A deep woof rang out over the sound of the river. On the other side of the pool appeared Trevor, the military bloke, wolfhound at his side. Then, below me, two shadows raced out of the woods. Men, wearing camouflage. I skidded to a stop.
Amanda heard—or sensed—them, spinning round, her hand going to the pocket of her anorak. But the men were on her and in a flash her hands were cuffed behind her back.
Trevor had a rope coiled in his hands and as he reached the pool he spun it out across the water. As Stefan caught it, Trevor wrapped his end round a tree trunk and knotted it. Then Trevor reeled Stefan in, just like a bloody big fish.
There were more shouts as Giles and the gamekeeper came crashing through the woods. But things were all in hand. After a moment of spit and fury, Amanda had gone quiet, but I made certain her captors were keeping a close eye on her.
The gamekeeper gave me a wink. “All sorted, then?” he asked.
“Thanks to you,” I said. I’d caught him just as he was leaving to take the shooting party up on the moor.
He’d listened to me, then given me an assessing glance before nodding and agreeing to take my message. “Why didn’t you think I was bonkers?” I asked.
“Trevor there told me to keep an eye on you,” he answered.
Once we’d convoyed back to the lodge, Amanda bundled off in a military jeep and Stefan sent off for a hot bath, Trevor invited me up to his cottage for a cup of tea. Morag, still looking shocked, had waved me off my kitchen tasks.
“What gave her away?” he asked, when we were settled at his pine table with steaming mugs. He looked younger without the flat cap, but I was still getting used to the fact that his eyes were now brown rather than blue, and that there was something very odd about the shape of his nose and chin.
“Besides the fact that I didn’t like her?” I heard him give an appreciative snort into his tea. “She said she was an angler. But she said fishing stuff instead of tackle. And”—I thought back to my spotted friends—“when I showed her the fish prints in the house, I pointed right at a big old salmon and she said she loved trout. Any real angler would know a salmon from a brown trout.”
The dog, snoring beside Trevor on the flagged floor, lifted an ear and thumped his tail, then went back to sleep.
“She’s a professional,” said my godfather. “Improvising when she saw an opportunity. They will have sent her in because they thought Stefan would be vulnerable to a pretty face. But she should have done a better job on her homework.”
“But why Stefan? Or whatever his name is?”
“Stefan”—he put emphasis on the name—“has a meeting at Balmoral next week. It’s important that he keep it.”
“Important enough that you disappeared for a year? Without telling anyone where you were?” I meant him to know I was still mad.
“The balance of power in Eastern Europe may depend on decisions Stefan makes. And on who supports him.”
He didn’t apologize for worrying us. He never did.
“Okay,” I said. “I get it. But why the post card? Why get me here?”
He shrugged. “I thought you might be bored. And I missed your birthday.” Sipping his tea, he added, “Just how did you discover me, by the way? I thought the disguise was pretty good.”
“You were the only one who never spoke to me.”
“Yes, well. I couldn’t very well, could I? The voice is the hardest thing to change. But I think we should talk about what you are really going to do in your gap year.”
I stared at him. Then I grinned. I couldn’t help it. But turnabout was fair play. Looking at my watch, I said, “Could we have this conversation tomorrow? I have a date.”
“A date?” He couldn’t have looked more shocked if I’d said I had two heads.
“Yes. A date. With the beekeeper. His name is Malcolm, as I’m sure you know. He’s on his summer break from university, and he’s quite hot.”
“Oh. Ahem, I see . . .” Never had I seen my godfather at such a loss for words. “Well, good job today, Sher—”
“Don’t,” I said, giving him my sweetest smile. “You know how I feel about the name.”
THE ADVENTURE OF THE EMPTY GRAVE
by Jonathan Maberry
It was in the spring of 1894 that I experienced an encounter so strange and enigmatic that only now, many years later, I am committing it to paper. Had I shared this matter to anyone but a few confidents among the police I would surely have been called, at best, a liar, or at worst a madman. Perhaps now the world is ready for it.