A Brief History of Montmaray (15 page)

The thought that Veronica was entirely correct – about Henry, about trying to avoid the Germans – did nothing to improve my temper. Why is she always calm and collected and correct? Why do I always do and say such stupid things? In attempting to avoid trouble for Simon and Montmaray, all I’ve managed to do is make things worse.

Oh, how could Herr Rahn
possibly
call me wise?

I am writing this sitting up in bed, in the hope that scribbling down all my unhappy thoughts will make them less worrying. I hate that Veronica and I are quarrelling. I hate it even more that we’re at odds at the exact time we most need to support each other – for I have a very bad feeling about our German visitors. I can’t help liking Herr Rahn, but the other man – Hans – gives me a creeping, prickly sensation, as though ... well, I suppose I can say it here privately, in this journal, knowing it won’t be subjected to a blast of Veronica’s withering logic. He reminds me of my Isabella dream. Not the dream itself, just the feeling I get when I have it. There, I’ve said it. I know I’m being melodramatic and fanciful, but there it is.

Dinner tonight was a watery imitation of Alice’s fish stew. Afterwards, we huddled around Vulcan with the door to Uncle John’s room open so Rebecca could keep an eye on him, and I read Tennyson aloud because it was the closest book at hand. I let Henry choose the poem in the hope it would distract her from her increasingly wild plans for defending the castle. Naturally she decided on the poem that seemed most likely, in her view, to contain exciting battles: ‘The Passing of Arthur’. There certainly were plenty of bloodthirsty descriptions (she made me read the bit about ‘the crash of battle-axes on shattered helms’ twice), but it made me uneasy for quite another reason. I’d never before noticed how strongly it related to our own King – I kept glancing at Uncle John’s doorway, hoping he wasn’t paying attention as I read about poor dying King Arthur saying,

‘For on my heart hath fallen confusion

Till I know not what I am,

Nor whence I am, nor whether I be King.

Behold, I seem but King among the dead.’

And then, even worse, was Bedivere’s lament,

‘The King is sick and knows not what he does.’

Even Rebecca looked up from her knitting at that and shook her head. Altogether it was a very uncomfortable evening. And it will probably be an uncomfortable night, if only because now I’ve spooked myself into having a nightmare.

Perhaps I should take a leaf out of Rebecca’s book and say a prayer. The Lord’s Prayer, or that old Cornish one:

‘From ghoulies and ghosties and long leggedy beasties,

And things that go bump in the night,

The good Lord deliver us.’

I NEED TO WRITE down what has just happened. I need to set down the truth. If I write lies or if I write nothing at all, this journal is worthless. I
can
do this. I
must
do this, in case ... well, in case anything happens. Anything
else
happens.

All right. This is what happened tonight, every single terrible thing that I can remember.

I was dreaming, the Isabella dream, just as I’d feared. I hadn’t had it for weeks, not since George died. This time it was worse than ever, because when I leant over the edge of the boat, my sleeve got tangled up in the unravelling shroud and it dragged me over, pulled me under. The water was black, wet cloth curled round my face, I couldn’t breathe...

I thrashed so hard that I woke myself up. But I must have fallen asleep again, because suddenly I was King Bartholomew, running across the drawbridge, the sea monster lunging at me out of the Chasm, its mouth yawning like a cave, each sharp tooth a glittering sword ... and then I was in the Great Hall with Toby and Veronica, all of us engaged in a frantic search for Benedict, which was missing from the chimneypiece. ‘This is all Rebecca’s fault!’ snapped Veronica, and Toby knocked over the suit of armour, which slumped to the floor and groaned.

I woke properly then, to find the room glowing in moonlight. The sea monster was glinting at me from the tapestry. Bartholomew, his sword dangling from one tiny fist, looked sad and helpless.

Then I heard it again, the noise that had woken me. I struggled out of my tangle of blankets and stumbled across the room.

‘Veronica,’ I whispered. ‘Veronica, wake up!’ I shook her shoulder. She muttered and turned over. ‘There’s someone downstairs!’ I said, louder than I’d intended.

She sat up abruptly and pushed her hair off her face.

‘I heard a noise,’ I said, although I wasn’t so certain now. Perhaps I’d still been dreaming. Then it came again, the clink of metal against stone. We stared at each other.

‘Check Henry’s all right,’ said Veronica. Then, while I was still groping for my dressing gown, she pulled her jersey over her nightgown and darted out the door.

I couldn’t find my shoes, and I didn’t think to snatch up my candle until after I’d stepped into the moonless gallery. It was as though I’d fallen back into my dream, into the depths of the inky water. I groped my way along the wall, listening to my thudding heart and the harsh sound of my breathing.

‘Rebecca?’ I whispered, pushing her door open when I finally reached it, but her bed was empty, her candlestick missing from its place on the bedside chest. Nothing unusual about that, though – she often sits up all night beside Uncle John’s bed.

