Tom wasn’t normally a fast driver, but he must have been doing seventy. No moon. No stars. Just the pale beam of our head lamps bouncing along the dark, narrow road ahead. I gripped the seat around every curve and couldn’t stop myself from frequently jamming my foot on the phantom brake. The snow had given way to a light drizzle.
“Are they dangerous, or are they in danger?” I asked.
“I don’t know what they are. All I know is we need to get to the lodge as quickly as we can. Once we find them—if we do—we can figure out what’s going on.”
We swerved around a sharp curve, almost sliding sideways in the gravel. Tom slowed the car, but we both knew time was passing.
The directions Susan Benables had given us, without thinking, had been from Exeter, which wasn’t helpful. Instead, we crossed the Dart at Hexworthy, which meant we had to travel east on the B3357 for a mile or so to locate the sign for the farmhouse bed-and-breakfast. There it was—rooms with shared bath, camping pods, and tent camping.
We turned left and passed the farmhouse on the right. Everything was dark. No sign of life.
Tom slowed again, this time to a crawl, on the unpaved one-track road as we peered into the blackness, searching for any road leading to the left. We missed it and had to back up. The left-fork road descended sharply into one of the folds of land. We were about half a mile in when a large, gray stone house emerged out of the darkness below us. We saw a light.
“Someone’s there,” I said.
“If so, they’ve seen us coming,” Tom said. “I hope they recognize the car. This isn’t the kind of place where neighbors drop by to have a chat.”
The gravel crunched as we approached the house. It was old, built of the ubiquitous gray limestone. Four white pebble-dash chimneys rose above a steep slate roof. A number of outbuildings, some thatched, surrounded the main structure. We pulled into a kind of courtyard and parked next to Quinn’s ice-blue Audi.
A shadow passed across one of the windows. Someone was inside.
We’d just gotten out of the car when the door flew open and Quinn stepped out into the cold air. She wore leggings and a huge cardigan sweater that made her look tiny, like a child. Under her right arm, she held a shotgun, the barrel pointed directly at us. Seeing who we were, she lowered the gun. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know who you were. What are you doing here? How did you find me?”
“Your mother told us,” I said. “She’s frantic with worry.”
Quinn placed the shotgun on a bench near the door. “Teddy’s out there somewhere. I was going to look for him. He doesn’t know the terrain.” She’d been crying. I could see the resemblance to her mother, but I could see something else as well. Her eyes looked glazed, and her words were slightly slurred.
Tom grabbed the shotgun, broke it, and led her inside the house. “Where’s Teddy’s car?”
“In the barn. He didn’t take the car. He’s on foot.”
“Which way did he go?”
“I don’t know.” She covered her face with her hands. “We had a terrible argument. He just walked out.”
“When was this?”
“Fifteen minutes ago. Maybe a little longer.”
“Why did he leave, Quinn?” I asked, shivering. The house was as cold as a mausoleum.
Quinn just shook her head. “He was upset. Said he had to think. But it’s dark, and he doesn’t know the area.”
“Start from the beginning,” Tom said. “Your mother said you and Teddy had two unpleasant phone conversations earlier today.”
Quinn looked up. “It was my fault. I got upset. Told him I was going to spend a few days at the lodge. I had no idea he would follow me here. He’s supposed to be in the House tomorrow.”
“When did he get here?”
“I don’t know. Half an hour ago?”
I checked my watch. It was almost nine. If Teddy had caught the train to Exeter immediately, he could have made it to the lodge by car at, say, eight or eighty thirty.
Tom tried again. “Why did Teddy walk out?”
“He said he needed time alone—to think about what to do next.”
“To do next about what?” I asked.
She ignored me. “I told him not to go, but he wouldn’t listen.”
“Where’s the kitchen?” I asked, hoping to find some heat. “I’ll make us a cup of tea.”
The kitchen had white walls with a low, beamed ceiling and treacle-colored wood floors. White-painted cabinets lined three walls. On the fourth was an Aga cooker, more cabinets, and a refrigerator, emitting a faint scent of kerosene. A long pine table stretched the length of the long room. I felt the Aga. The heat was still building. An electric kettle stood on the countertop next to a porcelain container marked Tea. I filled the kettle and flipped it on. Quinn slumped at the table, her forehead resting on the heels of her hands.
“Is the heating on?” I asked, standing with my back to the Aga.
“Yes, but it’s oil-fired. Takes a few hours to warm up.” She closed her eyes and took a breath. She looked exhausted—and not too steady on her feet.
Something was really wrong with Quinn. I looked around the kitchen, finding no evidence of alcohol consumption.
“All my fault,” she said again. “Should have warned him about Evelscombe.” Her words were really slurring now.
“Evelscombe?” Tom’s eyes narrowed.
“The mire. Sheep get stuck there every year and die. Even ponies sometimes.” She looked up, bleary-eyed. “You have to find him, Tom. If anything happens to Teddy, I’ll kill myself.”
