Come to Castlemoor (24 page)

Something moved through the mists at the river's edge.

I wanted to scream, but I could only stare in horror as the figure in white stepped through a small clearing, paused, and looked back. It wore a hood with a peaked top and two holes for the eyes, all the rest of the body covered with a flowing robe, the brilliant white of the material gleaming, standing out against the foggy gray-white mist. I shook my head. I closed my eyes, saw whirling black circles, opened them, to see the figure standing as before. It was no ghost. It was something real, very real. I was not imagining it, not this time. The figure seemed to hesitate for a moment, still looking back toward the river, and then it moved on, to be swallowed up by the mist.

Time stopped altogether. There was nothing but the woods, the evil, my fear. I was a little girl again, alone in the dark, wanting to cry but afraid to make a sound, afraid the things that lurked in the corners of my room would hear me and pounce. Those childhood phantoms had vanished by the time I was six or seven, but they had come back again, and I knew if I made a sound they would swarm around me. I felt something cold and damp sliding down my cheek. I realized my lashes were brimming with tears. The air was cold. The leaves were rustling again. I heard a low, moaning noise. I knew it was Bertie. I knew I must go to him. I moved quickly, following the pathetic sound.

He was by the edge of the river. He seemed to be stretched out, resting, his arms flung out, one leg folded under him. Then I saw that his head was held at a curious angle. It seemed to hang limply from his neck. His blue eyes stared up at me. His lips moved. The moaning ceased, followed by a gurgle, a rattle in the chest. I knelt down beside him, afraid to touch him. I whispered soft words. My tears splattered down on his face. He tried to lift himself up, and his head lolled crazily on his neck.

“Don't—don't move,” I whispered. “I'll get help. Please—please don't—”

The blue eyes looked up at me. They were beginning to glaze over. The lips moved, but no sound came. The fingers of one hand lifted, imploring me to lean down closer. I did, my hair brushing his face. The lips moved again, and I could barely discern the words.

“The moon dance—they're waitin' for—the moon.”

I stood up. He was dead. His neck had been broken. I remembered the muffled thud I had heard earlier, followed by the snapping sound. I knew what that sound had been. So loud, I thought. I must go back now. I must tell someone what had happened. I started to move away, and then I saw something white on the branch of a bush. I pulled it free. It was a piece of white cloth with ragged edges, as large as a man's handkerchief. I stared at it, knowing where it had come from. I was strangely calm, all the fear gone now. I heard footsteps approaching and stuffed the piece of white cloth into the pocket of my skirt.

Burton Rodd came toward me. He looked livid with rage.

“What the hell!” he cried. “I saw you leaving the crowd and slipping into the woods, and I couldn't believe it. I simply couldn't believe it! Have you lost your mind? What in God's name—”

I stepped aside so he could see the body. He stared down at it, then looked up at me, his cheekbones chalky. I watched as though in a dream as he knelt down, touched the rubbery neck, frowned, examined the curious position of the leg folded under the body. He tugged at a large root, and I saw that Bertie's foot was hooked under it. Burton Rodd stood up. He came over to me and stood very close, looking down into my face. Neither of us spoke. The mist moved around us. The water splashed pleasantly over the rocks. It was all dreamlike, and I was very far away, watching.

“It's Bertie Rawlins,” I said in a voice that didn't belong to me. “He worked for you at the factory. Everyone said he was crazy. Children used to throw rocks at his house. That was wicked, don't you think? Children are sometimes quite wicked, even the best of them.”

“Shut up, Katherine. You're hysterical.”

“No. I'm quite calm. I've never been so calm in my life. He was Jamie's brother. Do you remember Jamie? They killed him. They killed Bertie too. I know. I heard—”

“He caught his foot under that root and tripped. He broke his neck. It was an accident.”

I shook my head vigorously. “No, you see, that's how it's supposed to look. I saw—one of them. All in white. Really. Not my imagination. He wore a white hood and a white robe, and he killed Bertie. You must believe me. I saw, with my own eyes.…” I spoke in a curious singsong, and from somewhere far off another Katherine Hunt wondered why that voice was so peculiar.

