I wandered through the crowds of revelers until I found the Major Oak. I studied its ancient, propped-up limbs. Because it was supported by so many metal crutches, it wasn’t quite as romantic-looking as in Tom’s painting, but it was indeed hollow inside, just as Peter said. Watching children scurry in and out, posing for photos as they peeked from the darkness within, I remembered my worry, the night I arrived, that Peter might be hollow, too. Nothing had proved my anxiety groundless.
In fact, I realized as I stared at the iconic old tree, the Peter I’d been pining for was very likely empty too—no more a hero than a little boy with a plastic sword.
I had mixed feelings about returning to Puddlethorpe with Rosalee. Another night in the cottage bedroom with an Agatha Christie would be heaven, but not if I had to endure repeat of last night’s encounter with Colin—or the dramas that were sure to ensue as he and Rosalee began to uncover each other’s deceptions.
So I was relieved when, as we approached the turnoff for Swynsby, Rosalee suggested they drop me off at the factory, and “put off the stupid editing business until Monday.”
The parking lot was empty and the Maidenette Building peacefully quiet—except for the snores of little Much, asleep under Meggy’s work station. I didn’t hear the usual blast of TV from the canteen, or the thump of music from Liam and Davey’s rooms. And thankfully, not a clank or cry emanated from the darkness of the dungeon. Maybe everyone was at the pub, or sleeping off last night’s debauch in their respective dens.
As much as I longed for a drama-free evening and early bedtime, I didn’t much like being alone in the building. Every creak of a floorboard sounded ominous. I headed to the office to check for mail, but found the outer door locked. Annoying. I’d have to wait until Davey showed up with the key.
I decided to go to bed early with a book. I’d left
Murder at the
Vicarage
back in Puddlethorpe, but I still had
Ivanhoe
. A suitable read after my day in Sherwood Forest,
But when I opened the door to the warehouse, I couldn’t get the door open more than a few inches. The path to my Wendy house seemed to be blocked. I peered in and saw huge wooden crates piled between the book pallets, barring the way. I tried to move a crate, but could only budge it a few inches.
I had no way to get to my things, or my bed. I seemed to be descending into ever-deepening circles of homeless hell.
I knocked on the doors to Liam and Davey’s rooms, but got no reply. As I passed through the factory, Much woke and trotted behind me. I was glad of his company as I pushed open the doors to the canteen, which was also deserted. It smelled of rotting garbage. Much found himself a meat pie tin, still coated with gravy, and licked it clean. When he finished, he looked up at me, hoping for a more substantial main course.
I searched the cupboards for dog food, but found them empty. I tried the tiny refrigerator, but it held nothing but a half-eaten can of beans, some stale bread and a cooked sausage with one end bitten off. I cut up the sausage and put it in the pie tin for Much and made myself some beans on toast. At least I knew I could pay whoever owned them when I got the money from Rosalee.
I did hope Rosalee meant what she said about paying me to edit. It would be so nice to be able to afford a few groceries. It would also be nice if somebody around here were telling the truth about something.
I decided to clean up the kitchen, in spite of Plant’s warning about the perils of Wendy-ing. Garbage brought rats. I’d rather compromise feminist principle than face another rodent infestation. As I washed up the stacks of crusty dishes, I watched a BBC production of Trollope’s
The Way We Live Now
on the television. Not a bad way to spend an evening, I told myself. Better than being hit on by horny faux cowboys.
But when the program was over, I couldn’t find a thing I wanted to watch. The snowy old set only got a few channels. I wished I had my copy of
Ivanhoe,
and began to seethe at the rudeness of whoever had loaded those crates. Probably Henry and Alan, with yet another scheme to drive me out. Liam and Davey wouldn’t have allowed it, I was sure. They must have been gone when the unloading went on.
Much stirred and went to the door to bark at something in the factory. I hoped it was Liam and Davey, but nobody appeared. The dog kept barking, so I opened the door and let him run out. Probably in pursuit of a bit of rat for dessert.
