‘Is this a legal investigation involving the police or is this … somewhat unorthodox?’
‘This is the combination of a retired cop who’s bored out of his mind and a smidge of rebellion against the police force, having spent so many years following rules and stuckbehind a desk. Let’s just say, this is a chance to work my potentially-dementia-ridden brain muscles.’
‘But you haven’t contacted the police.’
‘No. This is strictly under the police radar until I deem it necessary to involve them.’
Stephen grins. ‘Count me in, Detective. I’ll leave right now.’
Chapter 11
SOPHIA
Bethgelert, Wales, 2015
Damn it, I should have brought my bike. It would have been quicker and easier than jogging to the tree because I had to keep stopping and starting every time I reached a hill. And there were a lot of hills in Wales. The last time I cycled in the dim light, though, I ended up riding head first into a fence that had come out of nowhere. Plus, there was no way I could ride up the hill to the tree. It was too steep and pushing the bike up was also pointless.
The sunset cast enough light on the surrounding fields so I could see them, but under the canopy of the large tree, I was shrouded in darkness. I’d made sure to wrap up warm before leaving home. As a farmer's daughter growing up in Wales, I knew about wearing the correct clothing for the elements and to be prepared for the changing weather. I was harder and tougher than most girls my age, not afraid of getting my hands dirty or climbing over a barbed-wire fence and slicing my shin open on the spikes. A muddy field was never a problem, not if I was wearing the right footwear. Mostly wellies. I lived in wellies.
I settled on the ground with my back against the trunk and opened my sketchbook and pencil set. Wow, the sky was particularly striking this evening. Yellows, oranges and reds cascaded across the sky, but since I only drew in pencil, I couldn’t capture the colour. It didn’t matter though. I doubt John Hammel had used colours or paints back in his day either. A pencil was all he required to create a piece of stunning art.
I began to draw, slowly moving the pencil across the page, closing my eyes every few seconds to feel for what I had to do next. Some might say it was creepy or weird that my dead relative was using my hand to draw, but to me it felt normal. Like he was speaking to me through the drawing. It brought me peace because sitting underneath the tree calmed me, despite it being a symbol of a very sad time in my family history.
It was true that John Hammel’s suicide ninety years ago had set about a chain of unfortunate events in the village, culminating in my dad having to rent Rosemore Cottage to pay off his debts. Dad had made some bad decisions regarding finances and had the unfortunate knack of trusting the wrong person. It all started with John, if you believed the legend. Everyone blamed everything on the poor guy, who wasn’t even here to defend himself.
There was a lot of bad luck in the area, which I learned more about a year ago, after I chose to research the tree and its history for a school project, which even got posted on theschool’s website. My father hadn’t been particularly pleased with my choice, trying his best to get me to pick something else, like the mining disaster of 1992 in the quarry, but no, I wanted to learn about the tree and why John Hammel’s death had kick-started a so-called curse upon the village.
In the end, I walked away with a B grade, which had been good enough.
Did I believe in the curse? Or was it just bad luck and a string of unfortunate coincidences? For my school project, I decided to go down the route of “curses weren’t real” and that people made their own bad luck and just because a young farmer decided to end his life, it didn’t mean everyone else was doomed. I was sure that was why I got a B and not an A. I put a lot of work into it, but my teacher was one of those believers. Most of the older residents in the village were. The younger generation, like me, were told to carry on the legend of the curse, but the more the years passed, the weaker the curse became. Eventually, when people like my dad and other village elders died off, there wouldn’t be anyone left to carry on the legacy of ‘The Hanging Tree.’
The pencil stopped moving on the open page.
I couldn’t seem to get it going again, so I put it down and watched the sun set. I took out my phone and snapped a picture, but it didn’t do the sight justice. I rarely used my phone, not for calls and texts, mainly because it didn’t work unless I was within Wi-Fi range at home. Out here, even on topof the hill, there was limited to no signal, so it was basically a glorified camera.
It was time to head home.
I hadn’t finished my sketch, but the sun had gone to bed now and the moon was making its appearance. I got to my feet, brushed the dirt from my bum and stretched my arms above my head. A rustle of leaves made me look up. A squirrel heading to bed, perhaps? Or a bird?
Another rustle, this one louder.
‘Hello?’ I called out, squinting my eyes, but the darkness was now too thick to see anything.
Another rustle; this one big enough to send a small cascade of dirt and dead leaves on my head. I coughed and stepped back, bumping into a solid object. I spun around, my heart practically leaping from my chest.
‘Hello, Sophia.’
Fear ripped through my chest, taking my breath with it. How had he crept up without me noticing? Where had he come from? I was sitting there the whole time, looking up and down sporadically. Had he already been there, hiding behind the tree, watching me?
‘Um, hi,’ I said, instinctively stepping backwards and bumping into the tree. I felt safer touching it, like it was a barrier between him and me.
The man in front of me was dressed all in black and wearing a flat cap, blending in perfectly to the dimming light.
‘Surprised to see me?’ the man asked. ‘I take it you were expecting someone else?’
‘Um … yeah. I mean …’ I recognised him as a friend of my dad. The man was roughly the same age as him and his cap was pulled low over his forehead, shielding his face. I’d never really liked him. He always gave me the creeps. Fear was almost strangling me. ‘I’m meeting someone here. They’ll be here any minute, so …’ The lie slipped out easily. Maybe if he thought someone was on the way, he’d back off.
The man chuckled and tipped his cap back, revealing his face. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here to deliver a message.’
