The Macbeth Prophecy (22 page)

“But you say it hasn't made much difference?”

The Marshalls exchanged glances. “No.” It was Geoff who answered. “Jason, what I'm going to say now, I must ask you to swear not to repeat to anyone.”

Jason raised an eyebrow. “If you say so.”

“A few weeks ago we had a phone call from the girls. They were extremely upset and at first we couldn't understand what they were saying. Finally we established that they were clamouring to know who had died up by the Circle. We were totally bewildered, because at that stage we hadn't heard anything about it.” He paused and added heavily, “Nor had anyone else. The body wasn't found till the next morning.”

After a moment's silence, Jason said quietly, “What are you saying, Geoff? That it was an example of premonition?”

“Or their infernal telepathy.”

“In which case some of the other twins must have been involved, or at least known about it. Did you tell the police?”

“Of course not. What kind of evidence would that have been?”

“Mrs Staveley is of the opinion that the gypsies had a hand in the death.”

“If so, Davy and Kim would have known, and possibly our two registered some echo of their reactions.”

“You believe it works as directly as that?”

“I'm convinced of it, God help me. Are you beginning to have some inkling of what we're up against?”

As he drove home, Jason was reviewing the extraordinary disclosures which had come to light during the evening, and it wasn't until he got out of the car that he noticed the Selbys' Peugeot parked in the shadows and the entwined figures inside it. He hesitated, but since it was too late to retrace his steps, continued towards the garage. As he put his key in the lock, a car door slammed behind him and footsteps went running round the side of the house.

All thoughts of the Marshalls suddenly erased from his mind, Jason carefully drove his car into the garage and, without glancing at the solitary figure in the other vehicle, set off across the garden towards the cottage.

Madeleine spent a sleepness night as the scene with Philip endlessly played itself over in her mind. Although she had been fearing such a development for some time, its actual occurrence took her by surprise, as did the force of his kisses. It seemed she had overestimated her ability to maintain a platonic friendship with the Selbys and her only option now was to spend considerably less time in their company. Having reached that decision, she was conscious of relief. Emotional tensions apart, she was no longer comfortable in their presence. She could not forget Matthew's wild talk of mind control, and an unacknowledged corner of her brain related this to the fact that the children in his class, whatever their previous school record, seemed to blossom almost miraculously into near-geniuses.

It was almost dawn before she allowed herself to wonder which in fact had upset her more; Philip's kisses or the fact that Jason Quinn had witnessed them.

The discovery that yet again the Smith twins were absent that day did little to improve her temper. “But where are they, Cora?” she demanded impatiently. “Do your parents realize they haven't been to school for two weeks now?”

“Don't know, miss.” Apparently the answer served for both halves of her question. Madeleine sighed and tried to anchor her thoughts to the water-table in the Thames valley.

She had not been looking forward to seeing Jason that evening, but contrarily, when he made no attempt at conversation, she prompted, “No catechism today?”

“No.”

“You think you have all the answers?” There was more sarcasm in her tone than she'd intended and she saw his eyes narrow.

“Not at all,” he answered evenly, “but I realize I might not be getting unbiased information.”

Her face flamed. “If that's a reference to last night, you got completely the wrong impression.”

“Indeed? It seemed pretty unequivocal to me.”

“Which only shows how blinkered you can be!”

The door slammed behind her and Jason pursed his lips thoughtfully. As it happened, he had been considerably disturbed by the evidence of Madeleine's involvement with the Selbys. From his conversation at the Grange, all the Crowthorpe twins seemed suspect to some degree and though he still closed his mind to anything supernatural, the death on the hill was real enough and the Marshall girls had known about it.

While he ate his supper he pondered his next move. There was no immediate excuse for visiting the Selbys, and whichever of them had been with Madeleine the previous night no doubt resented his intrusion as strongly as she did. It seemed wise to allow some time to elapse before approaching them, and dismissing them from his thoughts, he reviewed the remaining twins. At their brief meeting, Anita

Barlow had struck him as the most likely to respond to tactful questioning, and he decided to visit the Greystones Hotel in the hope of being granted that opportunity.

