The Macbeth Prophecy (2 page)

“How do we get to the Gemelly Circle?” Philip enquired, moving over to the window.

“You can walk there from the top of the village, sir. Just continue round Upper Fell Lane and you'll come to the footpath leading up the hill. There's one of them Ancient Monument signs showing the way.”

She moved to the door. “I'll leave a front door key for you on the hall table.”

As the door closed behind her Philip turned from the window and I looked across at him. “You're not sorry we came here, are you?”

He moved impatiently. “Why should I be? It seems adequate.”

He knew I was referring to the village rather than the boarding house but I was not going to press him. I glanced at my watch. “It's five-thirty. Let's unpack and go straight out, so we can get our bearings before the light goes.”

Ten minutes later, collecting the door key left for us, we let ourselves out of the house and by mutual consent, turned up Fell Lane. There were not many people about, but I was uncomfortably aware that we appeared to have a marked effect on those we did meet. Several stopped abruptly and stood staring at us and one, a girl of about thirteen, simply turned and fled. Being identical, we were used to mild curiosity, but it certainly appeared that the residents of Crowthorpe were overreacting. Uneasily I remembered Mrs Earnshaw's unguarded greeting.

However, the attractiveness of the village soon pushed any qualms from our minds. Everywhere there were unexpected turnings, odd little flights of steps, archways crossing the road which, since there were windows in them, were presumably dwelling-houses in their own right. The hotchpotch of architectural styles, whereby a modern bungalow in soft Lakeland stone merged perfectly with its neighbour some hundred years older, added considerably to its charm. We walked slowly, enjoying the prospect of exploring at our leisure all the intriguing alleyways which led off the road we followed, and it was almost with surprise that we came to the National Trust sign pointing up a narrow track between two houses. “Gemelly Circle”, it read. “Ancient Monument”.

I said casually, “I don't think it's worth going to look at it this evening. It's starting to get dark and we shouldn't be able to see much.” And there might be crows up there. I don't know if it was Philip or I who added the silent rider, but we both acknowledged it.

“Right. I'm hungry anyway. Shall we try a pub, or aim high as Mrs Earnshaw suggested? How many hotels are there in the neighbourhood?”

“Three; most of the accommodation is in boarding houses.”

“Well, we passed the Lakeside Hotel, and I think I caught sight of another on Fell Lane, just before we turned off. Let's retrace our steps and see if we can find it.”

Philip's memory proved correct. Opposite the end of Ash Lane a painted sign and open gate proclaimed the entrance to Greystones Hotel and, belatedly wondering whether ties would be
de rigeur
in the dining room, we walked up the long drive to the handsome house at the end of it. An attractive red-haired woman was seated behind the reception desk, and I went across to her.

“Excuse me, we haven't booked a table but could you fit us in for dinner?”

“I'm sure we can.” She looked up from her papers with a smile, but it faded abruptly as her eyes passed from me to Philip just behind me. One hand went to her throat and for a moment there was total silence. Then she said in a strained voice, “If you'd like to wait in the bar, I'll have a menu sent in to you. There'll be a table free in fifteen minutes.”

She wasn't looking at us any more. Philip raised his eyebrows and shrugged expressively.

“Thank you.” We turned to the bar. There were quite a lot of people there, mainly residents, I guessed, since they were laughing and joking with the barman. There was a momentary silence as we entered, but this time it had a more normal quality, such as we'd been used to all our lives, and almost at once everyone started talking again.

“Great being a freak, isn't it?” Philip said under his breath. A waiter came in, handed us each a menu and took our drinks order.

“We'd better not make this a regular port of call,” I murmured. “It's an excellent menu but look at the prices!”

Our drinks arrived and we settled back to enjoy them and take stock of our surroundings. The whole place had the ambience of a country house. There were small personal touches which appealed to us: a dish of
crudités
and assorted home-made dips had been placed on the table with our drinks, and a folded card gave the history of the house, with its terms discreetly printed on the back.

