Black Heather (5 page)

I was relieved to get out of the kitchen, since the cook was under the influence of strong spirits, although I ha
d
seen a Cornish neighbor of ours at such times and knew the aftermath would be even worse, what with aching head and cross temper. When I went to the kitchen door, however, I saw that it opened upon a path cheek by jowl with the graveyard of the church down the steep little street.
The graveyard and the path to the stillroom were separated only by a low wall of time-darkened York stone, which I might have stepped over with ease.

There was a lamp burning near an open side door of the church beyond, and I assumed Mrs. Sedley’s granddaughter, Elspeth, and her friends were still decorating the church with armfuls of late-blooming heather. It was a comforting thought, for the evening of the North Country seemed exceedingly dark to me, in spite of the first glinting rays of moonlight, and the way to the stillroom was not at all a comfortable one to follow when the queer old gravestones cast their long shadows across the path.

I was standing outside the kitchen door debating whether it was worth fetching a storm light for the short distance to the stillroom, when Mrs. Famblechook handed me a small lighted lantern and pointed out my destination at the farther end of the little fading garden of Sedley House. I thanked her and proceeded on my way, gradually discovering, however, that the darkness beyond my lantern’s rays was even deeper by contrast. I covered the distance from the house to the stillroom with a speed that surprised me, reflecting all the while on the curious fact that the familiar starry or stormy Cornish night, though every bit as dark as it was here in the North, seemed so much less sinister.

I hung the lantern on the latch of the stillroom door after looking inside and spying what I imagined must be the small crock of cream. The little stone storage room was cold enough, I thought, to keep food fresh indefinitely. I had been almost as addled as the cook, forgetting to bring a wrap of any kind. Shivering, I pulled the cream crock off the shelf, looked into it, and, being satisfied it was what I ha
d
been sent for, reached for the lantern. Before touching it, however, I paused. Had that sudden crunching sound, like a heavy step on the gravel path, come from Mrs. Sedley’s garden?

But there was no gravel on Mrs. Sedley’s side of the stone wall. On the other hand, there was a great deal of ground-up rock scattered among the gravestones. Impatient with my own imaginings, I raised the lantern high and peered out at the night scene. I was considerably relieved to see a straight path to the kitchen door unimpeded by anything more than the long, grotesque shadows of the neighboring gravestones. Clutching the lantern in one hand and the little cream crock in the other, I set my foot firmly upon the path.

A moment or two later I distinctly heard the same sound of a footstep upon the gravel close to the low stone wall, on the churchyard side, and this time I saw a form quite distinct from the gravestones rise up from behind one of the monumental crosses, as if it had been crouching there. It was a man, and as I lifted my lantern to get a look at the skulking rogue, it occurred to me that I might have surprised the sexton at his work. Perhaps he had been digging a grave. But that was ridiculous on the face of it. No one could be up to any good hiding behind gravestones in the dark of a chill autumn night.

I could not conceive of any reason why he might intend me harm unless he was a madman, and as I considered afterward, I should have pretended I had not observed him and hurried into the house to report his antics. But instead, I raised the lantern and swung it out to illuminate the wall at my feet and the gravestone where I had caught my first glimpse of the crouching man. He was there still, springing back as if dazed at my light and putting up his arm to ward off the unexpected brightness.

“What the devil, girl! Will you blind me then? A fine end to a fruitless wait.”

“Wait?” I echoed stupidly. “You’ll have a long wait, sir, if you rendezvous with the inhabitants of graveyards.”

He laughed, and my lantern shone upon flashing teeth in a curiously winning face that bore Irish or Scottish features, I thought. The man’s sandy hair was blowing in the wind. He was not as young as he probably liked to pretend. There was a look about his eyes, the same look I had noticed in the squire’s son in Cornwall, who spent all his time either ruining scullery maids or hanging about the local public houses. But attractive, yes. I gave up all notions that this man in the graveyard was either mad or a footpad.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to blind you, but I was startled.”

He leaped nimbly over the wall and put out his hand. For an instant I thought he meant me mischief, and I barely caught myself before swinging my lantern as a weapon. I saw then that he meant to take my hand in greeting, and I was nonplussed as to how he could do that with both my hands full. He managed, however, by taking my cream crock and holding it for me.

