Free Coombe's Wood by Lisa Hinsley Page B

slowly between his fat fingers as he spoke.
    “The missing boy, Joseph, was searched for, but no one could find a clue as to where he’d disappeared to. Then a third person vanished. This time, it was the fourth daughter of the priest. Violet was apparently a stunning girl with waist long red hair and a voice that made the village stop fiddling with their bibles and listen. A lark, that was what Harold said, she sounded like a lark.”
    “Old Harold couldn’t have heard her.” Stan was back, leaning against the customers’ side of the bar, and eyeing the shot glass.
    “Apparently he was but a lad, maybe five at the time. He could remember her at the church opening her mouth, and how everyone stopped and listened. She was eighteen years old. Her father was remarkably forward thinking for the time and she was to be sent off to college. I think it was mathematics that she wanted to do. But it might have been music. She was apparently very good at any instrument put before her.
    “With Violet’s disappearance, the whole village went completely crazy, houses were searched, gardens were examined, out buildings turned over. No one was beyond questioning. Neighbours eyed each other suspiciously and arguments and old grievances were loud and aggressive. Then one last person disappeared.
    “Some of the men folk had taken it upon themselves to search methodically through the surrounding the land. There were less fields then, and they spread themselves thin throughout the woodlands.”
    Whiskey Dave finally released his glass. Immediately, Feathers motioned Stan for refills. Izzy found she had emptied hers. So engrossing was Dave’s tale that she hadn’t noticed. Shifting on the bench and ignoring an instinct to check on Connor, she waited for Dave to start again.
    “Cheers, Feathers,” Dave said, raising his pint glass.
    “Welcome.” Feathers leaned forward as did Stan. It seemed they were all eager.
    Licking his lips, his glass already half-empty, Dave began again. “A man called William was searching alone, the next man maybe a mile away on either side. He was inside a particularly dense patch of trees, walking along an underused lane that was little more than a path. Although it was sunny that day, the rays could not penetrate the dense foliage. William didn’t walk out of the woods that day.
    “Fortunately, others knew where William had been searching. So when Doris, who was William’s wife, rang the church bell late that night, a mob rapidly assembled as the bell tumbled men from their beds. They went in force into the woods, armed with lighted torches and whatever weapons they could find.
    “Doris didn’t sleep, walking from one room of sleeping children to another, watching the sun break into a blood red slash across the fading night. She prayed constantly, silently, eyes full of tears and a belly full of fear. She already knew that William was dead, she just didn’t know how.
    “The villages went in shouting, baying for blood, they came out quiet, tired, some with blood stains on their clothes. Eight of them had paired off and each carried what could be called a body between them. The corpses had been ripped to shreds by the attacker, so that it took a proper look to guess which body belonged to whom. They were laid in the church until someone with the proper authority could come and collect them. In the hall, the males of village collected and argued and presumed who or what could have done such a thing. The females meanwhile were drawn to Doris’ cottage, coming in twos and threes to offer sympathy.”
    Izzy pictured poor Doris. Even in fiction she came alive, lost and alone despite a constant stream of visitors, holding her children until they wriggled in her tight embrace. One of those children had been Harold.
    “It was then that Simple John wandered into the hall. He was covered in cuts, and his clothing was torn and bloody. A murderous silence fell over the assemblage, until John opened his mouth