We chose our meal slowly, savouring the dishes in advance, and it was some time before I realized that no-one had come back to take our order. It seemed that the hotel was not as well run as I'd thought; and the quarter-hour wait we'd accepted was almost up.

As I turned to remark on this to Philip, the waiter returned. “Your table's ready, gentlemen, if you'd like to come through.”

“But we haven't given our order yet,” Philip protested.

The waiter looked surprised. “Surely, sir – your first course is waiting for you.”

“And what,” I asked a little sarcastically, “has been allotted to us?”

He glanced down at the pad in his hand. “One
paté de maison,
one vichyssoise, to be followed by Steak Diane and roast duckling. Is that correct, sir?”

Philip and I exchanged startled glances. “Quite correct, but how – ?”

“I understood you'd given Mrs Barlow your order, sir. It was she who took it through to the kitchen.”

“Mrs Barlow?”

“The proprietor's wife. I believe you spoke to her as you came in.”

In silence Philip and I followed him across the hall to the dining-room. As he pulled out our chairs I saw that the dishes we'd chosen were indeed waiting for us. Even the bottle of wine we'd selected stood ready for our approval.

“What do you make of that?” I asked in a low voice, picking up my spoon.

“Very mystifying. Perhaps they bug the tables to save the staff legwork! No-one could possibly have overheard us with all that noise going on.”

Unwillingly I remembered the expression on Mrs Barlow's face when she registered our presence. It had been a mixture of shock and excitement.
Why
did everyone react to us so strongly here?

The meal was delicious and we relaxed, allowing the pleasant atmosphere to soothe away suspicions which were surely ludicrous. The sweet trolley was brought for our inspection, and after it coffee and
petits fours.

“Is Mrs Barlow still about?” Philip asked the waiter as he topped up our coffee cups.

“I'm afraid she's gone off-duty, sir. Can I help you?”

He shook his head. “It's not important.” But we both knew that it might be.

The night was clear and cold when we emerged from the warmth of the hotel and walked briskly the few hundred yards back to our lodgings. Our arrival in Crowthorpe had not been without incident, I reflected, and I fell asleep to the confused memory of beating black wings and the frightened look in Mrs Barlow's eyes.

We woke the next morning to the pealing of church bells.

“Easter bloody Sunday!” said Philip, pulling the pillow over his head. “They don't intend the faithless to lie in, do they?”

“I suppose you don't want to go?”

“To church?” Philip raised himself on one elbow to stare at me.

“I only wondered,” I said awkwardly.

“Do you?” he challenged.

I hesitated. Neither of us was in the habit of church-going, yet that particular morning I felt a primitive urge to put myself and my future in the care of someone greater than myself. To claim sanctuary, protection –

I said defensively, “Easter
is
one of the major festivals.”

“The raising from the dead,” Philip returned flippantly. “It's always happening nowadays. Last month a patient of mine ‘died' twice on the operating table but they managed to revive him each time, and the last I saw of him he was sitting up in bed tucking into fish and chips!”

“Point taken.” I swung my feet to the floor. “We will not go to church; instead, we'll visit the heathen shrine of the stones. Is that more to your liking?”

“Decidedly! But first, if I'm not mistaken, there's a delicious smell of frying bacon stealing under the door.”

By the time we set off once more along Upper Fell Lane, the sun had gathered some warmth and was spilling prodigally over the daffodils which rioted in the small cottage gardens. In one or two of them, old men pottered, straightening to look curiously at Philip and me as we passed. We reached the sign pointing to the Circle and began to climb the steep slope which brought us out on to the open hillside. There we paused for a moment to look back, surprised at the height already gained. Below us Crowthorpe lay sprawled down the hill and at its foot the stretching waters of the lake glowed a dazzling blue in the sunshine. We were almost completely enfolded by hills and not a soul was in sight, though the distant bleating of sheep told us that we shared the hilltop with at least some fellow creatures.

