We’re impatient by the time we’ve hurried through the heritage village to the pond, across the narrow neck of land and onto the beach. We stand in the late-afternoon sun and stare at the gouges in the dirt where something heavy has been dragged to the water. “These wouldn’t be here if they had been made before the storm,” Annabel says, gazing out to sea. “This has to be where they dragged the red rowboat, with the peacock in it. But where did they go from here?” “Not far in a rowboat. Do you think there was a larger boat waiting for them?” “I doubt it. All of the places along this coast where you can dock something big are a day’s sail away, so the boat would have had to head out in the storm, and way before the theft. They’ll probably use today to get here and arrange to pick up the peacock tonight.” “It’s just a guess,” I say, “but maybe we should go to the police anyway.” “Ideally, yes,” Annabel agrees, “but the police won’t act urgently on a guess, and if we’re right, the peacock will be long gone by tomorrow morning.
