Mitchell Benedict Arnold Cameron, slight of build and short on scruples, turned up at Kiki's office with his first report in early February. According to the needs of the moment, Mr. Cameron might hand you a business card showing himself to be an auto mechanic, dancing instructor, traveling salesman, minister, investigator of the supernatural, tree surgeon, chimney sweep, musician's agent, shipping executive or what have you.
In truth, he ran a private investigation agency.
"What do you have for me, Mitch?" asked Kiki, kicking her handbag under the desk, out of reach of her ever-nosy visitor.
Mitch consulted his notebook and had at it. "Well! I rented a room from a Mrs. Shelby in beautiful downtown Bumpus, while purporting to be a writer from Sheffield who specialises in the supernatural, looking for a new place to live and work, like walking in the woods, for inspiration and all that -- and I asked a lot of questions around.
"On rabid ferrets and owls, the local sawbones has seen zero cases of rabies in his 14 years in practise. So much for Mr. Noonan's story.
"Now, let's consider your rustic friend himself. Mr. Jock Noonan, 32 , of Bumpus, Kent, pretty much tends his crops and chickens and rabbits. No matter what he told you, he never goes hunting near the property in question. When he does go on the hunt with his mates, they go down the road to another forest completely, and they go for deer in season, or small game. If he said they hunt snakes, that's news to anybody else I've talked to.
"Which is not to say that Jock never goes into the mystery area. From time to time, he does... never armed, never outfitted for the hunt, but always in warm clothing as though he'd be outdoors awhile. When he goes, he's always with his neighbor, one Angus McGee, known as Scotty, and they both wear dark red scarves with gold stripes, for some reason. They only go on occasional Saturdays, and weather is not a factor.
"Some folk from down the road named Mulholland go in from time to time, but not dressed to hunt either. If it's a striped-scarf Saturday, they might have a few weekend house guests, and they go in a bunch, including their kids. The others are wearing scarves too, men and women alike, but might have different colours. So far I've photographed four colour combinations.
"The mystery person in the Noonan house is actually Jock's wife Katy. She's 31, a local, youngest of three daughters of a farmer named McGregor up the road. Everybody says she went away to school, but nobody knows where. Stays home with her 2-year-old, mostly. But every weekend, Saturdays and Sundays, she walks down that path into the woods about 7.45 in the morning and doesn't come out until about 4.15, like clockwork. When they're both out, the McGregors tend the toddler.
"I chatted up a shopkeeper about some of the locals. When it came to Katy Noonan, he thought she might have something to do with Scandinavians or something, perhaps by post, as she once handed him a little coin marked 1 Knut, then took it back when she saw his confusion. Haven't been able to find out what country that is, but maybe they're on the Euro now. It might not mean nothing.
"The boys around the Goose & Milkmaid don't mind talking if a stranger buys a round, so I did. They all know and love the Noonans; nice folk. To a man, they all say nobody ever goes into that property 'cos it's haunted, and always has been. I asked if a woman would be safe alone in there, and they shuddered at the thought. Oh, the nearby folk knew about it when you lot drove into the fog there, and they heard the engines all quit at once, and that afternoon they heard your screams! They were very, very surprised when you came out in one piece the next morning.
"Aaand, I asked them if they ever saw anything eerie outside of that place. They said the sky was the place to watch. From time to time, they swear, they've seen witches riding on brooms. They also reckon there's an abnormal number of owls, for no good reason -- coming and going at all hours from that property.
"So, while waiting for Katy to exit the woods, I spent my time birding. No broomsticks while I was there, but they're right about the owls. I lost count. Lots of flights, lots of owls, all different sizes and shapes. I photographed just a few, and there were about 10 species, I'd say, some of which don't belong anywheres near Scotland. I'm having those shots blown up and identified. Now usually, if an owl is carrying something, it's like a mouse or vole, right? Get this. Up close, you can see these birds are carrying boxes and envelopes and things, like a bunch of ruddy carrier pigeons! How strange is that?"
