The Missing Adventures - Evolution Part 9

'Were you indeed?' asked the Doctor. 'This information changes everything, though. I had hoped that the children were alive, but if there are Resurrectionists involved, isn't it possible that the missing children were murdered and used as a sub-st.i.tute form of bodies?'

'Just a moment,' argued Doyle. 'I don't believe that Resurrectionists could be involved here. For one thing, their foul trade hinges on their procuring fresh corpses for the teaching hospitals. There are no such hospitals within a hundred miles of this place. The bodies would begin to decay long before they reached a hospital. Added to that, Missus Bellaver died three days ago, so her body was hardly fresh in any event.'

'Capital reasoning, Doctor,' said the Doctor. 'I couldn't have put it better myself.' He turned to the constable. 'I think you had better let us have a look at the scene of this fresh crime, don't you? Then we'll be able to deduce whether all these events are linked or separate.'

Sir Alexander glared at him. 'I doubt that you'll find your hypothetical killer seals are responsible for digging up Missus Bellaver.'

'Why don't we wait until we've had a chance to examine the site before making decisions?' snapped the Doctor. He thrust his deerstalker back on his head. 'Come along, Doctors. Faversham lead the way!'

The three schoolboys had been right in saying that Jen Walker was pretty. It was an unrefined prettiness, of course, since this was well out in the provinces, but she clearly had no lack of admirers as well as the boys. When Sarah found the barmaid she was flirting gently with one of the local fisherlads.

'Could we talk?' Sarah asked, giving the youth a pointed stare.

'Off you go, Tom,' Jen said, tossing her dark curls. 'No doubt I'll be seeing you later this night?'

'For as much of it as you like,' agreed Tom cheekily.

'Be off with you!' Jen laughed. Then she turned to Sarah. 'And what would you like to talk about, miss?' she asked.

'Schoolboys,' Sarah replied.

'Oh.' Jen scowled. 'I thought I seen Gigger and his mates around earlier. Cheeky little b.u.g.g.e.rs, aren't they? They been giving you trouble, too?'

'None I can't handle,' Sarah informed her. 'But they told me that you might have seen one of their friends.'

Jen scowled in sudden suspicion. 'You the sister of one of them, come to complain?' she asked sharply. 'I don't need no lip from the likes of you. Boys will be boys, and they have to learn their experiences somewhere.'

Sarah stared at the barmaid in disgust. 'Look, I'm not here to get you into trouble,' she snapped. 'I'm looking for a missing boy, not for someone who seems to enjoy under-aged suitors. And I hope even you would draw the line at ten-year-olds.'

'Oh.' Jen twitched her nose. 'That missing kid, Anders, you mean? Well, honest to G.o.d, I never seen him in me life.'

'He was on his way to see you when he vanished,' Sarah replied. 'Apparently Gigger and his chums talked up your charms and availability, and he wanted to become a man.'

'Well, he never did with me!' Jen replied. 'Strike me dead if I'm lying. I never saw the kid. And I wouldn't have done nothing if I had. I have me morals, you know.'

'Really?' asked Sarah sceptically. 'I'll take your word for that. So you have no idea what might have happened to the boy, then?'

Jen's eyes narrowed. 'Now I didn't say that. I just said I didn't have anything to do with it. I might be able to help a little, if you can make it worth me while. Get my drift?' She scratched at her palm.

Sarah's blood was starting to boil. 'I get your drift,' she said, striving to keep her temper. 'And if you aim to keep those good looks that bring in the customers, you'd better tell me what you know.' She examined her nails thoughtfully. 'I doubt you'd earn so much from even curious boys if you had scars down both cheeks.'

Realizing she'd gone too far, Jen backed away slightly. 'I didn't mean nothing,' she whined. 'Just trying to make an honest living. You can't fault me for that, can you?'

'Guess again,' Sarah answered coldly. 'You've got ten seconds to say something I want to hear.'

'Like I said,' Jen answered hastily, 'I don't know nothing myself. But you should talk to Billy. He knows everything that happens in the village.'

