Anthea consulted her road atlas but it was of little help. She could see where she had left the major road and she was able to pinpoint Bresslingham Market in relation to that junction. But she had little idea of how far she had travelled through the thickening murk. The town could be around the next bend or it could be an hour away at fog speed. God, in this blinding mess she could well have driven through the town and never have realized it.
Decisions, decisions! She could stay here in the car, cold, miserable and hungry, for any length of time. Alternatively, she could get out and walk and hope that she would soon arrive at Bresslingham. She glanced at her wristwatch. Two o’clock. At least it was still daylight (ha, ha). Anthea reached into the back seat for her overnight bag. Her suitcase could wait until she returned with help. She took a flashlight from the glove compartment.
She carefully locked the car door and began to walk. The idea of the walk itself did not bother her. She often walked for pleasure and she was wearing sensible shoes. But the fog was heavy and damp, clinging to her as she moved, and all sound – even that of her own footsteps on the road – was muffled. Anthea felt as if she was treading the depths of a lifeless sea.
Perhaps ten minutes passed and Anthea began to imagine things. Or, rather, she hoped that she was only imagining things. The fog, as if sentient and inimical, seemed to press closer. The woman’s spine began to itch with a sensation of being silently watched. Several times she wanted to whirl about and scream into the gloom but controlled herself. It’s natural to be apprehensive in this situation, she told herself fiercely. Succumb to panic and you’ve really got problems.
She used the flashlight sparingly, switching it on briefly and casting the beam around. She got the impression that the hedges bordering the road were becoming higher and Anthea was sure that she could hear strange rustlings coming from within their depths. Another flick of the torch’s button and – What was that? That silent, flitting shadow just beyond the beam’s edge?
Anthea stood still and took deep breaths to calm herself, suffering a coughing fit for her pains. Bloody fool, it was a fox or something. Wasn’t it?
An unexpected chattering noise from behind made her spin about. That wasn’t imagination! The beam of light punched into the haze. Nothing. Another animal? Anthea shifted the torch to her shoulder like a cudgel. “Who’s there?” she called out. “I know you’re there. Be careful, I’m armed!”
There was an empty feeling in her stomach and her heart beat more rapidly as she backed away, staring into the fog, wary for the unseen pursuer. She could neither see nor hear anything and relaxed slightly. And bumped straight into something behind her.
Anthea whirled, ready to lash out with the flashlight. Then she gasped and laughed weakly. Her assailant was a wooden post. Anthea leaned against it, giggling. She had often prided herself on her strong nerves but this fog had cut her down to size.
A wooden post. Could it be . . . ? Anthea grinned and shone her torch upwards. Yes, it was. A signpost. An arm, pointing the way she was heading, carried the legend, BRESSLINGHAM MARKET 7. Great! Then she noticed the second pointer, indicating a road off to the left. Anthea strained on tiptoes to see it.
The letters were rather more worn that those on the main arm but Anthea deciphered them as NAYSHAM ¾ . So, there was a village or hamlet called Naysham nearby. Anthea had never heard of it, nor could she recall noticing it in the road atlas. But it was much nearer than Bresslingham and she was sure that at least she could find shelter until the fog lifted. Feeling much happier, she walked on and within a few minutes found the side road to Naysham. Giving a little sigh of relief, Anthea stepped out briskly.
The fog still clung to her in soggy caress and there were still noises in the hedgerows but Anthea did not care. She was no longer facing the unknown: the fog was just fog, the noises just natural noises. Within a few minutes she was even whistling.
At last through the denseness she began to make out the shapes of low buildings, a corner here, an odd line of thatching there, an occasional low gleam of light-bulbs within cottages. Then she saw the most welcome thing of all, a mirage-like haze of blue. She approached carefully until the blue shape solidified into an old-fashioned carriage lamp surmounting a sign which announced POLICE.
Anthea grinned and punched the air before pushing her way through a heavy door and into the friendly warmth of a gas-fire and the welcome glow of electric light. Her way was barred by an oak counter on which stood a gleaming brass bell. Anthea gave a tentative tap and there was a friendly jingling noise.
A voice from somewhere towards the rear of the building roared out, “Now which of you lot’s daft enough to come out on an afternoon like this? Just hang on a minute!” Despite the volume of the bellow, the voice sounded amiable enough.
Anthea heard the flushing of a toilet followed by the running of a tap. Then the biggest man she had ever seen strolled into the lobby, drying his hands on a piece of rough towelling.
“Where’s the bloody fire then –?” He stopped, embarrassed. “Oh, sorry, Miss. Thought it was one of the neighbours.” He ran a huge hand across a stubble of grey hair and gave Anthea an awkward grin. The policeman had an ugly, craggy face which Anthea thought oddly attractive. “We don’t see many strangers here in Naysham,” the man continued. “What can I do for you?”
Anthea told the man her name and explained her predicament. The police officer nodded. “You poor lass. Rotten thing to happen. We do get these sudden fogs around here at this time of the year. Well, we’re only a small village but we’ve got all that’s needed to help you out.
“There’s Dick Brand who owns the filling station and garage, although he’ll not be able to do anything for you until the weather clears. I’ll fix that for you as soon as I can. Then we’ve got a nice little pub here, The Maypole. They don’t normally cater for travellers but there are a couple of spare rooms. It’s clean and comfortable and I know Reg Feltham and his missus’ll be glad to put you up for the night. I’ll take you over there now if you’ll just give me a minute to get my jacket. I’m Constable Lewis, by the way – Jack to my friends.”
They stepped out into the bone-gripping damp and cold. Anthea shivered. Jack Lewis, buttoning his tunic, said, “Don’t worry, Miss Moore, soon have you comfortable.” He sniffed at the air. “This’ll be clear, probably by tonight sometime, tomorrow morning at the latest. Here, lass, give me that little bag of yours. And you’d better take my arm. Don’t want to lose you as soon as we’ve found you.”
Anthea did as bid. She was above average woman’s height but the policeman was a good head and shoulders taller than she. The kind of man a girl feels safe with, she thought. Then, what do you mean, girl? You’re thirty-two and self-sufficient. Well, not this afternoon, you’re not. She chuckled.
“What’s funny?” asked Jack Lewis.
“Oh, me,” said Anthea. “I’ve always been full of spit and independence and then a few noises in the hedgerows this afternoon and I came near to panic.”
“Understandable,” the man said. “The countryside’s not so peaceful as townsfolk think and this fog would confuse anyone. This way, Miss.”
They crossed the road. The half-seen shape of a squat grey shadow triggered a memory for Anthea. “Am I imagining things or is that a genuine Saxon church?”
“Yes, Miss, St Alaric’s. Believed to date from the ninth century and we’re very proud of it. And here’s The Maypole. You can just about see the inn sign.”