Kiki was intrigued. "About as strange as it can get! So -- packages going to and from an unoccupied blasted heath, using owls. Plus flying witch sightings, which I can attest to.
"Plus, a farmwife wanders into this no-man's land for 8 hours twice every weekend, alone. I have an idea on her. If it was a city building, I'd say Katy's timing would suggest she worked there. And are you a sport fan, Mitch?"
"Nah. Got no time for it."
"I didn't think so -- or you might have concluded that these folks are attending a game of some sort, and the four sets of colours were teams in a small league. That would explain the weird pitch in the photo. Okay, keep someone on Bumpus. If Noonan doesn't drink, see if Angus what's-his-name is chatty about sporting after few rounds; see if he slips. Meanwhile, have somebody in London try to track down the owners -- Alaetan Wildlife Sanctuary, supposedly a eco group. Here's the Kent County tax information on them."
"A sanctuary, yet! That sort of puts the lie to Mr. Noonan's story; doesn't it? I mean, why would they let anyone hunt in a wildlife refuge?"
"Becuse it's not a refuge -- not for snakes, or much else. It's a front. Whoever is doing this uses the snakes to protect the property from prying eyes."
"Ooo. Sounds like spy stuff! So Katy must be working for the spooks. MI5, MI6, y'think?" suggested Cameron.
"That possibility was raised before, when the satellite photos hazed over. I don't think so now. They're good at hiding themselves, given enough time, but they were amateurs at spotting the need for it. It was almost like they didn't know anyone could see them from 200 miles up! Suddenly they realised satellites happen, and compensated for it."
"They'd have to have their heads in the sand to not expect satellite cameras these days. So you believe that old photo?"
"I believe the old photo. And I don't think the men are going in there for the MI6 intramurals. There's a castle and a village in there -- and for some reason, when we're on the ground, we can't see it or detect it."
"And how are you going to find this Brigadoon of yours?"
"I'm not, Mr. Cameron," said Kiki, jumping to her feet and putting on her coat. "Eventually, little Katy Farmwife and her lying husband are going to take me there. Get me a gold-and-red scarf exactly like his. Maybe I can go watch the secret-agent jorkyball tournament, or whatever it is. Meanwhile, I've got to ring up a man about a railway. "
-o-
"Nothing even close."
"I understand, sir; 20 miles of nothing in between, but what station is closest?" asked Kiki.
"Acnashallach," said Denny Agor of Hightrans, the local railway. "But from there on up the mountains, ye're on yer own. Why, even if blinkin' Disney put a park in Kent County, he'd have to build a jetport, 'cos there's certainly no rail. As for thir roads, God paved 'em with dirt, and Kent's content with that. Miserable place for transport, and we're certainly not goin' to lay 30, 40 miles of twisty rail on vertical real estate to get to North Nowhere."
"So... there never has been a railway to Bumpus?"
"BUMPUS? It nothin' but two hogs and a haystack! Dear lord, who's going to ride the rail from blinkin' BUMPUS?"
"My sentiments exactly. Yet here's a satellite photo showing a steam engine sitting at a mystery station near Bumpus, Kent. We enlarged it as usual, and compared the train to the size of known objects in the foreground. My mapper says the rail's 'standard gauge', and the engine's a '4-6-0' -- whatever all that is."
"Wheel count." Agor paused, trying to keep calm, then continued. "But have you been there and seen it, Miss Rankin?"
"Been there, didn't see it."
"I don't fancy you would. I'm a rail fan. If there was, say, an old steam-power minin' spur up there, I'd know it, and me mates would've been there by now with cameras, metal detectors an' everythin'. Trust me, there's nothin' there, not even as a museum. And we hain't run a ruddy 4-6-0 in regular service in 40 years. Your photo's someplace else, or completely bogus."
"Thank you, Mr. Agor."