After a month back at home, Detective Augustine Holmes was transferred and assigned to the area’s Police station in Carlisle because she was born and grew up in the country there. She was after all the youngest sister of the local Lord of the Manor, James Virgil Holmes, who reads at least six newspapers a day since he turned thirty years. He spends most of his time after that reading, playing chess on the Internet, or walking with his hounds. (No, he doesn’t hunt.)

          One more thing about this ageing semi-recluse, he holds a book readers club meeting at his tumbling- down manor once a month. “The Book and Quill Society” was started by Lord Holmes and a friend when they were young men. My father, I am proud to say, was that friend. They were in the war together toward the end of things, that being World War II. They were both very young when the war was ending, missed all the best action to hear my Father tell it.

          It was not to Lord Holmes liking that his youngest sister had chosen to become involved in police work, but no one in the family had ever been able to do anything with Augustine, not since she was given her first cycle by her Uncle Ted Baxter. That was about her sixteenth birthday or thereabout, and she spent the next whole year terrorizing anyone in her way as she revved around country by-ways beyond the manor. Always in a haversack hanging on her back was her faithful black Chihuahua pup, Abernathy.

          No one in the village knows all the facts about Holmes’s Scotland Yard experiences or Detective School studies because this all happened in London, and most of the time in Baker Street, London might well be located on the moon. However, when it appeared imminent that Baker Street needed some police assignment in the area now that it had become a viable village, residents and business persons were fairly certain that Detective Augustine Holmes was appointed due to her connections with the manor, though of course, no one among the powers that be would admit to such a thing, fair law and all. ((Not in England, har, har.))

          Some people are certain that the Parr brothers sought to take advantage of Holmes’s having become in involved in crime solving and making somewhat of a name for herself in London at the Yard. Whether anyone pulled any strings or not, the Parrs anticipated Detective Augustine Holmes to be an attraction for Baker Street at some time in the future, relative of the great one et al.

          One of the youngest detectives in England, Augustine Holmes had grown up to be a modern young lady in my humble opinion. She has long dark brown hair which she sometimes pins up or wears in a pony tail. She is very attractive, though somewhat short of leg to my tastes. She rides a Harley and sports a few tattoos, has a ten foot tall mouth. She has an affable disposition most of the time, is known to be a scholar of sorts, and keeps company with Dr. Winchcombe, Gervaise Winchcombe, the local ‘rich young man’ and part-time vet whose practice is behind The Feed Store, but who lives with his mother and the other Winchcombes at Fairoaks, the Winchcombe estate.

          The Winchcombes are one of the areas very wealthy families and are connected to the Parrs by marriages. Holmes’s appointment is quite acceptable therefore, to locals who knew her in her earlier years as she was growing up. Of course, no one wanted a ‘foreigner’ in the area poking around in anyone’s business; so even those most adamantly against her appointment knew they were better off with a Holmes on duty in the area than a stranger no one knew at all. Shame she couldn’t just be a country bobby. ( Ah, now those were the days…) With change has come much good, but there are some things I miss and the village constable is one of those.

          Appointed detective in London only two years earlier, Holmes held some doubts about working a post of any kind so near where she was born. Not very exciting, ho? Still, she pragmatically decided she’d rather be a big fish in a little pond than a little fish in a big pond, and so she moved into her position in the village dans le plein regalia d’agent de police, impressing all, most of all, herself. (No one knew why she did not want to return to London. That hadn’t come up yet. You can be sure it was debated in certain corners, namely The Blue Goose, but since the proprietor there is one of Holmes ardent admirers, it was not much debated without his interference.)

          Ollie Parr noted with compunction that he was especially impressed with the headgear that Detective Holmes had chosen for herself when she came through the village for an inspection of sorts. Larkspur Foxworth, being the latest-trend young lady she was, commented that she thought a detective, ‘their detective,’ should not be living in the manor gatehouse, but no one paid attention to her remarks. She was too young, at twenty-six, to be given any real deference and owned a small white poodle to boot.

