Come to Castlemoor (7 page)

“Those first months, 'e was full of ginger, all eager an' enthusiastic, talkin' all the time, and in love with the place. He mentioned you a lot of times, said 'e was gonna bring you an' the girl out here to live, said you'd love the moors just like 'e did. Then—I don't know—'e changed. Still a lamb, mind you, but moody—”

“Moody?”

“Nervous-like. Lost a lotta weight, an' 'is face got kinda pale-lookin', with shadows under 'is eyes. He wouldn't eat proper, no matter how much I got after 'im, and 'e looked kinda—well, kinda haunted-like, like 'e'd seen some of them ghosts them fools're always talkin' about.” Maud shook her head. “He was workin' too 'ard, that's all. Many's the time I come in to find 'im slumped over 'is desk, sound asleep, the candles burned out and the oil lamps still splutterin' in the middle of the mornin'—”

“How did the—the accident happen?” I asked.

She hesitated, clearly reluctant to tell me.

“I want to know,” I said. “Everything—”

“I understand, luv, but—”

“Please,” I said firmly.

“These moors are bad—bogs, quicksand, sudden crevasses in the earth. He stumbled over a rock, seems like, and tumbled into a crevasse, great hole twenty feet deep with sharp rocks at the bottom. He was missin' about three days, and finally Buck Crabbe found 'im.”

“Buck Crabbe?”

“One of the servants at Castlemoor, ugly fellow, vicious, real rough an' rowdy. He was strollin' with a village girl, little Jennie Payne—she ain't so little anymore—an' they found 'im at the bottom of the crevasse. Real—real banged up, 'e was, but—'e musta died instantly. It was one of them horrible freak accidents—”

I listened to all this calmly and found that I was able to maintain my calm even as she told me further details of the accident and how the body was placed in a closed coffin and shipped to London. Maud's wonderful face registered her grief, the blue eyes welling up, the mouth quivering. She frowned and forced back the tears and looked at the empty glass as though she would have gone to the stake for another drop. She stood up, scraping the chair across the tile and tugging at the folds of her old gray sweater. I walked out to the wagon with her.

“It's been pleasant, Maud,” I said. “You must come back.”

“I keep mighty busy,” she retorted. “Don't 'ave much time to visit. You're a luv, luv. You take care of yourself, hear?”

“I will.”

“And—don't mind my ribbin' you about Rodd. I talk too much, always 'ave. Old coot like me cain't do much
but
talk—”

“Nonsense,” I said.

“One last word, and then I gotta rush—Fanny Potter's expectin' me, and she might be ready to burst out all over—if you do 'appen to meet Rodd, be careful, you hear? You're a luv, an' I wudn't want nothin' to 'urt you.”

“I haven't been hurt yet,” I said. “Not in the way you mean.”

Maud looked at me with shrewd eyes, and she started to say something. She shook her head instead and climbed up on the wagon. I wondered what it was she had been about to say, something about love? I knew that Maud was undoubtedly an expert on that subject that I knew nothing about. Her eyes had conveyed a message far more effectively than words could have. What had that shrewd look meant? I shrugged my shoulders, dismissing it. I had too much to do to worry about something as trivial as love.

Maud drove away, and I walked back toward the house. I noticed a horseshoe nailed over the door, and I stopped, startled. I felt a chill, and my pulses leaped. It was another evidence of Celtic superstition, a token to the pagan goddess of fertility. I wanted to jerk it down, destroy it, and then I realized how foolish I was acting. Centuries ago the womb-shaped object had been nailed over doorways in hopes that the goddess of fertility would bless the house and keep it from evil, but the original meaning had long since been forgotten by all but a few scholars. Now people nailed them up for “good luck,” and they had no pagan symbolism at all. Foolish of me to have been so startled, absurd to have been frightened. My nerves were on edge, and I was reading evil into the most innocent of things. Nevertheless, I intended to take the horseshoe down. It certainly hadn't brought Donald good luck. Just the opposite. I didn't want it over my door, no matter how innocent it might be.