Burton Rodd laid his hands heavily on my shoulders. He peered into my eyes. His face was very close. I could see every line, every crease. He spoke gently, but his voice was firm. “You saw nothing,” he said. “You saw nothing. Do you understand me? You did not see anything. Is that clear? I'm taking you home. I will tell Edward you were with me and grew faint and asked to leave. Katherine, do you hear me? No one is to know. No one!”

I nodded. The tears spilled down my cheeks. My shoulders trembled. I tried to make them stop. His arms wrapped around me, and I buried my face against his chest. He held me tightly, stroking my back. I did not care who he was. I did not care what he had done. He was here, and he would drive the phantoms away. They could not seize me as long as he was holding me in his arms.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

It had been raining all morning, but now the sky was gray and leaden, hanging low over the moors. The sun was a small white blur behind a ponderous bank of clouds. The moors were wet, desolate, gray. I stood at the window in the study, holding the curtain back and peering out at the bleak land. I wished Bella were here. Her merry chatter would have helped to relieve the melancholy that held me in thrall, but Alan had come for her a short while ago. They were going to spend the afternoon at Maud's farm, inspecting the batch of new baby chicks and roaming over the fields. They would not return until later this afternoon. It was just now eleven. The whole day waited, empty, depressing. I didn't know how I would get through it.

Letting the curtain fall back in place, I went over to the desk and sat down. I stared at the neat stack of clean white paper set to one side, the bottle of blue ink, the new pen. I took out my notes for the first chapter and examined the outline I had made. The clock ticked loudly. Outside, the wind whistled over the moors with the sound of whispers. A window rattled. I put the notes away and folded up the outline. I tried not to think of what had happened night before last, but everything came back, each detail sharp and clear, tormenting me.

Burton Rodd had not brought me home after all. The dances ended just as we returned to the clearing, the crowd dispersing. People swarmed around us, pushing, staggering, laughing, shouting at one another. Rodd held an arm about my waist, supporting me. We stood still as people moved in every direction, waves of humanity that crashed around us. The fire was almost gone, a heap of crackling orange coals that men were already covering with sand. Edward came tearing toward us, his hair disheveled, a frantic expression on his face.

“Where have you been?” he cried. “I've been looking everywhere.”

“She was with me,” Burton Rodd said calmly. “We were watching the dances. She grew faint. I'm taking her home.”

“I believe I can manage that, Burt,” Edward said coldly. “I brought her. I'll take her home.”

“Bella—” I began.

“She and the boy have already left. I told them to go ahead, that I'd find you. She looked worried. I told her everything was all right.”

“Did you get your song?” I asked brightly.

“Yes, fantastic luck! And I got a great lead.”

Rodd was reluctant to turn me over to Edward. He did not want to make an issue of it, but neither did he want to run the risk of my telling anyone what had happened. I broke away from him, telling him I would be perfectly all right, and thanked him for his attentiveness. Silently, with my eyes, I told him I would say nothing about the body in the woods. Edward drove me home, concerned about my headache, but bursting with excitement at his discovery. A family in the next county had a whole folder of songs one of their ancestors had written out in longhand. Edward had met the head of the house, a poor farmer, and he had agreed to let Edward come to the farm and make copies of all the material.

“It'll take at least two days,” he told me as we drove over the moors. “I'm leaving first thing in the morning. Of course, many of the songs will be duplicates of ones I've already found, but I expect to discover …” I only half listened, my mind whirling. Edward was so enthusiastic about his good fortune that he hardly noticed my silence. Bella and Alan were already at the house when we arrived. Edward kissed me casually on the cheek, said he hoped I got a good night's rest, and promised to come see me as soon as he returned to Castlemoor.

That would be tomorrow. Today I faced long, solitary hours that would sap all my energy and drain my emotions. I wished I had asked Bella not to go. She would gladly have stayed, but I would have had to make some kind of explanation for the request. Never before had I felt the isolation of this house so strongly. It was as though the moors were a vast, empty sea, the house a solitary vessel anchored in the middle of it. The land undulated like gray waves, and the whistling of the wind only intensified this feeling. I had the feverish sensation that the house might sink, exactly like a boat, and be swallowed up by the land, the sea.