          Besides that, it was she who had designed and fashioned Detective Holmes’ hat and ‘uniforms,’ and everyone in Baker Street who was anyone knew that she was very proud of that. The hat was a dark blue and grey chequered print replica of the various pictures she had seen on the Internet of Sherlock Holmes - down to the chin ribbon that tied the ear flaps together on top of the head. The hat was just perfect, eventually a tourist-must. (Many would be sold to visitors and tourists passing through Baker Street over the years

          Holmes thought wearing the hat a small price to pay for a very stylish new wardrobe from Larkspar; and she was relieved to be out of a regular uniform. One of the conveniences of being a detective is that you aren’t required to be in policeman’s uniform anymore. Of course, she took some flak from the station in Carlisle, but it seldom registered on her consciousness. Detective Holmes is as arrogant a lass as they come.

          ~ * ~

          “Aye, how about a cuppa or a dram?” I asked Joan Pottswood boldly. She’s the vicar’s sister and a good friend of mine. Joan cuts quite a figure in her purple and red flowing dresses and layers of vaporous fabric as she sails through the village. “Let’s go over to the pub and see if J.D.’s put anything new in there. Could be. I saw some people over there earlier this morning in a lorry moving some furniture in. Couldn’t see what the devil they were delivering because I had a customer. Bonnie American lass on vacation. Wanted to know where one can walk around here. I put her onto to J.D., so she’s probably in there herself. You woulda thought she woulda ask’d someone not using a walking stick and inconvenienced. She could full well see I am disabled, jest paid no attention whatsoever. Those Americans…,” (which says it all).

          Joan picked up her flat, black patent purse. “I’ll go. I’m famished as it happens. Are you paying? You might have to, Mason.

          “I’ll pay today. You pay tomorrow. ”

          “Not tomorrow either. I’m broke for a whilst, crashed out, Mason, not a quid until Ollie decides what I’m earning running the library. In my opinion we need a real librarian. That's what he should do, hire one of them. You know my allowance from the church is next to nothing…How’s Mildred?”

          Mildred Casper is my sister and the village gossip if there is one. Can’t tell her a damned thing that she doesn’t spread the minute I’ve left or hung up the phone. One would think I would learn not to tell her things, but I tell her most things. It’s a family habit I guess. She’s quite the herbalist and gardener, my Sis, makes up all kinds of potions if you need one for this or that, has green fingers.

          Only this morning her yellow roses burst into bloom. They are a sight for sore eyes. “I guess I should call her and tell her we’re going for a cuppa, but I won’t. She’ll want me to come fetch her, and I don’t feel like it. Have a bit of an upset stomach. Hen…Oh, look who’s coming down the street. Aren’t we the lucky ones today?” I lowered my voice. “It’s fancy-pancy, that Miss Gatsby Americana herself, what’s her name?”

          “Claire. She’s really a nice lady, Mason. I’m surprised you haven’t taken a fancy to her already. Most of the single men around here have.” Guess I musta turned red as a beetroot because Henny turned and discreetly ignored me.

          “Oh, that one’s got no time for me. Doesn’t even notice I’m alive… ((unless it’s with pity.))… I with the glass eye who walks with a stick.”

          “Well, we’ll fix that right up, Dearheart. I’ll introduce you properly. Can you afford her a cuppa too?” Whilst I was trying to make up my mind, Joan started waving at Claire Gatsby. “Don’t you dare take your eye out and show off, Mason. That’s not amusing to women.”

          And so began a new chapter in my life and in the life of Baker Street. How innocent and unthinking and trusting we all were that day, insulated with our little hopes and fears, not too worried about anything, certainly not expecting there to be one less of us in four nights. Isn’t that how things always are? We go to bed thinking things are one way permanently, and wake up to a new world.

          All of a sudden a Land Rover screeched to a halt beside us. It was the the Farilee family, all of them, well, a Rover-full. There was Esmerelda. Ask her about herself and she’ll tell you straight off she’s a grandmother and is fifty-eight years old. Esme’s a churchgoer, a walker and cyclist and swimmer. She runs a readers group on the Internet and likes music, computers, family history, decorating, and travel. She’s a vegetarian, perhaps a Pagan, (according to my Sister), who advises Esmerelda on herbs. Her husband Christopher works as an architect from their home, the income from The General Store not being enough to support a large family. He’s the village centre designer and has probably put away a pretty penny from this job. He always has a new idea Ollie Parr likes.

