‘You could be right. It’s suspicious that both Sophia and her mother are no longer around, yet no one is looking for them. It’s certainly worth looking at.’
Stephen sighs, as a wave of dizziness engulfs him. He blinks it away. ‘Once we get back to Rosemore Cottage, there’s something I want to check out at the tree, then I’ll join you inside for a cuppa.’
Graham nods. ‘An excellent idea. I’d like to take another look at the scarecrow while you’re looking at the tree. I know we said it was now a dead end, but I want to double-check before putting it to bed completely.’
‘Better you than me. That thing gives me the creeps.’
‘You and me both, Mr Mallow. You and me both.’
Upon arriving back home, Graham leaves Mr Mallow to hike up the hill to The Hanging Tree and instead fetches the keys from the hook by the back door. He then heads outside again.
Now it’s daytime, it’s easier to see inside the garage, so the torch is no longer required. The garage lights have never worked. He opens the main roll up door to allow more light inside. But when he turns towards the scarecrow, he jumps back, clutching his chest.
The scarecrow is sitting up, staring straight at him.
‘Son of a bitch,’ he mutters. His heart rate has practically doubled in the space of ten seconds. What the hellis going on with this thing? It’s almost like it’s alive, but that’s physically impossible.
Graham knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that he left the scarecrow lying on the floor, yet now it’s sitting up, propped against some storage boxes as if it’s been waiting for him to return. If it had eyes, it would have been staring straight into his soul.
Graham has experienced some hair-raising and unsettling experiences in his life, but this is certainly up there with the worst and freakiest of them. Someone is messing with him. How had they got inside his locked garage … again? And why are they hell-bent on scaring the crap out of him?
There are three points of entry to the garage; the small glass window, the door on the side and the main roll down door, yet all of them are locked unless he’s inside tinkering. Well, the window technically doesn’t have a proper lock, but it can’t be opened from the outside and it’s still intact from what he can make out.
Graham sidesteps the various tools, boxes and the lawnmower and leans towards the window.
Damn it.
It’s open. Not a great deal, but just a crack. Enough that it could be jimmied open from the outside with a thin stick or a finger. But the window itself is barely big enough to fit a small child through, let alone a grown person. Whoever has been in here is either, indeed, a child, or a slender woman. Noway a grown man would be able to squeeze through the window, not without …
There’s a mark by the window, just under the frame. A dark smear. Blood. It’s unclear whether it’s fresh because it’s already dried, but he certainly hadn’t noticed it before.
Leaving the blood smear and the window for now, he returns to the scarecrow. He still has the sketch and the poster he found in his pocket. He pulls them out, studying them. Again, he marvels at the skill involved in creating such an artistic and beautiful drawing.
John Hammel.
Found hanging in the tree one hundred years ago.
Now, a scarecrow is hung in his place, complete with a pig’s heart; a warning, a symbol, a tribute.
He shifts the scarecrow, so it’s lying on its back, then unzips the jacket, revealing the twisted sticks, leaves and various other pieces of foliage that make up the main body. The pig heart is still wedged inside, still oozing blood, but it has mostly dried. It’s giving off a musty, unpleasant odour that makes him gag slightly. He needs to remove the heart and dispose of it or at least freeze it to avoid losing any possible evidence.
Graham grabs a cleanish rag from the work bench and uses it to pull the heart out of the chest cavity of the scarecrow. It doesn’t come away easily. He wraps it up and places it to the side for now.
‘What’s your story then?’ he asks the scarecrow. But, of course, it doesn’t move or reply. It continues to stare at him, taunting him. ‘I think I might be going senile,’ he says with a sigh. ‘Olivia would sure get a laugh out of this.’
Carefully, he searches the scarecrow from top to bottom, looking for anything else that may be a clue, but there is nothing. The pig heart, the drawing and the sketch are the only things of interest or relevance.
The cogs whir in his brain, clicking into place then straight back out again. Round and round. This whole investigation started with this scarecrow, but now it’s grown wings and taken flight, leaving him far below, scratching his head.
Diane confirmed that it was a local tradition. He can accept that, but what about the sketch and the poster of Sophia stuffed into the pocket? Surely, they aren’t part of the tradition?
Someone on the village council is trying to provide them clues, trying to tell the truth without actually having to say it out loud.
It’s Graham’s job to speak for them.
But who is it?
Chapter 33
