Alfie felt queasy.

  “Very good,” said Neil. “You’re picking it up very well. So, if we’re using this water to make tea or coffee, we-?”

  “Put in water purifying tablets,” said Alfie.

  “No need,” said Neil. “We boil it.” He balanced the billycans over the campfire.

  It was the worst coffee Alfie had ever tasted. Nobody apart from Neil seemed to enjoy their after-dinner drink. Marley and Saffron began singing out-of-tune folk songs, insisting that the others join in.

  Alfie was sitting next to Eileen, who remained stony-faced and silent.

  “I’m very impressed by your expertise on this course,” he said. “Have you done this sort of thing before?”

  “Never,” she said. “I simply listen to what I’m told. It’s not rocket science.”

  “I was wondering about Thomas Cox,” he said. “Do you think he misunderstood something he had been told?”

  “No idea,” she said. “I’m going to bed.” And with that, she got up and left, without acknowledging the various “goodnights” from the others.

  Alfie wondered whether she was tired, fed up with the singing, or trying to avoid the subject of Thomas Cox.

  Eventually Saffron and Marley finished their acapella concert, and announced they were off to bed as well. Derek and Benjamin left too, but Neil didn’t allow Alfie and Joseph to go until he had instructed them in how to put out the campfire.

  Alfie eventually made his way back to his insubstantial shelter, only partially disrobing before getting into his sleeping bag. So far, he hadn’t found anything intrinsically wrong with Neil’s course, apart from discomfort and foul coffee. There were the alarming knives, true, but Thomas Cox hadn’t been stabbed. And nobody on the course seemed like a murderer. The fatal fall must have been an accident, even though it was still baffling as to why Cox had been near the quarry.

  Alfie stretched out in the sleeping bag, and froze as something bit his big toe. He cursed himself for not shaking the bag out before getting into it. He had been warned to be careful in the Moroccan desert, to check his shoes every morning in case a scorpion was lurking in them. But he hadn’t thought to make any similar checks in an English wood.

  What was in the sleeping bag with him? He had a sudden ghastly memory of a Bond film in which a deadly tarantula crawled over James Bond’s naked chest. What had attacked his naked foot? An adder, Britain’s only venomous snake? Nothing was wriggling at the bottom of the sleeping bag. But what if whatever it was taking its cue from him, and staying motionless?

  He lay there for a few more minutes, trying not to breathe, but when there was no second bite, he eased himself out of the sleeping bag and turned it upside down.

  Something small and dark fell out. Alfie took an involuntary step backwards, but it didn’t attack him. He turned the head torch on it. A sprig of holly. He had scratched his toe on one of the spines.

  Holly was for Christmas, not for midsummer, he thought, aggrieved. But since it was an evergreen, it probably lay in wait throughout the year. He would have to be more cautious tomorrow night.

  He crawled back into the sleeping bag and fell into a fitful sleep.

  9. Emma and Oscar

  Emma closed the laptop. “No,” she said heavily. “No, Aunt Marge, you’re right. There was nobody else there. Thomas Cox shows every sign of being high on drugs, and having paranoid hallucinations. There’s no doubt the post-mortem will confirm that.”

  “How terrible,” said Liz. “The poor man fell into the quarry while he was running away from a completely imaginary terror.”

  Emma nodded. “I suppose the good news is that it had absolutely nothing to do with Neil and his course. Neil can’t be held responsible for some moron taking drugs.”

  “So, Alfie can come back now,” said Liz.

  “Alfie!” Emma smacked her forehead. “I completely forgot about him – I was too busy thinking about taking the head torch to headquarters. We’ve got a plan for keeping in touch – which depends on you letting me borrow your car, Aunt Marge.”

  “Be my guest,” said Marge. “I know that’s the only reason you come around here, for my cooking and my car.”

  “Don’t forget your sunny disposition, dear,” said Liz.

  Emma hurried over to Marge and gave her a hug. “You’re an angel, Aunt Marge. I said I would leave him a note near the quarry after work.” She looked at her watch. “It’s too late for me to get up there and go to headquarters. I’ll do it in the morning, and tell him to come home.”