          The thirteen year old twins are with their parents, Eleanor and Deborah. They’re going to be a handful one day soon. The boys, Trevor and Luke, are here too. Not sure what these two are going to be up to. They’re spoiled rotten if you want my opinion. Trevor certainly needs to find regular employment since he’s gotten married. Of course, that’s none of my business, but there you are…

          Esme gave me a hug and kiss on the cheek. She always does that and I don’t ever stop her. In my condition you take what you get. “Pretty girls, Esme…they get their looks from you. Have you told your hubby that yet?”

          “Oh, he knows, Cat Lover. How is your cat? It’s about time for you to get a new supply of food, you know. I meant to call you this morning in fact.”

          At this moment, Charly, the Crosswaite’s large white Cockatoo, bounded out of the Rover and bit me on the cheek. We were all shocked because I’ve been known to have a way with animals. Well, of course, things were turned upside down and I was carted off to Dr. Winchcombe’s for a rabies injection and look-see. Didn’t get to meet Claire Gatsby after all.

Chapter Two -
The Carlisle’s Roeselare

Birds of Prey are all the same,
looking for a smaller or weaker
creature to snatch up, spirit away
with their sharp claws, devour
with their sharp beaks and razor talons.
Yet how splendorous is their flight
as they dip toward their victims;
how graceful their grasp
and lift into the air,
as if this aerial achievement is
filmed by a master artist.
- by Fiona Lee Tashijan

Since settling in Holmes had been careful and selective, avoiding most people except those brought to her in one way or another by Gervaise. Margaret Winchcombe, Gervaise’s aunt, was an exception. Holmes and Margaret had long been friends and Holmes enjoyed resuming their friendship. They had been friends from the first time they met. Something special had happened between them back then that never went away, never changed. Augustine was the daughter Margaret never had.

          One of Holmes’s annoying traits was that she wanted to know about people right away, so that she would be able to avoid time-consuming exchanges, don’t-bother-me people. Holmes was afraid of people by nature, not naturally outgoing or friendly anymore. Perhaps she had never been.

          If she had, that ended with her divorce. Lawyers, lawyer talk, friends who turned out not to be friends, relatives who became embarrassed by the divorce, all these failed Holmes and she hadn’t let go the pain yet. She felt she’d failed her family and friends. No, Holmes didn’t want to know many people anymore. She preferred to keep a safe distance.

          Work took up most of her time. She liked that too, to think aloud, to ponder to herself silently, to adjust, to hunt for clues, study them. Crime is always interesting. Besides her police work, she did her other 'work,' her translations, her computer work. She loved to translate, she loved her computer. It made her feel secure, to be able to support herself, which was from the onstart unnatural in her family. Holmes had not been raised to work; she had been raised to marry. She had been raised to be ‘a good wife.’ Goodness knows, her family had tried.

          Margaret told her on their first visit together, "Don't get friendly too quick here with anyone, Holmes. The place has changed. All these renters and Leasers, people wanting to move here, buy land." Margaret frowned. "Everyone's changed, even the service people...I'm just cautioning you. Maybe I shouldn’t. But there you are, I am. “

          She continued, “They can be awful. And you're vulnerable, especially with you and Gervaise being so close. .... Already causing talk and speculation. Gervaise causes that no matter where he is. That dear boy. You're an unknown factor though… a curiosity. Don't think because you spent so much time with Gervaise as a child that things will be the same.” Margaret laughed. “Although I suspect several people remember you..."

          Holmes tried to follow Margaret's train of thought. (She had not hurt Gervaise when she married. Wasn’t he keeping company with some Irish girl at that time?) Of course, people remembered her, well, most of them did. True, she didn’t know the newcomers yet, but that was only a matter of time. "People can be awful is the truth. Just hold your own.”

          “Go slow," Margaret continued. "We'll do everything we can, of course. I'm always here, and Gervaise will protect you, of course.... My dear, it's so wonderful having you here. The birds are wonderful this year…we’ll have to get together soon." Margaret cocked her head as if she were befuddled.

          Protect me from what Holmes was later to wonder? But not for long. Margaret had been right. Holmes was scrutinized, watched, even followed. Holmes had forgotten and was reminded several times by people she met that women policepersons weren't liked very much here, not trusted. Holmes was considered an upstart and ‘a weird one.’ Few were sincerely friendly. Some were curious; few didn’t have some idea whom she was. Then she met Jane Carlisle, or, finally, she met Lady Jane Carlisle, of the royal learned few at an afternoon tea Margaret gave. Jane completely ignored Holmes.