I felt I was losing my mind. I knew I couldn't go on like this. I had to find something to hold on to.

The portrait Damon Stuart had painted of my brother stood on the desk, beside the carved-ivory elephant. That so-familiar face stared up at me, ruggedly handsome, alarmingly lifelike. The touseled golden hair looked as though it had just fallen across his forehead, and the wide pink mouth, curled with humor, seemed about to speak. The blazing brown eyes held mine, and they were very stern. What's all this nonsense? they seemed to inquire. Hardly your style, old girl, this. Sitting around, brooding, feeling sorry for yourself—that's not my Kathy. Better do something, right? Where's the old Hunt spirit?

My mood lifted, almost as though Donald had actually been speaking to me. I could feel his presence here in this small room filled with his books and papers, and it comforted me. I would go make a pot of coffee. I would cook something for lunch, and this afternoon, as soon as I'd finished eating, I would start to work on the book, despite the headache, despite the desolation. I would also draft the letter I knew I must send to the police. I didn't want to send it, but I knew I had to, even if it meant the arrest of Burton Rodd.

I went into the kitchen and dropped coffee beans in the grinder. I put water on to boil, ground the beans, and made the coffee. I sliced bread, and took the ham out, carving off two thin pink slices. All the while my mind worked coldly, methodically, all emotion repressed. I had been hysterical after I found the body, and yesterday I had been prostrate, still too stunned and shaken to see things clearly. I had to inform the police of what I had seen in the woods. It had been insanity to wait this long.

Burton Rodd had appeared suddenly at the scene of the “accident,” much too suddenly. He had examined the body and declared the death an accidental one. How could he be so sure? Why had he insisted so firmly? He ordered me to keep quiet about what I had seen, and, numb, bewildered, I had agreed. If he had not been responsible for Bertie's death, then why had he been so determined that it be kept quiet? I remembered those few minutes in his arms, and I shuddered now to think I had been in the arms of a murderer.

There were so many things still unanswered, but it was safe to assume Burton Rodd had murdered Bertie Rawlins. There could be no other explanation for his strange conduct. I had to face the truth, however unpleasant it might be.

I had just finished drinking my first cup of coffee when I heard someone pounding on the front door. The noise echoed through the house, loudly, persistently. An unreasonable panic seized me. I almost dropped the empty cup I still held. I stared about the room frantically, looking for a place to hide. My pulse leaped, and I could feel the skin drawing tightly over my cheekbones. The pounding continued, shattering the silence that had prevailed a moment before. I stood up shakily, scolding myself for this absurd reaction.

I opened the front door. Nicola stood there, her fist raised ready to knock again. She stepped inside quickly without saying a word. I closed the door, puzzled. I noticed that she carried a large flat brown box. She went into the study and set the box on the desk. She stood in the middle of the room, looking around at the books. When she saw the portrait of Donald, she started. She moved closer, examining it, and then she looked up at me.

“For a moment I thought it was Jamie,” she said.

“Did you—want something?” I asked. The words were ludicrous under the circumstances, but I could think of nothing else to say.

Nicola didn't reply. She seemed not to have heard me. She wore a cloak of heavy dark-sapphire velvet, the hood fallen back to reveal her jet-black hair falling in loose, lustrous waves as it had been the first time I saw her. There were spots of color on her cheeks, and her lovely face was serene. She took off the cloak and draped it over a chair. Beneath it she was wearing a dress of sky-blue silk that emphasized her mature bosom and slender waist. The nervous child had disappeared. She was a woman, beautifully poised, completely self-possessed.

Nicola looked at me with a frank expression in her black eyes.

“I'm really not mad, you know,” she said quietly.

“Nicola—”

“Don't say anything,” she interrupted me. “Don't apologize, don't try to reason with me. I'm not mad. They—they would like to have believed I was, but I'm not, and after today I'll no longer have to pretend. I will be free.” She smiled, a pensive look on her face. “Dorothea is going to be amazed at the change in me. I'm glad. I think she and I can be friends now, away from Castlemoor.”