Once (31 page)

BEQUEST

IN THE gloom of the first-floor landing Hugo’s pale face

. was a confusion of elation and despair.

Is it…?’ Nell asked in an excited whisper, her hands clenched against her chest.

The trunk door of the old longcase clock was open, the single weight and steadily swinging pendulum exposed in the cavity like the living organ of an unsealed body. As ever, the black hands on the engraved dulled brass dial declared an erroneous hour and minute, but still its wheels and cogs turned and clunked, for Hartgrove insisted on rewinding it well before its thirty-hour cycle - eleven-hour cycle these days - had expired, afraid the inner workings would seize up completely if neglected. Dusty wall lights did not throw out much of a glow along the lengthy corridor, and Hugo had used his cigarette lighter to invade the darkness inside the casing. He had almost squealed when he saw the envelope propped up against the trunk’s rear wall and his hands had

been trembling when he drew it out and slid a thumbnail under the sealed flap.

‘It’s the Will all right/ he said, eyes re-reading the contents as if they were a surprise to him and not a confirmation of what he and Nell already knew.

‘I told you the henbane would work.’ Nell said, moving round so that she, too, could see the single-sheet document properly. ‘I told you he would talk and talk. All that was necessary was the right moment as far as his strength was concerned and the right questions.’ Her heart was beating rapidly, spurred by the memory of how the feeble old man had rambled on once her brew had began to work, how Hugo had grimaced with dismay when he had learned just how low he was in his father’s esteem, and now the thrill of finding exactly what they had been searching for since Sir Russell had mumbled on about a new Will in his drug-induced sleep. Now, at long last, they had it in their hands.

‘So almost everything goes to Kindred,’ she said, as if to twist the knife.

Hugo did not respond, but his hands continued to shake.

The house, the estate - everything that rightfully should be yours.’ Nell spat out the name. ‘Thom Kindred!’ And what would he do with it all? Precisely nothing, Hugo. He’s a romantic. Even if he followed our advice, we - you, Hugo, you - would not be part of it.’

Hugo was hesitant, troubled. ‘Maybe—’

‘There’s no maybe to it!’ she hissed back, immediately dismissing the vacillation she knew would otherwise come. You’ve been disinherited, cut adrift! Your father thinks nothin’ of you, and you’ve always known it!’

‘He has provided some financial arrangement.’ Hugo’s protest was weak.

‘Nothin’ like you deserve, you fool. You’re his son, after all. And what’s Kindred to him? A bastard grandson who isn’t even aware of the fact.’

She snatched the paper from Hugo’s hand, leaving him holding the envelope only.

‘Here’s the evidence and it can easily be destroyed.’

‘It’s witnessed.’

That can be taken care of too. Everything’s goin’ to work out, Hugo, trust me.’

‘I do trust you, Nell.’

‘You have to be strong. I can take care of it, but you have to stand with me.’ You have to be part of it, Hugo, she was thinking. Your hands have got to be as dirty as mine, you must be an accomplice. That way you can’t turn on me when it’s over. And that way I can control you forever. Until it’s your turn, of course.

‘I’ll be okay, Nell, I promise you. It’s just that, well…’

Her voice became softer, persuasive, for she knew how to play this weak idiot who depended on her for so much, knew what he liked, what it took to make him bend to her will. ‘It isn’t easy for you, Hugo, I know that. After all, he is your father, your flesh and blood. But jus’ remember how he’s treated you all these years. He’s been a bully and a tyrant as far as you’re concerned, blamed you for things you’ve had no control over. When has he ever shown you any respect or love?’

‘Perhaps when I was a boy

‘P’raps nothing! He’s always treated you badly. And now he favours someone born on the wrong side of the blanket. What has Thom Kindred ever done to deserve your father’s respect? He’s jus’ bein’ used, your father’s jus’ gettin’ back at you because he hates you so much. An’ Kindred knows it. He’s laughin’ at you behind your back, Hugo.’