  “He’s not going to be too impressed to find he’s spent the night out of doors quite unnecessarily,” said Marge.

  “So, no change there, then. I don’t think he’s ever impressed by anything I do,” said Emma ruefully, failing to see Marge and Liz exchange quizzical looks. “Right, I’d better get off to headquarters. Thanks for supper.”

  It was only when she was heading home from the main police station that she remembered the scrap of paper with Oscar’s telephone number that Alfie had given her. She could ring Oscar herself. It would do no harm to confirm Thomas Cox’s drug taking.

  Once she was settled in her favourite position, curled up in an armchair, she rang the number Alfie had given her.

  A booming, elderly voice answered. “De Linnet household. Lane the butler speaking. May I help you?”

  Nobody had ever mentioned that Oscar had a butler. Taken aback, she stammered: “I’m calling Mr de Linnet. My name’s Emma Hollis. I’m a friend of Alfie McAlister’s. Mr de Linnet asked me to ring.”

  “Constable Hollis, dear lady! Oscar here. Such a pleasure to hear from you.”

  A much-younger, lighter voice. But there had been no hint that the butler had passed the phone to his master. Perhaps Oscar had been listening in on the extension.

  “You must forgive me,” Oscar went on. “I use the subterfuge of Lane to answer the phone in case of cold callers. I’m sure you understand.”

  Emma gave a neutral murmur. Aunt Liz and Aunt Marge had enjoyed meeting him, but had also described him as thoroughly eccentric. Apparently, he saw himself as some sort of modern version of Oscar Wilde. Was this wise, to be entrusting someone like that with any sort of information? Perhaps she could make an excuse and hang up.

  “Allow me to tell you where things stand, constable,” said Oscar. “Since you have my number, I know young McAlister has told you what I’m up to. But I’m afraid the poor fellow lacks our perspicacity, and is sure to have forgotten to tell you something crucial.”

  Despite herself, Emma was amused and intrigued.

  “Thomas Cox boarded at Winchester College, as did Crispin Trevelyan, a friend of mine,” Oscar went on. “Perhaps you already know, Cox went on the survival training course with two work associates, Sam Pritchard and Bill Taylor.”

  “Yes,” said Emma. “I interviewed them along with the rest of the group. They were really upset.”

  “Fortunately not so upset that they’ve gone off to sob in a darkened room. I’m meeting them tomorrow.”

  “How on earth did you manage that?” asked Emma more sharply than she intended.

  “Please, dear lady, don’t imagine for a moment that I’m trying to encroach on your territory. I’m simply trying to help if I can. I’m sure you interviewed them beautifully, but perhaps I may discover some background material that would be useful for you. It turns out that Sam Pritchard is also an Old Wykehamist-”

  “A what?” asked Emma.

  “Forgive me, a former pupil of Winchester College. He was in the same form as Crispin’s younger brother. I had already arranged to meet Crispin to have a chat about Thomas. Crispin rang Sam suggesting it would be therapeutic to talk about the whole dreadful incident, and the four of us are meeting at my club tomorrow.”

  “Oscar, that’s brilliant. It would be a real help if you could ask them about Cox’s drug-taking activities. That’s why he fell into the quarry.”

  “How dreadfully mundane,” said Oscar. “I’d hoped I could help the Bunburry Triangle solve a murder mystery.”

  “Sorry. But you’ll still be helping the police by providing relevant information.”

  “I suppose that’s some comfort,” said Oscar. “Is there anything else you’d like me to ask about?”

  “Nothing specific. Just try to get a picture of what he was like, and ring back when you can.” She remembered that Oscar was using a landline, not a mobile. “Hang on, I’ll give you my number.”

  “No need, dear lady. I shall dial 1471 to reveal it, and immediately write it in my diary. And rest assured that I’ll ring you the very instant I have any information. Thank you so much for calling - a delight to hear from you.”

