still lived here, couldn't leave it behind.
The Judas puzzle?
Mist and drizzle mixed to make the first half of the drive a somber journey. The windshield wipers flicked arches so Wyatt could follow the road through this broad expanse of rolling farmland dotted with ruined abbeys and castles. The legions of Rome had marched the route his tires were treading, and somewhere out there stood three monoliths called the Devil's Arrows.
Dragged ten miles and raised for an unfathomable reason by pre-historic man, these standing stones were supposed to have come from a barrage shot by the Devil at local churches.
With weather like this, it's no wonder the local Bronte sisters dreamed up Wuthering Heights and Jane Eyre, and no wonder Captain Cook sailed off to the sunny South Seas. But as Wyatt neared Mick Balsdon's village, a break in the cloud cover let the sun shine through, and an iridescent rainbow arced over his destination. Just as all roads once led to Rome, these drystone walls converged on the tiny community at the center of their web. And on the outskirts of the snug stone village—basically, a cricket pitch doubling as a common, backed by an alehouse called the Cricketer's Arms—Wyatt located the lane that branched off to Balsdon's cottage, down near the old mill stream.
"Mill Cottage," read the sign at the top of a footpath descending through dripping trees.
Beside the sign stood a market cross from the plague years of the 1660s. The depression at its base used to be filled with vinegar, and customers would wash their coins in hopes that would save the miller from the Black Death.
"Kaah-kaah-kaah."
From somewhere above him in the limbs of the trees, Wyatt heard the cawing of his namesake (though he preferred to think he was named for the chess piece). Folklore holds that a rook can sense the nearness of death, and Wyatt could picture this scene in an Agatha Christie novel. He was Miss Marple in St. Mary Mead, off to see Colonel Mustard about the church raffle, unaware that the old boy had been done to death in the old mill cottage by a bonk on the noggin from a shepherd's crook. Wyatt imagined the bridge across the stream had a story, too. A local suitor would swim across to woo the miller's daughter, but her father refused to allow her to marry a ne'er-do-well. So the lad shipped off to the colonies to make his fortune in ivory tusks, and when he came back to marry the lass with the miller's blessing, he built the bridge across the water as a testimonial to undying love.
No wonder he was a writer.
It was in that overblown frame of mind that Wyatt knocked on the door.
The cottage was fashioned from dark gray millstone grit and had a red tiled roof. Ivy climbed the walls around the mullioned windows. Liz had phoned Balsdon yesterday to ask if Wyatt could see him last night or this morning, depending on how soon he could get free from his promo tour. The sergeant had replied that any time was fine by him. Confined to a wheelchair, he was going nowhere, and his wartime archive on the Ace of Clubs was spread across the table, waiting for all to see.
So why didn't Balsdon answer?
Wyatt knocked again.
Louder.
And still no response.
Balsdon, Liz had informed him, lived alone. A housekeeper came by twice a week to bring him groceries and clean up.
The elderly warrior was a fiercely independent man, and he had no intention of going quietly to his grave. No retirement home for him, he'd see out his life in solitude, with a link to the Internet to help him ferret out the secret behind the Judas puzzle.
Now, Wyatt wondered if his time had run out.
Had Balsdon died of old age in his cottage?
Or was he singing in the shower and couldn't hear the knock?
Wyatt tried the latch.
The door was unlocked.
Opening it a crack, he called out, "Sergeant Balsdon? May I come in? It's Wyatt Rook."
Nothing.
Then he saw it.
Blood streamed across the hardwood floor from around the corner to the left of the entrance hall. The
The Judas puzzle?
Mist and drizzle mixed to make the first half of the drive a somber journey. The windshield wipers flicked arches so Wyatt could follow the road through this broad expanse of rolling farmland dotted with ruined abbeys and castles. The legions of Rome had marched the route his tires were treading, and somewhere out there stood three monoliths called the Devil's Arrows.
Dragged ten miles and raised for an unfathomable reason by pre-historic man, these standing stones were supposed to have come from a barrage shot by the Devil at local churches.
With weather like this, it's no wonder the local Bronte sisters dreamed up Wuthering Heights and Jane Eyre, and no wonder Captain Cook sailed off to the sunny South Seas. But as Wyatt neared Mick Balsdon's village, a break in the cloud cover let the sun shine through, and an iridescent rainbow arced over his destination. Just as all roads once led to Rome, these drystone walls converged on the tiny community at the center of their web. And on the outskirts of the snug stone village—basically, a cricket pitch doubling as a common, backed by an alehouse called the Cricketer's Arms—Wyatt located the lane that branched off to Balsdon's cottage, down near the old mill stream.
"Mill Cottage," read the sign at the top of a footpath descending through dripping trees.
Beside the sign stood a market cross from the plague years of the 1660s. The depression at its base used to be filled with vinegar, and customers would wash their coins in hopes that would save the miller from the Black Death.
"Kaah-kaah-kaah."
From somewhere above him in the limbs of the trees, Wyatt heard the cawing of his namesake (though he preferred to think he was named for the chess piece). Folklore holds that a rook can sense the nearness of death, and Wyatt could picture this scene in an Agatha Christie novel. He was Miss Marple in St. Mary Mead, off to see Colonel Mustard about the church raffle, unaware that the old boy had been done to death in the old mill cottage by a bonk on the noggin from a shepherd's crook. Wyatt imagined the bridge across the stream had a story, too. A local suitor would swim across to woo the miller's daughter, but her father refused to allow her to marry a ne'er-do-well. So the lad shipped off to the colonies to make his fortune in ivory tusks, and when he came back to marry the lass with the miller's blessing, he built the bridge across the water as a testimonial to undying love.
No wonder he was a writer.
It was in that overblown frame of mind that Wyatt knocked on the door.
The cottage was fashioned from dark gray millstone grit and had a red tiled roof. Ivy climbed the walls around the mullioned windows. Liz had phoned Balsdon yesterday to ask if Wyatt could see him last night or this morning, depending on how soon he could get free from his promo tour. The sergeant had replied that any time was fine by him. Confined to a wheelchair, he was going nowhere, and his wartime archive on the Ace of Clubs was spread across the table, waiting for all to see.
So why didn't Balsdon answer?
Wyatt knocked again.
Louder.
And still no response.
Balsdon, Liz had informed him, lived alone. A housekeeper came by twice a week to bring him groceries and clean up.
The elderly warrior was a fiercely independent man, and he had no intention of going quietly to his grave. No retirement home for him, he'd see out his life in solitude, with a link to the Internet to help him ferret out the secret behind the Judas puzzle.
Now, Wyatt wondered if his time had run out.
Had Balsdon died of old age in his cottage?
Or was he singing in the shower and couldn't hear the knock?
Wyatt tried the latch.
The door was unlocked.
Opening it a crack, he called out, "Sergeant Balsdon? May I come in? It's Wyatt Rook."
Nothing.
Then he saw it.
Blood streamed across the hardwood floor from around the corner to the left of the entrance hall. The
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