          "She's called Lady Jane because her Daddy was a Lord," Polly told Holmes. Polly worked at Fairoaks, the Winchcombe home. "From Surrey. He was directly from Surrey, England. Royalty.”, Polly continued as if Holmes had no idea Surrey was in England. According to Polly, people in Bakers Street cared a great deal about global prestige, so much so they created a kind of kingdom of their own. Money.

          The Winchcombes, the Armstrongs, the Carlisles. They were a triangle of mysterious wealth, sometimes called "The Iron Triangle" in gossip columns in rag-sheets and popular newspapers. Then, there were the Grahams and the Lockharts and the Parrs. Old Scotland money. The practically penniless Holmes crew were not a part of the iron triangle or old money. If the truth will ever be know, they were strugglers from the beginning. Too much drinking and gambling probably. No Holmes was ever a good businessperson.

          During tea one afternoon, Augustine Holmes had occasion to study Jane Carlisle closely. Holmes knew by some remote radar that something unpleasant was in the wind around her. Jane's large, blue, round eyes were as empty as new windowpanes in a house no one has lived in yet. She wore only pink, varying shades of it, but never another colour Holmes had been told. That struck Detective Holmes as willfully strange, destined to draw attention rather than privacy.

          Lady Jane's only son, Troy, was rumoured to be slow-witted too. The day Holmes met this odd entourage again, Gervaise Winchcombe had taken her to Roeselare for a picnic. Holmes thought Roeselare still closed. "No, Jane's taken up there again,” Gervaise commented dryly. Jane was Gervaise’s first cousin, the enigmatic cousin Holmes had heard of for years, seen photographs of many times, but never spoken to.

          At the picnic was Jane, a woman in a white uniform Holmes divined to be a nanny or nurse of some kind, and Troy, the white-haired son who looked quite ordinary at first glance. Gervaise, of course. Jane barely acknowledged Gervaise’s introduction of Holmes, which made Holmes bristle. She did not like to be discounted completely and knew when she was getting a noblisse oblige treatment.

          Jane's son Troy was an unruly, definitely odd boy. He played with his food, made weird faces, dribbled, broke wind, made ‘Donald Duck’ noises. He was so out of control at times no one spoke to each other finally.

          Holmes noticed Gervaise was getting squirmy. Then Troy spit on Gervaise’s hand quite deliberately. Gervaise glared at the boy, took out his handkerchief, frowned. Holmes was wishing she had stayed at the cottage and trying to think of an excuse to leave when Gervaise handed her a boiled egg and banger biscuit, her picnic favourite.

          Shortly after this, Troy threw up. Dribbling and acting decidedly abnormal, he was taken away then by the nanny.

          Jane lifted her hands into the air dramatically; told Gervaise she hated picnics, and ran toward the house after the nanny and her son. Gervaise watched them leave as if he were mesmerized, then turned to Holmes, took the boiled egg she still held, screamed manically and threw it at Jane's retreating figure. “So much for family outings,” he yelled. Gervaise’s family was not close. There had been too much money, too much argument about it.

          "Oh God," Gervaise muttered. "This is insane!,” which proved later to be an understatement.

          He grabbed the picnic hamper abruptly and told Holmes they were leaving, which they did, leaving the tablecloth forlorn, but still somehow inviting. Gervaise droppedHolmes off at her cottage and waved good-bye morosely. They had not spoken all the way there. Gervaise was embarrassed. When embarrassed he withdrew and was often childish. Holmes knew that. As she unlocked her door she wondered if leaving London’s norm had been a good idea. Though she loved Gervaise dearly, she didn’t know if she could stand living close to his family.

          That night and for several nights afterward, Holmes dreamt about the boiled egg flying through the air chasing Lady Jane. In her dreams the egg grew larger and larger as it sought its destination. Just before a shattering blow to Jane's head, Holmes would wake up in a deep sweat. Afterward she had trouble resuming her sleep.

          Holmes told Gervaise about the dreams, not that he was especially interested. She told him because she told Gervaise almost everything. He told her almost everything. That was the kind of friends they were. "You're over-reacting, " he said. "Jane and I have never gotten on. I shouldn't have taken you there. When I was a kid, I once threw a toy lorry at her. She had to have two stitches in her head. I got a terrible whipping - I always got whippings if Jane was around. I shouldn't have gone over there, Augustine, or taken you. It was stupid. Sorry. ...Look, you've got to let this go. I behaved badly and I shouldn't have. Will you forgive me?"