As he took my fingers in a surprisingly warm, rather fleshy grip, I said, “It is very cold. I must go in.

“Oh, certainly, lass. I shouldn’t like to make trouble between you and the old lady. What a dragon she is!”

“Sir!” I rebuked him, hoping he would let me go. I began to dislike his manner.

“Now, now, pretty love, I wish only for a small favor. Promise me?”

“I don’t know. You may be a housebreaker, for all I should guess.”

He laughed again, the cheerful sound of a man who has no problems his charm won’t conquer. “No, truly! I am to meet the old dragon’s granddaughter, Elspeth. But we must do it by stealth, thanks to precious Grandmama.”

“I’m sure it’s no affair of mine.” Nevertheless, I did resent being party to a deception of my hostess and friend.

“Well, but—I should not like to deceive you.
You understand, it may be that
...”
He paused and gave me a winning boyish smile that very nearly fooled me into assuming he was a boy, but the merciless rays of the lantern pointed up the lines of maturity and perhaps even dissipation in his face, and I rather pitied him for his careful pretense. “It may be that Elspeth and I will need your sweet offices on our behalf.” He squeezed my hand and seemed quite ready for closer familiarities, but I managed to evade him.

“I shouldn’t count upon it,” I told him coolly, and reached for the cream crock. “You would do better to meet Miss Sedley in the church, which is, at least, not so cold and unromantic as a graveyard.”

“You crush all my pretensions. What a setdown! Well, I’ll let you go because you are cold, poor child. Perhaps next time.”

Because he was so absolutely without scruples and, further, made no pretense of being otherwise, I smiled with the equivocal reply, “Perhaps not.”

I started along the path to Sedley House, pursued by the fellow’s taunting voice. “My sweet, how am I to know your name? I can scarcely ask Elspeth.”

“I suggest you do.”

“Now, now; that has all the marks of a jilted woman. Come, I’ll give you my name, and in exchange, you must name the female behind that lovely face.”

I walked on, feeling like an addlepated milkmaid. Behind me, his voice rippled on with all the skill of the bo
rn
seducer. “Promise you’ll not run chattering to the old dragon?” When I made no commitment, he finished, with what I thought later was an incredible self-assurance. “Remember me, now. Patrick Kelleher, very much at your service, love.”

It did not really occur to me immediately where I had heard that name before. I went into the kitchen and gave over the cream and the lantern, receiving a somewhat puzzled look from Mrs. Famblechook, who had gone on to bake her
moogin
without the wee dram requested of me, if I could judge by the delicious smells of spice, ginger, and sugar that came from the old black oven in the fireplace.

Meg Markham was replacing a book in the little bookroom off the downstairs parlor when I came through. I asked her whether Mrs. Sedley expected me to sit with her at supper.

“She’s asked if you’ll take supper in company of Miss Elspeth, Miss. But the young lady’s late-come.” Meg gave me an odd little smile and added, “Though it’s my thought young Miss will be a trifling later yet.”

It struck me then just who Patrick Kelleher was, and I was so shaken by the shocking knowledge, that I could scarcely prevent it from showing in my face and my voice. “Why do you say that? I saw a light in the church when I was at the still-room. And it is scarcely two minutes’ walk from here.”

Meg looked as near to sly as was possible in such an open, sunny face. “But will she be coming in two minutes? Not if she’s to meet a—a gentleman somewheres in betwixt there and here.”

I stated upstairs to my room but paused before I reached the first landing. I leaned over the newel post, for Meg was directly beneath me, looking up. “Do you know who that gentleman is?”

Meg beckoned to me with one finger. I came down a few steps. “There’s some, like Missus, and like Sir Nicholas, him that’s the justice of the peace hereabouts
...
They think as how the gentleman’s a foul wife-killer.”

It seemed almost too incredible that the jolly, boyish, laughing Patrick Kelleher could have killed anyone, especially a woman. And if he was Elspeth Sedley’s uncle, the business was even more unsavory. Had she no feeling for her murdered Aunt Megan?

