In the Night Wood

Charles passed the photo across the counter.

“So beautiful at that age, aren’t they? Six, I’m guessing.”

“Five. Five and a half, she would have said,” Charles said, his neck burning.

Mould tilted his head. “Left her at home, did you?”

“Back in the States.” Not a lie, he told himself, but — something else. He couldn’t say exactly what. An omission, nothing more. Yet a lie by any other name —

He hesitated.

The truth would come out sooner or later. Given the amount of research it had taken to track Erin down to inform her of the inheritance, Merrow almost certainly knew. And now Colbeck knew. How long before all of Yarrow did as well?

He spoke without conscious volition. “She —”

“What’s that?”

Mould had turned to the rear counter to study the photograph.

“Nothing,” Charles said. “She couldn’t make the trip,” he said, for to speak it aloud was to acknowledge it as a true thing — to acknowledge his role in it. He swallowed.

“What happened to the glass?”

“My wife. She dropped it. She took a spill on the stile.”

“She’s all right, I hope?”

“Twisted her ankle. She’ll be on her feet again before the week’s out.”

Hargreaves shook his head. “Funny thing that, isn’t it? That wall.”

“Both walls,” Mould said. “Must have been a hell of a lot of work. Hard to say whether the intent was to keep something in or something out.”

“They say,” Hargreaves added, “that old Mr. Hollow kept the place closed up in the last years of his life. Wouldn’t so much as permit an open curtain.”

A chill passed through Charles. There was something haunting about the idea of the old man thrice imprisoned, inside the house, inside the great encircling walls.

“We can fix this up for you,” Mould said. “Later this afternoon, say? Joey, the one that does the glass cutting, he’s down to the King for lunch. He’ll be back in half an hour or so, and I can put him right on it. Say an hour. I hate to make you drive all the way back here.”

“That’s fine. I wanted to look in at the historical society.”

“Quiet village, Yarrow,” Hargreaves said. “I warrant you won’t find much there.”

“I’m interested in Caedmon Hollow.”

Hargreaves grimaced. “Not fit for children, that book.”

“Leave the man be, Ed.” Mould looked up. “If you tire of the historical society, you can always stop in at the King for a pint, can’t you? Anyway, we’ll have it ready for you.” He held out his hand as though he were finalizing some complex financial agreement, and once again, reluctantly, Charles inserted his hand into the vise.

“An hour, then,” he said.

3 (#ulink_86412a16-28fc-5b4f-b560-119db79502d1)

Charles didn’t know what he’d expected from the historical society: brochures advertising local attractions, maybe? Recessed lighting illuminating framed photos and polished glass display cases?

But no. The society was very much a work in progress. The foyer was gloomy and close. It smelled musty. The rooms beyond — the two Charles could see, branching off a broad hallway with a stairway to the right — were largely barren of any such displays. Framed photographs listed on their hangers. A handful of dusty exhibit cases stood half obscured by stacks of cardboard boxes.

“Hello?” someone called from the interior.

“Hello.”

A door opened and closed. In the shadows at the end of the hall, a figure appeared — angular and tall, female, beyond that he couldn’t say. The woman wiped her forehead with a cloth.

“Just here for a look about, are you?”

“I thought it might be interesting.”

“Ah. So you’re the American who’s moved into Hollow House.”

“That’s right.”

“You’re the talk of the town.”

He peered closer. “We are, are we?”

“Down to the King, you are,” she said. Then: “Feel free to have a look. We don’t have much, I’m afraid.”

“It looks to me like you have quite a lot,” he couldn’t help saying.

“A lot of rubbish. That’s what I’m here for, to excavate it all and figure out what’s worth keeping.”

“I thought you were the docent.”

“That, too. Listen, give me a minute to finish up. I’m sorting papers in the back here. Papers, papers everywhere and nary a drop to drink.”

Suddenly he liked her, this shadowy stranger at the far end of the hall.

“Then I’ll show you around a bit,” she said. “I’ll want to wash my face first, if you don’t mind.”

“And if I do?”

Was he flirting? An image of Ann Merrow’s taut rear end, muscles flexing as she climbed the stile, flitted through his mind. And then, worse yet, an image of Syrah Nagle —

He shunted the thought away.

“I’ll wash it anyway,” the woman said dryly, and with that she was gone.

Charles wandered into the adjoining room. He glanced at a set of photos — the high street from some distant era — picked up a stiff, yellowing copy of the Ripon Gazette, put it down again without bothering to read the headline, and ran a finger across the dusty surface of a glass display cabinet, leaving a long, clean snail’s track in its wake. He paused before a case of medals and fading ribbons. A yellowing index card pinned to the wall above it read, in faded typescript, Yarrow has contributed its share of young men to the conflicts of —