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Market Scarston
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Crowley spent Saturday afternoon reading, trying to clear his mind of all the strange goings on. He trusted Morgan to find out what she could about the history society and there was little he could do in the meantime. As six o’clock rolled around he went down into the dining room and ate at the teacher’s table, largely ignoring the students still around for the weekend. There were no other teachers there for that meal, even Morgan. As soon as he’d sated his hunger, he went back upstairs, got cleaned up and changed, then headed out.
As it was his job to check on the pub and see what he could learn there, he decided to walk. He’d never been a big drinker, but right now the thought of a few pints was quite enticing. And besides that, if he wanted to win the confidence of the locals, the best way was to drink with them. If he was truly a local celebrity, as Philip Arundel had condescendingly suggested, he might as well exploit it to gather some information.
It was long dark by the time he walked along the country lane from the school toward the village. High hedges on either side made the road narrow, but there was a kind of hard shoulder about a meter wide, marked with a solid white line of paint. Despite ensuring he stayed well inside it, he was only about half a mile along the lane when a screech of tires on the bend behind made him leap sideways. He crashed into the hedgerow, which was thankfully forgiving enough to let him move out of the path of a small white panel van that barreled past. He didn’t see the number plate or the driver. As he picked himself up and brushed leaves from his hair and jacket, he wondered if the driver was trying to harm him or if it was entirely accidental. On the winding road he couldn’t be certain the driver knew he was there. Regardless, whoever it was had been going much too fast for the narrow, twisty lane. Reckless at the very least.
Rattled, and suspicious the event had been deliberate, Crowley slipped off the road and into the forest as soon as the lane allowed. He made his way around to the village by a dog-legged route, creeping through the trees to spy on the pub without being seen walking past.
From the vantage point he gained he could see the front of the pub and its tables and benches, most occupied. The pub door was open, several patrons inside, drinking and chatting and laughing. Music drifted out, the jukebox playing the Rolling Stones. He could also see the car park beside the pub, and the extension to it where it went around behind the building, leading to the pub garden. The panel van that had almost hit him was parked there at the back.
Rupert Boles, the one who’d grabbed Morgan in their drunken attack, stood by the van chatting with another man, whom Crowley presumed to be the reckless driver. He wondered where Rupert’s father was and whether another run-in with that man was imminent.
Staying in the shadows of the woods, Crowley watched Rupert and the other man talk for a minute or two more, then money was exchanged. Rupert looked around, presumably to ensure they were alone, then unlocked a cellar door at the foot of the back wall of the pub. He hurried down some steps, vanished for a moment, then returned with a small box stamped with the Tetley Tea logo.
Crowley frowned. Was the kid selling the bar’s supplies right out the back of the pub? And how did he have access to those places? Crowley thought perhaps he needed to figure out just how Rupert and his father were connected to the Leaping Hound. And if whatever Rupert had just handed over were supplies from the pub, surely they’d be stored inside. So perhaps the small box contained something else entirely. But what? Perhaps this external basement was old and not used by the publican any more. More questions.
The reckless driver had a few more words with Rupert, then got back in the van and drove away. Rupert looked around again then double checked the basement door was locked. He pocketed his keys and walked back around to the front of the pub and went inside.
Crowley pursed his lips. On the one hand, he wanted to go in and chat to the locals, see what he could learn. In particular, he wanted to figure out who Rupert and his father really were. But he also thought perhaps he was right in that Rupert used the old cellar without the knowledge of the publican. In which case, it would be a good idea to check it out while he knew Rupert himself was busy inside the Leaping Hound.
In the deep shadows of the early autumn night, Crowley moved along the tree line, then hurried across the road and came up to the pub car park from the far side. He quickly slipped past a few parked cars to crouch in darkness by the old basement door. It was built at an angle up against the pub wall, but the ground around it showed little wear and tear. If beer barrels were frequently rolled this way, that would have been evident.
The doors were wooden and closed with a simple hasp. That in turn had an old-fashioned padlock for security. Not worth much, Crowley thought with a smile. He’d picked up a few useful skills in the service and even more in the short and nefarious period since. Modern locks might be a little beyond his skill set, but old clunky arrangements like this were no challenge. He pulled his all-purpose pocket tool from his jacket and in moments had the padlock undone.
Wooden steps led down into darkness. Crowley flicked on his flashlight and descended, quietly closing the basement door above himself. The cellar was an old, musty space, with rickety wooden shelves around the walls, a bunch of wooden shipping chests, most open and empty, a few cardboard boxes. It was all just junk. A doorway in the far wall would have led in under the pub, but that had been bricked up. The bricks were a different size and color to the basement walls, so that confirmed Crowley’s suspicion that this basement and the pub were no longer used together.
He saw a line in the dusty floor, footprints scuffing back and forth between the steps and the far corner. He followed them and found, hidden by loose burlap sacks, a very old cast iron safe. A quick inspection showed it to be solid and anchored in place. This, presumably, was where the tea was kept, in those small Tetley boxes. But he didn’t think for a moment it was actually tea inside. A surreptitious night-time car park trade in tea bags seemed rather unlikely. So what was it?
He jumped at a scraping and knocking sound from behind. He quickly ducked into deep shadow behind a nearby shelf. Something on the floor on the far side of the basement shifted, then a hidden trapdoor in the floor opened up. A man climbed out, carrying a bag. He was tall and strong looking, though not bulky. He had a square-jawed face and short blond hair, shot through with the beginnings of gray. Crowley guessed him to be around fifty or so, but fit and vibrant with it. Crowley held his breath as the man pulled out a large key, opened the safe, and took out an envelope. He stood and counted the money inside by torchlight, then took out a few bills and pocketed them. Then he tucked the envelope with the rest of the money still inside into his jacket.
He had a bag with him, which he sat on the floor and removed several boxes of Tetley Tea and put them into safe. He locked up the safe again and climbed back down the hidden trapdoor, closing it quietly behind himself.
Crowley stared for some moments, wondering just what the hell was going on here. Without any other obvious course of action, he gave it a few minutes, then cautiously followed the stranger.