Free Up from the Grave by Marilyn Leach Page A

then smiled and stopped. Where’s the harm? No one’s about. I’ll rouse him in a bit. Berdie turned off the blinding torchlight.
    She began to make a retreat but hesitated and breathed in the freshness of the English night. The stars were even grander now she was standing out in them, and she reveled in the moment.
    She wasn’t sure how long she had been basking in the glory of creation when she heard a sharp snap. A twig breaking? Someone was about. Thinking the constable had awakened, she spun to face the tent. But a muffled gurgle-sigh told her he was still slumbering. If she called out to awaken the guard, she would surely frighten off the intruder.
    Silently, she inched her way along to the tented dig. She gripped the large tea flask, recognizing its value as a potential weapon. Her ears were on alert. She strained forward. Yes. There was a definite rustling. Indeed, someone was near at hand.
    She raised the substantial flask, ready to strike, and set her thumb on the torchlight switch. In a lunge of energy she lurched forward, at the same moment turning on the torch that sent a blinding light, ripping away the dark of the crime scene. “Halt.”
    There he was, frozen at her command. Berdie recognized the intruder.
    “Fritz!”
    The stunned dachshund, eyes wide and ears perked, wore moist dirt about his pointy nose. He looked like a deer in the headlights until the constable, roused and suddenly aware, leaped from the garden chair, crashing it over in a heap.
    The wee, now defensive, sausage scrambled in circles as his frenzied barks bit into the silence.
    Berdie’s apprehension melted into a foolish laugh.
    “Freeze, don’t move.” The constable drew out his truncheon. Squinting, he raised his arm against the bright light of Berdie’s torch as Fritz continued his barking.
    “What goes on here?” the young man in uniform shouted trying to get his sea legs.
    It was then Berdie was sure she heard a curt whistle from the wood. Instinctively, she turned the torchlight towards the trees, but saw only a quick movement.
    Fritz gave a final nip near the constable’s shoe and raced into the woods as fast as his stubby legs would take him, like a hound on the hunt, long ears flapping.
    “Who goes there?” the constable asked, truncheon still in strike position.
    “I’m Berdie Elliott, Constable, the vicar’s wife.” Berdie pointed to the vicarage.
    “You really ought to keep your rascally dog on a lead, ma’am.” The young man somewhat sheepishly returned his weapon to its proper place.
    “Should do if he were mine.”
    “Why are you out here then?” The policeman eyed Berdie’s wellies and dressing gown that hung down below the hem of her overcoat. He suddenly clasped his hands behind his back, trying desperately to appear very awake and very aware.
    “It’s just that I brought you some tea.” Berdie smiled, and handed the former defensive tool, sloshing with hot liquid, to the guard. “Doing a double shift?”
    The young man’s face went a bit pink. “As a matter of fact, I am.” He gave a quick nod and grasped the flask. “Ta.”
    “It’s slightly sweetened. Does that suit, um, Constable…?”
    “Daren. Tom Daren.”
    “Constable Daren?”
    “Yes, thank you,” he cordially responded.
    “Well then, I’ll go and brew a fresh pot for my husband.” Berdie knew that if Hugh was not awakened by her stirring earlier, he certainly would now be.
    The constable tipped his young head.
    Berdie smiled and beamed her torch towards the vicarage. Despite the humor of it all, one menacing thought raced through her mind. What was Wilkie Gordon doing about the crime scene, and more importantly, why?
     
     
     
     
     

5
     
    Berdie glared at the cloud dappled morning sun outside her kitchen window as if to send the possibility of showers retreating. The fact was, after the added affairs of last night, Berdie had more questions than answers concerning all sorts: Preswoods, Wilkie Gordon, coach tour