I hoped when the men got back from the pub or wherever, they’d be sober enough to move the crates so I could get to my bed. I did not relish the prospect of sleeping on one of the grimy canteen couches.
I turned on the TV again, flipping channels between a 1980s chop-socky movie, a snowy, colorless broadcast of a home decorating competition, and a documentary on the mating habits of voles.
How annoying—as well as ironic—to be in a publishing factory without a readable book. But I had a thought. What about Gordon Trask’s novel? I wasn’t a big fan of war stories, but it certainly would provide a more pleasant diversion than the works of Rodd Whippington and Dirk Scabbard. I remembered that Meggy had stopped shredding the copies of
Home is the Hunter
—at least for a while—when the paper order came through for Henry’s book. Maybe she’d never got back to it.
I clicked on the bank of lights for the far end of the factory, where the books had been piled on the tables the night I’d arrived. But as I approached Meggy’s work station, I heard something.
Something moving. And a thump.
“Much?” I called. “Here boy!”
But the dog didn’t appear. Maybe he was busy with rat-catching duties. His hunting might have been the sound I heard. Maybe. If he’d caught a very big rat.
“Liam? Davey?” I called.
Nobody answered.
But there was the noise again—close by. Two thumps. Footsteps. “Hello?” I called again. “Who’s there?”
A voice shot from the shadows, deep and male. American.
“I’ve got a knife, so don’t try anything stupid, lady.”
A man emerged from behind a stack of books, brandishing a camping knife—not huge, but with a blade long enough to do damage. He wasn’t young—maybe in his mid-sixties—but powerfully built, and over six feet tall, with wild white hair and a scar running down his cheek.
I’d seen that scar before—on a book jacket.
“Gordon Trask?” I couldn’t keep my voice from squeaking.
“One and the same,” said Mr. Trask. “Oh, shit, I’m sorry.” He lowered the knife. “You’re Jonathan Kahn’s ex-wife, aren’t you—that society chick?” He extended his hand. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Kahn. Sherwood bragged that he was going to lure you over here.”
I took his hand, still on guard. It was all so surreal. “I use my maiden name now. Camilla Randall.”
“Camilla! I remember. I went to one of your parties once.” He laughed. “At some mansion in the Hamptons. Back when I was a somebody.”
“When we were both somebodies.” I gave a half smile. “Welcome to anonymity.”
Mr. Trask gestured at a pallet of Rodd Whippington books.
“More like infamy.” He lowered his voice. “Are any of our pornographer friends around?”
I wasn’t sure I wanted to let Mr. Trask know how alone I was.
“Liam and Davey are around somewhere,” I said, without quite lying.
He lowered his voice to a whisper.
“So have you discovered their secret yet? Do you know who they really are?”
I stiffened. “If you mean that Davey and Liam have had a, um, colorful past, yes, I do. But they’ve been very kind to me.”
“Davey and Liam? They’re small fry.” Trask gave a snarly laugh. “I’m talking about that asshole who calls himself Peter Sherwood—and his enforcer, Mr. Ratko. They’re a couple of crooks. Smugglers. All this—it’s just a cover.”
“Smugglers?” The information hit me with staggering logic. It made perfect sense that Peter, with all his overseas travel, might be involved in smuggling. But my heart fought back, trying to disbelieve. “Who told you that?”
Trask laughed. “A friend who used to work for Interpol. That’s why I got my ass the hell out of this freak show. Do you think I wanted to skip out on my first published novel in fifteen years—probably the best thing I ever wrote?” Trask reached down and picked up a copy of
Home is the Hunter
he had stuffed in his backpack. “My agent says nobody wants to read about war when they get their fill on the evening news.” He put on a Brooklyn-girl falsetto. “Vampires. Werewolves. Zombies. That’s what’s hot. Can’t you at least put in a couple of trolls?”
I let out an uncomfortable laugh. Again, what he said made sense, but I didn’t want to believe it.
“Peter loves your book,” I said. “He was proud to be publishing it. And he never mentioned its dearth of trolls.”