She was behind the reception desk when he arrived, and again he was conscious of the feverish excitement in her. “Mr Quinn! Have you come for dinner? I can offer you –”

“No thank you, I've already eaten. I was hoping for the chance of a word with you, if you could spare the time.”

“I should be delighted. If you'd like to go through that door on your right, I'll join you as soon as I can find someone to take over here.”

The Barlows' private sitting-room was empty. Jason wondered where her husband was and if he'd approve of his wife being interrogated. It was possible that he knew nothing of her activities with the other twins.

“Since you've had dinner I've brought coffee and liqueurs.”

“That's very kind. Thank you.”

She set a silver tray on the coffee table and motioned him to take a seat opposite her. “Now, Mr Quinn, how can I help you?”

He took the cup and saucer she held out. “I think perhaps you know that I hold somewhat rigid views about – paranormal phenomena?”

“Yes indeed.” Her eyes, a deep, luminous grey, were fixed on his expectantly.

“Since coming to Crowthorpe I've been bombarded on all sides by highly improbable stories of gods and goddesses, telepathy, presentiment and so on, which I conclude must be specifically designed as a blind for something else. I should be very interested to know what it is.”

She smiled. “You dismiss it all that easily? Mr Quinn, it would be a privilege to broaden your mind for you!”

“In the sense you mean, I doubt if that's possible.” He could feel her mounting excitement.

“Suppose I were to give a demonstration? Would that convince you?”

His interest quickened. “What kind of demonstration?”

“Telepathy, perhaps. One of the things you consider ‘highly improbable'.”

“You propose to read my mind?” Scepticism permeated his voice.

“Your subconscious, actually, since you'd raise mental barriers to any straightforward mind-reading.” Her eyes, deep and mesmeric, were intent on his and despite himself he felt a flicker of unease. Such total conviction in her own ability was unnerving even if he didn't share it.

“You're not a happy man, Mr Quinn,” she began. “Despite all your success, you're restless and unfulfilled. You pity yourself because both your marriages failed, but you didn't love either of your wives.”

He moved protestingly at the past tense but she continued inexorably, “Your grandparents, who brought you up after your parents were killed, died within months of each other soon after you came down from Cambridge, and you married the first time because you were unsettled after their deaths and wanted to establish some roots.”

She could have read most of that in a newspaper profile, Jason told himself, though no journalist would have disposed of his marriages so summarily.

“She was a girl you'd known at university, who'd already made a name for herself in the literary field and therefore provided not only stability but a challenge. You had no intention of taking a back seat while she received all the plaudits, and you set out to prove you could do better.”

Jason frowned, resenting this in-depth resumé. Though the facts she'd outlined were correct, their interpretation disturbed him. Was it true he'd married Pen to give himself roots? Though they'd been attracted to each other, he accepted he'd not been deeply in love. But that he'd used her as a spur for his own success, that accusation stung. Because, to his shame, there might well be a grain of truth in it, unacknowledged till now.

“But it was too easy, wasn't it? You achieved success with your first play, which was unfortunate for your marriage, because without the stimulus of competition you quickly became bored, and even the birth of your children didn't rouse you too much interest.”

Jason moved uncomfortably. “I thought this was an exercise in telepathy, not psychoanalysis.”

“Then,” she continued as though he hadn't spoken, “Tania Partridge appeared on the scene, which sounded the death knell for your marriage. She was young, beautiful, talented. Everyone was talking about her, and she chose you, a man fourteen years her senior, as her lover. Heady stuff, Mr Quinn, but again, hardly a basis for marriage.”

He said tightly, “Apart from the amateur psychology, you could have read most of that in the press.”

She smiled. “If it's any comfort, your next marriage will be a very happy one.”