  After he hung up, Emma sat looking at her phone. Eccentric didn’t seem to come close. She had no idea whether he was completely scatter-brained or very bright. Or perhaps a confusing mixture of the two.

  Emma had never been called “dear lady” in her life. Half an hour ago, she would have said it was patronising and offensive. But being called “dear lady” by Oscar de Linnet – she decided that she rather liked it.

  10. Alfie and Joseph

  In the Sahara, Alfie’s Berber hosts wakened him with sweet mint tea, and bread with a sweet-nut paste.

  In this Cotswold wood, it was porridge and more of Neil’s foul coffee. They were being allowed some free time before the next part of the course, which apparently meant the opportunity to sluice themselves down in the stream.

  Alfie, normally fastidious about his morning shower, said he was off for a run first, and made his way to the dead-letter drop by the quarry. To his relief, he saw Emma had got in touch at last – the box had been shifted from where it was last night.

  And then his relief changed to alarm. The top of the lid was missing. The box was empty. His note to Emma had gone, and there was no note from her. The lid lay upside down on the other side of the tree trunk. Someone else had taken his note – and Emma’s reply – if she had left one. The same someone who had followed him through the woods yesterday, who had spied on him as he picked up the box and checked it.

  And then he told himself off for being paranoid. Nobody had been following him – he had heard wildlife, that was all. He picked up the lid and put it back on the box. It fitted well enough to keep closed if it was undisturbed, but if the same innocent rabbit had scrabbled at it as it returned to its burrow, the lid would easily have come off. And then the contents would have blown away.

  He searched around for scraps of paper but found nothing. Unsurprising. His note was probably littering the streets of Cheltenham by now. And there was no saying that Emma had left a note in the first place. He shouldn’t blame her. It was more than likely that Sergeant Wilson had given her some impossible duties to carry out, and she had no time to drive out to the quarry. He was certain that if she had something crucial to tell him, she would have managed somehow. This just underlined that Thomas Cox’s death had been accidental.

  As he made his way back through the woods to the meeting place, he suddenly heard an angry whisper: “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  He had inadvertently found someone else’s pitch. But the question wasn’t directed at him. He skirted some trees to find Marley and Saffron confronting Joseph Jennings, who was kneeling just inside their two-person bivouac.

  He wondered why Marley had whispered rather than shouted, but the next whisper answered that.

  “Are you the police?”

  “No,” stammered Joseph.

  “Was it you that took it?” asked Saffron, and Marley rounded on her.

  “How could it have been him? He wasn’t even here.”

  Joseph was looking stunned and guilty, and Alfie stepped forward to join the trio. “Sorry, I think this is all my fault. I went off for a run, and asked Ciaran to pick up my shaving kit so I wouldn’t have to go all the way back for it. But I think I pointed him in the wrong direction. All these bivouacs look identical – but Ciaran, didn’t you notice there are two sleeping bags in there?”

  Joseph started to mumble an apology, but Saffron had found something to amuse her.

  “Maybe he thought you’d pulled Eileen,” she giggled. “Or Derek. Or Benjamin.”

  “Oh,” said Alfie, pretending to look hurt, “so you don’t think I’m good enough for Neil?” which made her giggle even more.

  He grabbed Joseph by the arm and pulled him upright. “Come on. Sorry about my rubbish sense of direction. I won’t bother shaving now – not enough time before we all have to meet up again.” There was also the small matter of not having brought a shaving kit with him.

  Saffron clearly wasn’t bothered by the incident; Alfie wasn’t so sure about Marley, but decided that saying any more risked making things worse.

  Once they were well out of earshot, Joseph said: “Thanks for getting me out of that, Mr McAl – Alfie. It could have been really awkward.”

  “And what the hell did you think you were doing?” Alfie asked.

  “I was investigating,” said The Bugle’s newshound.

  “Investigating what?” Alfie asked.

  Joseph looked uncomfortable. “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to reveal my sources,” he said.

  It was an odd answer, Alfie thought. He hadn’t asked anything about sources. But if Joseph was happy pretending to be Woodward and Bernstein rolled into one, who was Alfie to argue with him?

