The Devil in Clevely (Afternoon of an Autocrat) (43 page)

It was perhaps only a minute that they had spent thus standing just by the door with their arms around one another, Linda clinging to him as though he were the one solid thing in a disintegrating world, he holding her close and tight as though a flood or a whirlwind might tear her out of his arms--but it seemed a long time. Hadstock had time to remember her face of terror--but she had opened the door; so frightened and so brave. Oh, if only this comforting clasp in which he held her could be a symbol of real rescue, real support; if he could pick her up and carry her away and keep her safe so that nothing could ever frighten or trouble again. 'Where to?' asked the sardonic voice in his mind. 'The cottage in Berry Lane which is part of your miserable remuneration and from which you will be ejected tomorrow morning?' He imagined himself and Linda tramping the roads. Well, would it be worse than this? Had he been cowardly to hold back so long? Was it fair to decide for her, leave her to believe that she must go on...and on...alone? Above all, had he been cold-hearted always to have rejected the alternative? Yes, he had; and though he would, even at this minute, with Linda in his arms, have preferred to cut off his hand than do it, he would. He'd go to the man who had begotten him and apologise, take back all those things he had said, humble himself, ask him for money. The sensual, genial old sinner would stamp and swear, but he'd be pleased, triumphant and he would make no effort to conceal his triumph. He'd take a fingerful of snuff and trumpet into his fine silk handkerchief and say, 'What did I tell you? What's amiss with the wrong side of the blanket if that's where the money is. So now you've run off with another man's wife, have you? You'll have to amend your Puritan notions about bastards, my boy.'

No, no I Not that. He'd humble himself, he'd get the money, but nobody should ever know why. He'd take her away--if she wanted to go--and put her safely somewhere and love her for ever but never go near her. 'And won't that be nice for you both?' asked the voice of the tormentor. Caught all ways, the worm on the pin.

Oh yes, there was plenty of time for Hadstock to do his thinking.

And for Linda too. After all the pains she had taken to be careful--after all the self-derision...'What need for all this care? You're not young, not pretty any more; you're imagining it all. Just because you're in love with him, were from the first moment when he was surly and defensive; just because he raved in delirium, muddling something you'd said to him with something Shakespeare had written...'

'But it is true, and it is wonderful. We'll go away and he can be somebody else's bailiff and we'll live in a little cottage and I'll wash his shirts and have supper ready when he comes home.'

The inevitable sardonic voice in her mind reminded her that she had also been in love with Richard Shelmadine. And that there was no denying. Nor the fact that for years--years and years and years--she had gone on, carrying that love, that dead thing, corrupt, past any breath of revival, any hope of warmth. Suddenly the burden of self-blame which she had shouldered rolled away. Never once in all their time together had Richard held her like this, with intent to comfort; never once in all those years had she felt that she could depend on him. He'd flashed into her life like a meteor; she'd fallen into his orbit and hung there, attracted, dazzled, compelled...and now she had been thrown off.

She stirred in Hadstock's arms and he let her go, immediately.

'I've always tried,' she said shakily, 'to behave properly...but this...Well, I think you know. You do know, don't you?'

'I know. This is not the time nor the place.'

The whole thing could hardly have lasted a minute, for the blood from Simon's nose was still wet on her hand, sticky on the folds of her skirt.

'He was hurt,' she said. 'And now he is...We must get him back. There's something horrible in this house tonight, and if he...'

She began to hurry along the passage. There, where it ended by the closed door of the cellar, Simon had found himself baffled for the third time. Silently he was flinging himself at the door. The battering-ram tactics had worked before--either the thing gave way or somebody came and opened to you. He was bracing himself for another assault when Hadstock coming up behind him, whipped off his belt and slipped the end of it through his collar.

'There,' said Hadstock. 'He's safe.' Linda gave a gasping breath of relief. The dog writhed and pulled against the constraint, snarled and pawed the door.

'Now,' said Hadstock in a brisker voice, 'may I see you to your room. Or would you'--he hesitated and then brought out the crucial words--'like to come back with me to the cottage? Unless, of course...Ockley? Much-anger?'

She looked at him and gave a shaky laugh with the echo of hysteria in it.

'What could I say? Tell them the truth? They'd think I was mad. Hadstock, we must know. And if it is true we should stop it--or try, at least."