          "I think it was an omen," Detective Augustine Holmes said suggestively and deliberately, hoping to warn her friend.

          "The way she behaves infuriates me," Gervaise complained, ignoring the omen remark. He apologised to Holmes about the egg throwing and blushed. Detective Holmes quit dreaming about eggs and forgot the incident completely. There were important things to attend to. Someone’s horse had taken missing.

          Someone in the Winchcombe ‘family’, Jane’s brother Foster probably, thought Jane should publish again since the family owned several publishing establishments. Why not another tea table book from her most recent poems? That era in publishing was far from being over. This was a titbit that Polly told Holmes when they met at the grocers. Life would have gone on normally for Holmes after that if Gervaise hadn't come up with his 'great' idea, that Holmes edit Jane Carlisle's poetry as a special favour to him. (After all, he was fixing up the gatehouse for her.)

          "Easy ticket, Babycakes. Jane can't write, and it doesn't matter in the type book she does. You’ll see…" He kissed Holmes’s nose. "It's a favour for me - I need you to get her off my back. .... You’ll see, it won't take much time, and she’s driving me crazy."

          Then Gervaise sent her roses three times and put new tyres on her lorry. Maybe they would have it running one day. He told her Foster was delighted with the idea of a new book by Jane. The book would not have to sell because of something to do with taxes. The point was that the family name should not be embarrassed. That was it – did Augustine understand? Decent grammar, proper punctuation, not a masterpiece. No one wanted that. How could she refuse him

          This was how Holmes went back to Roeselare, a creepy place she did not like, that gave her bad feelings. Gervaise was persuasive. He'd convinced her finally that Jane was harmless. Angry at the moment because she owed Gervaise, she drove to Roeselare with misgivings.

          Sunning herself, Lady Jane had taken off her shoes and was lying sexily prone in a pink recliner. A pink ice stone she had had set in twenty-four carat gold twinkled oddly in her pierced nose, drawing attention to Jane's face. Holmes read three of Lady Jane's poems silently, becoming immediately flabbergasted and resentful. Good Lord! She decided to read the poetry aloud to Jane, hoping Jane herself would hear the lack of message, the immaturity, the lack of originality…Holmes searched for words to use to get Jane Carlisle’s attention without offending her. She went on reading. Perhaps the poetry got better after the first few. Good Lord, Holmes decided maybe she should take up writing off a few poems if there was money to be had in this tripe. She stopped reading a moment to wet her lips. She smiled weakly and continued the third poem.

          "My Love is like a Pink Dogwood, Pink,
          in its fluffiness though that does not seem
          to be noticed, by the men who sleep
          snoring in my bed. My Love is like a
          Yellow Daffodil in its freshness, though
          almost everyone says, I bath too often…"

          Holmes thought wrongly. Hearing the poem aloud pleased Lady Jane immensely. That one lay immune in pink, untouched by rules about nouns, verbs, commas. She had no idea whatsoever Holmes expected anything of her. Her attitude was that Holmes was being honoured by being given the pleasure of editing her poetry. Holmes begrudgingly gave Jane credit for a kind of confidence she wished she herself had. The woman was impenetrable.

          "I have such a way with words," Lady Jane proclaimed, shivering enticingly. Holmes stared at her. Abashed, her mind racing as to how she could get out of editing Jane's poetry, she put the papers down and sipped her tea. Oh God, Gervaise Winchcombe! She knew he had not read any of these poems. If he had, she’d take him to the moors and run over him.

          Nearby, Troy, who had been sitting silently up to that time, as if medicated, proceeded to step into his mother's high heels. He clomped around rather quietly, glancing at his mother every so often. Earlier he had been severely admonished to behave. Every few clomps he would stop in his tracks and put one hand on his hip. With the other hand he pretended to smoke an imaginary cigarette, carefully inhaling and exhaling. He wet his shorts as Holmes watched. Urine ran down his legs into his mother's pink mules. Troy ignored that.

          Detective Holmes watched with slit eyes; Augustine Holmes felt nervous. She wanted to do something, try to talk to Troy, what? She looked her watch. Ten minutes more clomp, clomp, clomp. Holmes decided to disrupt Jane's muse to point out Troy's accident. Lady Jane had made it clear when Holmes arrived that Holmes was to ignore Troy, but Holmes felt for the child. For sure, the boy was a brat, but he was a child.

