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And nothing on any social media or news pages.

Perhaps Mr Dawkins’s disappearance wasn’t as mysterious as it had first seemed.

The café owner, whose name was Rosemary Clover, and apparently had a cousin who worked for Brentwell Town Council, was a jovial lady in her fifties, her hair completely grey and tied up in a bun, with spectacles perched on the end of her nose that made her look like a retired schoolteacher.

When she came over to ask Kelly, the only customer, if everything was all right, Kelly first asked for a second latte and then said, ‘I don’t suppose you know Clive Dawkins, do you?’

‘Clive Dawkins?’ the woman said. ‘Actually, I think everyone in the village knows Clive Dawkins. He’s probably the wealthiest man around here.’

‘So I’ve heard,’ Kelly said. ‘I’m a reporter with The Brentwell Daily. I’ve been sent here to do some light-hearted articles on Briar Speckles and its history. And I had been hoping to talk to Clive Dawkins, but when I went up there today, a man who said he was his son told me that his father has disappeared.’

The woman put a little hand over her mouth.

‘Oh, is that so? You must have spoken to Edward. That’s Clive’s son. Is he back in the village, is he?’ She gave a little tittering laugh. ‘No doubt leaving a trail of broken hearts behind him. He’s really quite a dish, isn’t he?’

‘I hadn’t noticed,’ Kelly said, unable meet the woman’s eyes.

To which the lady gave her a sideways glance, as though to suggest she didn’t believe a word.

‘I was just wondering if anyone knew anything about his disappearance,’ Kelly said, scratching at her left ear in an attempt to hide that she was blushing. ‘Edward didn’t seem particularly keen to talk to me.’

‘That does surprise me,’ the lady said. ‘Pretty girl like you.’

‘Does this Edward have something of a reputation?’ Kelly asked, forcing herself to look at the woman, who wore an amused smirk, her eyes like X-rays revealing all of Kelly’s desires.

‘Oh yes,’ the woman said. ‘Edward Dawkins is perhaps Briar Speckles’ most eligible bachelor. What with being the heir to the Dawkins business empire, as well as being perhaps the village’s most famous son, really.’

‘Famous? It didn’t look like it to me,’ Kelly said. ‘I just saw him carrying a wheelbarrow full of leaves. Didn’t look like he was anything special.’

The woman laughed and patted Kelly on the shoulder.

‘Oh dear. You just keep telling yourself that. Edward Dawkins works for Oxford University. He’s an archaeologist. He’s done work in the field that apparently has never been done before. Not that I would know anything about that.’ She chuckled. ‘You can keep telling yourself he’s nothing special, and we’ll see how long it is before you’re as smitten as everyone else around here.’

10

An Encounter on the Aqueduct

Evening was fast approaching. Stuffed from the pumpkin pie and two large cinnamon spiced lattes, not to mention her buffet breakfast and jacket potato for lunch, Kelly decided to work off a few calories with a short walk up to the aqueduct.

At least, it looked like a short walk.

But by the time she climbed the steep hill through forest and emerged from the path beside the gently flowing canal that stretched across the valley atop massive ancient stonework, the sun was low in the sky, resting on top of the distant hills like the yolk of a giant egg with a fan of Halloween colours spreading out around it that gradually faded into the purplish-orange sky overhead.

It really was a stunning evening, and Kelly wished she had a far better camera than the one on her smartphone.

Still, she walked out along the aqueduct, taking some pictures of the sunset and then turning in the other direction to take some pictures of the village as the streetlights began to blink on.

However, as she stared at it, she frowned.

From up here, rather than being the social-media darling she had expected, the village actually looked a little sinister.

Two prominent clusters of streetlights—one around the inn and one, she guessed, around the church—with another almost triangular shape between them that formed a nose, and a sweeping line of more dispersed lights lower down that she guessed marked the entrance to the Carnival of Horrors nestled among the trees, made it appear as though the entire village wore a demonic, grinning face.

Only as a few outside lights and living-room windows began to blink on did the rather unsettling illusion fade from view.

Kelly got the distinct impression that the village was watching her.

Feeling a little unnerved, she turned away from the aqueduct wall only to let out a cry of alarm at the silhouette of a man running along the canal bank in her direction.