Kowalski trailed them. 'Hey, lookit all the bears...' His voice had a wistful note to it, a tone as incongruous as a bull suddenly singing an aria.
Gray glanced back at him. Kowalski's gaze was fixed on a shop window. Beyond the frosted glass, amber light revealed a display of teddy bears of every size and shape. The sign above the door read Sixpenny Bears.
'There's one dressed like a boxer!' Kowalski began to detour toward the window.
Gray directed him back. 'We're already late.'
Kowalski's shoulders slumped. With a final longing glance back at the shop, he continued after them.
Rachel stared at the big man with a bewildered expression.
'What?' Kowalski said grumpily. 'It was for Liz, my girlfriend. She...she's the one who collects bears.'
Rachel stared a moment longer, her expression doubtful.
Kowalski grumbled under his breath and tromped heavily toward the inn.
Seichan stepped next to Gray and touched his elbow. 'You go inside. Meet with that historian. I'll keep watch out here.'
Gray stared over at her. That hadn't been the plan. Though her face remained calm and disinterested, her eyes continued to roam the square, most likely analyzing the area for sniper roosts, escape routes, and the best places to duck for cover. Or maybe she just refused to meet his eye. Was she truly seeking to guard them or maintaining a cold distance?
'Is something wrong?' he asked, his legs slowing.
'No.' Her eyes flashed toward him, almost angrily. 'And I mean to keep it that way.'
Gray didn't feel like arguing. After all that had happened in Italy, perhaps it would be best to keep a guard outside. He headed after Kowalski and Rachel as Seichan dropped back.
Joining the others, he crossed through the frozen beer garden and reached the front door. He noted a sign near the entryway that read 'Good dogs and children welcome.' That probably excluded Kowalski. Gray considered ordering his partner to stay outside with Seichan, but that would only make the woman angrier.
Gray pulled the door open. A heady warmth flowed out, accompanied by the smell of malt and hops. The pub was straight off the hotel lobby. A few voices echoed out to them, along with a booming laugh. Gray followed Kowalski into the pub. His partner aimed straight for the restroom with a quickness to his step.
Gray remained at the entrance and searched the room. The pub of the Kings Arms was small, a scatter of wooden tables and booths built around a stacked-stone fireplace. A roaring fire had been stoked against the cold. Next to the hearth stood a life-sized wooden model of a crowned king, likely the namesake of the hotel.
Another thundering burst of laughter drew Gray's attention to a corner booth near the fire. A pair of locals, dressed in hunting clothes and knee-high boots, stood before the table and its lone occupant.
'Fell right in the bog, you say, Wallace!' One of the hunters chuckled, wiping at an eye with one hand while hoisting a tall glass of dark ale in the other.
'Arse over kettle! Straight in,' the man in the booth agreed, a Scottish brogue thickening his tongue.
'Wish'un I could've seen that, right enough.'
'Ah, but the stench afterward, lads. That you wouldn'ta want to be near. Not at all.' Another hearty laugh followed from the man seated in the booth.
Gray recognized Dr. Wallace Boyle from his picture on the University of Edinburgh website. But the professor in the photo had been clean-shaven and dressed in a formal jacket. The man here had a grizzly dusting of gray beard and was outfitted like his fellow hunters in a frayed herringbone jacket over a quilted waistcoat. On the table rested a moss-green tweed cap, fingerless gloves, and a thick scarf. Next to him, propped upright on the bench seat, was a shotgun zippered into a gunslip.
Dr. Boyle noted Gray's attention and approach. 'Tavish, Duff, looks like those reporters I was setting to meet have arrived.'
That had been their cover story: a pair of international journalists covering the bombing at the Vatican, following up on the death of Father Giovanni. Kowalski acted as their photographer.
The two hunters glanced Gray's way. Their faces went hard with the usual suspicion of locals for outsiders, but they nodded in wary greeting. With a final heft of their drinks, they left the table.
'Cheers, Wallace,' one said as he departed. 'We best be going anyway. It's already getting to be brass monkeys out there.'
