Second Night (33 page)

‘He was playing a half naked slave and Jen's mum was ogling him for all she was worth.'

Jen's face was bright scarlet. ‘Shriek's mum was ten times worse. She wanted his autograph in case he got famous.'

Bryony looked down her nose at her less fortunate friend. ‘My mother would never lower herself to ogle someone young enough to be her son.'

‘No, she leaves that to you.' Jen's voice was heavy with implication. ‘Doesn't she, Bry?'

Bryony folded her lips and started her soup. Lauren left the rest of hers to go cold while Jen continued the shocking revelations. ‘The woman in the saddlers has always got the coffee on the go. She had a seat in the front row at the festival and I bet he got her the ticket so she could ogle him close-up for free.'

‘He rides horses,' said Lauren, stating the obvious. ‘He's bound to be a good customer in a harness store. Right?'

‘So how good does a good customer have to be, Lauren? And why does fat Mary in the coffee shop drop everything to serve him first?'

‘She's just the waitress, Jen! There's nothing wrong with that.'

‘But she's not married either,' said Bryony.

Lauren stood up. ‘I don't believe any of this crazy stuff!'

‘That's up to you,' said Jen.

‘You can hardly deny the evidence of your own eyes.' Bryony pointed in the direction of the bank. Caz and the woman were leaving together and apparently continuing their conversation as they disappeared into the crowd.

‘That's not evidence,' Lauren insisted. ‘That's speculation.'

‘You'll get over it,' said Bryony kindly, seeing an opportunity to do her one good deed for the day. ‘You'll be back at home by Christmas and all this will seem like a bad dream.'

‘We'll see about that!' Lauren threw some money on the table. ‘Have a really great dessert. My treat.'

She ran down the street to the shop with the Buddha in the window. The lights inside showed dimly through the beaded curtains. A strong smell of patchouli incense wafted out from under the door. There was a sign taped to the glass:

Consultation in Progress.
Please call back later.

Lauren knew what her father would say about how she was feeling. The words of one of his favourite sayings added to her misery:
The seeds of suspicion thrive in any soil and however carefully they are weeded out, some will always remain, waiting to catch the next shower of rain.

CHAPTER 55

Tairmair Folpham clutched at Caz's sleeve. She stank of stale patchouli oil. Her hand was cold. One of the rings on her thin fingers had slipped and the stone was digging into his arm.

‘I know you, don't I?' she was saying.

He shrugged her off. ‘I don't think so.'

She stayed close, looking over his shoulder as he started to fill in the form to bank the cheque. Her breath smelled of garlic. He stopped writing.

‘Have you got something you're supposed to be doing, or are you just here to hassle me?' he asked.

‘No, no,' she said hurriedly. ‘I mean yes, I'm here for the shop.'

She went to the queue for the cash dispenser and searched in her bag for a card. Caz paid the cheque into his account. The woman was at his elbow as he was leaving.

‘I do know you,' she repeated. ‘We met in my shop.'

He remembered the smell, not the name. ‘So you say.'

She trotted beside him, determined to keep up. ‘You were very interested in the tarot cards, as I remember. We've extended the range considerably since then. Your sister must have told you. She was in a couple of weeks ago. She's negotiating for me to hire the ballroom at the manor for a conference in the spring.'

Caz lengthened his stride. ‘I have no idea what you're talking about.'

‘Of course you have. This is not the first time I've expressed my interest in hiring that ballroom, and a venue like that always draws a good crowd. I pay top commercial rates.' She clung to his arm and pointed across the street to the shop front with the peeling lavender paint. ‘Come and have a cup of tea. We can talk more confidentially inside.'

An opportune and throat-searing discharge of diesel fumes from a passing lorry annihilated the smell of patchouli and sent Tairmair Folpham staggering backwards, coughing and covering her mouth and nose with her scarf. Caz looked directly into her watering eyes.

‘The ballroom's not for hire,' he said bluntly. ‘It never will be, and my sister doesn't negotiate for anyone except me. Forget it.'

He walked quickly. The streets were crowded and most of the shops were already decorated for Christmas. There were queues in all the cafés and restaurants. Jemima and Julien were in the computer shop, talking to an assistant.