  “Just be careful next time,” said Alfie. “I suppose if a bivouac doesn’t reach the ground, you can’t be accused of breaking and entering, but it’s probably still an offence to go rootling around in other people’s possessions. Anyway, let’s go and find what hideous task Neil has lined up for us now.”

  ***

  Joseph Jennings didn’t even listen to what Neil was saying to the group. He was in pursuit of the story. He had suspected all along that Alfie McAlister was there for the Bunburry Triangle, and he had been proved right.

  It had been a lightbulb moment when Derek, the mechanical engineer, had mentioned wacky baccy. And it had been genius to follow Alfie when he set off on his supposed run. Joseph stayed hidden from Alfie by the drystone wall, and then shadowed him into the forest. It had been a scary moment when Alfie suddenly shouted: “Who’s there?” but Joseph had kept calm, and stayed undiscovered.

  He couldn’t see what was in the box that Alfie recovered from the tree trunk. But it had been a stroke of brilliance on his part to go back and check it before they all met for breakfast.

  He took the notes he had found out of his pocket and read them again, his heart racing with excitement. It was the druid who was behind it all – everything he had discovered pointed to that. He might not have any evidence yet, but he had his reporter’s instincts. His article – the splash and a double-page spread, would prove to his mum once and for all that she was a total div, hanging around with crazies. Yes, Joseph Jennings was going to get the scoop of his life.

  11. Oscar’s Club

  Oscar’s guest leaned back in the large armchair, stretching his legs out luxuriously.

  “Nice little place, this,” he said, glancing round at the William Morris wallpaper, studded with heavy gilt-framed portraits of Victorian worthies.

  “Crispin, my poor boy, I realise you Old Wykehamists are more usually to be found in a greasy spoon, but I like to give you an insight into gracious living,” said Oscar. “By the way, they insist on a modicum of good manners in here – try not to put your feet on the table.”

  Crispin Trevelyan grinned at him, unoffended. “Lucky I’ve got you to keep me right. When are those ne’er-do-wells joining us? I’m dying for a drink.”

  “They’re probably still being frisked at the door. One can’t be too careful,” said Oscar. “Before they arrive, why don’t you tell me what you know about this fellow Cox?”

  Crispin hoisted himself into a more upright position.

  “I never met him,” he said. “I’d left school by the time he arrived, but I heard about him from my little bro. And then his name occasionally came up in the City, most recently when he signed up for this mad outward-bound course. It sounds as though he’s always been a thoroughgoing oik. There was a particularly unsavoury tale-”

  He was interrupted by the arrival of an elderly besuited servitor. “Your other two guests, Mr de Linnet.”

  “Thank you, Bromley,” said Oscar, rising to receive the newcomers, one of whom seemed completely overwhelmed by his surroundings. “How do you do, gentlemen. I’m Oscar de Linnet.”

  The more confident young man, who already had the beginnings of a paunch and a double chin, stepped forward to shake hands, saying: “Sam Pritchard.”

  He gestured towards his companion, a sallow, dark-haired young man standing hesitantly on the edge of the group.

  “This is Bill, Bill Taylor.”

  Bill nodded in greeting as though he couldn’t presume to come closer.

  “And I think you know Crispin?" said Oscar.

  “I’ve known Pritchard for years, thanks to Trevelyan Minor,” said Crispin, with a casual wave. “But this is the first time I’ve met Mr Taylor.”

  There was an incoherent sound from Mr Taylor.

  “Call him Bill,” Sam Pritchard translated.

  “Do sit down,” said Oscar. “What may I get you to drink?”

  “I’m gasping for a G&T,” said Crispin.

  “Same for me,” said Sam Pritchard.

  Bill Taylor managed to indicate that he would like one as well.

  “You’ll have to excuse him,” said Sam Pritchard. “He’s never been in a gentlemen’s club before.”

  “My dear sirs!” protested Oscar. “This most certainly is not a gentlemen’s club – I would never join such an exclusionary establishment. Ladies have equal rights here.”

 

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