Spectred Isle (Green Men #1)
K.J. Charles
For Lal and Moog, wishing you all the Wednesdays
CHAPTER ONE
London, April 1923
It was a beautiful day for an outing.
Saul Lazenby felt an unaccustomed contentment as he hopped off the train at Oakleigh Park station, up in the wild suburban highlands of Barnet, North London. It was pleasant to stroll in the spring sunshine, particularly because he was doing so alone. He was deeply grateful to his employer, who had taken him on when nobody else would, but that didn’t make Major Peabody’s endless lectures about his ridiculous theories easier to bear. Saul had no right to complain in the circumstances, and no intention of doing so, but it was undeniably pleasant to have a little time to himself, and to be paid for, literally, a walk in the park.
That was his destination: Oak Hill Park, still a wild expanse of heath despite London’s unstoppable crawl outward over the towns and villages in its path. The green space was untouched as yet, dotted with bushes and beech stands and, naturally, oaks. Trees were ever a comfort to Saul. He’d loved the harsh desert landscapes of Mesopotamia and the unforgiving sun; he loved dry bricks and ancient stone and the feel of millennia-old earth on his fingers; but there was something profoundly soothing about an English oak, quietly standing in the green. He inhaled the clean air with satisfaction and turned his back on the city that squatted low in the Thames valley under a sullen grey haze.
Perhaps he should leave after all. He’d come to London because it didn’t care; he’d feared, if he moved to some small town, that his reputation would follow him, that new friends and neighbours would turn from him with disgust. Some former friends had suggested he change his name and start afresh, but that seemed like dodging punishment. He deserved to shoulder the consequences of his actions.
He pushed the thought aside, as far as it would ever go, and set off down the path through the park.
If my theory is correct, there will be a site on the west side of Oak Hill Park, Major Peabody had said. A burial, a standing stone, a sacred grove. A historical artefact or a local legend. Explore for me and see what your professional instincts can discover.
Saul’s professional instincts were shaped by his doctorate in archaeology from Oxford and two years working on excavations in Mesopotamia. Major Peabody believed that if the ravens left the Tower of London, the city would fall. It was not a match made in heaven, but Saul gave the Major the best work he could and strove to be respectful without losing what little self-esteem he still had.
There was no sign of any sacred Druidic grove or whatever bee was in the Major’s bonnet this time, but there was a truly magnificent oak dominating the landscape not far ahead. Saul took another step towards it, admiring the gnarled branches and the bright light green of its fresh new foliage, and it burst into flame.
The fire erupted so violently that Saul heard a faint whoomph of air, like an explosion, and his immediate war-trained thought was, Mortar. He could see all around the heath, though, and there was no engine of war, no gun, no people, even, except for one man some way down the path who was running towards the tree with such urgency that Saul found himself jog-trotting, then sprinting, to meet him.
By the time Saul reached the tree, it was blazing so hard he couldn’t go near it, waves of heat rolling out and stinging his eyes. The other man was standing, breathing rather less heavily than Saul, staring at the conflagration.
“What the devil happened?” he demanded aloud, in a decidedly upper-class tone.
Saul couldn’t tell if the man was asking him or the empty air; he replied anyway. “I’ve no idea. I thought it was a mortar at first but—”
“We’re not at bloody war any more.”
“At first,” Saul repeated. “That or lightning, but the sky’s clear as you like. Did you see anything?”
“Such as what?”
Saul had no idea. “Someone with some kind of gasoline? That blaze is—”
“Unnatural,” the man completed. He was regarding the tree with hard, sceptical eyes. Saul couldn’t blame him. The tree had been a living thing; if you’d chopped it down the wood would have taken a good year to dry out for burning, but the fire was so fierce he felt it heating his cheeks, and so loud that they were almost shouting over the noise of branches crackling and snapping. How in God’s name did a live tree burn like that?
“It must have been lightning,” he said aloud. “I had a view of the whole park.”
“And you saw a very small thunderstorm above?”
Saul had trained himself to endure contempt, but he didn’t have to take sarcasm from a stranger. He turned away from the inferno and had his first good look at the other man.
He was of medium height, but thinnish and rangy, which made him appear taller: the sinew and whipcord build that Saul himself had, and liked. English from his features, with dark hair and much lighter hazel eyes under near-black, slanted brows. A saturnine, sardonic sort of face, clean-shaven; a mouth that seemed made to sneer. He looked like the kind of man Saul had met a great deal in the war in the officer ranks: a thoroughbred aristocrat, effortlessly superior, endlessly disdainful.
“See anything you like?” the man enquired, those finely shaped lips twisting, and Saul realised he’d been staring.
Well, sod you, fellow. “I can’t say I do, no,” he said affably, and wasn’t sure if the flicker in the man’s expression was amusement or affront.