I pictured the map of Dartmoor in Hugo Hawksworthy’s office. Widdecombe Throop, the lost village, was located near Evelscombe, the deepest mire on Dartmoor—a giant peat bog where the waterlogged peat was as treacherous as quicksand. Animals and people who strayed into it became trapped and sank slowly to their deaths. And we’d had all that rain, making things worse. No wonder Quinn was worried.
“Do you have a map of the area?” Tom asked. “I need to see the footpaths.”
“Take the Ordnance Survey map and a torch. In that drawer.” Quinn flung an arm toward a cabinet near the sink. “If he took the road, you’d have seen him. Means he took the path onto the moor.” She began to cry.
“Show me,” Tom said, unfolding the well-worn map.
“There’s the lodge,” Quinn said, indicating an irregular shape shaded in pale pink. “That’s where we are. And there’s the footpath. See? It doesn’t go anywhere. Just sort of peters out onto the open moor.”
Tom took the torch Quinn gave him and zipped up his jacket. “Kate, you and Quinn stay here. If I’m not back in thirty minutes, text Okoje. He should be here”—he checked his watch—“by eleven thirty.”
“No texting.” Quinn frowned. “No mobile phone coverage. Haven’t turned on the Wi-Fi. Don’t know how to do it.”
That explained why Quinn hadn’t called her mother. Unless someone figured it out, we wouldn’t be calling for help anytime soon either.
“Okoje will be here in about two hours,” Tom repeated. “If I haven’t found Teddy by then, we’ll notify Search and Rescue.”
How he would do that, I hadn’t a clue. I wanted to go with him, but someone had to stay with Quinn. Something was wrong with her. I reached up and kissed him. “Be careful.”
Tom picked up the map. Quinn grabbed his hand. “See there—the blue symbols like tufts of grass? That’s Evelscombe. Dangerous. Don’t leave the footpath.”
I saw Tom out the door. When I returned to the kitchen, Quinn was slumped over the table.
“Quinn, something’s wrong with you. What is it?”
She looked up. “Teddy’s in danger.” Her pupils were huge.
“No—you’ve taken something. What was it?”
“Prescription.” She lowered her head again and started to moan. “My head’s splitting.”
“What sort of prescription?” When she didn’t answer, I shook her gently. “Quinn, what prescription did you take?”
“Tranquilizers. Doctor gave ’em to me.”
“How many did you take?”
“Don’t remember.” Her head was resting on the table now.
“Where’s the bottle?”
“Bath.” She flung an arm behind her, toward a dark hallway. “’S all right. Doctor said.”
I ran along the hall, locating the huge, old-fashioned bathroom on the right. A plastic container of medicine stood on the porcelain sink. The label read Lorazepam. Thirty tablets. Take two as needed.
I poured them into my hand, wondering if Quinn would need an ambulance, and if she did, how in the world I was going to call one.
Counting by twos, I replaced the pills in the bottle. And took a breath. Twenty-eight left, which meant she’d taken the prescribed dosage.
“You need sleep,” I told her, wondering when she’d swallowed the tablets and how long it would take for the effects to wear off. “Let’s get you to the bedroom.”
She shook off my hand. “No. Have to wait …”
“All right. You can sit in that big chair by the Aga.”
I helped Quinn to the battered old chair and took off her shoes. She drew her feet up under her and closed her eyes. In another room along the hallway, I found a feather duvet and tucked it around her. That would keep her warm.
I’d forgotten all about the tea, but the kettle was hot, so I made myself a cup. No milk, but I added two spoonfuls of sugar from a glass jar on the counter.
Now what? I peered out of the curtainless window into the blackness. Rain spattered lightly against the panes. From the distance came an ominous rumble of thunder.
Had Gideon Littlejohn planned to ruin Teddy Pearce’s political career—and perhaps his marriage—by revealing publicly that Teddy, as a teenager, had killed an elderly, disabled man? Had Teddy killed Littlejohn to made sure that wouldn’t happen? Or … I stopped, the teacup halfway to my mouth, as several more possibilities jostled for position.
I had a sudden image of the crowd watching the mechanical clock demonstration.
Why can’t I remember what’s wrong?
I heard footsteps on the gravel, and the kitchen door burst open. It was Tom. Rain streamed from his hair.
I jumped to my feet. “Did you find Teddy?”
“I found him all right. He needs help.”
“Come inside.”
“No time. I need you both. Teddy’s trapped in the mire. We need rope and—”
“Quinn’s out of commission.” I nodded my head toward the big chair. “She’s taken tranquilizers.”
Tom gave me an agonized look. “It’s just us, then. We need rope and something slick—a plastic tarp or something.” His voice was urgent. “You’ll need wellies—and hats for both of us, if you can find them.”
“Okay—I’ll search the house. You try the sheds.”
“We have to hurry, Kate. He’s already in over his knees, and I’m afraid he’s becoming hypothermic.”