On the television, the audience applauds wildly as a new guest takes their seat on the couch. Somebody wolf whistles. He clears his throat sharply. She flinches as if he’s made a sudden movement toward her.
“Imogen are you absolutely sure about that?”
Her answer catches in the back of her throat, where it changes, from “yes” to “no” and back again. She’s not sure which he wants to hear but she senses, in precisely the same way a young animal in danger might understand it’s cornered, that all hope is lost, that she needs to say the right thing.
Or else.
William Elliott peers beneath the hedge, looking for the remains of the scarecrow that Jayne described to him.
Her recounting of what happened has set off alarm bells. He worked hard to keep his expression impassive as he recognized elements of what she described from tales his dad had told him growing up.
The scarecrow figure. The entrails. Both are familiar.
When William was a child, John Elliott worked hard on the farm all day and then worked hard in the evening to pass down thelocal folklore to his son. Bedtime stories were terrifying and fascinating, his father’s gentle voice bringing alive fabulous creatures that could weave spells around you, save you or doom you. The power they wielded was horrifying and reassuring.
You’re a part of this, his dad would insist. It’s in your blood. It’s in your DNA. So don’t be afraid. You should never fight what’s out there, because if you respect it, it’ll look after you.
He would kiss William on the forehead and pull the curtains tight. A fine man, William knew it even back then, in his heart. Everybody said it, too. He’s always tried to live up to his dad.
But has John become a version of himself, now, a man who would make a grotesque scarecrow to frighten guests away from the barn?
It’s possible. And would he do worse?
Jayne told the story about finding the scarecrow strangely without emotion, but she must have been scared.
Beneath the hedge he finds an old broom handle, which fits with her story, but there’s nothing else. No face made from sacking, no raw entrails. He’s relieved. But also aware that the offal wouldn’t have lasted the night up here.
And if it had, he saw Birdie beneath the hedge earlier. She was eating something.
Evidence?
He rubs his face with his hands. He believes Jayne saw a scarecrow out here. He thinks his dad made it.
What a mess.
He’s thought more about the letter, too. The way it was delivered here and the threat it contains is a cruel joke at best and at worst an extraordinary act of malice, or a setup of some sort. He’s curious about the situation. Who wouldn’t be?
He thinks about how Jayne and Emily interacted with one another at the barn. There wasn’t much love between them so far as he could tell. “Careful” is how he would describe their manner toward each other. He’s also aware of Jayne’s background because she described it to him, and he knows that a certain kind of military training can provide you with the means to tell a good cover story. He wonders if there might be more to Ruth’s disappearance than meets the eye.
It feels very odd to him that the women have described themselves as friends. It’s as if he’s stumbled across a group too dysfunctional to know the meaning of friendship. After all, the alleged letter writer is supposed to be a “friend” of their husbands. And there’s the matter of Emily having fled the barn alone last night, and risked her life doing so. It takes a strong measure of fear to make someone do that and a notable lack of trust in the people you’re with.
He can’t help thinking that if the threat in the letter is real, and one of their husbands is dead, or if Ruth has come to harm, this will make a very juicy case.
He doesn’t spend long checking out the hedgerow. They need to find Ruth.
He’s tasked with searching for her in the close vicinity of the barn. His mother has struck out into the high terrain at the back of the barn; she will search the edges of the moorland, where the worry is that Ruth might have strayed into boggy ground.
Jayne is retracing the walk she and Emily took yesterday, keeping to the path. His father went with his mother but will diverge from her, toward the ancient burial mound that lies high and exposed near the edge of their property.
William doesn’t think Ruth will have struggled up there because it’s a difficult route, but it’s worth a try because John will get a useful bird’s-eye view of much of their land from its vantage point and might be able to spot her. If he can remember what he’s there for.
William takes the opposite direction from his parents, cutting directly downhill, which might be where you’d go if you were drunk and letting gravity guide you. It’s steep. Easy to trip and fall even in daylight.
If they don’t find Ruth soon, he’ll call for backup. If she’s unconscious they could easily miss her in these conditions. He wishes they had some idea of what time she left the barn.
William’s progress is slow and careful. When he reaches the bottom of the slope, he notices a stone dislodged on top of the drystone wall, moss freshly disturbed. Could be a sign she was here, could be anything. An animal. Storm damage.
He feels the sound of the shot as much as he hears it. The crack explodes across the valley, and his whole body stiffens. Crows rise from the trees below. The echo of the shot ricochets, confusing him momentarily but his senses settle, and he knows where the sound came from. It is not a direction from which he would expect to hear shots fired.
