“What are you doing here? With them?” He gestured down the hill even as he regretted the question.
But the man didn’t seem concerned. He bared his long teeth in a grin, looking eerily like his own dog.
“The things I do for you, lad. For my little barghest. I’ve always looked after you, haven’t I? Always provided for you?”
Michael nodded. He couldn’t argue with that.
“Then trust me.”
The man left, jogging lightly down the hill like a man much younger than his years. Michael watched him go, breathing in the dark scent of the night.
CHAPTER35
THE MORNING WAS bright and cold, a sheer blue sheet for a sky with only a few wispy hints of clouds to the east. Heather and Nikki came out of the cottage slowly, full of the natural caution of city people suddenly faced with a great deal of quiet. Nikki was carrying a glossy map of the grounds, which had also been left on the table for them.
“You know, this place is huge, and really spread out. The nearest cottage is miles away.”
The wind picked up, chasing old dead leaves across the small drive. Heather sniffed, and fiddled with the collar of her jacket. For the first time in weeks, she had slept the whole night through, and the hot shower had been powerful enough that she felt like she’d already had a massage. This is better, she thought, glancing around at the grass and trees. I should have known staying in that house would make me unwell. She looked at the map Nikki was brandishing at her and raised her eyebrows.
“Countryside people,” she said eventually, “are really keen on walking, aren’t they?”
“Good news is, although we’re not guests of the spa, we can go up to their restaurant and have breakfast. What do you reckon?”
They got back in the car and followed the smooth roads back up toward the main entrance. It was a reasonably long way, Heather noted—walking would have to take at least an hour. Eventually the main building of Fiddler’s Mill loomed into sight, looking very much like all the paintings and photographs Heather had seen at whytewitch’s flat. It had been given new, energy saving windows and a new gravel drive, but the dark stones of the House itself, looking like a rainy afternoon given weight and heft, were still intact. In the sprawling carpark to one side were only a handful of cars, and the big central doors were closed.
Nikki parked and they got out, standing for a moment looking down the hill. Back past the way they had come was a thick band of woods, looking impenetrable at this distance. Heather couldn’t see anyone else about.
“I guess it’s a bit late in the year for this, really,” she said. “Anyone with any sense and this much money has buggered off abroad for the winter.”
“Come on, let’s get inside.”
The reception area was spacious and tasteful and somewhat ruined by a series of tall white signs detailing all the spa treatments available within Fiddler’s Mill House. A young orange woman with yellow hair beamed at them from behind a desk.
“Can I help you?”
“We’d like to have breakfast please,” said Nikki. “Is your restaurant open?”
“Yes of course.” The young woman slid a pamphlet across the counter to them. It had a picture of an avocado on the front and not, as Heather might have hoped, bacon and eggs. “Here is the menu. The restaurant is just through the arch to your right. Have a lovely day.”
“Could I ask you a couple of questions?”’ Heather leaned on the counter top, folding her arms.
“Of course,” the receptionist dialed down the smile from satisfied customer to query incoming.
“Do you know anything about the history of this place? Specifically about the commune that was on the site during the ’70s and ’80s?’
The woman nodded carefully and retrieved another pamphlet from a drawer on the desk. This one had a black and white photo of the House on the front. “There you go. Fiddler’s Mill was built in the late 1700s, and has had an interesting history since then. The main points are highlighted in the pamphlet there.”
“Interesting history.” Heather nodded slowly, looking at the leaflet. “What about the rumors that the Red Wolf used to live around here? Do you know anything about that? About Michael Reave?”
The smile vanished. “What?”
“I have it on good authority he was a part of the commune here from the ’70s onwards …”
“I don’t know anything about that.”
“Are you sure? Because —”
“No seriously, I don’t.” The woman leaned forward. “They tell us to play down the commune stuff, because of all the drug taking and that,” she glanced around briefly, as if her manager might be looming, “but I’ve never heard anything about the Red Wolf. Are you serious?”
“Is there much left on the grounds from that time? Could you tell me that?”
The woman grimaced and leaned back. Now, as she glanced around the reception, it was clear she was seeking someone else to deal with them. Heather lowered her voice. She could feel Nikki’s discomfort next to her.
“I just want to know about the stuff that dates from then. How many people do you have staying here at the moment? Not many, I suppose, but there are cars in the car park—do you think they’d want to know about the history of this house? That the Red Wolf spent time in these fields in between dismembering bodies? Now, there are people that would be over the moon to hear that, but I doubt it’s the same people who would pay eight hundred quid a night for peace and quiet and hot stone treatments. Especially not when a particular fan of the Red Wolf is apparently causing trouble again.”
The receptionist took a slow breath, then picked up another pamphlet off the desk. This one was the same as the one Nikki already had. She