A few minutes' walking brought us within sight of our goal. On the deserted hill the ancient stones stood in their faery ring, a group of them huddled together at one side. I had the curious sensation that I'd seen them before, but the memory must have come from photographs in the guide book. Philip grabbed my arm.

“Look over there!”

I followed the direction of his eyes and gave a low whistle. The hill was not deserted after all and the stones already had one visitor that Easter morning. Leaning against one, her back to us, was the slight figure of a woman with red hair.

“Perhaps now we'll solve the mystery of last night's dinner,” I commented. We must have made some sound as we approached, for while we were still a few yards away the woman glanced round. Then she straightened slowly and turned to face us.

“Good morning,” Philip greeted her. “Isn't it a lovely day?”

“Indeed it is.” She was watching us with a stillness that made me uncomfortable. Her eyes, large and grey, moved slowly between us.

“We did enjoy our meal last night,” I began purposefully.

She looked at me blankly. “Oh?”

“But there's one thing which puzzled us. How did you know the dishes we'd chosen?”

Her face cleared. “Ah! You dined at the Greystones last night? Then it was my sister you saw, not I.”

The implication behind her words was unmistakable and we stared at her speechlessly.

“You're not unique, you know!” she added with a touch of amusement. “We're identical, too.” She held out her hand. “Eve Braithwaite, the vicar's wife.”

I said the first thing that came into my head. “So there are still twins at Crowthorpe.”

Her interest quickened. “You know about the Crowthorpe twins?”

“Some of them,” I replied guardedly.

“Not many years go by without at least one pair, and always identical, which as you know are much the rarer kind. I never cease to marvel that such a tiny place can attract so many.”

“Then they're not all born here?”

“Of course not. You weren't, were you?”

“But we're only on holiday.”

She looked at me oddly. “Are you?”

I moistened my lips. “How many pairs are here at the moment?”

“Only ourselves and the squire's daughters. There was a third, but they – moved away.”

“The squire? That sounds positively feudal!”

She smiled. “He isn't really, of course, merely a solicitor and, incidentally, one of my husband's church wardens. But he lives at Crowthorpe Grange, which makes him Squire as far as the village is concerned – and he has twin daughters, nine years old.”

Philip said – and I think only I caught the edge in his voice – “Is there any reason for this – abundance of twins?”

“Ah!” Eve Braithwaite smiled again and patted the stone beside her. “You can't have heard the local legend.”

During the last few minutes I had become increasingly aware of the presence of the stones; almost as though they were a silent group of bystanders listening to our conversation.

“In Celtic times, this region was the centre of a twin god cult. There was longstanding rivalry between the Bear Twins and the Crow goddess, Macha, who lived under the lake, but as long as the Twins were in harmony, their joint power was too strong for her to overthrow. So one day she craftily sent up a beautiful girl, and as she'd intended both the Twins fell in love with her. Finally the girl agreed to marry one of them, but on their wedding day, the other brother put a powerful drug in the bridegroom's cup and came here to the temple in his place. By the time the betrayed Twin woke and rushed up here, the ceremony was over. Beside himself with fury, he turned on his brother and in that moment, with their power divided, the Crow goddess struck and turned them all to stone.”

She pointed to the half dozen megaliths set apart from the rest. “That group is known as the Wedding Stones, the small one being the Bride Stone, the Priest in front of her, and so on. And ever since, the spirits of the Twins have been imprisoned there and the Crow goddess has held sway.”

The Crow goddess, black-cloaked and sharp-beaked – High in the clear air above us a curlew spilled its liquid song. I could feel the blood drumming in my ears. Eve Braithwaite's amused, assessing eyes went from my face to Philip's.

“But one day,” she went on, in the tone of a mother telling a story to her children, “so the legend goes, a sufficient number of twins will be gathered here to generate the power to release them. And you can scoff as much as you like, but it's a fact that Crowthorpe has always been known for its twins.”

“A very pretty tale for Easter morning,” Philip said unevenly. “But I'm surprised you're not at church with your husband, listening to more conventional myths.”