Jem's cash is burning a hole in her pocket,
he thought fondly.
She's one hundred per cent switched on to everything that's going on around her, but for her own sake I almost wish she wasn't.

The taxi ranks were empty outside the railway station. He bought coffee at the refreshment kiosk, killing time while he waited for the bus by wandering to the slope at the end of the long platform, where the boarded security fence shut off the railway yard from the street. At the end of a concrete slab pathway, a derelict workman's hut covered in brown strands of old ivy stood up between the heaps of rusting rails. A familiar handcart, filled with bulging plastic bags, was parked against one of the walls beside a blackened brazier half filled with ash.

The old beggar woman was asleep on a bench under a makeshift shelter at the back of the hut. In daylight she looked shrivelled and hungry, and pathetically human. Her boots were scuffed. There was a hole patched with cardboard in one of the soles. Where her heavy skirt had lifted, her legs showed stick-thin above striped woollen socks. She wore a man's hat tied down with a scarf. Her hands were encrusted with dirt.

Caz thought she was dead until she turned over and he heard her heartbeat – rapid and shallow, like a bird in a trap. Her mouth opened, her upper lip curled back and she snored. Her remaining teeth were brown stained fangs protruding from grey and shrunken gums.

He ran back to the kiosk and bought more coffee and doughnuts. She was still sleeping when he came back and squatted down beside the bench. Close up, she smelt of grime and paraffin oil and stale biscuits.

He spoke the words of the verse directly into her ear:
‘Much have I fared, much have I found, much have I got of the gods. Much have I fared, much have I found…'

She awoke with a start and cried out. ‘I've got nothing for you!' She curled up, clutching at her coat pockets and drawing up her knees under her skirt. Her voice was shrill. ‘Get away from me! I've got nothing! Leave me alone!'

He pointed to the brown paper bag. ‘There's coffee and something to eat if you want.'

She sat up, sniffed at the bag suspiciously and spat. ‘Coffee? Muck! What's wrong with an honest cup of tea?'

‘I can get you tea.'

Her eyes were sly. ‘Yes, you can get me tea,' she said. ‘And soup! I haven't eaten in days but what would you know about that, who's never starved, who's never known the cold, who feasts at the fire in the hall?'

‘What hall? Where is it? Have you been there?'

She tore one of the doughnuts into pieces, stuffing them into her mouth.

‘Hall, castle, hovel, house,' she grumbled. ‘It's all the same for them as goes without.' She threw away the coffee. ‘Where's the tea? Where's that soup?'

People were gathering on the opposite platform for the London train. There was a queue at the kiosk and people were running over the footbridge, clutching cups of coffee and magazines. Caz bought tea and soup and rolls of bread.

The old woman was gone when he returned. He searched around the disused sheds in the yard but there was no trace of her or the cart. The bus was due to arrive at any minute. He put the carton of food under the bench and found the empty doughnut bag. She had wiped her mouth and left a smudge of spittle speckled with crumbs and traces of blood where her gums had bled as she ate. Wherever she had hidden herself she was undoubtedly human.
Shape-changers don't bleed!

He dropped the bag into the brazier and ran for the bus. At the same time he was aware of a sense of warning. Too many people were interested in what was going on at the manor. The woman who had been telephoning about the colt had obviously checked with the agency after Jemima had told her he had been sold. She had left two more messages, one late the previous evening, the other early that morning. He had erased them both. He felt the raven stirring within him as he ran.

CHAPTER 56

Sir Jonas was in the throes of completing an extremely satisfying Sunday morning cleaning session in the observatory that had extended into the early afternoon. He had been greatly relieved when Maddie and Jasper returned and reported that the business of the disposal of Franklin Wylde's remains had been conducted speedily and with no unforeseen delay. The news of the family's little windfall imparted a very agreeable conclusion to what could have been an awkward period for all concerned.

It had been an unusually fine day for November, and he had left the shutter open to let in as much light as possible while he applied a fresh coating of Daisy's special beeswax polish to the floor. He was shuffling back and forth with two polishing mops strapped to the underside of his slippers when the noise of an approaching car reverberated under the dome. It sounded powerful and expensive, and nothing like any of the vehicles he would normally expect to hear coming up the drive.