'Billy?'

'Yeah. He's one of the wharf rats, you know.' Jen pointed down to the sh.o.r.e. 'He's got a little lean-to by the docks.

There's a house down there with a red roof and door. Past that, down the sh.o.r.e a bit is where Billy lives. Tell him I sent you, and he'll talk to you. I'll bet he knows something.'

'Something he wouldn't tell the police, you mean?' asked Sarah.

'Police!' snorted Jen. 'Billy wouldn't have nothing to do with the police. Better sense than that, Billy's got. But you speak to him.'

Sarah nodded, and left the tavern. As she'd dreaded, Kipling and his two pals were eagerly waiting for her.

'Learn anything?' Beresford asked.

'More than you have in years of schooling,' Sarah told him. 'If I find out what happened to Anders, I'll let you know.

Now buzz off.'

'Never!' said Kipling defiantly. 'We're here to offer you our protection and a.s.sistance.'

'And crude comments too,' Sarah retorted. 'I don't need any of them. Clear off.'

Kipling's face fell. 'Oh, come on,' he begged. 'He's our responsibility, you know. Well, McBee's at least. And we could be useful, couldn't we?' He gave her a pathetic look of hope.

Against her better judgement, Sarah took pity on them. 'Oh, all right,' she agreed crossly. 'But one untoward comment from any of you, and I'm sending you back to school with a flea in your ears. And don't think I wouldn't.'

'Honestly,' Dunsterville a.s.sured her, 'we believe every last word you say, Miss Smith.'

'Now you're starting to learn,' Sarah approved.

'I can quite understand your concern, Alice,' Bridewell told her, holding her hand comfortingly. 'I will confess, what you overheard does sound rather bad for Edmund.'

'Bad?' Alice stared at her fiance. 'He is planning to rob this house, Roger! That manservant of his is a common thief!'

'Alice,' Roger said, his face twisted by indecision, 'please trust me. I know it looks bad, but please believe me. I know that Edmund is planning nothing that would hurt you in any way. Despite what you heard '

'Then tell me what he is planning, if you know,' begged Alice.

'I can't,' Roger replied, not looking at her. 'But if you love me, Alice, trust me on this matter.'

Alice was torn: she did love him, but he was asking a great deal of her. His explanations if they were in fact explanations and not evasions were not making her feel any better. 'Roger, I want to trust you. But I can't trust him without some reason.'

Roger nodded miserably. 'I shall have a word with Edmund,' he promised. 'Perhaps that will help.'

'Perhaps,' agreed Alice, unconvinced. Roger kissed her hand rather perfunctorily and then fled down the corridor. She stared after him, wondering how well she really knew her fiance. He was certainly keeping some secret about Edmund from her, but what? What kind of a hold did the suave Colonel Ross have over Roger? Friendship? Money? Blackmail? She didn't know, and if Roger wouldn't confide in her then perhaps she had better do a little prying of her own. She was not about to trust Ross without some convincing proof of the innocence of his intentions. And Roger was about to warn the man of her suspicions.

Making up her mind, she headed for Ross's rooms. She felt dreadful about searching them, but what else could she do?

Perhaps something would be revealed to resolve her quandary.

The graveyard was small, and set on one of the hills overlooking Bodham Bay. An ancient, weather-beaten stone church guarded the high spot on the rise. The tower was definitely Saxon in styling and in need of a little work, and the windows in the grey stonework were small. The graves were gathered about the church, as if seeking the protection of those old stones.

Most were marked with simple headstones, many of which had been worn into virtual unreadability. There had been some efforts to tend the graves, but several were overgrown with patchy clumps of unkempt gra.s.s. Against the grey sky, the whole site looked dreadfully depressing to Doyle.

Faversham led the way across the graveyard as the harsh wind tugged at their coats. The Doctor, hands thrust in his pockets, his face inscrutable, followed. Behind Doyle, limping slightly, came Sir Alexander and Doctor Martinson. The policeman halted beside a dark gash in the ground. The gravestone had been knocked over, and a hole dug straight through the fresh earth. The Doctor peered in the gap, and Doyle stared down over his shoulder.