          Troy stuck out his tongue at her. Weird. Detective Holmes frowned, looked at her watch. Eight minutes more of the clomping. Holmes became increasingly uncomfortable over Troy's undisciplined, silly gestures. As Troy began to spit in small puddles and spread the spit around in circles with his index finger, Holmes was vaguely reminded of a horror film she had once seen, about a bad child. (She had seen a lot of horror films. Nothing like one to take your mind off a case.). She could not remember the movie clearly but chills went up and down her spine. She decided to make excuses to Jane, beg working on a case. She didn’t want to be around when the penny dropped and she knew it was going

          Lady Jane droned on, something about a four-page saga about death she had finished the night before. "I'm on a roll," she confided.

          Somewhere close by a cat in heat began bleating shrilly. Its bleats broke into the aura of the hapless group beside the swimming pool, sharply disturbing them all. At once, several things happened. Holmes dropped some sheaves of paper. Lady Jane swept to her bare feet, knocked over the glass of ice tea she had been drinking. Troy clompedtoward the sound he heard, whining, "Baby...baby...I hear a baby."

          Lady Jane shouted for the nanny and cut her left foot on a piece of glass at that moment. An awful flow of very red blood gushed from the wound. Holmes gasped. Lady Jane began to scream in earnest when she too saw the blood. Detective Holmes felt resentful. What a circus. Troy seemed to suddenly disappear as Holmes half-watched him. Holmes grew faint. ( Blood was not one of her strong points either.) At the sight of it she turned annoyingly helpless and absurd, her usual strength and buoyancy sapped. Hell !

          Marlis the nanny came ambling out, her large body shifting from one side to another like a whale in shallow water. She stooped to examine Lady Jane's foot, wiped the blood tenderly from it onto her apron. Then she picked Jane up as if she were a baby and swiftly carried her inside the house. Jane continued to screech loudly all the way, frantically hugging Marlis and flailing her hands about.

          Definitely over-extended, Holmes wanted to flee and almost did, but there was a pile of soggy papers at her feet. She began to pick them up, separate them. She did this rapidly, remembering Troy. That poor child! Where was he? Not in sight Holmes verified. She ran awkwardly in the direction she had last seen Troy, realizing clearly as she went that she knew nothing whatsoever about this part of the grounds. It used to be closed off.

          On her several occasions at Roeselare she never once explored it or wanted to. It seemed eternally covered with a light to heavy fog that made Holmes feel spooked. Heart pounding, Holmes became afraid at the sight of an open gate which seemed to appear out of nowhere. She called Troy's name and was greeted by a heavy silence in the air.

          Later she realised the silence had been loud because no birds sang, no crickets chirruped.

          Walking along a fence where there was a kind of overgrown path, Holmes called out Troy's name frantically. She became suddenly resentful at Lady Jane, the nanny, even Gervaise Winchcombe, who was responsible for her being on the grounds and in a ridiculous situation in the first place. Gervaise should have known better; he knew all the Carlisles well.

          Holmes’s foot hit something, which she discovered immediately was one of Lady Jane's urine-soaked mules. It was pink suede, a black bow on the toe. It was still damp. Louder and more urgently, Holmes screamed Troy's name. Gripping the shoe in a fist, she swung angrily around a prickly boxwood shrub. Dusk was dropping quickly. She stopped at the end of the fence at a corner reluctant to go further. She had no idea at all which direction to pursue. Searching the ground for footprints that might guide her, she noticed some grey cat down on a bush. How odd. Wisps of it were stuck here and there on the branches. Where could the child be? He was six, seven years old at most. Surely he couldn’t have wandered too far.

          "Troy!" she yelled through the fog that was closing in.

          Holmes’s legs nearly failed her. She grew nauseated. A sense of terrible foreboding again filled her heart. Her brow sweat and for a moment she felt like a lost child herself. A breath touched her neck and she leaped back, startled, close to blind hysteria. She screamed.

          Marlis stood stone-like behind Holmes. Pale, large, ugly, and speechless, she seemed non-breathing, a wraith of fog, or so it seemed to Holmes. In the nanny’s hand was a pink suede shoe. Its toe bow was missing. Holmes stared dumbly at it. "I can't find him..." Detective Holmes said solemnly.

