Blood From a Stone (25 page)

‘But what's it a sign
of
?' demanded Celia.

‘Guilt,' said Mary Hawker slowly. ‘Blood's usually a sign of guilt.'

Wood scrubbed at his palms with a handkerchief. ‘I'm not guilty of anything. This is
creepy.
' He looked wildly at the faces round him. ‘Hasn't anyone else got anything on their hands? No? Why me? What have I done?'

Frank Leigh dropped a hand on his shoulder. ‘Go and wash it off, Wood,' he began, when Mary Hawker gave a sharp cry.

‘Wood! That's what the spirit was talking about! A walking tree. It's a sort of ghastly joke. Mr Wood, you're the walking tree!'

Wood froze, looking down at his hands. There was a long moment, and when he spoke, his voice was quiet. ‘Yes, I am, aren't I?' He lifted his head and looked at her. ‘The spirit wanted a walking tree to go to the cave.' He stood up like a man in a trance. ‘I'd better go.'

‘Now?' said Isabelle sharply. ‘You can't! It's dark.'

Wood gave her a twisted smile. ‘I think the powers, whatever they are, are probably more effective in the dark, don't you?'

‘For God's sake, man,' protested Frank. ‘You can't do it!'

Wood looked at him, then his smile broadened. ‘Why not?'

‘It's a preposterous idea,' spluttered Frank.

‘Why? Do you believe in ghosts?' He held up his bloodstained palms. ‘Do you believe in
this?
'

‘I don't know what I believe,' said Frank Leigh in a harried way. ‘It's all a lot of damn nonsense. It has to be.'

‘Can the spirits harm me? Not if they don't exist. If they do exist, I'd better do what they say, don't you think?'

The argument went back and forth, but Wood was absolutely determined.

In the end, Wood, accompanied by Jack and Frank Leigh, carrying an oil lamp, torches and blankets made their way across the darkened gardens, through the temple and into the cave.

Jack put the oil lamp on the old Victorian desk. The thin beam of light only seemed to make the darkness greater. At the back of the cave, beyond the reach of the light, stood, he knew, the altar of Euthius. The cave echoed with the drip of water and, after the summer night, the cold was biting. A loathing for the evil figure carved on that darkened altar twisted his stomach.

This was just
wrong.
What had started as a silly evening pastime should remain just that. They couldn't possibly have heard a message from the dead. At that moment, even if Euthius himself had spoken from the altar, Jack would have refused to believe it. And yet ...

There had been blood on Wood's hands. That had to be explained.

Another thing he couldn't explain was Wood's frame of mind. On the one hand he spoke as if the séance had been a genuine summons from another world, on the other he seemed to think it was all a trick. Even if it was a trick, that wasn't a very comforting thought.

Mary Hawker had told Frank Leigh to get rid of Wood. She could've easily suggested the idea of a séance to Celia. If she'd done it subtly enough, Celia would've been convinced it was her own idea.

It was Mary Hawker who had identified Wood as the man selected to spend the night in the cave and the upshot was that Wood
was
spending the night in the cave. Frank Leigh had protested, but as Wood's employer and host, he could have refused his permission outright.

Frank Leigh looked at the cheerless camp-bed and shuddered. He clapped his hand on Wood's shoulder. ‘For heaven's sake, man, this is crazy,' he said gruffly. ‘Come back to the house.'

‘Not ruddy likely,' said Wood cheerfully. ‘I've been challenged and I'm going to face it.' He patted his pocket. ‘I'm armed, you know, and I've got a light, a good book – it's one of yours, Haldean, as a matter of fact – and a flask of whisky. If anything happens, I'm ready for it. Now off you go and leave me to Euthius.'

He accompanied them back down the passage to the cedarwood door. ‘I'm going to lock myself in,' he said, putting the key in the lock. ‘That should stop anyone fooling around. See you in the morning.'

Jack and Frank Leigh stood in the temple, the cloud-broken moonlight shifting across the marble floor and columns. As they heard the key turn in the lock on the other side of the door, Leigh heaved a deep sigh. ‘I hope he's all right.'

They set off down the path, the light of the torch dancing before them. It was a little time before Frank Leigh spoke again.

‘I don't like it, Haldean. I don't mind telling you, that séance rattled me. There's ...' He hesitated. ‘There's too much history in Breagan Stump. What happened in that cave was real. Even though it was nearly two thousand years ago, it's real and I don't like it.'

