The Passing Bell Tolls for Thee

Prologue - Death on the Chalk

King's Oak, Oakton Farm, Wiltshire, August 1, Lughnasadh

Sir Drew Ramsey, master of Oakton and the last of a thousand years of Ramsays, sat in the front passenger seat of the red and white golf buggy, arthritic hands as gnarled as the crooked branches above him resting on his thin, feeble legs. A bell, engraved with a stag's head, and dark with the centuries, rested between his feet. Ben Muir, his solicitor, drove the buggy around a curve and deeper into the darkening woods.

"Musselwhite!" Drew's weak voice reached the man in the back seat. "Musselwhite, fancy a drink?"

Mark Musselwhite twisted in the rear-facing seat to answer Ramsey. "Yes, Sir Drew, a drink would be good right about now. Sun's almost set." He grabbed the silver flask Drew handed him, ignoring the old man's wince. He'd much rather be at the pub with his mates, but the offer of £300 pounds from Ramsey was irresistible. He rubbed the five tenners in his pocket between his fingers, and grinned, a crescent revealing a few green teeth. As soon as he pocketed the rest of the quid after whatever Ramsey wanted him for, he was off to the pub. He'd buy a round for the house, the first in a very long time.

He appraised the silver flask. Sterling. Worth a bit. Pity he couldn't nick it. Another arrest would land him in jail for a few years, though, and he liked freedom. No pubs, no mates, no Missis to cook his meals and take care of the house in jail. He unscrewed the cap, and the scent of good whiskey filled his nostrils. He inhaled deeply, then swallowed. His throat burned with the fine liquor and his belly warmed.

"This is the good stuff, sir, thanks."

"It's the best stuff, Musselwhite. Drink it all and you can keep the flask."

Mark's nostrils flared, but greed made him suspicious.

"Thank you, sir, it's a very generous gift. Why, seeing as you're paying me well for a few hours' attendance at your druid meeting?

"Grove. The proper term for our Druid meeting is grove. This grove is important to me. I'm old and won't see many more. It's customary to give important attendants at my final grove gifts. If you don't want the sterling silver flask, drink the whiskey and hand it back." Ramsay held out a trembly hand.

The potential loss of the silver flask distracted Mark. "I accept, Sir Drew, and thank you. I hope you get what you want out of this mee—grove." He took another generous swallow. He felt a little dizzy. Better slow down, you fool, he told himself. You screw this up and he may decide not to pay you the rest.

Drew met Ben's eyes and nodded slightly. Ben said, "Finish the whiskey, Mark, we're almost at King's Oak."

Ben pulled up to a small clearing surrounding King's Oak and parked the buggy. "Mark, please carry that box to the stone." Mark got out slowly. He was dizzy. The whiskey was strong. He picked up the box and wobbled slightly as he carried it to the stone and set it down.

The stone was about six feet by three, and well-worn down. Sir Drew told him it had been there before the Romans came. Ben carried the bell over, holding the muffle on the clapper, careful not to let it ring. He set it at the foot of the stone. He returned with another box. From it he took and lit torches and several candles. They gave sufficient light to see in the clearing under the ancient oak as the sun set and the shadows lengthened.

"Sit down, Mark. You look dizzy."

"Whiskey. Stro. Strong." Mark looked around at the darkening woods. The shadows of the leafless branches made him think of long thin arms with bony fingers reaching for him. "We be here long?" he mumbled. "Don't like these woods."

"Not long," Ben said as he took Mark's arm and moved him gently until he sat on the stone. He went to the buggy and returned with two folding chairs that he set up by the stone. "I'll get Mr. Ramsey."