He picked up the binoculars and went to the round window on the west side of the observatory, in time to see a sleek, silver Jaguar purring to a standstill under the shadow of the wall in the yard. Two women, casually but expensively dressed, got out. He was quite sure he had never seen either of them before. Having ascertained that they were not guests and most likely decidedly unwelcome strangers, he removed his slippers and padded down the narrow stairs in his socks, resolved to send them on their way as quickly as possible.

The women were sisters-in-law, both in their early thirties, both equally ambitious and linked by fortuitous marriage to an established family name. The younger of the two, Anabel Carsten, had a camera slung around her neck. Catriona Carsten hooked a briefcase-type leather bag over her right shoulder and took a pair of binoculars off the dashboard. She checked the clock at the same time. She kept her voice low. ‘It's exactly half past one and I don't see anyone around, do you, Bel?'

‘No. I think we can assume they are safely sleeping off their Sunday lunch and hopefully as far away from the windows as possible.'

Anabel walked over to the stables and glanced over the nearest door into the empty boxes. ‘The horses must be turned out.'

They went to the yard gate where they had a view past the nursery paddock, down the track and across to the lake. All eight of the swans floated close to the narrow shoreline at the edge of the long paddock. One of them stood up in the water, flapping her great wings and hissing. There was no sign of the horses. Anabel walked to the corner of the barn where she could see behind the rhododendron hedge into the winter paddock.

‘They're here, Cat,' she called. ‘There are three of them, two greys and a bay weaner that must be the colt.'

‘Does he look like he'll be grey too?' asked Catriona eagerly, hurrying to catch up.

‘Hard to say from this distance but I'm sure he will. He's very nice, I must say. I wonder which of the mares is the mother?'

‘Let me see!' Catriona took the camera. ‘We might need a couple of shots to placate the husbands, in case the size of the cheque's too horrendous. Pity the light's so bloody awful under those trees.'

The sound of someone coughing and clearing his throat made them jump and look around. Sir Jonas was standing beside the car.

‘Good afternoon,' he said. He did not raise his hat. ‘I believe you are lost.' He pointed his stick in the direction of the drive and the gates. ‘You will find plenty of people in the village who can be prevailed upon to help you. I wish you a very good afternoon.'

Catriona recovered first. She walked up to the old man and held out her hand. ‘It's Sir Jonas Pring, isn't it?'

He did not reply. Neither did he accept her hand.

She spoke with the casual confidence of someone who presumes that her name needed no further introduction. ‘I am Catriona Carsten. We've come about the colt you have for sale.'

Anabel held out her hand. ‘Anabel Carsten. It's wonderful to meet you at last, Sir Jonas.'

He ignored her, adjusting his smart Sunday eyepatch and affecting to be puzzled.

‘Are you from the hunting yard?' he asked vaguely.

‘No, we event,' said Anabel evenly.

‘We bought Gladstone from you several years ago,' prompted Catriona.

‘Gladstone?' At last Sir Jonas was genuinely mystified. ‘I have no recollection of an animal of that name on our studbooks. Are you here to discuss a prime minister of great historical importance? Or perhaps you are referring to the merits of a particular type of leather-crafted luggage?' He indicated the bag on her shoulder. ‘With which you have evidently neglected to equip yourself,' he added.

The women looked at one another. Anabel raised her eyebrows and pursed her lips.

‘Of course,' continued Sir Jonas, ‘if you are intending to procure a light carriage of that name, I must tell you that regretfully we gave up driving our horses many years ago. The carriages were sold accordingly, although we never dared to presume to replace them with quite such a vulgar statement of wealth as this.' He rapped the roof of the car smartly with his stick. ‘In which case I am afraid you have made a wasted journey and once again I must bid you good day.'

Anabel stiffened. Catriona tried again. ‘We are absolutely delighted with the horse we bought from you previously. When we heard that you had another of the same bloodline for sale, there was nothing else for it but to come down like a shot to see him.'