Come to Castlemoor Page 7

  “I guess that’s everything,” Bella said. “I keep thinking about those birds—”

  “Why don’t you go back for them?” I suggested. “They were lovely, and they’ll make the front room so cheerful.”

  “I guess I could,” she replied. “You wouldn’t mind, Miss Kathy?”

  “Not at all,” I said. “Why don’t you and Alan go buy them, and I’ll start walking.”

  “But—”

  “I want to explore a bit,” I insisted. “I’ll meet you at the bridge. You needn’t hurry.”

  Bella looked delighted. I could see that she wanted to be alone with Alan for a little while. During the past three days he had come out to the house every afternoon, lingering long after the sun went down, and once he and Bella had gone for a stroll that lasted a good two hours. Her skirt had been streaked with grass stains when they returned, and both of them had looked sheepish. Bella had never seemed so radiant and vivacious. I wondered if this new conquest was going to be more permanent in nature than a dozen similar ones in London.

  “We might stop at the inn for a few minutes,” she told me.

  “Fine,” I replied. “We have plenty of time.”

  Bella climbed up on the wagon, arranging her green-and-yellow-striped skirts. Her long brown curls were held back with a yellow ribbon, and she had stained her lids with faint jade-green eye shadow. Alan climbed up beside her and took up the reins. His chest swelled with pride, and he held his head at a cocky angle, plainly pleased to be seen with such a fetching girl beside him. The other village lads would be filled with envy, and he would sneer at them and fling his arm about Bella’s shoulder in a quick and manly gesture to proclaim his possession.

  “See you at the bridge, Miss Kathy!” Bella called as they drove away. “We won’t be too long.”

  I walked slowly down the street toward the square. It was after five, and the sky was pearl gray, cloudless. The street was not crowded. Some of the shops were already closing, and I could hear a deep whistle blowing at the factory outside the village, signaling a change of shifts. Crossing the square, I lingered a moment to look at the tarnished bronze cannon that stood in the middle, a heap of black cannonballs beside it. Blue and gray pigeons waddled around the cannon, scratching the dirt. The square was surrounded by oak trees whose heavy limbs made a dark-green-and-brown canopy above, leaves rustling, sunlight seeping through to stain the walk with dabs of yellow. The pigeons cooed, the leaves trembled, my skirts rustled silkily as I walked, and the whistle blew again. I turned down the street of small brown and gray brick houses we had passed in the wagon that first day in Darkmead.

  I noticed that a horseshoe was nailed over the door of every house. No children played in the neat front yards. No windows were open to let in the sunlight and fresh spring air. No one passed me as I sauntered along the sidewalk. I wondered what went on behind those closed windows and doors. Life in Darkmead was curious, private. London was bustling, alive, every street marked with its own personality. There life spilled out on the pavements, lusty and vibrant, but here everything was shut in. I had the strange feeling that Darkmead would seem like a ghost town at night, the streets empty and silent, lights hidden by tightly closed window curtains. I remembered the grim men at the inn that first night and their dour, subservient women. These were strange people, sullen, taciturn, weighed down with outdated standards and ancient superstitions. It was almost as if the moors reached out and cast their spell over the town, smothering that robust vitality so common in most English villages.

  Leaving the houses behind, I followed the road through a grove of tall oak trees, sunlight and shadow flickering at my feet. The stone bridge we had passed over stretched across the river, enormous brown and rust-colored stones cemented together. I strolled to the center and leaned over to look down at the water. It was grayish green, clear, rushing rapidly over smooth brown and gold rocks. The banks rose up steeply on either side, dark-green grass growing thickly, and the oak trees grew all around, spreading shadows over the surface of the river and allowing only a few rays of sunlight to sparkle and reflect in the water. The water made a soothing sound rushing over the rocks, and insects buzzed loudly as they skimmed the surface. The sound had a hypnotic effect on me, making me forget the present and carrying me back over the past three days.

