Death at High Tide by Hannah Dennison

Author:Hannah Dennison
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group

Chapter Sixteen

The mist had come down quickly and I soon realized why the locals called it mizzle. My hair hung in damp clumps around my face. My woolen gloves were soaked through. I also realized that the squiggles that symbolized the maze on the map were just that, squiggles. They were not paths at all.

The bracken came above my shoulders and the grassy path was narrow and covered with moss that muffled my footsteps. I tried using the flashlight on my iPhone, but it was useless. All it did was cast a yellow light and make my surroundings fuzzy.

I stared at the compass feature on my iPhone and it made no sense to me at all. I was all turned around.

The needle said I was facing east, but wouldn’t that put me walking toward the coast path? I stood in the clearing and stared at the two paths in front of me. I couldn’t hear the waves, and given the thick mist and lack of phone signal, I assumed I had to be nearing the Galleon Garden again.

Soon I reached another clearing with a choice of three different paths. I fought down the first twinge of panic. All the paths looked the same! Tegan’s map was useless.

I consulted my compass again. Now it showed I was facing south. South was the hotel, wasn’t it? I plunged down the left track, walking quickly. To my relief, the path began to rise steadily upward.

Yes, I was certain I was on the right path, but then, abruptly, it steepened and I found myself stumbling over a mound of lichen-covered boulders. Suddenly the bracken fell away and farther up the mist gave way to dark clouds.

I could hear the sound of the surf crashing below now. I had to be on the northern tip of the island after all, but at least I would be able to get my bearings when I got to the top—and use my phone.

I struggled uphill for a while, passing by a wooden bench with a plaque—William’s Bench. Out of the mist loomed an enormous rock formation that completely blocked the path. There was no other choice but to turn back.

Then … a rattle of stones and out of the corner of my eye I caught a flicker of movement. Someone was there.

“Vanessa?” I said. “Is that you?”

But instead came a harsh cry as a bird took flight. The whole place was giving me the creeps.

I became aware of a familiar smell drifting on the vagrant breeze. It was cigarette smoke. It hadn’t been my imagination after all. I was being followed. But who smoked? Jago? Vicar Bill? Margot—even though she claimed to have given it up?

And there was something else—a peculiar whistling sound, haunting and eerie. Surely it couldn’t be the whistle buoy offshore? If it was, then I had to be nearing Windward Point. Walking along such a treacherous path in these weather conditions was madness.

Carefully I began to retrace my steps, conscious that on my right had to be the cliff edge.

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