Read Online A Dark and Stormy Night by Jeanne M. Dams - Free Book Online Page A

where Mr Bates was. Probably repairing something. There was certainly no shortage of work to be done.
    I finished my soup, ate an apple from a bowl on the table, and was trying to decide what to do next when the kitchen door opened and Alan walked in.
    I stood, startled, but he ignored me, went straight to Jim Moynihan, and spoke to him in an undertone. Jim grimaced and nodded, and Alan moved to the centre of the room.
    â€˜May I have your attention for a moment, please?’ He sounded perfectly courteous, perfectly relaxed, but there was something in his manner that stopped all conversation. I drew in a quick breath. This was a man I scarcely knew, the chief constable in person.
    â€˜I’m afraid I have two pieces of unpleasant news. The first is that evidence of what appears to be a crime has turned up quite unexpectedly. A human skeleton, apparently buried under one of the oak trees at the edge of the wood, has been unearthed, literally, when the tree was uprooted by the storm. My walk was intended to take me to the village, where I meant to try to find some help in dealing with what will soon become a crime-scene investigation.’
    There was a shocked murmur from those in the party who didn’t already know about the discovery under the tree. Alan waited for it to subside before he continued. ‘And that brings me to my second piece of bad news. I will not be able to walk to the village. Nor can anyone come to us, for quite some time. The river is in flood, and I’m sorry to say that the bridge has been destroyed by falling timber. Until it can be replaced, we are marooned.’
    â€˜Oh, no!’
    â€˜But, surely—’
    â€˜That’s impossible! A boat—’
    â€˜But I have to be in London—’
    Everyone was shouting at once. A resurrected skeleton was distressing, but disruption to one’s own schedule was outrageous.
    â€˜What’s in the other direction?’ Ed, the photographer, asked.
    It was Laurence Upshawe who answered. ‘No joy there, I’m afraid. I don’t know how much chance anyone has had to explore the grounds. The river makes a loop around the estate, making us very nearly an island. Branston village is to the north of us, on the other side of the bridge at what one might call the top of the loop. There are no bridges to east or west. To the south lies a particularly deserted stretch of country, without so much as a farmhouse for probably ten miles. In any case, the bottom of the loop, where the river nearly bends back upon itself, is low-lying ground, marshy at the best of times. In flood, it, too, is impassable, making the estate a true island.’
    Tom Anderson began to tick items off on his fingers. ‘No way to get out. No electricity. No phone. I don’t suppose anybody’s cell phone works?’
    â€˜Almost all the masts in the south-east are down,’ said Alan. ‘I heard the news on the car radio earlier this morning.’
    â€˜No cell phone,’ Tom continued. ‘Nobody has a satellite phone?’ The lack of answer was answer enough. ‘What about wireless Internet?’
    â€˜The card’s on order,’ said Jim glumly. ‘Should have been here last week.’
    This time no one spoke, no one protested. It’s sinking in, I thought. They’re realizing. We’re all stuck here with no communication till heaven knows when. I cleared my throat. ‘Alan, how long did it take for everybody to get their power back after the storm in 1987 – and phones, and so on?’
    â€˜Two weeks, as I recall, for the most remote areas.’
    â€˜And the roads?’ Joyce asked tremulously. ‘How long before . . .’
    â€˜The Army cleared the main roads quite quickly. Secondary roads took longer, and private drives . . .’ He shrugged. ‘It was a few days before all the railway lines were cleared, as well.’
    â€˜Well, then,’ said Jim,