  They had been busy days. Bella and I had gone over the house thoroughly, washing all the windows until they had a diamond sparkle, cleaning the woodwork, waxing the furniture, nailing down the carpet on the stairs, and scrubbing the floors. Mops, soapsuds, brooms, wax, polish, satisfaction, and fatigue had filled each day. We had gone through every drawer, every closet, every cupboard, every box in the cellar, but we had found no trace of the manuscript. It was not in the house. Of that I was certain. Donald had done something with it—but what? I had asked myself that question at least a dozen times, and each time I could find no logical answer. I kept thinking about the confusion in the study that first day, and Maud’s explanation seemed less and less likely. Had someone stolen the manuscript? That question magnified itself in my mind. But why should anyone want to steal an unfinished manuscript?

  At night, my bones aching, the house smelling of wax and polish, I tossed and turned in my bed, trying to sleep, staying awake to think. The desired oblivion would not come, no matter how hard I tried to summon it. In a state of semiconsciousness, the night air cool, a bird singing in the tree outside my open window, I saw a puzzle, jagged pieces that wouldn’t quite fit together, although I rearranged them over and over in my mind. The pieces taunted me—my brother’s accident, the fear I had sensed at the inn when I was trying to get someone to take me out to the moors, the missing manuscript, an enigmatic girl who lived at the castle, a stable boy who had vanished. When the night was heavy over the moors and the bird was silent, I finally slept, to dream of gigantic ruins and figures in white in a circle, chanting.

  In the morning, calm, logical, I told myself it was all nonsense. I tried to be very cool and intelligent about it all. I was trying to find a mystery where no mystery was. Nothing was wrong. Donald had either lent the manuscript to someone or disposed of it in some other way. Nicola was a disturbed young woman, and there was no reason to let my encounter with her bewilder me. The people of Darkmead were superstitious. There was nothing to be alarmed about—and yet that alarm lingered in the back of my mind. I was busy all day long with the house, cleaning, rearranging, making lists, but at night the alarm came with night shadows like a living presence in my room, hovering over my bed, making sleep impossible.

  Bella noticed my apprehension. She asked me if the moors were getting to me. I laughed at her. She frowned and said she was glad she didn’t believe in ghosts. She had taken a stroll the night before, just after the sun vanished over the horizon, and she saw a figure in white running across the moors. One minute it was there. The next it was gone. She wasn’t at all nervous or imaginative, and she knew there really hadn’t been a figure in white, but just the same she wasn’t going to take any more strolls alone, thank you, and she’d be just as happy if we weren’t quite so isolated out here. She changed the subject and went on polishing the silver, and I wondered if the moors really did have some curious power, if a realistic and level-headed girl like Bella began imagining ghostly figures.

  The sound of footsteps brought me out of my reverie. I looked up. A man was coming toward me. He was moving slowly, almost stealthily, walking on the grass at the side of the road, huddling against the tree trunks and glancing over his shoulder every now and then as if to see if someone were following him. He was perhaps twenty-five, tall and lanky, with coal-black hair and a pale, thin face. There were dark smudges under his blue eyes and deep hollows under his cheekbones. I felt a wave of apprehension as he came toward me. He looked like a drug addict or one of the ravaged denizens of a crime-infested London slum.

  I was all alone. If I screamed, no one could hear me. The man looked as though he carried a knife concealed in his boot. The peaceful
scene was shattered by his presence. I could feel evil in the air, an evil as real as the smell of moss, as real as the sound of water rushing over the rocks below. In my mind flashed all the accounts of assaults I had read in the tabloids. Those things happened to other people, at night, in dark alleys or along the wharves. The man looked over his shoulder again. Then he came closer.

  He stopped at the edge of the bridge and stood very still, his shoulders stooped. Those haunted blue eyes stared at me, taking in every detail of my dress and person. Then he raised his hands, hooked his thumbs together, crossed his palms, and spread his fingers out, closed them, spread them out again. It was a curious gesture, almost like some kind of greeting, or a signal. He seemed to be expecting some response from me. I backed against the stone railing of the bridge. He made the gesture again, his eyes never leaving my face. Was he a deaf mute? Was this some kind of sign language? I was trembling. He dropped his hands at his sides and seemed to relax.

  “You don’t understand?” he said. His voice was hoarse.

  I shook my head, unable to speak.

  He made the gesture again. “This means nothing to you?”