“Now you
have
succumbed to fortune-telling.” There was an edge to his voice that he didn't attempt to disguise. “As you're well aware, my wife and I are still together, so talk of a third marriage is to say the least uncalled for.”

“You're annoyed with me and I'm sorry, but do you at least admit that I proved my point?”

He shrugged. “I wouldn't rule out inspired guesswork. What does interest me, though, is why you're so anxious to develop this faculty. What do you propose to do with it?”

She stared at him, pleasure at her success fading as for the first time she doubted the wisdom of it. “I was only showing you it's possible.”

“But you've all taken trouble to augment it, haven't you? The gypsy boys, and the Marshalls –”

She stood up abruptly, smoothing down her skirt with hands that were shaking. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

He rose to his feet. “It was only a thought. Thank you for the coffee and brandy, and also the demonstration. It was quite an eye-opener.” And with a pleasant smile he left her trying to define his last remark.

Outside the hotel gateway he paused, wondering what to do. It was only nine o'clock and the empty cottage held no appeal for him. The character analysis had left him introspective and depressed. “Restless and unfulfilled,” she had said – and she was right, though he hadn't fully realized it till now. He thought of Penelope with unaccustomed tenderness. His attitude having been what it was, their marriage was probably doomed from the start. Feeling the need to speak to her, he set off briskly down the hill in search of a public telephone.

“Penelope Quinn speaking.”

He dropped his coins into the box. “Hello. Pen. It's good to hear you.”

“Jason! Where are you?”

“Still in the wilds of Cumbria.”

“Why are you phoning? There's nothing wrong, is there?”

“No, except that I'm at a loose end and rather lonely.”

“Poor lamb! And there's there no-one nearer than London that you can talk to?”

Fleetingly he thought of Madeleine. “No.” he said. “How's the investigation going?”

“Slowly.”

“If you're not getting anywhere, I should give up and come home.”

“A few things are beginning to emerge but it's pretty complicated.” He hesitated. “I suppose you wouldn't consider coming up to join me for a few days?”

He heard the amusement in her voice. “You're not by any chance propositioning me?"

“Only if you want to be propositioned! Bring the children as chaperones!” It had rankled, being told he'd no interest in his son and daughter.

“We couldn't come before the end of term – three weeks away.”

“You can't manage a weekend?”

“Not really. Alexander's in the cricket XI as I told you, and he has matches most Saturdays.”

“Forget it, then. It was just a thought. Pen, you are happy, aren't you?”

“My goodness, what is this? Pangs of conscience?”

“Perhaps.”

“Then rest assured. I'm happy and so are the children. How about you?”

“Not particularly.”

Her voice softened. “You're thinking about Tania?”

“No,” he said truthfully, “I'm thinking about myself, as usual.”

“Well, cheer up! Give me your number and I'll ring back in a day or two. I'm sure you'll be feeling better by then.”

“Unfortunately I'm not on the phone, and I doubt if Mrs Staveley would appreciate trailing over to look for me.” Nor, most assuredly, would Madeleine. “Forget it, Pen,” he added. “I'm just feeling sorry for myself. It'll pass.” With which assurance, for himself as much as for her, he put down the phone.

“Nell, I'm right bothered about owd Granny.” Nan pushed a pile of dirty clothes off the rickety chair and sat down. “She's not been after them twins again, has she?”

Nell hooked a wisp of mousey hair behind her ear. “Not as I know of. They'd not tell me if she had.”

“She keeps on about 'em all t'time, them and t'other lot in t'village. Talking to herself, like, whether anyone's there or not.”

“Aye, well she has the sight and at times it worrits her.”

“She's never been this bad. I could hear her when I woke in t'night, sitting on the steps of her van chuntering away. Fair made me flesh creep. Yon dog's eating babby's rusk.” she added, with no change in tone.

Nell glanced at the floor where her youngest child crawled, shadowed by the tail-wagging mongrel. She aimed one of her tattered slippers at the animal but hit the baby, which howled briefly.