Murder at the Fair by Mosse Greg

Author:Mosse, Greg [Mosse, Greg]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781399715249
Google: 3L2a0AEACAAJ
Amazon: 1399715240
Barnesnoble: 1399715240
Goodreads: 209456067
Publisher: Hodder
Published: 2024-11-19T00:00:00+00:00

Seventeen

Maisie knew the path across the Downs and through the woods from Bunting to Bitling. She had told Micah the truth. But there was a difference between knowing a path by using it every week, say, and knowing it because you had walked it a couple of times, years before, when you were just sixteen.

She put her letter in the post box by Bunting green, then set off. The first two thirds of the path were part of what local historians called ‘the pilgrim trail’. If she carried on that way, she would end up in West Dean near the halfway house that had played such an important role in the murder at Bunting Manor. She didn’t want to do that, to overshoot and then have to retrace her steps – or, worse, come back via the main road. She hoped there would be signs that told her more than just ‘bridleway’ or ‘public right of way’.

The early evening was warm and bright. She set off with her cardigan tied round her waist, up the lane beside the house, past the clearing where Phyl’s homeless ‘lodger’ had built her sordid encampment. There was no trace left of it now. Archie must have dealt with the mess: the bits of old tent; the forklift truck pallets; the hand-dug ditch that served as her latrine; the ring of stones where she had cooked. Maisie wondered if Archie had given back the tarpaulin stolen from a local farmer that had formed part of the shelter – and a vital clue.

She walked on, heading east, under the trees, enjoying the birdsong and the occasional rustles of small mammals in the bracken and leaf litter. Then she entered an area planted with conifers whose acidic needles suppressed the undergrowth and she saw, to her delight, a family of deer, easily visible through the tree trunks, grazing on self-sewn saplings. She stood stock-still for perhaps half a minute until they caught her scent and moved away, downhill and out of sight.

The path wound on in a rightward curve, leading out from the spruces or larches or whatever they were into arable fields that allowed her a view down towards the coastal plain and the sea, through occasional gaps in the hedges. This was comforting because she was able to confirm her location from fixed points in the landscape, including the tower of the church at Framlington.

She reached the junction of footpaths she was looking for and a fingerpost that gave her the direction into Bunting, coming round the north side of Baffins Hill. The woods closed in, deciduous trees in full leaf, beech, oak, ash and yew, plus numerous silver birches that she knew to be ‘incomers’, non-native species that some people wanted to grub up and remove. The idea reminded her of her conversations with Zoe and Sara about the Indian population being driven out of Kenya. That set her wondering about how long a family would have to be established somewhere for its members to be considered ‘native’.

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