The coffin was still down there, a simple wooden affair of local timber. The top had been staved in by a spade, and the body had been dragged out through the gap. A piece of the shroud had caught on a long splinter of wood in the coffin lid, and flapped like a trapped b.u.t.terfly vainly striving to escape.

The Doctor looked up, his face grim. 'Stay back,' he called over his shoulder to Martinson and Sir Alexander. He glanced at Faversham and Doyle. 'Both of you stay where you are,' he said. Without explanation he went down on one knee and began to stare at the ground around the grave.

Doyle stared at him in fascination. 'What are you doing, Doctor?' he asked.

'Looking for clues,' he snapped. 'Be quiet.' He sprang to his feet and wandered across the grounds, staring intently at the ground. Making his way back to the small stone wall surrounding the church, he examined the top stones, and then walked slowly back to the grave. 'There were two men,' he announced. 'One was tall and heavyset, the other shorter and thin. They came from the village and went back that way with the corpse.'

Doyle was astonished. 'How on earth could you possibly know that?'

The Doctor cracked one of his wide, toothy smiles. 'Elementary, my dear Doyle.' He pointed to the ground. 'Aside from a set of woman's shoe-prints that I a.s.sume to be the cleaner who discovered the robbery, there are two recent sets of shoe-prints. One is a large size, and sinks deeply into the disturbed fresh earth. Hence a large man, and rather heavy. The other set is small, and not as deep: a smaller, lighter man. The same prints show on the pathway from the village at the gate, and they return that way also. On the return trip, the large man's prints sink even deeper, so he was carrying the woman's corpse with him.'

'That's remarkable!' exclaimed Sir Alexander. 'And can you tell us where the men went in the village?'

The Doctor shook his head. 'The ground is too rocky, and by the time we get down to the village, the cobble-stoned streets will not carry prints. This is all I can tell you for the moment, gentlemen. But the culprits must still be somewhere in the vicinity.'

'That's quite astounding,' Doyle enthused.

'Scientific method,' the Doctor answered. 'Now, we have several separate mysteries that I feel certain must be inter-twined. You know what we need now?'

'What?' asked Doyle.

'Lunch. I'm starving. Come on!' The Doctor rubbed his hands together and started back towards the village.

'You've left me in the deuce of an uncomfortable position, old man,' Roger complained. 'I know I promised to help all I could, but with Alice getting suspicious '

Ross nodded thoughtfully. 'I know, Roger, and I'm sorry. I suppose the best thing to do would be for me either to leave or come clean. But I'm so close now. I know it! I'm fairly certain that what I'm after isn't here at all.'

'Which I told you from the start,' Roger pointed out.

'I know you did,' agreed Ross. 'But you know I couldn't simply take your word for it. Now I have Abercrombie checking out other possibilities. The problem is that matters have become rather more complex than I had antic.i.p.ated. This Doctor fellow, for example. He's a factor I hadn't foreseen, and I'm not at all certain whose side he's on or what his reasons are for getting involved with this in the first place. Then there's that whaling ship, the Hope Hope. It can't be a coincidence that it was diverted here at this time. But how does it figure in? Will it interfere with my plans?' Ross sighed. 'I had antic.i.p.ated a fairly straightforward time here, but it's definitely far too complex now. Still, that's my problem, and I shall have to make the best of it.'

'Then what do you aim to do?' asked Roger.

His friend patted his arm in a kindly fashion. 'What I don't aim to do is to come between you and your fiancee, old man.

I promise you, I'll square things with her somehow. I just have to work out what would be best.'

Roger smiled with relief. 'Thanks. I'd certainly appreciate your getting me off the hook with Alice.'

The room that Ross had been given was in the west wing. Alice slipped inside it and gazed around. It was a simple bed-room, with little adornment other than a few paintings on the wall. There were two large trunks positioned beside the chest of drawers, one of which was unstrapped. Both trunks were covered with small stickers. Alice took a closer look and saw that they were paste-on labels from hotels all around the world: Cairo, Cadiz, San Francisco, Panama, Rio de Janeiro. Obviously Edmund Ross or at least his luggage was well travelled.