  I shook my head again. Fear held me captive, paralyzing me. The sunshine, the fresh air, the rushing water, the green leaves—all vanished in the face of my fear. There was nothing but the fear and this man who I was convinced must be insane or at least a dangerous criminal. He took another step toward me, then sighed deeply, with relief. The ravaged face did not look dangerous now. It looked pathetic. Grief, deprivation, and fear had stamped those harsh lines, hollowed those cheeks, stained those shadows under his eyes.

  He looked down at his hands as though they had been contaminated by the gesture he had used. He clasped them together and rubbed them, as if to wipe away the contamination.

  “I had to make sure you weren’t one of them,” he said. He uttered the last word as though it were some kind of disease.

  “I—I don’t understand,” I said, my voice barely audible.

  He nodded briskly. “Aye, an’ that’s good. Neither did your brother. He didn’t understand either, till—”

  “Who are you?” I cried, my heart pounding.

  “Bertie Rawlins. Jamie was my brother.”

  “Jamie?”

  “He was a fine lad, bright an’ golden-haired an’ fine. None of us wanted him to work at the castle, but Pa, he said the pay was good, an’ Ma didn’t want Jamie to work at the kilns. He was her golden-haired laddie, he was, and she didn’t want him to grow stooped an’ pale like me. That’s what workin’ at the kilns will do—”

  “What do you want of me?”

  Bertie Rawlins looked over his shoulder, nervous. He came closer. I could see the fear in his eyes. The corner of his mouth twitched, and his whole body seemed poised, ready for flight.

  “I was sick this afternoon. I didn’t go to the factory. I saw you in town. I knew who you was, of course, an’ I knew I had to speak to you. I didn’t want no one seein’ me—none of them. If thev saw me—” His mouth quivered. His eyes seemed to be staring into an open grave.

  He shuddered and stepped closer, and when he spoke, his voice was even more hoarse than before. “You never know,” he said. “It might be the man livin’ next door. It might be your best friend. No one knows how many of ’em—everyone’s quiet about it, ’fraid to speak. Someone’s gotta help—”

  I stared at him, incredulous.

  “They got Jamie,” he rasped.

  “What do you mean?”

  “They got ’im. They were afraid he knew. Jamie came home after Mr. Rodd fired ’im. Ma and Pa, they’re dead now, been in their graves a long, long time, and when Jamie came back, I was glad, glad they couldn’t see ’im the way he was. He was upset an’ edgy an’ he wouldn’t say a word. He was scared. I knew that. Then he told me about ’em. He showed me the sign. I knew he knew—”

  His large blue eyes stared at me, but they seemed to be focused on visions of horror. His lips were slightly parted, his shoulders hunched. He reminded me of someone, and I cast about in my mind, trying to remember who it was. Suddenly I remembered. Bertie Rawlins reminded me of the Countess of Court Street, a character I had frequently seen in London.

  The Countess sold rags and junk on the street corner. She was old, her face withered, her hair frizzled. She regaled passersby with tales of her imagined life. She had been rich and beautiful and powerful, but her rivals had stolen everything and reduced her to this, and still they weren’t content. They were looking for her. They wanted to kill her. She had to sell rags in order to pay her lawyers. These lawyers were going to get back her estates and imprison her rivals. Every day, good weather or bad, she stood on the corner beside her cart, pathetic, demented, her frail body covered with rags. Bertie Rawlins’ manner was identical to hers. His voice had the same beseeching whine. His eyes had the same haunted, tormented look.

  I suppose every village had a Bertie Rawlins, a harmless creature who was pursued by imaginary demons, the only one aware of plots and intrigues that threatened disaster.

  “They got Jamie,” he repeated.

  “Who are ‘they,’ Bertie?” I asked softly. I spoke to him as one might speak to a child.

  “You gotta leave,” he said, ignoring my question. “You gotta get away. That’s what I had to tell you. That’s why I followed you here. You gotta leave and bring back help. You gotta help. Your brother—” He paused. He seemed on the verge of tears.

  “What about my brother?” I asked.

  “He wanted to help, but—”

  We heard horse hooves pounding on the road. They were distant, on the other side of the grove of oak trees before the road curved around toward the bridge. Bertie looked stunned. His face went white. He bit down on his lower lip, and for a moment he could not move. “The secret of the stones—” he whispered frantically. Then he darted off the bridge and disappeared into the oak trees.

