1_3

Thatcher grunted and set off along the path, the others following in his silent wake.
Bailey, a small round man with an unshaven chin and a great heavy coat hefted his cut down musket and fished in his pocket for a quid of tobacco. Cobwebs seemed to touch across his face and he absently waved a hand.
“I’ve never been to this side of the island.” He remarked thoughtfully. “Never had the time”.
Around them the tree’s thinned and ahead the sparse grass faded away to reveal the wet gloss of the mud flats stretching away to the distant sea. The tide was out, but it would soon be turning. They followed the trees for another twenty minutes, keeping their eyes to the north, but it was not until they saw the faint impressions of Harry Moss’s footsteps, still visible in the drying mud that they realised where the girl was.
“Christ. She’s right out there on the mud!” Bailey spat. “I’m not going out on that! It’s a God poxxed death trap out there!”
“Ah stow your gob.” Thatcher muttered. He set off once again without waiting for the others.
“He’s right Mr Bailey” Moss said. “The mud here is not dangerous. It’s only when you get further out where the sea can catch you that you have to be on your guard.”
Bailey watched the tall heavy figure of Thatcher and swore under his breath. “One day…” he muttered.
Morgan de Hogue nodded to him self and followed Thatcher out on to the mud, keeping an eye on the deep impressions the old smuggler made. He knew very well why Thatcher had offered to come along, and he also knew why Bailey disliked Thatcher, and why Bailey as the magistrates man had to go on this messy chore.
They all knew that Samuel Moss was more or less bound to go since this was his land, but none of them knew quite why de Hogue was with them.
He had his reasons of course, but as he stalked along in Thatcher’s footsteps he asked himself repeatedly what he was doing on this god forsaken island.
Behind him, he heard Bailey cursing violently as he slipped in the mud and ruined his coat. He turned to watch as Moss helped the struggling fat man back onto his feet. Both of them were middle aged, short and heavy men, and in the grey light, on the barren mud they made a desperate picture, each holding onto the other for balance.
Beyond them he saw several figures emerging from the woods. The news had spread and others had come to satisfy their morbid curiosity.
Moss and Bailey were short and fat, and Thatcher was a great gaunt giant of a man but de Hogue was a medium sized, well muscled man of undetermined age. He was well dressed, and appeared wealthy and the rumour was he was some how connected to the Admiralty. He had plenty of money, and for the last several weeks he had been living in Mrs Smyth’s boarding house. No one seemed to know why he was on the island at all.

Up ahead, Thatcher had stopped. He looked back towards de Hogue and took another few steps then halted altogether. A few feet from him was a set of ships ribs were some old fishing boat had floundered many years before and as de Hogue approached, Thatcher pointed to a pale figure which lay sprawled amongst the ribs. It was a young woman in a torn and smothered white dress, mud spattered and stained from a huge gaping wound.
De Hogue stopped short in surprise and stared in mute horror at the gaping wound in the girl’s chest.
“Who is it?” he breathed.
Thatcher shook his head and walked around the corpse.
She lay on her back, across a rotten timber, with her neck arching her head away from de Hogue and her hair, dried stiff with salt across her face. Thatcher reached down and pulled it gently away.
“Ah no” he groaned.
“Who is it?” Moss called out as he approached. He stopped dead as the body came into view, and Bailey pushed impatiently past him. De Hogue noticed how the sudden emptiness on Moss’s face contrasted with the almost indifferent irritation with which Bailey strode across to the body and examined the wound.
“It’s Mary Coleman.” Thatcher replied in a gruff voice.
“Who?” Bailey looked up at the big man as Moss began to vomit.
“She’s Frederick Mason’s step daughter.”
“Mason?” Bailey frowned up at Thatcher,
“The Chandler?”
“Aye.”