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Market Scarston village
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Elizabeth Morgan sat on the fine leather passenger seat of Jake Crowley’s British racing green Bentley Mulsanne. The car was a giant luxury cruiser, ostentatious in the extreme and well beyond a soldier’s or a teacher’s salary. When she’d first seen Crowley driving it, she’d looked it up. Made throughout the eighties, it was an old car, but in beautiful condition. It had a Rolls Royce V8 engine under the bonnet. She desperately wanted to ask Crowley how on earth he had come to own such a car, but she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of not telling her. The man was suspiciously vague about his past. And he would only use it as an excuse to call her Beth again. Only her father was allowed to call her that, and she would continue to insist he use Elizabeth like everyone else
She sneaked a sidelong glance at the man as he drove. He was handsome, around six feet tall, his dark hair cut short and neat. She guessed him to a few years short of her thirty-two, but beyond that she worried about how little they knew about this enigmatic and, frankly, infuriating man. He was strong, well-built under his collared shirt and jacket. Not big like a bodybuilder, but muscular, athletic. Clearly ex-military, that was evident in his manner, his bearing, his neatness, despite his reluctance to share details. And in the wariness he displayed, often on-edge.
Everyone at the academy pretended not to care about Crowley’s arrival, but they all whispered about him too. He was a last-minute addition to the faculty, his position endowed by an anonymous benefactor. No one knew for a fact if the benefactor literally bought Crowley’s way onto the faculty but it was easy enough to add one and one. Morgan was under no delusions about the favors cast around private schools, but she resented Crowley’s seemingly easy pass. She’d worked her arse off to get a position at the prestigious academy. Why hadn’t he?
“Earth to Beth!”
She jumped, realized he’d been saying something while she was lost in thought. “Sorry, what?” She bristled at his use of Beth again. “And please, how many times? It’s Elizabeth or Ms. Morgan.”
“I asked you which way to the old church? I know it’s across the village, backing onto the same woods that share the eastern side of the academy.”
“Yes. Head right through the village. I’m sure you know the Leaping Hound?”
“I do.”
She wasn’t surprised he was familiar with the village pub. “Good. Straight past that, then the first lane on the right. I’ll point it out. It’s easy to miss in the hedgerows.”
Crowley directed the Bentley along the narrow lane from the academy and into the village proper. The Tudor houses with their white walls and black wooden beams, thatched roofs, red tiles, and deep curbs were familiar to any English market town. He headed towards the High Street and around the village green in its center. On the left-hand side, the large pub loomed in the darkness.
The Leaping Hound was a two-story building with white walls and lichen-covered red tiles on the roof. It had steep gables, black frames around its sash windows, and a large black wooden door. Several weathered wooden tables and benches were placed on the wide footpath out the front, the pub garden a large green expanse fenced in behind. It was all dark at the late hour, the pub sign with its almost cartoonish leaping black dog shifting gently in a light breeze. On the far side, a gravel car park sat empty.
“Actually,” Morgan said, “pull in there.”
“The pub car park?”
“Yes. It’s a short walk from here past the new church, and maybe that foolish boy is hiding out somewhere along Church Lane. Better we go on foot from here and see if we can find him.”
“Is it likely he’s lost in the woods?”
“It’s possible. The forest is large and sprawls out from the edge of the village. Our academy is on one side, the village perpendicular to that, but on the other two sides it goes on a long way then meets farmland and old family estates. Let’s hope we don’t have to traipse through there, eh?”
Crowley nodded, pulling into a parking space. “Let’s hope.”
Morgan sat while Crowley turned off the engine and she nearly asked him about the car. Surely it was a quirk of character to own such a thing, but if she asked, it would be seen as prying. Which, she supposed, is exactly what it was. But she so wanted to know. Perhaps he’d inherited it.
She got out into the cool autumn night, the leafless trees scribbled silhouettes against the stars, and checked her watch. Just after one o’clock in the morning. They should all be in their beds. She for one would be a wreck the next day. Damn that Tommy Arundel.
“At least tomorrow is Saturday,” Crowley said, reading her expression. “This way then?” he asked, pointing across the road.
She was about to say yes when three men came along the footpath. They saw each other and the three immediately veered to intercept. She’d seen them around the village, good for nothing, but didn’t know their names. They were clearly drunk and the middle one held a bottle of something, half-empty. It looked like whisky.
“Hey hey, lovebirds!” the one with the bottle slurred.
“Come on,” Morgan said, and started away from the three men.
Crowley fell into step beside her, but the three weren’t planning to give up.
“Oi,” said the middle one. “I said hello!”
Crowley turned to face them. “No, you didn’t. You made a crack about lovebirds. We’re work colleagues and not interested in your games. Go on, off you go.”
“Or what?” The man’s cronies hurr-hurred at this bit of eloquence.
Morgan frowned, hoping Crowley wouldn’t stir them up. Was he the sort to start something? She thought maybe he had that potential.
“Tell you what,” Crowley said. “Maybe you can help us. Have you seen any students from the Scarsdell Academy around the village tonight? Or around the old church maybe?”
The one in the middle and the one on the left sneered and shook their head. The other one said, “How am I supposed to know if they go to your school?”
Angry looks flashed between the three. “Shut up, Thatch,” said the middle one, brandishing the bottle threateningly at his friend.
Thatch frowned and looked away. “Sorry, Rupert.”
“So, did you see some kids or not?” Crowley asked.
Morgan watched the belligerent expressions of the three. They would say nothing more unless it was offensive, she thought.
Crowley nodded, smiled. “Well, good. Thanks for your help, gents.”
He turned away and Morgan saw a look pass between the three men that Crowley missed. He’d underestimated them. Rupert grabbed her, one arm hard around her throat. His bottle banged painfully into her ribs as he hauled her backwards. Thatch and the other man jumped Crowley.
Struggling to break his chokehold, Morgan had a moment of panic before Crowley sprang into action. He moved with the grace of a dancer, striking out with quick, brutal efficiency. He drove a fist into Thatch’s face and Thatch hit the pavement like a sack of butter, blood streaming from his nose. She didn’t see what Crowley did next, but a moment later the other man yelped and fell to his knees, rocking side to side, cradling a broken arm.
Crowley turned towards Morgan and her attacker. “Really, Rupert?” he said, not even out of breath. “What are you planning? Robbery? Rape? You think it’ll go unnoticed and you’ll be all fine once you sober up?” He took a step forward.
Rupert’s grip on Morgan vanished and she heard his footsteps slapping the pavement as he bolted away, back toward the village green. Stunned, she let Crowley take her hand and lead her back to the road, heading for the end of Church Lane.
She finally found her voice. “How on earth did you manage that?”
Crowley glanced at her, shrugged. “Years of practice.”