‘I don’t think Thom is even aware of the new Will.’

‘Oh, don’t you?’

Well, I…’

‘Get wise, Hugo. They’re both in it together, Kindred and the old manservant, Hartgrove, the witness to the Will. Who else d’you think hid it in this place? Sir Russell couldn’t have

left his bed to stash it here. No, old Bones is in league with Kindred. Together they’re tryin’ to do you out of what’s rightfully yours, don’t you see?’ Anger had returned to her voice, but it was an anger on Hugo’s behalf not against him, used to stir up resentment towards his father and Kindred. And it seemed to be working. As it always did.

*You’re perfectly right, Nell. I’ve already been too trusting. I’ve always liked to see the best in people.’

She gave a short laugh. What a fool, what a self-deceiving idiot. Everything Sir Russell had thought about his son was true. He was a lazy, self-serving ninny who had always been too stupid and too gullible to hold down a proper job. And then there had been the other things - the gambling and boozing, the drugs, the cheap hired women. The deceit. No wonder his father despised him!

She moved closer to Hugo, slid an arm around his ample waist. Her voice was low, conspiratorial. ‘Listen to me. After tomorrow everything will be fine. I’ve got preparations to make that will take some time, but I’ll be ready by tomorrow night. We’ll be ready.’

Hugo grinned nervously. God, he needed this woman, and not just for her body, not just for the things she did to him. She was his rock. Without her he would never have the courage, nor even the will, to take what belonged to him. He sniffed her aroma, that faintly musky smell that excited him so much. He stared into those deep, dark eyes and felt himself drawn into her. The plan for Bracken had been his, but she was the driving force behind its execution. He remembered how aroused she’d become when he’d first mentioned the grand idea, how a fire had burned in those eyes. Her passion that night had left him depleted and bruised, but yearning for more.

“You’ll see things you never thought possible.’ she was saying, her voice breathy with anticipation, ‘things that will make your father’s heart freeze. But there won’t be a mark on him, nothing that can be blamed on us. Now we have

this …’ she held the paper aloft’… there’s no need to keep him alive. Ironic isn’t it, how he would have been dead months ago if not for my medicines and care. No doctors would have saved him. But we don’t need him any more, Hugo, his time has come.’

‘I don’t want him to suffer too much, Nell.’

‘Ha! And what d’you think he’s been goin’ through this past year? It would’ve been kinder if I’d allowed him to die sooner, but that wasn’t possible, not until we knew for sure. And you let him suffer, Hugo, you let it go on, so don’t start weepin’ for him now.’

She pressed her hips against him, a distraction that never failed. The thought of having her always prevented Hugo from thinking too deeply, not that his imagination could ever stretch very far anyway. For instance, the thought that one day - years to come, of course, when she, herself, was his partner both in marriage and in business - he might suffer a similar fate to his father would never occur to him. Poor, dumb Hugo …

He mistook her smile for affection, her tightened grip on his waist for desire.

We should get rid of it,’ he said.

Nell pulled her head back a little. What?’

We should burn it. The Will. We should destroy it now.’

Her smile broadened to an unpleasant grin. ‘Oh no,’ she said softly. ‘Oh no, I want the old bastard to see us do that. I think he should know that his rotten scheme to disinherit you will come to nothing. I want him to know that when his eyes shut forever.’

Hugo was silent, breathing in her smell, intoxicated by it; and excited, too, by the prospect of finally owning Castle Bracken and all its lands, to do with it as he pleased. If only the old boy didn’t have to die in the way Nell planned (whatever that might be), if only he would just fade away naturally…

‘Hugo.’

His attention snapped back to her.

There’s no turain’ back now/ she told him. ‘Once Sir Russell is out the way and the Will destroyed, Kindred won’t have a leg to stand on. And whatever happens tomorrow night will be his fault. He shouldn’t have tried to do this to you, Hugo. D’you understand?’

