The Corfe Castle Murders by Rachel McLean, book 1 in the Dorset Crime series - Chapter 1

Laila stopped halfway up the stairs, her senses pricking.

There was someone in her room.

She could hear drawers being pulled out, doors being opened. Footsteps; no matter how hard the intruder tried to be stealthy, this was an old, creaky house.

Was Archie back?

No. Archie wasn’t coming back till Monday. He had a meeting in London, something to do with securing extra funding for the dig. Now they’d uncovered evidence of 12th century occupation, they were all hopeful.

Holding her breath, she took one step up, as carefully as she could. She could see into the room she shared with Archie, over the top step.

It would be Crystal. The woman liked to poke her nose into other people’s business. As the dig leader, she seemed to think she had the right. But their bedrooms had locks, and were supposed to be private.

She’d become complacent. She should remember to lock her door every morning.

The intruder came into view, facing away from Laila. She gritted her teeth.

Patrick.

What was that old perv doing in her room? Why was he going through her and Archie’s stuff?

Patrick gave her the creeps. Since he’d tried it on with her the day after she arrived, she’d steered clear of him. She didn’t want a confrontation.

She slid back down the stairs and opened the front door. She slammed it shut again. Humming loudly despite her unease, she stomped up the stairs.

When she arrived at the top, Patrick was standing on the landing. He stared at her, hands on hips.

“You should tidy your room.” He gestured back through the open door. “Look at it, bloody disgrace.”

She met his eye, her stomach fluttering. Patrick was more than twice her age, the most experienced member of the group. He made her nervous.

“Have you been in my room?”

He blew a greasy grey hair out of his eyes. “What d’you take me for? You might want to close the door in future, though.”

“Lock it, more like.”

She squeezed past him and closed her and Archie’s door. Patrick watched her from the open doorway of his own room. Behind him, all was tidy. So immaculate that you could imagine no one lived in there.

“That’s better,” he grunted.

She eyed him. “I’m going back out.”

“Already?”

“It’s a free country.”

She barrelled down the stairs, her stomach churning. She’d been looking forward to a quiet few hours reading her book. Maybe on her bed, maybe in the cosy sitting room downstairs. But she didn’t want to be alone in the cottage with Patrick. Archie was away for his meeting and there was no sign of Crystal.

“See you later,” Patrick called down the stairs. Laila shuddered and closed the front door behind her. It led directly onto a narrow strip of pavement alongside an equally narrow road that cars struggled to get down. The village of Corfe Castle hadn’t been designed for modern living.

At least the sun was out. She’d wander up to the dig site, and then she might sit outside the Greyhound with a pint. They had benches out the front, filling another narrow pavement, and she liked to watch the world go by.

She hurried along West Street, glancing behind her from time to time to check Patrick hadn’t followed. Don’t be paranoid. Even he wasn’t that much of a creep.

She turned the corner by the entrance to the car park then took the footpath across the fields to reach the dig site. It was quiet on a Sunday, the normal hubbub of tools and voices missing.

She could hear the trill of birdsong from the trees up ahead, cars passing beyond them.

They’d dug three trenches so far, one in the centre of the site where they believed the bailey of King Stephen’s siege castle had lain. A second had been dug nearer the village, where the geophysics suggested the outer wall might have been. And a smaller test trench, near the mound where Laila stood. The two more established trenches had tents over them to protect them from the weather. It might be June in southern England, but you could always guarantee rain.

She pushed aside the flaps of the tent closest to her, the one over the wall. She’d been working here the day before and had found coins, worn down and mud-encrusted, but hopefully from the 12th century.

She wandered out over the mounds that covered suspected fortifications, heading for the second tent. Two crows rose into the sky as she approached, disturbed by her footsteps. A short distance away, a group of wood pigeons pecked at the ground.

She grabbed the flap of the tent. This was where they were hoping to find the remains of a medieval building. Crystal and Patrick worked in here most days, along with a rotating crew of students from Bournemouth University

Startled by a bird flying out of the tent, Laila looked away. She batted at it as it brushed past her, but it was gone.

What had it found? They were careful to clear the dig site at the end of each day, cataloguing their finds and hauling them back to the cottage. They were stored in an outhouse until they could be transferred to the university. It had been drilled into them all that there was a risk not only of animal damage, but human too.

The tent was warm in the afternoon heat, muggy. There was a thick smell that made Laila’s nose twitch. Someone had left a tarpaulin in the middle of the space and flies buzzed around it.

Laila bent down, puzzled. She grabbed the edge of the tarp. Had someone come in here earlier and left it behind?

She lifted the tarpaulin. A cloud of flies rose up at her. She dropped the fabric, waving her hands and spitting away the flies that tried to enter her mouth.

There was something under there. Her stomach lurched: this felt wrong. Crystal never left anything behind, and what was that smell?

Laila lifted one hand to cover her nose and grabbed the tarpaulin with the other. She pulled it up, wishing she hadn’t come here.

Her mouth fell open. She was oblivious to the flies now, her body numb. She dropped the tarp.

No. She was imagining things.

Gingerly, resisting the urge to close her eyes, she lifted the fabric again.

And screamed.