Trask snorted. “Right. Proud I provided him with believable cover for his operations. You think he can make any money publishing a couple of dirty books a month—with all the porn you can get on the Internet?” He gestured around the vast building. “His book business takes up, what—about a tenth of this space? Storage is what he’s got here. That’s where the profit is. Floor space. To store contraband.”
I could hardly breathe. That certainly would explain the crates in the warehouse. Were they full of drugs and guns?
Trask went on. “My Interpol friend told me that a major international smuggler was on his way here. He used to run drugs all around the Caribbean. Heroin, coke, fake pharmaceuticals—whatever.”
“So Peter isn’t a major smuggler?” I don’t know why this made a difference, but somehow it did.
“Not like this guy. He’s a sociopath named William Barnstable. He’s been in custody for a minor offence in Tobago, but he was released two months ago, and made a bee-line for England—and Nottingham. No doubt looking for his old partner—the man who is now calling himself Peter Sherwood.”
My throat had gone dry. William Barnstable. Barnacle Bill. Peter had even admitted to owing the old sailor money. And to spending time in Tobago—the place where Liam and Davey said he sank his own boat and faked his death. It certainly would explain Barnacle Bill’s behavior. If Peter had been his partner and absconded with their ill-gotten gains while Bill was in prison…
I felt a wave of fear for Peter. Maybe Barnacle Bill had done something to him. Maybe Peter had never gone abroad at all. Maybe he was already dead, his body dumped in the Trent—an anonymous corpse carried far from Swynsby by that tidal bore.
With awful irony, I remembered what Peter had said: “I’d rather fight a Caribbean hurricane than the Aegir in April.”
“He kills people—this Barnstable person?” Mr. Trask’s story had my mind in an out-of-control fear-spiral.
“The police on several continents certainly think so. That’s why I got the hell out of this place. Either the guy was going to kill Sherwood, or team up with him and hang around.”
I didn’t want to imagine Peter dead. Even if he was some awful criminal, it didn’t bear thinking about. Because that would mean we were all at the mercy of Barnacle Bill.
Trask gave a rough laugh. “Either way, it would all turn into shit city for me. I’d already been working on killing the book deal, because of the weird stuff going down. I don’t mean the porn—to each his own—and it was a brilliant idea to use smut to fund real literature—but they never could meet their own deadlines. They kept changing my publication date. Until finally the contract ran out. I tried to renegotiate, and Sherwood had a fit. I was pretty sure that if I was still around when Barnstable showed up, I was going to end up in the river. That Serb had already threatened me. He loves to brag about how many people he’s killed.”
How awful. I was just an actor in an elaborate hoax—a cover for a crime ring.
“Liam, Davey, Henry—they’re all in on this?”
Trask shrugged. “Damned if I know. Probably not Weems. I think Sherwood partnered with him to give a little legitimacy to the operation. Henry’s pretty dense. Same with the office people like Vera. I don’t think they have a clue. Liam and Davey and Tom? I don’t know, but they’ve been buddies with Sherwood a long time. I’d watch out.”
He picked up two more books to stuff in his pack.
“So, are you going to rat on me—tell those guys that an old man is stealing a few of his books as souvenirs?” He gave me a challenging look. “I wanted to get something out of the three months I spent in this cesspool. The bitch over at the dump where I was staying already stole all the stuff I left there. She said she didn’t know I was coming back. Jeez, I left a hundred pounds and a note for her, but I guess she can’t read.”
I watched him arrange the books in his pack as I tried to collect my thoughts.
“A hundred pounds? In cash?”
“Yeah. I gave it to her asshole boyfriend.”
“You gave a hundred pounds to Alan Greene?” My tone was more bitter than I intended. “I’m sure Brenda never saw that money—or the note.”
I picked up one of the book copies, with its dramatic silver and blood-red cover. “Of course you should have some copies—after all you went through. They’re only going to shred them. Let me help.” I handed him two more books. “I’m sorry this happened. And I’m, um, grateful for the information about Peter Sherwood.”