CHAPTER FIVE

Blue had drained from the sky, leaving it a watery gray expanse over which ponderous clouds, darker gray, rolled menacingly. A brisk breeze scurried low on the ground, ruffling through the stiff brown grass on the moors with a whispering sound. It was after four o'clock, and I was walking aimlessly, hoping the exercise would relieve some of the tension I had felt ever since Maud left. The wind caught the hems of my skirt and petticoats and caused them to billow, and my hair whipped like long golden ribbons about my head. I sensed a certain animosity about the land, as though it were savagely aware of my presence and resented it. Climbing a slope behind the house, I turned to look back. The house seemed frighteningly unprotected in the middle of all these barren acres, while beyond, over the hill, Castlemoor seemed a huge, bulky monster eager to snarl mightily and sweep down to devour the timid little dwelling.

I went down the other side of the slope, and both places disappeared. I walked carefully over the hard grayish-brown earth with its chalky patches. Small rocks and bits of shell crunched beneath my shoes. I wondered about the shell but assumed there was a geological explanation for it. Once, ages ago, this whole land had probably been the surface of the ocean. Even now it retained some of the bizarre features—cracks, crevasses, huge boulders with water-worn smoothness and deep holes through which dark sea creatures might once have sailed. At the bottom of the slope the land stretched flat and empty, undulating at the edges and twisting up distant slopes, curving around great boulders. The gray-and-brown and chalky-white drabness was relieved only by the occasional moss-green growth on a boulder or the stark black stretches of tarlike peat.

I walked carefully, overly aware of quicksand and bogs. I knew cattle had vanished before the very eyes of their herders, sinking from sight in a matter of seconds, and I had heard gruesome tales of wagonloads of people who had come to the moors on outings, never to return. Many of the most treacherous stretches had been marked with poles and roped off for safety, but I carefully avoided any ground that didn't look firm. The wild terrain was desolate, full of menace, but it had a kind of barbaric splendor, something prehistoric, older than time. The land seemed to defy man and challenge his civilization. I seemed to feel some primeval power watching me, tolerating my presence here but warning me not to look too closely. It was an eerie feeling, almost tangible in the air around me.

I walked for perhaps half an hour, letting the wind tear my hair and sting my cheeks, enjoying the sensation of movement and the feel of muscle used. Overhead the clouds rolled heavily and massed together, gray lined with black, weak white rays of sunlight spilling over their edges. I could smell the sea, miles away, a faint salty tang in the air, and the stronger, earthier smell of the peat. I came to a great cluster of rocks protected by a grassy brown slope that rose behind them. A gnarled oak tree grew in front of the rocks, a dwarf oak with crusted bark and bare, tormented limbs. The back of my knees ached, and I was breathing heavily. I decided to rest for a few minutes before starting back to the house.

I sat down on a low, flat rock, leaning my back against another. I had enjoyed the walk, and it had been good for me. All the doubts and worries that had plagued me earlier were gone. The manuscript would turn up. There was nothing to be alarmed about. It would be foolish to work myself into a state over nothing. So it wasn't in the study? Well, I would find it. My brother had had rigid work habits, but they weren't entirely inflexible. He may have—he may have put the manuscript in a suitcase, or in a cupboard. It didn't necessarily have to be in a certain desk drawer. Maud's explanation of the confusion in the study was a perfectly logical one. Donald left a window open when he went out for—for the last time, and a storm caused the damage, knocking the cabinet over, scattering the papers. There was no reason to make a mystery of it all.

I was thinking about this when I heard the first growl. I thought it was thunder and paid no attention. Then it came again, followed by a fierce bark. I jumped to my feet, terrified. A huge greyhound stood at the top of the slope, his strong, sleek body rigid, his hair bristling. He growled again, and another greyhound, as strong, as fierce, came up behind him. I was petrified. My pulses leaped, and my throat went dry. The dogs snarled and snapped at the air, their vicious eyes burning at me with savage fury. I could see the tensed muscles under the silver-gray coats and the gleaming white teeth like monster fangs. The air was charged with hot animal rage. I was too terrified to scream. I watched with horrified fascination as the first dog pawed at the ground, leaped up on its hind legs, threw its body into a rigid stance, and flew down the slope, a live silver arrow streaking through the air toward me.

I closed my eyes. I saw death.