'Not we. I. You take the dog and go to your room and I'll investigate, if that is your wish. I've been in a weak position--I'm not supposed even to enter the house. But if you ask me to see what is going on, I will; and if I can, I'll put a stop to it.'

He'd do that. he thought viciously. Whatever they were up to, even if it were--which he knew it was not--as innocent as sucking an orange. He'd take them by the scruffs of their necks and crack their silly heads together.

A glance at Linda informed that the glorious moment must be postponed a little.

'I'll come back with you; you'd never manage him.' He hauled on the makeshift leash. 'Light your candle from my lantern; I'll leave it here and have both hands free.'

They left the lantern by the cellar door; then Linda, carrying the candle, led the way back into the main part of the house and Hadstock hauled Simon, who fought every inch of the way, his claws scraping the floor, his whole scruff pulled up to his ears by the straining collar.

Inside the sitting-room Linda set down the candle and took the belt's end in both hands. Simon immediately gave a plunging leap.

'You'll never hold him,' said Hadstock, looking round. 'Look, I'll tie him to the sofa leg. Then you lock the door behind me, and don't open it to anyone but me. I shall come back.'

"Whatever Richard says. Promise. They'll be so very very angry.'

'That no longer matters. Don't worry. Just lock the door and wait; I shan't be long.'

He twisted the belt around the sofa leg and buckled it firmly; stood up, took the candle and went to the door. Linda followed.

Behind them there was a sharp crack as Simon lunged and the leg of the sofa broke off. They turned and he catapulted past them, the sofa leg still held by the belt, banging from side to side as he ran, Linda gave a loud cry and Hadstock swore.

'He'll be all right; the door was shut. I'll get him back. You stay here,' he said; then, as she showed signs of intending to go with him, he gave her a slight push, snatched the key from inside the door, slipped out and locked it behind him. Then he ran.

Simon was not in the passage, nor was the lantern; and the cellar door was standing wide open. The scent of incense mingled with a rank reek of burning came to meet Hadstock as he crossed the cellar. At its farthest end a stout new door also stood wide, its heavy padlock dangling uselessly. And beyond was the wide passage down which the bulls had gone to the altar.

In the temple itself smoke billowed and swirled under the groined roof, but the fire had burned red and clear and the flames were steady on the thick dark, evil-smelling candles. All the horrid paraphernalia of Mr Mundford's rites were spread about, and in the midst of them Richard Shelmadine lay on his side, his bloody hands still clutching his chest. At the very foot of the altar itself was Mr Mundford, whom this time Simon had caught without his cravat.

Miss Parsons had waited and waited. The fog thinned out a little and the air seemed to grow colder. She shivered and shivered and her teeth rattled without ceasing. But she must wait because there was nothing else in the world to do, and nowhere to go. She had forgotten everything except that she must wait for Damask. She had been waiting now since the beginning of time and must wait on until its end. Slow, cold centuries of the Ice Age went by.

Then there was life on the earth; something moved and there was light, a small, steady yellow eye, coming nearer and nearer. But it wasn't Damask. Miss Parsons broke into loud lamentations of disappointment when she saw who it was so near, carrying the light. A very small Franciscan monk, a dwarf monk, hooded and robed, with the skirts of his robe tucked up into his belt. Monks did tuck up their robes that way when they needed to move freely; Miss Parsons remembered reading about the militant Saxon monks who had tucked up their robes and gone into battle side by side with Harold's house-carls at Hastings. She was not surprised to see a monk on the Stone Bridge in the middle of the night, but she was most dreadfully disappointed.

'I'm waiting for Damask,' she said, but the words came out all anyhow, what with the chattering of her teeth and her sobbing.

Inside the shadow of the hood the monk had a small white face and wide, sleepwalker's eyes. She could see them clearly because the monk had halted and reached out his hand and said, 'I am Damask.' And it was Damask's voice; and the hand which now pushed its way under her rigid, shaking arm was Damask's hand----All most peculiar and confusing; but comforting too. She brushed her hand against the coarse rasping stuff of the grey robe...and was immediately enlightened. Poor Farm stuff! What on earth would they do next to these poor unfortunate girls? Steadying her chin with her hand, Miss Parsons made an effort to speak clearly. 'Poor child,' she said. 'You're from the Poor Farm, are you not? You must come home with me...I will give you such pretty dresses.'

