My Lady of the Bog Read Online Free

fifteen, I came awake. I’d lived for a year and a half in the cottage but had never heard a sound like this. Some creature was hooting in a nearby shrub. I lay there alert, listening intently—for my cottage is remote, even for Dorset, and someone in the shrubbery at three in the morning would not have been a welcome presence. I listened to the strange chew hoo, choo wit and, though satisfied, at last, it wasn’t human, got off the couch and went to the window.
    The valley seemed preternaturally lit, the moon’s candlepower far greater than I remembered it. Across the Blackmoor Vale, Bulbarrow Hill rose in the distance—and on its peak stood a great wooden tower! By then, the bird, or whatever it was, had ceased to call.
    And that’s when I heard another sound—the rising cries of a wailing woman. I couldn’t imagine from where it was coming, as the nearest house is half a mile away. Which was when I saw her, suddenly, running through the open fields. She was dressed in white, her hands upraised in a gesture of horror. Transfixed, I watched her cross the downs, the sound of her wailing growing louder and shriller. I could not imagine who she was, or where in the name of God she was headed until, with a sudden influx of terror, I realized she was coming here!
    No sooner did I have this thought than she passed through the unopened door of the cottage in a way that is unimaginable. Her white robes flared with a numinous splendor; a fluttering veil covered her face. Her screams had ceased and she stood before me in the cottage hall, holding open the codex before her, whose pages were riffled by a supernatural wind. And as I gaped upon her person, I saw she had the feet of a bird!
    With a start and a shriek, I awoke. It was 3:27—almost the time it had been in my dream. I gazed out the window at Bulbarrow Hill. On its summit, there was no wooden tower.
    When I woke again, it was half past nine. I got up, alarmed by the lateness of the hour, showered, dressed, then drove to the hospital, promising myself breakfast as soon as I’d replaced the book. But first I needed the key to the cage in the cellar. So I marched up the stairwell to the coroner’s office, realizing halfway there it was Sunday and he was unlikely to be in.
    And yet he was—and at his desk. There was, in fact, no evidence he’d ever left it. A stale, not unpleasant odor spiked the air: some blend of ink and Stilton crumbs, of half-smoked fags and of some deep, damp unevictable rot that riddled the building’s bones. “And what’s brings you here,” he asked, looking up at me, “this lovely bloody Sunday?”
    “I thought I’d have another go at my Lady.”
    He gazed at me oddly over his specs. “Really! Must you speak of her that way? You make her sound like a cross between your mistress and the Blessed Virgin.” He fixed me with a look of pity. “I suppose it does get lonely living by yourself.”
    I ignored the remark. “What brings you here?”
    “Death. Per usual.”
    “Anyone I know?” I inquired glibly, glancing round to see if the key was hanging, possibly, on the wall. (It wasn’t.)
    “Believe you do—or did . The Constable Rory Dahl.”
    I was taken aback. “But I was with him just . . . yesterday .”
    “Yes? Well, obviously, your company does not prolong life. Complained of chest pains soon after off-loading your Lady. There! Now you’ve got me saying it! Doctors thought he might have had a coronary and not known it. Gave him a bed, wanted to observe him.”
    “And?”
    “They observed him, all right: have another—and die . Doubt he knew he had that one, either.”
    “Well,” I said, sobered, “I’m sorry to hear that. It must have been the strain—of the excavation.”
    “. . . yes.” He frowned and rubbed his brow. “Had the most unpleasant dream.”
    “Really?” I said, remembering my own. “What was it?”
    He looked up sharply. “Why would I be telling you?”
    I shrugged. “Forget it, then.”
    He