He motioned back towards the temple. ‘You asked this afternoon where the name Breagan came from. I had a tutor when I was a boy. He called himself a philologist, very keen on the origin of words. He got me to look up
Breagan
. It isn't Roman or Celtic, it's Anglo-Saxon. They knew the place was somewhere to be avoided. Breagan comes from the word
gebrégan.
I've never forgotten that word.' He paused, uncomfortably. ‘It means dread or sudden terror.'

‘Panic,' said Jack involuntarily. He remembered his sensations by the temple earlier in the day.

‘That's right. Panic, dread, sudden terror.' He shrugged. ‘It's easy enough to laugh at these things, but I don't like it.'

I
t was odd to come out of the darkness of the garden into the brightly lit drawing room.

Evie Leigh looked at them with a worried smile. ‘Is Mr Wood settled in?'

‘He's as comfortable as he can be,' said Frank Leigh absently, walking over to the sideboard. He poured himself a whisky and, lighting a cigar, sat down, his chin in his hands.

‘I don't think I'd ever be brave enough to spend a night in the cave,' Evie said to the company in general. ‘
So
uncomfortable and so chilly and damp, too.'

‘I can't explain what happened this evening,' said Mary Hawker dubiously, looking up from her newspaper. ‘The spirits usually send messages of comfort and reassurance.'

‘He will be all right, won't he, Aunt Mary?' asked Celia. She swallowed. ‘There isn't anything that could happen to him, is there?'

Isabelle got up and went to sit beside her, putting her hand comfortingly on her arm. ‘Come on, Celia. Mr Wood's a grown man. He can take care of himself.'

‘Exactly,' said Mary Hawker gruffly. ‘You mark my words, he'll be as right as rain in the morning.' She glanced at the clock. ‘It's probably too late to start a game of cards now, but there's an interesting bridge problem in the paper. Celia, my dear, come and give me a hand, will you?'

Celia reluctantly joined Mary Hawker in the pool of light cast by the standard lamp by the sofa.

‘Is Mr Wood okay?' muttered Isabelle to Jack.

‘He was fine when we left him,' said Jack in a low voice, sitting on the arm of her chair. He flicked a glance over to Mary Hawker. ‘Any reaction?' he murmured.

Isabelle shook her head. ‘Nothing much. I can't make it out, Jack. Did she set it up?'

Jack shrugged. ‘Maybe.'

‘It beats me,' hissed Isabelle in frustration. ‘She seemed really shaken by the séance. She's been talking about bridge to take our minds off things. She said as much.' She nearly smiled. ‘Leonard Duggleby lit out as fast as he could. He can't stand bridge, so he's retreated to the library.'

Mary Hawker looked over the top of her glasses to Isabelle and Jack. ‘Mrs Stanton? Major Haldean? You play, don't you? What d'you think of this?'

Jack and Isabelle joined Mary Hawker and Celia Leigh on the sofa. As usual in newspaper bridge problems, the players were East, West, North and South.

‘East's got adequate trump support for a raise but no ace or king so he'd better bid two no trumps on the first round. West can't possibly be thinking of a slam. What about West playing a heart lead and continuation?' asked Mrs Hawker.

‘It'll be awkward for West to play in spades,' said Jack, trying to drag his mind away from Wood in the cave. Could this middle-aged, tweedy, county, bazaars and committee woman really want to murder anyone? Let alone him or Wood? It seemed incredible but Wood had taken a gun with him to the cave. What on earth was he expecting? ‘He should give his partner the chance to play in clubs.'

‘Exactly,' said Mary Hawker triumphantly. ‘That's precisely what I would do. Would you bid six here, Major Haldean?'

‘It's tempting, but I don't think so,' said Jack, forcing himself to concentrate. ‘Look at East's bidding pattern. He's made a series of minimum bids. I'd say he's too weak for six.'

‘I'd say the slam needs more than the club finesse,' said Celia, hesitantly. ‘If the defence begins with two rounds of hearts, West's trumps are shortened to the ace and queen alone.'

‘Well done, dear,' said Mrs Hawker approvingly. ‘Exactly right.'

‘He can't pick up South's king of clubs,' commented Isabelle, looking over Mary Hawker's shoulder. ‘I can't see East has anything more to contribute.'

As the discussion went on, it was clear that someone else, as well as the fictional East, had nothing to contribute.

