He
could hear the regular, soporific rhythm of the sea, and he felt a sudden urge to go down to the beach, to stand with the
waves lapping at his bare feet, knowing that there was nothing between him and the French coastline but water.
He crossed the lane and started down the steep path, stopping halfway down to stare out to sea. But in the dim moonlight he
could make out only the shifting mass of water and the faint outline of the jagged, treacherous rocks.
His work for the Smithers family in distant Connecticut was almost complete, and when he had finished he would leave Devon
for good.
He would cross the angry sea and never return.
Dominic Kilburn let himself into Chadleigh Hall and stood in the entrance hall at the foot of the sweeping staircase. It would
be splendid when the work was finished; the jewel in Kilburn Leisure’s crown.
The builders had all gone home and the place was empty. He listened to the sounds of the sleeping house, the creaks and bumps
of ancient ghosts, and when he flicked a switch the bare bulbs shone; tiny glass suns, dispelling the night. At least there
was electricity in the place.
Kilburn walked through the rooms slowly, leaving his footprints in the plaster dust on the bare boards. When he reached his
destination, he stood for a while, his eyes drawn to the jagged hole in the wall; gaping and impenetrable like the entrance
to some fearful cave.
His way was barred by blue-and-white tape – a crime scene, not to be entered. But he ducked under the barrier and, with shaking
hands, took a torch from his pocket and shone it into the blackness of the tiny room.
Chapter Three
Tears welled in George Marbis’s eyes. Even after the passage of so many years it distressed him to tell of what he had seen.
But he continued his story, his voice becoming weaker as he spoke.
Being but ten years of age, George was small and agile, and he reached the shore in the moonlight unseen by the men of the
village, who carried with them lanterns and ropes. He recalled the purposeful silence as they marched down the path towards
the sand and the screams and cries of distress from the roaring water – the cries of souls in peril.
George crouched behind a rock, hidden from view. He could see clearly in the glow of the full moon and he watched as the men
of the village waded into the rolling waves. The village blacksmith, Matthew Kilburn, went first, a rope tied fast about his
waist. George saw his face in the moonlight, saw his jaw set in determination. Kilburn strode through the waves towards the
broken wreckage of the ship, a hero ready to save the lives of the hapless sailors. George watched as he reached out to a
woman who was clinging to a mast, half conscious, expecting that any minute she would be carried to the safety of the shore
in his strong arms.
But Matthew Kilburn made no effort to pluck the woman from the angry sea. His large hands tightened
around her throat as he throttled the life from her and pushed her beneath the waves.
From
An Account of the Dreadful and Wicked Crimes of the Wreckers of Chadleigh
by the Reverend Octavius Mount, Vicar of Millicombe
The Star stood in the middle of the town, in a back street near the church. Gerry Heffernan had been known to drink in there
after choir practice on a Friday night, but on a Tuesday he would most likely be at home or in the Tradmouth Arms next door
to his house on the waterfront.
It was eight o’clock and the bar was busy, filled with a cocktail of regulars and summer visitors. But as soon as Steve Carstairs
walked in, he spotted Harry sitting in the corner, a pint glass raised to his full lips. He had a little more belly and a
little less hair than when Steve had last seen him two years before, but other than that he seemed unchanged. Steve pushed
his way through the standing drinkers until he was looking down on his old colleague, a wide grin on his face.
Harry Marchbank looked up. ‘Steve,
could hear the regular, soporific rhythm of the sea, and he felt a sudden urge to go down to the beach, to stand with the
waves lapping at his bare feet, knowing that there was nothing between him and the French coastline but water.
He crossed the lane and started down the steep path, stopping halfway down to stare out to sea. But in the dim moonlight he
could make out only the shifting mass of water and the faint outline of the jagged, treacherous rocks.
His work for the Smithers family in distant Connecticut was almost complete, and when he had finished he would leave Devon
for good.
He would cross the angry sea and never return.
Dominic Kilburn let himself into Chadleigh Hall and stood in the entrance hall at the foot of the sweeping staircase. It would
be splendid when the work was finished; the jewel in Kilburn Leisure’s crown.
The builders had all gone home and the place was empty. He listened to the sounds of the sleeping house, the creaks and bumps
of ancient ghosts, and when he flicked a switch the bare bulbs shone; tiny glass suns, dispelling the night. At least there
was electricity in the place.
Kilburn walked through the rooms slowly, leaving his footprints in the plaster dust on the bare boards. When he reached his
destination, he stood for a while, his eyes drawn to the jagged hole in the wall; gaping and impenetrable like the entrance
to some fearful cave.
His way was barred by blue-and-white tape – a crime scene, not to be entered. But he ducked under the barrier and, with shaking
hands, took a torch from his pocket and shone it into the blackness of the tiny room.
Chapter Three
Tears welled in George Marbis’s eyes. Even after the passage of so many years it distressed him to tell of what he had seen.
But he continued his story, his voice becoming weaker as he spoke.
Being but ten years of age, George was small and agile, and he reached the shore in the moonlight unseen by the men of the
village, who carried with them lanterns and ropes. He recalled the purposeful silence as they marched down the path towards
the sand and the screams and cries of distress from the roaring water – the cries of souls in peril.
George crouched behind a rock, hidden from view. He could see clearly in the glow of the full moon and he watched as the men
of the village waded into the rolling waves. The village blacksmith, Matthew Kilburn, went first, a rope tied fast about his
waist. George saw his face in the moonlight, saw his jaw set in determination. Kilburn strode through the waves towards the
broken wreckage of the ship, a hero ready to save the lives of the hapless sailors. George watched as he reached out to a
woman who was clinging to a mast, half conscious, expecting that any minute she would be carried to the safety of the shore
in his strong arms.
But Matthew Kilburn made no effort to pluck the woman from the angry sea. His large hands tightened
around her throat as he throttled the life from her and pushed her beneath the waves.
From
An Account of the Dreadful and Wicked Crimes of the Wreckers of Chadleigh
by the Reverend Octavius Mount, Vicar of Millicombe
The Star stood in the middle of the town, in a back street near the church. Gerry Heffernan had been known to drink in there
after choir practice on a Friday night, but on a Tuesday he would most likely be at home or in the Tradmouth Arms next door
to his house on the waterfront.
It was eight o’clock and the bar was busy, filled with a cocktail of regulars and summer visitors. But as soon as Steve Carstairs
walked in, he spotted Harry sitting in the corner, a pint glass raised to his full lips. He had a little more belly and a
little less hair than when Steve had last seen him two years before, but other than that he seemed unchanged. Steve pushed
his way through the standing drinkers until he was looking down on his old colleague, a wide grin on his face.
Harry Marchbank looked up. ‘Steve,
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