Hugo mumbled something unintelligible, which Nell took as assent.

‘Besides,’ she said coldly. ‘He should have died four months ago.’

Hugo shivered inwardly and, not for the first time, felt very afraid of this woman. But then, that was part of her allure.

She tore upstairs. How far had he gone? What had he seen?

Her bedroom first. She stood in the doorway, looking around wildly. Nothing appeared to have been touched, nothing moved. Yet the after-presence was as palpable as a lingering smell, a footprint in the sand, a fingerprint on a glass. She had felt it the moment she returned home.

Nell whirled and rushed down the short corridor to a room opposite. The door was open and Nell never left the door to her secret room open because to do so would be to allow some of its power to escape. Whoever had snooped around up here had obviously been worried enough to leave in a hurry, forgetting to leave the door the way they had found it.

She looked around quickly, taking everything in, her chest heaving in her anger. What had they touched?

She looked across the painted room towards the altar, at the blue chalice that stood among the other implements of her craft. She went to it.

And gasped when she saw that its contents were gone.

Thom Kindred had taken them with him.

Nell let out a screech of rage and lashed the air with clawed fists.

How dare he! How dare he invade her private place and steal from her! She knew it was Kindred who had entered her home when she was away, knew it the moment after she’d realized someone had been there, and that was the very moment she’d walked through the front door, for she sensed these things, she was aware of all intrusion and any negative thoughts directed her way.

She calmed herself, forced herself to breathe slowly and evenly; but her mind remained a ferment of rage.

So he thought he could play games with her, did he? He imagined he could get the better of Nell Quick, did he? Well, pity he wasn’t aware that she enjoyed such happy diversions, especially when they could only end in horror for her opponent.

And before this night was through, Thom Kindred would know such horror.

A DAMNABLE VESSEL

SOMETHING ROUSED Thom from his slumber. Arms still spread across the kitchen table, he lifted his head a few inches from the open book.

Holding his breath, he listened.

A gentle tap on the front door.

He lifted his head higher, his shoulders slowly straightening.

Another knock on the door.

He sat upright in the chair, watching the front door as if he might divine what was on the other side.

‘Jennet?’ he called quietly, optimistically. Wouldn’t she have used the bell?

A great thump on the door, so that the wood seemed to strain against its hinges.

He jumped at the sound, fully alert now, the dregs of sleep startled away.

Jennet? he called. Then, quieter again: ‘Rigwit, is that you?’

Silence the only response.

The chair scraped against the stone flooring as Thom rose to his feet.

The silence seemed brooding.

He looked around, searching for something to use as protection, a weapon of some kind. He went over to a drawer and took out a long carving knife.

He waited, eyes on the door, his breath held once more. The night seemed very still.

Lamely but loudly, he said: ‘Anyone out there?’

If there was, they were saying nothing.

This is ridiculous, thought Thom. Why be afraid in your own home? Because horrible things have happened to you here recently, his inner voice replied. And that made him angry. Little Bracken was always a wonderful place for him, a home filled with love when he was small, a sanctuary now. Nobody was going to terrorize him here.

Thom limped forcefully towards the door, bravado dismissing any other course of action. Without hesitation, he drew back both bolts, top and bottom (insecurity had made him use both earlier), gave the key a swift turn, swapped hands with the knife so that it was in his right, pointing like a dagger, and flung the door open wide.

There was no one outside.

But something had been left on the doorstep.

Before picking it up, he looked off towards the woods, which were merely a darker mass in the general darkness. The night, itself, was very quiet. Unusually so, for even at that late hour there should have been rustlings, leaves or shrubbery moved by a breeze or any nocturnal creatures on the prowl, or the hoot of an owl, or the squeal of its victim as the predator swooped down for the kill. The woods were always alive, both night and day; but tonight they were hushed.

Stars and the three-quarter moon were bright enough and the clearing around the cottage was a silvery-grey, its shadows deep.

