2_4

The day passed slowly for Bailey, who escorted the Doctor back to the Hampton’s cottage, whilst telling him about the dead girl, and after many hours of waiting whilst the Doctor fought McKee’s now raging fever he stepped out into the twilight to chew on a quid of tobacco.
Looming from the shadows came the tall dark figure of Thatcher. Bailey scowled at him and tilted his head back in disdain.
“What do you want? What are you doing, skulking around like that?”
Thatcher fingered his spade shaped beard and made a show of bending down to talk to the much shorter Bailey.
“I heard about the sailor and I came to see if there were aught I could do to help?”
“Did you now?” Bailey replied, indicating by his tone that he failed, utterly, to see how Thatcher could be of any help what so ever.
Thatcher grinned at him and leered in a hideous grin revealing his stained and broken teeth. “Aye” he said. “Tha’ knows as how I have many friends in these parts, and I’m always ready to help out a new friend…”
Bailey felt his anger rising, but mastering his temper, he spoke in a curiously interested voice, “I trust you are not attempting to bribe a representative of the law now?”
“Oh no” Thatcher straightened himself to his considerable height and looked about, as if he had lost all interest in the conversation. “I was referring to Mister Hampton of course.”
Bailey smiled to himself in the soft light. “Aye. Well Mister Hampton is indisposed just at the moment, so I suppose you’d best be calling tomorrow instead…”
Thatcher nodded jovially.
“As you say then Mister Bailey. As you say then…” He turned and left and was quickly swallowed up by the shadows. Bailey chuckled, pleased with himself as he fumbled for his tobacco.

Morgan de Hogue spent the most of the day writing his report. In it he detailed all he had known of the smugglers ring prior to the murder, emphasising his belief that Bartholomew Thatcher was the leader of a well organised gang, and listing the names of those he already knew to be implicated.
Then he described the murder.
He described the girl’s body and the state in which it was found, and then how he had discovered the sheep. He put forward the idea that perhaps these two deaths were linked, and that maybe this had something to do with the smuggling ring. Perhaps, he wrote, this girl was murdered because she saw or knew something, and the manner of her death was a warning of some kind.
When he had finally finished the report, he sealed it and wrapped it in oil skins then sat back and stared out the window, idly rubbing the bridge of his nose with inky fingers. It was already going dark, and he had not yet eaten, so placing the heavy package in his shoulder bag, he made his way down to the Doctors boat, then on to the Old George where he ate an excellent Seaman’s pie.
Around eight o’clock, Bailey found him in the snug and sat down heavily opposite him.
“Well, I’m knackered.” The little man declared.
When de Hogue said nothing he spoke further; “I just spent two hours with Doctor Farrell examining the dead girl…”
His head resting back against the wall, de Hogue lifted an eye brow.
Bailey nodded, “But the good doctor cannot be sure as to whether or not she was eaten of. She was certainly killed by a single fatal blow to the chest though with a large sharp instrument. Perhaps a heavy cavalry sabre or a ships cutlass…”
That much had been clear from the wound itself.
“Did he say how long he thought she’d been dead?”
“He more or less thought as we did. She was killed the day before we found her and her body had been in the sea.”
Bailey raised an arm, and the plump red haired bar maid made her way across the room.
“What’ll it be gentlemen?” she asked with the pretence of a smile.
“Is there any chance of anything to eat?” Bailey asked.
She nodded, but stuck out her lip. “Only cold servings now though I’m afraid Sor.”
“Some bread and meat then if you please, and a pint of your best for the both of us.”
“Not me” de Hogue raised his hand. “I’m dead on my feet!”
Bailey grinned, remembering that de Hogue had fallen asleep in the arm chair. He waved him away, but as de Hogue pulled on his coat, he turned to him and said; “Tomorrow, I’m going to start asking questions about the girl’s movements… who saw her last and that sort of thing. Do you want to come with me?”
De Hogue paused as he was leaving.
“Yes, alright. I’ll see you here tomorrow at eight?”
“Very well then…” he paused for effect, and then said “By the way. You have a large ink stain on your nose.”


That night the island was quiet. In the Old George, and The Cracked Bell the last few usual drunks were thrown out. Thomas Bailey had wandered home, half inebriated and was fast asleep and snoring and the in the village, the only light was the harbour light which signalled to any ships where the stone quay jutted out into the sea.
Around midnight, the moon was obscured by the first clouds, and the dark deepened as the wind rose. An hour later and it was raining, the wind pulling the naked tree’s back and forth, and the few boats in the harbour were riding their moorings hard.Up on Beacon Hill, a single light suddenly flared from an ancient arrow slit in the old Norman tower, but there was no one to see it. It flashed briefly, three times, visible far out to sea, as a sudden blinking spark of light, and then it was gone.