The Knapthorne Conspiracy Malcolm Ballard (most popular novels of all time .txt) 📖

had left a vacuum making the very act of breathing, let alone speech, difficult. In the resulting stillness each of them in their own private way were coming to terms with the fact that something from the past, something they had all by mutual consent consigned to history, had clawed its way back into their consciousness. The spectre of Willow Cottage had come back to haunt them.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Fourteen

The old silver birch had a bifurcated trunk, devoid of any branches in its first two or three metres, giving its base the appearance of a giant catapult. Surrounded by chestnut, oak, sycamore and laurel, it stood, unobtrusively, in the densely wooded area on the right-hand side of the driveway facing Willow Cottage. The ground cover was thick with the lush green foliage of fern and bracken enjoying unbroken tenure of the area for decades, undisturbed by human intervention of any kind. Until this moment the most intrusive invader had been that insidious infiltrator of the English countryside with the most contrasting of qualities. It was yet another of nature’s quirks that provided the blackberry with its fast-growing, thorny creepers and a harvest of small, sweet berries. The figure that leaned against the gnarled, silvery trunk watching the cottage, rubbed at the smarting area on the top of his foot where it had been raked by thorns. Although the wounds were tiny they were annoying him exceedingly. No paths existed here and he had had to forge his way through the undergrowth to reach his objective, the effort of getting to the tree sucking the breath out of him. In the filtered sunlight that penetrated the canopy sweat glistened on his broad, jutting brow and along the rough, stubbled skin above his upper lip. Pain and misery plagued him, clearly reflected by the anguished look in his moist, grey eyes. His upper body was never still moving, almost imperceptibly, backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, as if in time to some inner, rhythmic beat. The air was damp, humid the cloying atmosphere adding to his discomfort but he knew that he had to wait. Her bright red car was parked directly in front of him about thirty yards away outside the cottage and he never took his eyes off it willing her to come out, get in, and drive away. It would have been impossible for anyone coming out of Willow Cottage to have spotted him, cloaked as he was in the dark, shadowy confines of the wood and the thought gave him comfort. His nerves were on edge though and a sudden, raucous sound close by made him start as a cock pheasant burst from the cover of the trees its wings beating furiously to lift it over the fields and up, up into the bright blue sky overhead.

Coming out from the cool, dark interior of the cottage, Bella stood on the doorstep for a moment welcoming the warm embrace of the sun. Head back, eyes closed, her face lifted towards the sky, she took a long, deep breath and inhaled the essence of the countryside. A mingling of scents and smells. some of which she had begun to recognise and identify, wafted around her as her olfactory responses reacted to the cleaner air with a greater sensitivity. She stood, motionless, enjoying the moment totally unaware that she was being observed before finally lowering her head and reaching into her shoulder bag for the keys to the car. Even now after having spent some time at the cottage Bella found herself making comparisons with London. Turning the key in the lock she remembered her weekly visits to Sainsburys which generally took place on a Saturday morning commencing with the inevitable dual with the traffic followed by the struggle to find a parking space. Everything seemed to have an element of conflict in it she recalled as she opened the door and got in. Adjusting the rear view mirror, the memory of battling to get out of the supermarket and the frustrations of queueing at the checkout gave her cause to smile as she thought of Knapthorne’s general store and the butcher’s shop. With a sigh of relief she admitted to herself that life was so much better here, the pace that much slower, as she started the engine and released the handbrake. It was all about peace of mind she concluded as she drove away. There was just something so relaxing about being here away from all the stresses and strains of city life. Something that made you feel really safe.

He watched the vehicle disappear down the drive, heard the noise fade as she reached the junction with Spinney Lane. Muted by distance the throaty sound of the car’s engine, responding as she went from first into second along the lane, drifted back to him. Not until then did he feel safe to move, confident there was no-one else in the cottage. Pausing to give his lacerated foot another urgent rub he took a furtive look around before edging away from the reassuring bulk of the tree and making for the drive, to his left.

Reaching the end of Spinney Lane, Bella indicated then slowed the car before coming to a halt at the junction. Seeing the road was clear in both directions she executed the right turn, towards Knapthorne, and immediately remembered the letters she had meant to bring with her to post. Cursing under her breath she checked the mirror to see if there was anything behind her. Fortunately the road was clear in both directions. In a deft series of movements she slowed the car, swung into a farm entrance on her left, then spun the wheel hard to the right completing a speedy u-turn and heading back in the direction she had come from. In no time at all she was turning off Spinney Lane and cruising up the drive, a little faster than usual, in her rush to get in and out.