Only when he was satisfied that nobody lurked close by did Thom cast his gaze down at the object on the doorstep. Light flooded out from the kitchen behind him and it was by this that he realized that the object was a jar. A jar whose glass was very grimy.

He sank to his haunches to examine it more closely and saw that it was sealed with a tin screw-on top. Cautiously, he reached out and tilted the jar, shuffling his body to one side so that he did not block the light. Because of the smeared dirt and grime it was still difficult to see what was inside.

Thom picked up the glass container as he rose to his feet and, with one last look around, he closed the front door and turned the key in the lock, bolting it again for extra security. Then he took the unsolicited trophy back to the kitchen table, and put it down, leaning over it for a more thorough examination.

Elbows on the edge of the table, he peered into the jar, but was still unable to penetrate the dirty glass. All he could see was what looked like a mass of brittle hair inside, but he couldn’t tell for sure. Wetting a fingertip with his tongue, he tried to wipe away some of the grime; it hardly helped, for the dirt was stubborn, as if it had clung to the glass long enough to be part of it. It was as if the jar had been hidden in the earth for some considerable time.

He stood up from the table, still pondering the dirty object, curious and fearful at the same time. It occurred to him that the jar might have been left by Jennet, or even Rigwit, some kind of gift to him. But then why hadn’t they handed it to him personally? And where was Rigwit tonight? The elf was supposed to be keeper of the cottage, a mystical guardian, custodian, whatever it was he like to call himself, so why wasn’t he on duty? Thom needed some guidance here, but apart from himself, the cottage was empty. God, it had never felt so empty.

Finally, it was curiosity that got the better of fear. Thom picked up the glass jar - it was surprisingly light considering

it was packed tight - and began to unscrew its tin lid. He thought it might require some effort to open, but the lid turned easily and with a couple of twists it came off.

Thom yelped and dropped the jar back on to the table as its contents sprang out. It fell on its side and began to roll, stopped from falling off the table’s edge by the open book lying there. He backed away, horrified and feeling faint as the long-legged spiders poured out.

At first, they flowed like black liquid, but as they spread each one became individual. Tiny, horrid, scurrying creatures, their thread-like legs carrying them swiftly towards the edge of the table. Out they streamed, more and more of them, spreading, scuttling, pouring over the open pages of the book, running in all directions, hundreds of them it seemed, now not all the same size, some among them with huge furry bodies and legs, while others were small, beetles with many, many, short legs.

Very soon the tabletop was one circular heaving mass of blackness.

Not for the first time that day Thom felt nauseous. The sight of them made his hair bristle and his spine stiffen. He backed further away until there was no more room, a wall at his back.

And still they poured out, thousands of them it seemed, which was impossible, for the jar that had contained them was not that big. He realized that what had looked like brittle hair when he had peered into the few less grimy parts of the glass had been their massed network of legs, all packed together in one hideous interlocking knot. The opening of the jar had caused the knot’s undoing.

They spilled from the glass in a never-ending stream, fanning out immediately, joining the thick teeming crowds that were now overflowing the table, running down its legs

or dropping on to chairs, then on to the floor to head towards Thom, who stood rigid with shock, his back pressed hard against the wall in a vain attempt to dissolve right through it.

They were not all black, these things. Their colours ranged from yellow, green, grey and brown to black and white striped. It was just that the predominant colour was black. Some, the striped ones, leapt or hopped over the backs of their companions. Thom felt his flesh crawl at the sight and the nearness of them.

His paralysis was broken when one of them sprang from the seething multitude on the table and landed at his feet. Automatically, he stamped hard on it, and although he must have been wrong, he thought he heard and felt the squelch. More were hopping off the kitchen table, while its legs were almost entirely covered by the descending little beasts. The stone floor around the table looked as if it were being laid with carpet, a black, holed, bubbling carpet.

