Closer to Death in a Garden (Pitkirtly Mysteries Book 10) Read Online Free Page B

Christopher. ‘I can manage the woods. Easily. I’ll soon see there’s nothing in there.’
    ‘Nothing except big bad wolves and old women who live in gingerbread houses!’ called Jock after him as he turned on his heel and headed swiftly for the tall trees that were about to be swallowed up in the sea mist. Just as characters in fairy tales tended to be swallowed up by big bad wolves, he told himself, and then wished he hadn’t. Instead of being able to laugh at this ridiculous fantasy as he walked between two evil-looking trees, Christopher began to see faces in the gnarled trunks and to hear things rustle in the undergrowth like snakes coming for his legs. It was all very unpleasant. And not like him at all. Either he was under a spell or it wasn’t a good idea to do this sort of thing after a few pints of Old Pictish Brew.
    There was a banging sound somewhere in the world outside the wood. He gave a start, almost a jump. He told himself it was a door banging sharply closed in the wind, even although there was no wind.  He had nothing to be scared of. It was all in his mind.
    There was a louder rustling in a shrub just ahead, close to one of the trees with a twisted, sneering face embedded in its trunk. Christopher took a step back.
    A head emerged from the bush.
    He very nearly screamed, before realising that the head wasn’t that of a cinematic monster, or a werewolf, or a wild man of the woods as his subconscious had tried to tell him, but that it was attached to an animal of rather mild appearance, with a comical expression and a long neck covered with non-threateningly fluffy hair.
    So this was what an alpaca looked like.
    But how did you catch one?
    Christopher glanced around to see if there was anything he could use as a lead. A piece of rope, or, failing that, a long creeper of the kind that was almost impossible to tear with your bare hands if it had wound itself round your forsythia, for instance, but that would probably not hold your weight if you tried to use it to abseil down the Forth Bridge and escape from the foreign spies who were after you.
    Now he knew for sure he had been spending too much time with Amaryllis.
    The alpaca sauntered towards him. Did they bite? How could he have avoided learning nothing whatsoever about them during years of formal education and the experience he had gained as an archivist and as director of the Cultural Centre?
    He stepped back again. Was it better to stand up to them or to run away as fast as you could?
    ‘Don’t move,’ said a woman’s voice behind him.
    He almost screamed out loud for the third time in five minutes.
    ‘I think I can catch him while you’re distracting him,’ she said. ‘Try and look as if you’re watching him.’
    Of course Christopher was watching the alpaca – in the same way an arachnophobe might watch a spider in the room, to make sure they knew where it was at all times.
    The animal came closer. And closer.
    Then there was a kind of scuffle, and the woman behind him said, ‘You can move now.’
    He half-turned and saw that the alpaca had a makeshift lasso round its neck, and a woman was clinging on to the other end of the rope.
    ‘Thanks,’ she added. ‘I’ve been trying to catch him all day... Jane Blyth-Sheridan.’
    She held out her other hand rather regally. He wondered if she expected him to kiss it. Judging by her appearance, she might well be of a social class where that sort of thing went on. Pearls, a silky-looking cardigan, and even Christopher, with his well-known indifference to women’s appearance, couldn’t fail to notice she was wearing full make-up including lipstick.
    He shook her hand quickly and then took a step away from her.
    ‘And you are?’ she said, not imperiously but almost as if she were interested.
    ‘Christopher Wilson,’ he muttered. ‘Cultural Centre.’
    ‘Oh, yes, of course!’ she cried. ‘I came down to a lecture there last autumn. The archive collections and how to use them.