Feeling a twinge of guilt, Alice used the straps to open the unlocked trunk. As she did so, she felt a slight p.r.i.c.k in the end other finger. She winced and then saw a drop of blood forming. Some kind of needle in the strap must have . . .

She felt herself growing rather heady. She gasped, and tried to straighten up. But her legs refused to obey her, and she couldn't stand. Her knees gave way and with a sigh she collapsed to the floor, unconscious.

A few moments later, Ross strode into the room. He stopped in his tracks and stared in despair at the girl on the floor.

'Oh dear,' he sighed. 'This does complicate matters rather more.' It was certainly not turning out to be one of his better days.

Sarah led Kipling, Dunsterville and Beresford to the small lean-to shack that the barmaid had described. It was even flimsier and filthier than Sarah had been expecting, and it was hard to imagine that anyone actually lived here. The wind was rising now, whipping at any exposed portions of Sarah's skin. She could imagine what it would be like here in the winter, and was astounded that the rickety little hut managed to survive those months.

As the four of them approached the dwelling, there was a sudden movement. A small girl, dressed in dark clothing that flapped raggedly, seemed to flash from behind a rock on the sea walk and into the hut. A look-out, obviously, probably gone to warn whoever else lived in the hut that visitors were coming.

'Right,' she said firmly to her companions. 'You three stay here.'

'We want to help,' Kipling objected.

'As far as these kids are concerned,' Sarah pointed out, 'you're rich brats. They won't trust you.'

'And they will trust you?' asked Beresford scornfully.

'They might,' Sarah answered. She had been wondering the same thing herself. These wharf rats had never been treated as anything other than vermin in their lives. Would they even want to talk to her? 'I'm going to try. So stay put, and stay out of trouble.' She ignored Kipling and his friends and marched on down the quay towards the hut.

The door opened as she drew close, and a tall, thin boy stepped out. He was obviously underfed, and his clothing was tattered and didn't fit at all well. His dark eyes were haunted and angry, and he ran thin fingers through dusty blond hair that had probably only been washed if he had fallen into the ocean.

'What you want?' he asked. His voice was cold, angry and impatient. 'You ain't welcome, you know.'

'I only want to talk, Billy,' Sarah said, pitching her voice low and warm. 'I think we may have a problem in common.'

Billy laughed sharply. 'You and me?' he snorted. 'Get on! We got nowt in common.'

'Missing children,' Sarah said.

That made his eyes narrow. His right hand came up, and Sarah saw that he held a fish-gutting knife at the ready. Unlike Billy, the knife was clean and obviously well used. She suspected that Billy had used it to defend himself many times in the past. 'What do you mean?' he growled suspiciously.

'Those three boys,' Sarah waved vaguely in Kipling's direction. Billy's eyes flickered off her face for only a second, and then returned. 'One of their friends has gone missing. I talked to Jen Walker and she said that some of your friends have gone missing too. And she said that you might be able to help me find them.'

'She says too much,' Billy complained. 'She shouldn't talk so much.'

Sarah smiled. 'Maybe, Billy. But have some of your friends disappeared too?'

'What do you care?' asked Billy. 'They're just street rats. n.o.body cares about they except I.'

'I care,' Sarah told him. 'Whatever they are, they're human beings. I know the police don't care much, but I promise you that they matter to me.'

'You're just saying that,' the boy retorted angrily. 'You're like the rest, want us gone. Why should I trust you?'

Sarah shrugged. 'No reason at all, Billy. I can't prove that I care, or that I'm telling the truth. But unless you give me a chance you'll never know, will you?' Was she getting through to him at all? He had obviously lived on the streets and off his wits almost all his young life. Suspicion and fear were his constant companions. Could she possibly break through those barriers and reach him? 'All I'm asking for is a little help from you so that I can help you in return.'

'We don't need your help,' he answered, brandishing the knife. 'We look after ourselves.'