I padded over to the connecting door to Henry’s room and peered inside. Henry, I saw with a rush of relief, was flung across the width of her bed, one foot exposed to the cold, her tufted head half-buried beneath the pillow. I crept forward and pulled the blankets straight. She stirred, grumbling a little, then was still again. Carlos, curled on the end of her bed, raised his head enquiringly, eyes gleaming silver.

‘It’s all right,’ I whispered. His head sank back down onto his front paws, eyes already closing.

Back in the gallery, I halted, biting my lip. Should I go back to my room to fetch a candle? Should I search the other rooms in case anyone was hiding there? But why was I saying
anyone?
Because, of course, the intruders could only have been the German men. Except why would they be wandering around the castle in the middle of the night?
Because Veronica warned them not to come here,
said a voice in my head,
and they were so very, very curious...

I pictured the gun, gleaming black inside the open canvas bag, and I clenched my teeth to stop them chattering. That was when I heard voices spiralling up the tower stairs.
Veronica!
I thought.
If they’ve hurt her–

I whirled around, banging my elbow but too scared to cry out, and blundered towards the stairs. My body tight with cold and fear, I half-fell down the final few steps. I glimpsed the flicker of a candle, the white slash of Rebecca’s face and oh God, a dark huddled mass on the floor ... Then Veronica stepped in front of me, arms outstretched.

‘Don’t look,’ she said, but I’d already seen. My hand jerked to my mouth.

There was a person on the floor. No, a body – it was no longer a person. There were legs, an arm, a head turned away from me. The rest was hidden under the hearth rug, but even in the dim light, I could see the puddle seeping across the kitchen floor, darker than water, glistening and viscous.

‘Who...?’ I choked out, feeling the blackness rising from the floor, misting my vision.

Veronica grabbed my arm, her nails digging through my sleeve. ‘Stop that!’ she said. She turned around. ‘Rebecca! The blanket!’

Numbly, I realised the unmoving legs were clad in grey trousers and shiny black boots. One of the Germans, then. I was too cold and dizzy to know whether I should feel relief at this.

‘Sophie, listen,’ said Veronica, tightening her grasp on my arm and shaking it hard. I’d have bruises later, I thought irrelevantly, looking down at her hand. ‘You have to go outside, head off the other one. Get him away from here somehow, while I figure out...’

Veronica’s voice trembled and died, and it was this that made me take a deep breath, pull my arm free and reach for the candle on the table. Veronica needed me. The candle wavered in my hand, but didn’t go out, and I took courage from this. Rebecca emerged from Uncle John’s room, clutching a grey blanket.

‘He’s in the courtyard,’ Rebecca said hoarsely. ‘The other man. We heard him.’

‘Lock the door,’ Veronica said. We all glanced at the kitchen door and its rusty bolt. Rebecca moved towards it. ‘Please, Sophie,’ Veronica added, nodding at the other door, the one that led to the Great Hall.

I took a deep breath and then did as she told me. Walking into the Great Hall, lit only by streams of moonlight and the flickering candle, was worse than even my dream. Dark shapes crouched like monsters preparing to pounce. The clocks whirred threateningly. There was a rustling noise from near the piano that ceased the instant I stopped to listen. I held the candle higher and forced myself to concentrate on my footsteps. Nearly there ... just another yard or so and then...

The chapel door was ajar. Had Rebecca left it that way? Or was it...

‘Stop that!’ I told myself aloud. Then, clenching my jaw so hard that it cracked, I crept forward.

The chapel, as far as I could see in the shaky light, was empty. Well, there was no reason for him to be in here, nothing to see – the walls were bare, the altar unadorned, the stained glass window featureless in the dark. I made my way to the doors that led to the courtyard, unbolted them and pulled one open a crack. I peered out. The full moon slid behind a cloud.

Then an icy breath snuffed out my candle.

I whimpered and then clapped my hand over my mouth, too late. It was only the wind, of course, but I was spooked beyond all rational thought – even more so a second later when I heard the scritch-scratch of mice (I simply couldn’t face the possibility they were rats) in the corner.

Matches, I need matches,
I told myself. There were probably some on the altar (I thought of Rebecca on her knees before it), but as I turned, I caught a flash of light from the library, far brighter than any candle. I pushed the chapel door open a little further and looked out. He was in there, all right.
Veronica needs you to do this,
I reminded myself. I edged outside and began to tip-toe towards the tower. Then I remembered the gun and realised that sneaking up on him was a very stupid idea. It was impossible to stomp in bare feet, though, and when I reached the open door of the library, I saw that the man bent over Veronica’s desk was completely unaware of my presence. My heart pounding, I coughed loudly and shoved the door against the wall.

Herr Rahn jolted upright, pointing his torch directly at me. My arm shot up to shield my face.

‘Your Highness,’ he said, lowering the torch at once. ‘I ... I apologise.’