          Marlis seemed not to have heard Holmes. Her eyes roved the grounds and trees surrounding them. Several times her eyes returned to rest on the shoe Holmes held in her hand. Then, as suddenly as she had appeared the nurse vanished.

          "I'm not coming back here alone, or in the dark without a flash," Holmes whined aloud to herself as she trudged back to the house. From where she was, Roeselare looked old, weary, and eerie.

          A light was shining in an upstairs window that she presumed must be Lady Jane's bedroom. The rest of Roeselare was dark except for some outside lights at the back west corner. Trying not to let the noises of the rapidly descending night catapult the fears she felt overwhelming her heart and mind, Holmes moved quickly and steadily through the shadows. When she came finally to the gate, she thought she heard a stealthy noise behind her.

          "Troy," she called. "Is that you?" Holmes’s voice sounded very loud. Something rustled in the pines a few gardens ahead of her. Damn! It occurred to her that animals might lurk in this forest. Holmes knew dusk was that time of day nature called many animals to feed. She looked toward the house for comfort, trying not to think about snakes andbobcats, opossums, miasma. No one answered Holmes.

          Oddly, she felt watched. She strained her eyes to search for Marlis but couldn’t see anybody anywhere. Shadows seemed to rise and fall in every direction she looked, but nothing solidified. She couldn’t rid herself of the thought that she was being observed.

          Later she was to think this so paranoid she failed to mention it in her investigative report. She was to wonder if that would have changed anything. Probably not. We are seldom as powerful as we would like to think we are in such matters. Unpleasantness seems to have a mind of its own once its gears are set in motion. At least Holmes thought so.

          Now, Holmes rushed quickly across the house lawn and entered the poolside wing. She vaguely remembered a telephone in the west dayroom and thought she'd use that. A small lamp burned beside the telephone barely illuminating it. She reached for the phone and startled again. Were her nerves completely failing her! Again she thought she heard something. This time the noise came from her left, a whisper, a door perhaps quietly shutting, the softest of footsteps. Could someone be sneaking away? Someone was sneaking away.

          "Troy?" she whispered quietly, her voice not very confident. No answer. Holmes’s eyes literally strained to make her ears listen. They balked. She felt thoroughly alone, intimidated. She wished she were some place else, a thousand miles away from what she feared she was finding herself involved in. She was too superstitious and sensitive to be in the dark in Roeselare.

          Holmes decided to call the station. What a mess. She hated she had strayed into trouble again. Well, it was done. Finally, she made a decision. She called Fairoaks instead and was breathlessly told by someone who did not sound like Polly to wait on the premises until help came. Holmes looked around herself forlornly. The house was silent, unforgiving. She called 999 and asked for some backup.

          Buddha Brown came about that time. “I need to go home and pick up my bike. She told him what happened. He seemed very aggravated. "This house gives me the creeps," she told Buddha. “Don’t mention I’ve left. I’ll be back before anyone gets here.” He looked at her with world-weary eyes and then looked quickly away. Holmes speculated that Buddha knew more than he was owning.

          "God only knows where that child is!" Buddha hunkered down lower in his seat. Buddha was the Winchcombe butler, or did he work for Lady Jane. Holmes couldn’t remember.

          As soon as she got to the cottage she called Fairoaks again in attempt to find Gervaise. She hadn’t wanted to call him on the Roeselare line. Hoping that wasn’t a mistake, she got aggravated when no one answered the call. Where was Gervaise? Where was Margaret? No one answered the telephone. Where was everyone? Polly should have answered at least.

          Overwrought, Holmes went back outside, started her bike and roared back to Roeselare, hoping to get back there before anyone knew she was missing. She did, but it was a mistake to have left.

This is Book One of my Series.
So, how do you like it so far??????
Please email me any typos, misspellings, or
Brit words that need to be used instead of Americanisms
I may be using. Thanks!

Also, ignore punctuation -
I cannot believe the trouble I've had trying
to set this up online in a manuscript fashion.

copyright July 4, 2004 by Maggie Blue, West Palm Beach, Florida

copyright May 1,2008 by Maggie Blue, West Palm Beach, Florida

This is a Support Group for writing this series of books.
Please join this group if you are interested!!! You'll be put in the book somewhere and acknowledged in "Acknowledgements."