The Mysteries of Brambly Hollow

conscious that the boys had finished their lunches, and were preparing to leave. “Quassi can stay here,” she told them. “He’s had enough adventures for one day.” Total lie, but she knew she would feel safer with his company. “What time will you be back?” she called after them.
    “Dinner time,” David chortled over his shoulder.
    She listened to their voices fading away. She had lost any inclination to follow them again. Meli realised that she was perspiring, and it had nothing to do with the heat of the day. Picking up her plate, her clumsy fingers dropped it, and it broke into several pieces when it struck the tiles. Cursing, she cleared it away. She kept thinking about the corpse, wrapped and discarded in the bin; the image of finding it prostrate on the table appearing in macabre flashbacks. She checked for Quassi. He was lying on the cool floor, muzzle resting on his front paws as he regarded her, wondering why she’d made him stay, when he could have been out having fun with the boys.
    “I bet you know what’s been going on?” Quassi lifted his head and waggled his ears. If only she knew how to ask him in German, would he then be prepared to share what he knew?
    An hour later, Meli pushed back her stool in despair and glared at her hands accusingly. Nothing would go right, partly because her fingers were still behaving more like frozen runner beans and sausages, than the fingers of a craftswoman. She was just too distracted, too on edge. Maybe a walk would do her good. Slipping Quassi’s lead on, she locked the door to the studio and the house, then double checked both were secure before leaving. A breeze had sprung up, gently stirring the trees, exchanging nautical tales for tales of the woodlands; but there was nothing cool about it, in fact it felt about the same temperature as the air blasted from her hairdryer. Taking a band from her pocket, she scooped her hair from where it was sticking to her shoulders, and gathered it into a ponytail. As she ambled down the road she felt eyes watching her. Glancing right she could see over the hedgerow to the farmhouse and the back of the sheds shadowing the yard. Elsa was standing there, watching her. A chill ran down Meli’s spine. She looked away. She had known for ages now that there was something wrong with Elsa, so she shouldn’t let herself get upset.
    Passing the Post Office she turned into the church. For some reason she felt drawn to go inside. She found herself hurrying along, hoping not to be seen by the boys - wherever they might be - who might want to join her. Securing Quassi to a bench, she moved to the porch covering the south door. It was a heavy panelled wooden door with rusting studs and tarnished black painted hinges. Grasping the circular brass handle she lifted the latch and let herself in. The air was cold as it brushed against her skin, causing a rush of goose bumps over her body, and her nostrils filled with the fusty aroma of ancient stone walls and damp wood. As her eyes adjusted to the gloomy interior, she saw that there was a family of four already inside, huddled together around an open guide book. Meli sat down on the last row of pews and stared ahead, past the nave with its three tier pulpit, towards the magnificent east window, where light poured through the stained glass, in a spectacular kaleidoscope of colours. Loosing herself in the light show, Meli found what she was seeking: solitude, and with it that wonderful sense of peace that she only ever found in churches. Sponge-like, she soaked it up. She barely noticed when the family left.
    Several minutes later the latch clicked, the sound echoing beneath the high, vaulted ceiling. Meli was conscious of someone entering. It was the vicar.
    “Morning. Nice and cool in here,” he commented as he approached. “Mrs. Noble I believe?” His eyes registered recognition.
    Rising to her feet, the cheeks of her bottom paralysed as though given equal shots of morphine, compliments of the unforgiving pew, Meli found herself facing a man of equal height to herself, probably in his late fifties, with leathery, boot-brown skin. Struggling to avert her gaze from the two bleached sideburns, that resembled a pair of dead hamsters glued to his cheeks, Meli forced herself to focus on the inquisitive hazel eyes that were regarding her. Nodding, Meli accepted the proffered hand. The vicars fingers were thin and cold, the flesh almost transparent.
    “Yes, but please call me