I clutched the doorframe, my eyes blank with that flash of white light. ‘You shouldn’t be here,’ I said.

‘I am sorry for waking you,’ he said. ‘I was very curious about the castle and...’

Blinking at him, my vision slowly clearing, I realised he was blushing. ‘You’d better not have disturbed anything,’ I said, his embarrassment giving me the nerve to speak so severely. Also, I’d realised he didn’t have the gun with him – or if he did, it was so well-concealed that he probably wasn’t intending to use it in the near future. ‘My cousin will be very cross,’ I added, frowning in what I hoped was an authoritative manner and crossing my arms hard across my chest to conceal their trembling.

‘No, no, I promise I was only looking at the bookshelves,’ he said. I turned and stared at the door, hoping he’d take the hint. ‘It is a very fine library,’ he said hopefully. ‘Perhaps Her Highness would be so kind as to...’

‘Not now!’ I burst out in frustration. Would he
never
leave? ‘It’s one o’clock in the morning!’

‘Er, no,’ he agreed. ‘But–’

‘You really should go,’ I said.

‘I do apologise,’ he said, and he looked so sad and gentle-eyed that I felt quite sorry for him. Then I remembered what was lying in the kitchen and felt even worse. Herr Rahn bowed his head and moved towards me, his glance falling on the desk and its framed photographs as he passed. ‘That is a very handsome young man,’ he said with a shy smile.

‘My brother,’ I said, without needing to look to know whom he meant.

I shut the library door behind us and walked Herr Rahn out to the drawbridge.

‘Good night,’ he said, as we stood under the remains of the portcullis. I saw him give it a bright, inquisitive glance and then repress an urge to ask about the design.

‘Good night,’ I said. I waited till his dot of torch-light had bobbed all the way across the drawbridge and onto the rocks beyond the Chasm. Then I turned back towards the castle.

It was only at that moment that I began to wonder what had actually
happened.
I had assumed, without any conscious thought on the matter, that Rebecca had come upon the German – Hans, I now knew – in the kitchen and hit him over the head with the frying pan. She wouldn’t think twice about it if she thought anyone might be a threat to Uncle John, especially if she’d been startled awake. But that didn’t explain the pool of blood. Could so much blood come out of someone’s head? Wouldn’t there just be a bruise? Unless she’d used a knife ... my insides suddenly seized up and I bent over and was sick in the courtyard mud.

Oh, God help us,
I remember thinking. For are any of us non-believers at moments of despair?

I stumbled back into the kitchen to find the hearth rug lying crooked and damp over freshly scrubbed flagstones. Veronica was at the sink, wrist-deep in murky water, but she whirled round at the sound of me.

‘Well?’ she asked.

‘He was in the library,’ I said. At any other time, this invasion of her private domain would have been met with outrage, but she only nodded. ‘He’s on his way back to the village,’ I said. ‘I
hope.
’

‘Right,’ she said grimly. ‘Good.’ She let the water drain away and started wringing out the cloth.

‘Veronica!’ I said, when she gave no sign of being about to say anything else. ‘What
happened?
Who ... and where’s the ... what did you do with it?’

‘Quiet!’ said Rebecca, edging backwards out of the pantry. ‘You’ll wake him.’

I felt a bubble of laughter rise and pop in my throat. ‘You can’t wake him!’ I cried. ‘He’s
dead!
’

Veronica dropped the cloth and hurried over, wiping her hands on the hem of her nightgown. ‘Shh!’ she hissed, glancing up at the ceiling. She pushed me down onto one of the chairs and crouched beside me. ‘Listen,’ she said. ‘He ... Father woke up, he must have heard the Germans talking in the courtyard. He went into the Great Hall and took down Benedict, and when the blond one came into the kitchen–’

‘Oh God, no,’ I moaned, covering my face with my hands.

‘We must hide that body,’ said Rebecca.

‘Are you mad?’ I said, lifting my head. I looked at Veronica, but for once she wasn’t arguing with Rebecca. ‘Are you
both
mad?’ I said. ‘We have to tell Herr Rahn! This is his friend, we can’t just–’

‘They’re SS,’ said Veronica fiercely. ‘I saw the insignia on his tunic. Do you understand? Part of the German army, Hitler’s special forces. What do you imagine they’ll do when they find one of their men has been mutilated with a sword?’

‘They were
trespassing,
’ I said, a fresh wave of nausea rising at the picture Veronica’s words evoked. ‘In the middle of the night! A man has the right to defend his–’

‘They’ll say His Majesty is insane!’ cried Rebecca, looking more than a little insane herself with her grey hair hanging in hanks around her white face and oh God, was that
blood
on her nightgown? ‘They’ll take him away, lock him up, oh no...’ Her voice rose in a wail.

‘Quiet!’ said Veronica. ‘You’ll wake Henry!’