I felt the thud of the heavy body against my legs and heard the shrill ripping noise as my skirt was torn. In an explosion of horror I saw flashes of red, felt black wings flapping inside my head, heard the sharp command shouted, staggered, opened my eyes, saw the dog crouching beside me, body quivering. My skirt was torn, but I was unharmed. The dog whimpered and looked up at me as though in apology, abject now. A girl came rushing down the slope toward me, the other dog leaping beside her.

“I'm sorry!” she cried. “They didn't know—”

I was still too stunned to speak. My knees felt weak, and my wrists were limp. I took a deep breath, pressing my hand against my heart. The black wings grew still, receded. The orange flashes vanished, and I began to focus again. My heart stopped pounding so rapidly. I made a jerky little gesture with my hand and had to curb an impulse to break into hysterical laughter.

“They—they don't like strangers,” the girl said. The incident seemed to have affected her even more strongly than it had affected me. Her cheekbones looked chalky, and the corners of her mouth quivered. Her enormous black eyes were cloudy with anguish, and I could tell she was on the verge of tears. I managed a weak smile of reassurance.

“I'm all right,” I said. “At least—I think so.”

“Your dress!” the girl exclaimed, as though my torn skirt represented a tragedy of epic proportions.

“It's not a bad tear. It can easily be mended.”

“Duke! You
bad
dog!”

The animal at my side crouched down and whined, his large eyes filled with humiliation. He looked perfectly harmless now, even beautiful, with the sleek silver coat and distinct lines. I reached down and stroked his head, the bravest thing I had ever done in my life, and Duke responded by slurping his long pink tongue over my fingers. I felt as though I had been given a medal for bravery above and beyond the call of duty. The other dog came over to me, sniffed my feet, and whined, demanding similar attention. When I stroked its head it gurgled in ecstasy. The girl watched, her eyes still dark with tragedy, but she seemed to be recovering.

“They
like
you,” she said, amazed. “They never do that, particularly Duchess. She's afraid of strangers and doesn't let
any
one touch her. I don't understand it—”

“Neither do I,” I retorted, “but I'm relieved.”

“They must have frightened you to death,” the girl said.

“Not really,” I replied glibly, “though I wouldn't be surprised if my hair has turned white. It hasn't, by any chance?”

The girl shook her head, still solemn. I shrugged my shoulders. She seemed to relax a little and watched with great interest as I examined the tear in my skirt.

“You're Katherine Hunt,” she said.

“As a matter of fact, I am.”

“I knew that. You couldn't very well be anyone else.”

“Not in this life. Perhaps in the next.”

“You're—you're teasing me,” she said.

“Just mildly, Nicola.”

“You know my name?”

“You couldn't very well be anyone else, now, could you?”

The girl smiled. All traces of the tragic heroine vanished, and she became an incredibly beautiful young girl. Her skin was dark, her jet-black curls fell in a rich cascade to her shoulders, and her features were exquisitely molded. The pink mouth looked vulnerable, the nose was classic, and the enormous black eyes were surrounded by sootblack lashes that swept her cheek. She reminded me of a gypsy, and I sensed a gypsylike abandon in her nature that had been carefully repressed by years of enforced decorum. She was probably not even aware of this streak in her makeup, yet it was clearly there. I thought of a wild colt captured and trained, forced to go through thoroughbred paces while longing instinctively to leap the fence and return to the wildlands.

The beauty was natural, yet the girl did not seem to be aware of it. She had none of the vanity, none of the little affectations that so often mar such beauty. She wore a white dress with clusters-of vivid yellow daisies printed on the full, billowing skirt. It fit tightly at the waist and bosom, emphasizing a figure both beautiful and startlingly mature. She was like some earthy, Mediterranean flower mistakenly transplanted on English soil. Her childlike charm, her girlish gestures, and her obvious innocence only made this other quality all the more disturbing. In her native Italy, Nicola would have already been married, with a home, children, and a fund of worldly wisdom. Instead she had the charming naïveté of a proper young English girl carefully schooled and sheltered from all but the most inane aspects of life.

“I so wanted to meet you,” Nicola said enthusiastically. “I knew you had come.”