  The horse hooves drew nearer. Sunlight speckled the brown dirt road with flecks of gold. The green leaves rattled scratchily overhead. The water splashed beneath the bridge. Bertie had disappeared completely. I took a deep breath and pressed my hand against my forehead. The man must surely have been a lunatic, and yet …

  Absurd, absurd, the whole thing. In a town riddled with superstition, Bertie, feebleminded to begin with, took the superstitions even more seriously than the others. He had embroidered them with a sinister conspiracy, the mysterious “them” with secret members and private signals that only the members could understand. It was like something out of The Mysteries of Udolpho, utterly ludicrous here with the sun shining warm, the birds twittering pleasantly in the oak boughs. Bertie probably stopped people on the street to pass on his dire warnings. Being a stranger in town, I was no doubt a prime target. I permitted myself a smile, far too sensible to be taken in by such nonsense.

  The horse came around the bend, kicking up small clouds of dust. It was a gorgeous creature, powerfully built, with a milky-white coat, tail and mane pearl gray, flowing like silk. Its rider pulled the reins, stopping the animal at the edge of the bridge. The man sat on the horse, looking at me across the length of the bridge. He wore gleaming brown boots and a tan tweed riding suit, the pants tight and corded, the jacket skirt flaring open. Beneath the jacket he wore a beige silk shirt and a forest-green cravat that flowed loosely in Byronic fashion. He sat easily in the saddle, his feet resting in the stirrups, his hands holding the reins in his lap.

  He smiled. He was the handsomest man I had ever seen.

  “We meet at last,” he said, his voice rich and melodious. “I planned to call on you soon and pay my respects. This pleasant accident makes that unnecessary. The setting is so much more appropriate—formality’s a bore, parlors stifle me.”

  The smile broadened on his lips, warm, radiant. “Delighted to meet you, Miss Hunt,” he said, his voice making a slight mockery of the conventional greeting. “I’ve heard so much about you. Donald spoke of you often. He said you were a breatht
aking beauty. I’m afraid he was guilty of gross understatement.”

  The compliment was casual, the voice sincere.

  “Who are you?” I inquired.

  “Edward Clark,” he said, “your humble servant.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Edward Clark dismounted, swinging his leg over the saddle and slipping off in one quick movement. He patted the horse’s neck and pulled off his dark-brown leather riding gloves, jamming them in the pocket of his jacket. He strolled toward me, moving with a lithe grace unusual in a man so large. He was over six feet tall, big-boned, heavy-set, solid, and muscular. I found it difficult to believe that this man was a noted historian, author of the scholarly volume Donald had sent me, that a man so robust and virile could now be collecting Celtic folk songs. One might imagine such a man working in a coal mine or as a stevedore, but one would hardly associate him with a profession as academic as his own. Men as large as Edward Clark frequently seem hulking and awkward, but he had the carriage of a splendid animal whose great size and ruddy vitality only emphasize an innate dignity and pride. The elegant, casually worn clothes augmented this impression.

  His hair must have been light brown at one time, but the sun had scorched it a burnished gold color, streaked with bronze. His complexion was deeply tanned, making a startling contrast with the eyes, which were a very clear blue, the blue of a cornflower. His eyelids were heavy, his thick black brows arched. His nose was large, straight, his square jaw strong. His mouth was too wide, the lips thick, a dry, sun-parched pink. I realized upon closer inspection that he was not nearly as good-looking as many men I had known, but there was something vital about him that made those other men pale in memory. The natives Caesar had discovered on the shores of ancient Brittany must have had this same clean, rugged aura about them.

  I dropped my eyes modestly, turning away from him a little. I wanted to study that face as I would study a sculpture in a museum, but convention forbade such inspection. A man might openly admire a. woman all he wanted, examining her features with relish, but decent women must at least pretend to be oblivious to masculine charm. I looked at the water rushing over the smooth stones. I could feel his presence like something exuberant in the air, charging it with a crisp, intangible atmosphere. I thought of the sleek, golden lion I had seen at the London zoo. The beast had dominated the area with this same urgency, so that you were aware of him even when your back was turned to the cage.