After half an hour listening to bridge, Evie Leigh was obviously bored to tears. She picked up a magazine, flicked through it, tossed it to one side, yawned, examined her nails, added
to perfection with an emery board, looked at the clock,
yawned once more and then, evidently struck by an idea, sat up straight.

‘Major Haldean, I don't believe you've ever seen my sapphires?'

‘I have, as a matter of fact, Mrs Leigh,' Jack said with a smile. ‘I went to meet Isabelle at Charing Cross station after her adventure on the train. Inspector Rackham showed them to me.'

Evie shuddered. ‘Don't! I can't bear to be reminded of that horrible affair.'

‘I'd like to see them again,' said Isabelle kindly. It was perfectly obvious that Evie Leigh wanted to show off her jewels. She probably wanted to do almost anything other than talk about bridge. ‘I've seen them, of course, but I couldn't really say what they looked like. All I knew was that they sparkled.'

‘They certainly do,' said Evie enthusiastically. ‘We've had them cleaned and re-set. They arrived back from the jeweller's today and they're simply stunning.'

‘Why don't you get them?' asked Mary Hawker, putting down the newspaper and bowing to the inevitable.

‘What a good idea!' said Evie, as if the thought had only just occurred to her.

She went out of the room, returning shortly afterwards with a blue leather box, but, before she undid the clasp, pursed her lips in a little petulant frown. ‘Where's Mr Duggleby? He saved my sapphires. I want him here to see them. He can't still be stuck in the library, can he? Go and get him, Frank.'

When they were all assembled, Evie put the box on the table and opened it with a little, happy sigh.

‘Good Lord,' said Jack in involuntary admiration as he gazed at the sapphires on their ivory silk background. Gone was the heavy gold elaborately ornamented surround. Instead was a sleek, streamlined necklace where the sapphires, framed by diamond chips, shone deep blue against white gold.

‘They're beautiful,' said Evie Leigh, stroking her hand over the jewels. ‘Seddon and Coles have the most marvellous little man who's an absolute genius with jewels. Truly sympathetic. I told him what I wanted and he drew the most perfect design right away. I said he was a positive mind reader, didn't I, Frank? I added a few touches of my own, and here we are.' She stroked her hand over the necklace once more and sighed happily.

With Evie's permission, Mary Hawker reached out and picked up the necklace. ‘It's very fine,' she said with grudging respect. ‘Remarkable. It's just a pity to think of the circumstances, though.'

Evie Leigh looked puzzled.

‘Mrs Paxton,' said Mary Hawker heavily. ‘To say nothing of that poor fellow on the train.'

‘Sapphires are often thought to be unlucky,' said Duggleby chattily. ‘I don't know why. In medieval times they were meant to protect their wearers from evil. The ancient Greeks thought the sapphire, the colour of the sky, was the gem of Apollo, the god of the sun.'

‘They certainly are beautiful,' said Jack, taking them from Mary Hawker. He turned his back so the light shone on them. ‘They look very different now they've been re-set.'

‘The setting's made a huge difference,' said Duggleby. ‘I'd have never recognised them as the same stones I found on the train.' He held out his hand and, with a nod from Evie Leigh, Jack passed them to him.

‘Absolutely wonderful,' said Duggleby, but his voice was puzzled. He weighed the necklace in his hands and, as he did so, his forehead creased in a frown. ‘They even feel different to the stones I saw.'

Duggleby turned to the standard lamp to look at the necklace better, his back to the room. He held the sapphires up to the light and then, very quickly, held the necklace up to his mouth. Jack saw his shoulders grow rigid. ‘Mrs Leigh,' he said in a strained voice, ‘these stones are fake.'

Evie gaped at him.

‘Fake?' repeated Frank Leigh brusquely. ‘What the devil d'you mean?'

Duggleby swallowed hard. ‘They're fake.' There was no doubting his sincerity or his shock.

‘Absolute poppycock!' snarled Frank Leigh.

Evie Leigh reached out to Duggleby, staring into his eyes. ‘Are you sure?' He nodded dumbly. She gave a little hissing cry, then clasped her hands to her mouth, her eyes wide.

‘Why do you think they're fake?' demanded Jack, raising his voice over Frank Leigh's protests.

‘They feel wrong,' said Duggleby. ‘They look all right but they're all wrong. They're warm when you put them to your lips. Real stones are cold. These are nothing but paste.'