'And it'll get colder,' Wallace agreed, then waved Gray and Rachel over toward his table.
Kowalski had returned from the restroom, but he never made it past the bar. His eyes were fixed to the chalkboard over the fireplace that listed the local brews. 'Copper Dragon's Golden Pippin? Is that a beer or some sort of fruity drink? I don't want anything that has fruit in it. Unless you call an olive a fruit...'
Gray tuned out his partner as he headed over to Wallace's table. The professor stood, unfolding his six-foot- plus frame. Though in his midsixties, the man remained robust and broad-chested, like a younger Sean Connery. He shook their hands, his gaze lingering a little longer on Rachel. The man's eyes pinched for a moment, then relaxed, hiding whatever had momentarily perplexed him.
Rachel began to slide into the booth first, then suddenly froze. Her side of the bench was occupied. A wiry furred head lifted into view and rested a chin on the wooden table, not far from a half-eaten platter of bangers and mash.
'Rufus, get down from there,' Wallace scolded, but without much heat. 'Make room for our guests.'
The black-and-tan terrier huffed through its nose in exasperation, then ducked away and came strolling out from under the table. He moved closer to the fire, circled twice, then collapsed down with an equally loud sigh.
'My hunting dog,' the professor explained. 'A mite spoiled, he is. But at his age, he's earned it. Best fox flusher in the isles. And why shouldn't he be? Born and bred right here. A true Lakeland Terrier.'
Pride rang in the man's voice. This was not a professor headed toward early retirement, nor even one resting on his laurels, which were many, according to the man's bio. Dr. Wallace Boyle was considered to be a leading expert on the history of the British Isles, specifically the Neolithic age through the Roman occupation.
They all settled into the booth. Gray placed a small digital recorder on the table, maintaining their cover as journalists. After a few pleasantries about the weather and their drive, Wallace quickly turned to the matter at hand.
'So, you've come all this way to see what we discovered up in the fells,' Wallace said. His brogue grew less heavy, his speech more formal, tailoring it to his audience. 'Since the death of Father Giovanni, I've been fielding questions and inquiries nonstop for the past two days. Yet no one's seen fit to come out here in person. Then again, the good father himself hadn't been out here in months.'
'What do you mean?' Rachel asked.
'Father Giovanni left at the end of summer. Headed to the coast, then off to Ireland, last I heard from him.' Wallace shook his head sadly and tapped his glass of beer with a fingernail in some semblance of a toast to the dead. 'Marco was a brilliant chap. Truly a great loss. His research and fieldwork on the roots of Celtic Christianity could have changed the way we view history.'
'Why did he come here to begin with?' Gray asked. 'To the Lake District.'
'He would've ended up here eventually, I suppose. Even if I hadn't summoned him following my discovery up in the mountains.'
'Why's that?'
'Marco's passion-or more like his obsession-had him scouring any and all areas where paganism and Christianity overlapped.' Wallace lifted an arm to encompass the region in general. 'And the history of this district is a story of that very conflict written in stones and ruins. It was the Norse who first came to this area, sailing over from Ireland to farm here in the ninth century, bringing all their traditions. Even the word fell comes from the Norse word for 'hill.' In fact, the village of Hawkshead was founded by a Norseman named Haukr, whose name still lives on in this place. That should give you some idea of the long history of this region.'
Wallace nodded out the window toward the church that overlooked the town. 'But times change. During the twelfth century, the entire area came under the ownership of the monks of Furness Abbey, the ruins of which can be found not far from here. The monks cultivated the region, traded in wool and sheep, and ruled the superstitious villagers with an iron fist. Tensions dragged on for centuries between the ancient pagan ways and the new religion. The old rituals continued to be performed in secret, often at the prehistoric sites that litter the countryside.'
'What do you mean by prehistoric sites?' Rachel asked.
'Places dating back to the Neolithic period. Five thousand years ago.' Wallace ticked them off on his fingers.