It was impossible, but more and more surged from the cavern that was the jar’s entrance, as if its interior did not follow the natural laws of physics, was merely the opening from another dimension, like the book the spiders now covered completely, a portal from a different world. In the stillness of the night, Thom could hear the faint clicking of their stick legs on stone and it was a terrible - a ghastly -sound that added to the nightmare. Unbelievably swift, the hordes drew closer and, having squashed one from existence, he had no qualms about embarking on a spider genocide.

He used both feet, stamping hard, his boots and the cuffs of his jeans soon becoming flecked with blood. Yet still they advanced, none seeking to avoid his crushing feet, kamikazes of the arachnid species. With renewed horror, Thom saw that one of the larger spiders, thick spiky fur covering its obese body and legs, swelling its size, was clinging to his leg just below the knee, slowly and determinedly crawling upwards, its stalked eyes weaving to and fro as it came.

Thom didn’t quite scream, but the sound that escaped him was close to it. Timorously yet swiftly and giving himself no time to think, he brushed it away with his hand, just the fleeting feel of its hairy body enough to send shudder upon shudder through his body. It wasn’t as if Thom had ever been afraid of spiders or any other creepy-crawly creature -although he had always been repulsed by them - but en masse like this, advancing like an ever-increasing army, was enough to make a coward of any man or woman. He pressed back against the wall again, irrationally standing on tiptoe, as if height would somehow make a difference.

Another striped thing hopped from the pulsating crowd on to his leg, followed by another. Others were scuttling over his books, disappearing beneath the stitched hem of his jeans so that he could feel the tickle of their wiry legs on his flesh as they climbed. He beat at himself with the flat of his hands, hopping from one foot to the other, screeching in disgust and dismay. He felt the wetness of their crushed bodies, but even as he danced, others were finding purchase, clinging to the rough material of his jeans. As if from out of nowhere, he found still more settled on his sweatshirt, two or three at first, but constantly multiplying. He never stopped beating at his own body, splats of blood staining his sweater and jeans as he moved from foot to foot.

And the blackness continued to expand with each passing moment, rising up the walls, creeping across the ceiling, the spiders, joined now by millipedes, centipedes, earwigs, woodlice, bugs, arachnids of all kinds, spilling from the glass jar, which never seemed to empty, the hordes spreading around the room to fill every space, cover every surface, swamp everything in sight.

Thom felt them inside his jeans, under his sweatshirt, and no matter how much he beat himself, there always seemed to be more in other places. Even as he slapped and punished his own body, he was aware that the kitchen was disappearing around him as the dark legions swelled in

numbers and he began to cry tears of frustration and panic. Without even thinking, he ran towards the door to the stairway, squashing tiny bodies as he went, almost slipping once on the slime that he, himself, was creating. Something dropped on to his hair and he bent forward, cuffing his head with both hands in an effort to dislodge whatever nestled there. But even as he did so, he felt others falling on to the back of his neck, so that he squirmed and writhed, reaching back to brush them away. He knew it wouldn’t be long before the spiders began to bite or sting his bare flesh, perhaps bloat their bodies on his blood, and the thought increased his panic.

He ripped open the landing door and rushed through, slamming it shut behind him. Even as he leaned against it, breathing heavily and continuing to brush himself with his hands, lifting his sweatshirt to get at the creatures, the ground floor landing lit only by the moon and stars shining through the window half-way up the spiral staircase, he saw the deep blackness flowing from the crack under the door like split blood. He pushed himself away and collapsed on the bottom few steps, looking at the sturdy barrier between himself and the spider army on the other side. Sturdy the door might be, but nothing could prevent the invasion through the cracks around the edges and the floor gap.

They swarmed through and in the moonlight it looked as if the wood was being eaten away at its borders.

‘Rigtvit!’ Thom screamed in utmost terror. ‘Help me, Help meeeee…!’

But the only response was the quiet scuffling of the spiders as they passed through the barrier and hurried towards him.