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the amateur paintings of the New Forest were put end to end, they’d reach China. And China is welcome to them. I’ll be in touch.”
    I accompanied her to the door. Just before leaving, she grabbed my hand and said, “You’ll let me know if anything happens. You know—about the occurrence. There’s definitely a spirit out there.” She waved and hobbled out to her car.
    I didn’t think anything supernatural would occur. I was halfway to convincing myself that nothing out of the ordinary had happened last night. The strange ritual had heightened my imagination, but all I had actually seen was a violent, short burst of wind and a door blowing open. Geography affected the wind currents. High buildings in cities, for instance, caused terrific winds. Maybe Thorndyke’s farm was located in a wind belt. No doubt there was a rational explanation.
    My immediate concern was lunch. I collected some herbs from the knot garden, prepared a herb omelette, ate it while reading over my morning’s work, and set off for Lyndhurst.
    I didn’t feel confident in the English car yet, driving on the wrong side of the road. I encountered another goose who assumed a fowl took precedence over a car, and had to give her the right of way. The short drive left me nervous.
     

Chapter Six
     
    Once I reached Lyndhurst, I set aside my cares, and for the next hour I forgot all about driving and ghosts. I just prowled the picturesque little town like any tourist, examining the crafts for sale and the amateur paintings of the New Forest, picking up postcards to send home, and buying the few dozen items required for temporary residence in a hired house. There was no blue checked tablecloth to be had; I bought a plain blue one, and found a pretty milk glass vase in an antique store.
    The variety of English accents and the peculiar idioms were a novelty. I wasn’t used to hearing myself called “luv” by total strangers. I visited an old Norman stone church, perhaps the one Arabella attended. For some reason, the church reminded me of her, and I went in search of books. A corner bookstore with a bay window jutting right into the street held a large selection of glossy historical books on the region, probably for the tourist trade. The works of Sappho in her Rosalie Lawson guise were also lavishly represented. The protagonists of her books were a red rooster called Shanty Clear and a white cat called Blanche. I thumbed through one. It was in rhyme, and rather clever, although the drawings were not very good.
    What I could not find was anything on either Arabella or Vanejul. The clerk suggested the library, but I mark the books I use for research—turn down pages and underline passages, scribble notes on the flyleaf to save time when referring back to something. I couldn’t deface a library book. I went back into the street, disappointed.
    One of these days I’d get to London, where I was sure to find what I wanted. I headed back to my car. I don’t know what made me go into the tobacco shop, because I don’t smoke, and the literature purveyed there held lurid covers of scantily clad women bound in chains. The newspaper headlines screamed of a woman who had given birth to a three-year-old child. Normally I avoid such places, but something urged me to go in.
    Toward the rear of the shop, a section of the wall about six feet square held an assortment of pornographic magazines and paperbacks. Men with lust-glazed eyes thumbed the books. I was about to leave when something—I can only call it an intuition—held me. I peered quickly along the racks, and there, just at the far end, the word Vanejul hit me in the eye. It was a paperback, and the cover illustration showed him in an outfit like Count Dracula’s, with a flowing cape lined in crimson. In his arms he held a sodden young woman, presumably Arabella. Long blond hair streamed over her shoulders. A mound of bosoms that put Dolly Parton to shame rose from her low-cut scarlet bodice. A pair of