Morning broke over Clevely. Thin patches of fog still clung here and there, but the sun was coming up wide and crimson over Layer Wood, bringing promise of a fine autumn day. Mrs Clopton might have eyed it with bitterness, thinking 'If only ...' Actually she spared it no glance, being far too busy organising hot water in the best brass cans, and a stylish breakfast with three extra places. For the party had been a marked success; despite the fog the whole Thurlow Lamb family had driven out from Baildon, and towards the party's end the persistent fog and some remark about the trying drive back had emboldened Mrs Clopton to suggest that they stay the night. Everything had worked out wonderfully well and young Mr Thurlow Lamb had been most attentive to Ella.

Breakfast was also the concern at Fuller's. Sally had slept and waked feeling cheerful and well and ravenously hungry. She greeted with joy the laden tray which her mother-in-law, with a fond loving look, plumped down on the bed, bidding her eat hearty, for the newcomer was a lusty lad and would take a deal of feeding.

Downstairs again, Mrs Fuller said to Danny, 'You'd hardly believe it was such a touch-and-go job, would you? I feel almost as though I'd dreamt it.'

Matt Ashpole couldn't face his breakfast at all. His head was in two halves which kept parting and then coming together again with a sickening clash; all his bones were hollow and brittle; his tongue was thick with sour dust; he shook as though he had palsy, and he was sicker than Mrs Ashpole had been after her surfeit of chitterlings. But he was not unhappy and he lacked entirely the sense of remorse which is the usual accompaniment of his condition. In fact, discounting his physical woes, he was happy as a lark. It was damned good liquor; half a pint of it had made him drunk as a lord. He knew how to make it, and he was learning how to handle it. Watered down it would be grand, and it'd sell like hot cakes. Later on today, if he felt better--or, if he did not, tomorrow--he'd go on his rounds and look out for more damaged barley and some old bottles, cheap; and all through the dirty winter days he'd just sit at home and work his still. The two halves of his head clanged together and he thought, There never was such a brew! One part liquor to four of water, I reckon. I'll make my fortune yet.

Hadstock hadn't breakfasted either. He was riding over to carry the news to Sir Edward Follesmark, who was the nearest justice of the peace, a friend of the Shelmadine family and a man of sound good sense for all his eccentric ways. As he rode, Hadstock tested his story again and again. So far as he could see, it all fitted together. One man stabbed in the chest, another with his throat torn out...What else, short of the truth, could be the explanation? And the truth was unthinkable, no one would believe it; and, besides, Linda had said, 'I did love him once, and this is such a filthy way to die. Couldn't we...Hadstock, we must hide the truth.'

And what was the truth exactly? Only one person on earth knew that. The girl to whom the yellow silk dress and the other clothes belonged; the girl who had run away, wearing her shoes and one of the grey robes to cover her nakedness; the girl who had left the door open for Simon. And, thought Hadstock, the secret was safe with her!

As it was, being locked away in some remote cell of her brain where even she would never find it again. She thought--as she went about the task of caring for the now-very-sick woman--that she remembered everything perfectly clearly. She could have summed up the whole experience in very few words. Once upon a time she had been, or tried to be, a good Methodist, and because of that she had lost Danny and fainted and gone to that different world and chosen evil. Evil had led her to agree, happily, to take part in Mr Mundford's experiment; he'd given her something to drink which had made her drunk, then he'd done something cruel and disgusting and she'd fainted, just as she had before, and gone to that different place again, and this time chosen good. Then she'd come round and was naked, but there was the grey hooded cloak to slip on quickly and she had put on her shoes. Neither Sir Richard nor Mr Mundford had attempted to stop her and she had run. Along the passage it was easy, she could guide herself along the wall. Then she was lost until all at once the shape of a door was outlined in light, and she'd gone towards it and opened it and there was a lantern on the floor as though someone had left it there purposely for her use. She'd picked it up, run along a passage, reached a door, opened it and hurried as well as she could through the fog along the gravelled road. She had believed that she was a long way from Clevely, and she had gone on believing that until she reached the Lodge gates, which were...surely...they must be...the gates of the Manor. She realised then how Mr Mundford had tricked her with his talk of a long drive and his driving round and round...