“Why do they think he killed Megan Sedley?” Meg’s eyes widened. “By the Lord! Excusing the word, mum, you’ll never be telling me you knew all along it was Patrick Kelleher!”

“Why do they think so?”

A young, low, feminine voice cut between us, sharp as a blade. “It is a lie, Meg, and you know it well! He’d never hurt Aunt Megan.” Moving quietly out of the shadows of the little central hall was the lovely, slumberous-eyed Elspeth Sedley of the miniature that Mrs. Sedley had sent Mama. I could see now exactly why Sir Nicholas and the girl’s good-looking Uncle Patrick both awaited her, though probably each awaited her in a different sense.

She looked up at me, seeming to sweep her long dark lashes over me as though they were broom-straws and a dusty carpet. “Grandmama said you had come. And someone else saw you tonight by the stillroom, hoping to spy upon me, I daresay. You must be the Cornish girl.”

I was surprised by her deliberate rudeness as one is often more upset by such behavior than by wickedness.

“I have a name,” I said. “All Cornish girls do. Mine is Kathleen Bodmun.” Then I turned to Meg. “I’ll take supper in my room. But you needn’t trouble. I’ll fetch it up myself.”

“Yes, Miss.” Meg stood aside, and I passed her on my way to the kitchen. Behind us, Elspeth called out after us, still in her throaty, sensuous young voice, “He was innocent! It is wicked to spread those lies about Uncle Patrick. I only meet him so I may solve a frightful wrong! Tell that to Grandmama when you go bearing tales about my meeting him tonight.”

I carefully did not hear her, and Meg, closing the kitchen door, shut us away from her hateful accusations. I had no intention whatever of bearing tales about her to Mrs. Sedley. It was none of my affair, and it would only bring more pain to the older woman. But I was younger than I thought and more vulnerable to childish, mistaken opinions about my nature. It took several minutes of jolly good nature by Mrs. Famblechook, along with the very first ginger cake out of the oven, before I felt my old brisk self again.

And Meg was a great help in her friendly way. “Mustn’t pay no mind to Miss Elspeth. She always had a fondness for Mr. Patrick. It’s like she was a wee bit jealous of her Aunt Megan when the poor lady was alive.”

The smell of succulent foods had brought Timothy, Mrs. Sedley’s pretty little tawny kitten, out from under the chopping table to pause at my feet, then leap with infinite grace upon my lap. He nibbled the
moogin
I fed him, carefully licking his white paws afterward. I petted his soft fur, and he purred contentedly until the palm of my hand was snagged on his small jeweled collar. The jewels were false but looked well against the copper and white of his coat. One of the jewels was missing, and where my hand had caught on the sharp, empty jewel socket, something else had caught there earlier. It was a narrow strip of lace about two inches long and badly stained with rust. The lace itself was of very fine quality, however— much finer than I was used to—and I was still examining it when Mrs. Famblechook leaned over my shoulder to see what had aroused my interest.

“There, now, Meg-girl. Come and see,” she said. “It’s a bad lad, so he is. Atearing of the lace off Missus’ petticoat. And devilish fine quality. Where d’ye be thinking he got the blood on it? Is the poor beastie hurt then?”

I almost dropped the bit of lace at this discovery. So the stains were not rust, after all!

Meg reached over my shoulder and fingered the lace while Timothy squirmed uneasily. Her head was close over mine, and I heard her sharp intake of breath. She withdrew her hand as though it had touched fire. I looked up at her, puzzled by her extraordinary attitude.

“Missus never wears such lace, nor yet young Miss. ’Tis from one of them heathen places across the water. Like Brussels. Ay! It was from Brussels Miss Megan was used to send, to fetch such lace, and all to please Master Patrick. Where was the little cat today, Miss?”

Shaken by this revelation, I could only say, “I chased Timmy into an old house up on the moor. He may have run by some old garments lying about.”

The cook and Meg looked at each other.

“The beastie went into the cellar,” Mrs. Famblechook guessed.

I was astonished at this probably correct guess, spoken at hazard. “He did get away and may have gone into the cellar. Why?”