Tristan dragged his hand down his face and sighed. Bloody hell. What had seemed like a logical solution to their problem now felt like the naive plot of a novice.
“Have a little faith,” Tristan replied in a bid to rouse some confidence in his own ability to succeed.
The carriage rumbled to a halt near the north gate. They alighted quickly, the grey blanket of fog proving to be an advantage as they hoped to be in position before Mr. Fellows arrived.
“The tree is just inside the entrance,” Blackwood said pointing to an eerie shadow in the gloom. “They say many a passerby has stumbled upon a body dangling from a bough.”
Lord Fernall muttered under his breath. “Do you always speak such gibberish?”
As they approached the tree, Tristan felt the hairs on his nape jump to attention. A frosty chill shivered through him. The muscles in his abdomen grew uncomfortably tight. The natural flow of the earth’s rhythm felt disturbed. Many people said dogs could sense the ominous shift in the atmosphere, said that they whined and yelped to alert their owners of the invisible yet menacing presence.
“Whilst it appears to look like any other tree in the park,” Tristan began, “I cannot help but feel repelled by it.”
Blackwood stared up at the lowest branch. The wood was smooth in places, light in colour where the bark had worn away. “Do you know what they say about the Dead Man’s Tree?”
“No,” Lord Fernall said with a sigh. “But I am sure you’re going to enlighten us with one of your bizarre tales.”
“They say the spirits of the dead walk this path.” Blackwood’s voice was but an octave higher than a whisper. “Their sad souls linger. People have seen strange shadows, figures in shrouds, a man dressed as a cavalier wielding his sword.”
Lord Fernall snorted. “And this morning they will see two fools crouching behind the shrubbery.”
“Talking of shrubbery,” Tristan began as he checked his watch for the umpteenth time, “we should take our places.” He gestured to the row of shrubs four feet or so in front of the tree. “We shall hide here. Mr. Blackwood shall stand in front.”
Despite a few moans and mumbles, they took their positions.
“We look utterly ridiculous,” Lord Fernall complained as he knelt down next to Tristan. “I don’t know why I agreed to come.”
“It is almost five. We will not have long to wait.”
Minutes passed.
Mr. Blackwood paced back and forth.
A low groan breezed past Tristan’s ear. He turned to Lord Fernall. “You need to remain quiet.”
Lord Fernall glanced back over his shoulder. “That was not me.”
They waited.
“Any sign of him?” Tristan whispered, eager to move from behind the large shrub. It was as though a dark and dangerous presence hovered over him, pressing him down into the earth.
“No.”
Tristan checked his watch. Fellows was fifteen minutes late.
“I cannot feel my feet,” Lord Fernall grumbled. “How much longer must we crouch here like street urchins scouring for scraps?”
“As long as it takes,” Tristan said through clenched teeth, trying desperately not to punch the arrogant lord for his indifference to their plight.
Blackwood cleared his throat. “Wait. I think he’s coming.”
Through a gap made in the foliage, Tristan witnessed Mr. Fellows approach. The hazy black figure appeared to float through the fog, the image growing more prominent as he came closer. At a distance, one could not detect his features. Indeed, he looked faceless. A nobody. A hulking soulless mass.
Blackwood sucked in a breath, muttered a croaky curse.
Good Lord! Tristan hoped the man could hold his nerve.
As Fellows came closer, he noticed that the gentleman’s coat radiated a gold