “I hope we’re not holding you up.”
“Not at all,” she simpered. Then she checked her wristwatch. “Well actually, I should be going.”
And with one more ogle at Royal, she drove off.
I crossed the road to scooter-boy. Closer, the scuffs on his brown leather jacket, rips in his jeans, and the horrendous wound on the side of his head were apparent.
The lane is quiet this late at night. He sits on his scooter, looking through his pockets, and pulls out a half-empty pack of cigarettes. He’s surprised to hear a motor coming down the lane, because he can’t see one; it does not have its lights on. His lights are on and he faces the crossroads, so it will see him, but he should get off the road, just in case.
He stands, straddling the scooter, and
We went on down the alley, which snaked between tiny brick cottages with garden plots in front.
I looked back at The Hart and Garter before we walked between the first cottages and lost sight of it, picturing the small, rotund couple who ran the place. Recalling Greg Short’s response to my questions, I frowned, convinced he knew something about the Nortons which we, as yet, did not.
The alley took us back to the Pewsey road, which cut through the square on its way to Salisbury. The road widened and after a walk of two minutes we came to a crossroads. A sign pointed to Devizes in the north, Pewsey to the east, Salisbury to the south, and Old Church Lane to the west. Sure enough, a church spire stuck up through the trees farther down the rough, poorly paved, potholed lane. We headed that way.
The sun disappeared behind an unbroken gray bank so high it was barely recognizable as clouds. I’m accustomed to clear blue summer skies which seem to go on forever. The gloom above my head now made me feel penned in.
Four large cottages sat on the left side of the lane. On our right, a grass verge turned into a steeply sloping bank thick with nettle and cowslip topped by a low, untidy hedge, then flattened to a big field of long grass. A couple dozen brown and white cows contentedly grazed near a line of trees which hid whatever lay directly behind them. Past there, a few houses perched atop a hill, and the land rose steeply to the Salisbury Plain beyond.
The brick wall which breasted the first cottage hid all but the roof. A tiny iron gate barred entrance to the front yard; next to that the wall stopped at the end of a narrow driveway where a kid sat on a metallic-blue scooter just in the lane. A motor came to life and a car backed from a garage and down the driveway of the next house. The boy glanced at me. I smiled. He looked back at the car. He must be waiting for the car so he could follow it, or it could follow him.
The car reversed until the rear wheels hit the uneven paving. The driver looked right and left. It happened fast. She put her foot down and shot out into the lane. She didn’t check her rear-view mirror; she didn’t see the boy. I stepped off the curb, threw my hands in the air and shouted, “Look out!”
The car went right through him, straightened out and came to a sudden, grinding stop.
The kid stared at me with a fixed expression: desperation, disbelief, shock.
Jesus! He wasn’t waiting for the car. He didn’t look at it; he thought I was smiling at someone behind him. He was dead.
I dropped my arms as the car pulled alongside. “Can I help you?” a woman with short dark hair asked.
“Um. . . .” Words failed me for a moment.
“I thought you waved me down,” she said uncertainly.
“We thought we recognized you,” Royal put in. “Sorry to have startled you.”
I slanted my eyes and gave him a little smile, a silent thank you.
The woman frowned and shook her head a little. “Not to worry.” Her face cleared as she smiled up at him. “It happens.”
Royal touched his fingers to an imaginary brim and gave her a sexy smile. The rat. “I hope we’re not holding you up.”
“Not at all,” she simpered. Then she checked her wristwatch. “Well actually, I should be going.”
And with one more ogle at Royal, she drove off.
I crossed the road to scooter-boy. Closer, the scuffs on his brown leather jacket, rips in his jeans, and the horrendous wound on the side of his head were apparent.
The lane is quiet this late at night. He sits on his scooter, looking through his pockets, and pulls out a half-empty pack of cigarettes. He’s surprised to hear a motor coming down the lane, because he can’t see one; it does not have its lights on. His lights are on and he faces the crossroads, so it will see him, but he should get off the road, just in case.
He stands, straddling the scooter, and
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