Cold Vengeance - Lincoln Child [34]
Feeling sheepish, D’Agosta finished washing off the mud, toweled himself dry, then put on the clothes. They were for a taller, thinner man, but he managed to get them on fairly well, except he wasn’t able to button the pants. He used a belt to keep them up. The old woman had been stirring a pot, and the unbearably delicious smell of lamb stew reached his nostrils.
“Sit down.” She brought over a large bowl of the stew, tore a few pieces of bread from a rough loaf, and put the stew and bread before him. “Eat.”
D’Agosta took a greedy spoonful, burned his mouth. “This stew is wonderful,” he said. “I don’t know how to thank—”
She cut him off. “You found Glims Holm. What’s your business, then?”
“I’m looking for a friend.”
She stared at him keenly.
“Almost four weeks ago, a good friend of mine disappeared down by the Inish Marshes, over by what they call the Coombe Hut. You know that area?”
“Aye.”
“My friend’s American, like me. He was on a stalk from Kilchurn Lodge when he disappeared. He was injured—accidentally shot. They dragged the Mire for his body but couldn’t find it, and, knowing him, I thought he might have somehow gotten away.”
Her face creased with suspicion. The old woman might be touched, but nevertheless she obviously had plenty of innate cunning.
“Coombe Hut is twelve mile off, across the marshes.”
“I know—but this was my last hope.”
“Hain’t seen him nor anyone else.”
Even though he had known it was a long shot, D’Agosta felt almost crushed by disappointment. “Perhaps your husband might have seen—?”
“Nowt goes out. Invalid.”
“Maybe you’ve seen someone in the distance, someone moving—”
“Hain’t seen a soul these many weeks now.”
He heard a quavering, irritated voice calling from upstairs, with such a thick brogue he couldn’t quite make out the words. The woman scowled and trudged back up the stairs. He heard the old man’s muffled, complaining voice and her sharp retorts. She came back down, still scowling. “Time for bed. I sleep down by the stove. You’ll have to sleep in the loft with the mister. Blanket’s on the floor.”
“Thank you, I’m grateful for the help.”
“Don’t disturb the mister, he’s poorly.”
“I’ll be quiet.”
A sharp nod. “Well, good night now.”
D’Agosta mounted the creaking staircase, so steep it was almost a ladder. He came into a low room with a peaked ceiling, illuminated by a small kerosene lantern. A wooden bed stood at the far end, under the eaves, and in it he could see the rumpled form of the husband, a scarecrow with a bulbous red nose and bushy white hair. He stared at D’Agosta with a single good eye, which contained a certain malevolence.
“Um, hello,” said D’Agosta, unsure of what to say. “Sorry to disturb you.”
“Aye, me too,” came the growled reply. “Dinnae make noise.” The old man turned over roughly, showing D’Agosta his back.
Relieved, D’Agosta took off the borrowed shirt and pants and crawled under a blanket that had been set out on a primitive wooden cot. He blew out the kerosene lantern and lay in the dark. It was wonderfully warm in the loft, and the sounds of the storm outside, the howling wind, were oddly comforting. He fell asleep almost immediately.
An indeterminate time later, he awoke. It was pitch black and he’d been so sound asleep that it took him a moment of fright to remember where he was. When he did, he realized the storm had died down and the cottage was very, very silent. His heart was pounding. He had the distinct impression that someone, or something, was standing over him in the dark.
He lay there in utter darkness, trying to calm himself. It had just been a dream. But he couldn’t shake the sensation that some person was standing, maybe even leaning, over him.
The floor beside his cot creaked softly.
Jesus. Should he shout out? Who could it be? Surely not the old man. Had someone come in the night?
The floor creaked again—and then he felt a hand grasp his arm in a grip of steel.
CHAPTER 18
MY DEAR VINCENT,” CAME THE WHISPERED VOICE. “While I am touched at your concern, I am nevertheless exceedingly displeased to see