Thorn (40 page)

She led Quincy through a cellar filled with jumble – broken furniture and rusting mangles and an old copper boiler – and unlocked a little door at the far end. The bad meat stench was so thick now that Quincy felt dizzy with it, and the wine was making her head ache.

The room beyond the locked door was small and dark and filled with thick badness. Quincy stopped, trying to see what was in here, and then there was a sharp push between her shoulder blades and a torrent of mad, evil laughter. The door was slammed shut, cutting off the light, and there was the sound of the key turning. There was another peal of the mad laughter – Quincy did not know the word jubilant, but she knew the word triumphant and she knew it meant you had scored over an enemy. The Caudle giant was screeching with triumph and the sounds were cascading into the darkness. Quincy flinched and cowered back. And then above the laughter was the sound of light, quick footsteps going back through the outer cellar and up the kitchen stairs.

Quincy was locked in. She was by herself in the pitch dark with the evil stench.

Freda Porter was not especially worried when Quincy did not appear for supper, in fact she was not worried at all. It would cause her no heartache if the scrubby little creature never came back, because in her opinion far too much attention was given to Quincy, and most of it by Dr Sterne.

It had to be admitted that things with Dr Sterne were not working quite as she had hoped, although it was early days yet, of course. There was plenty of time for the cosy discussions she had visualised and the even cosier suppers afterwards. She was furnishing her sitting room with an eye to this; she had brought some of the Briar House furniture with her because no one was likely to remark its absence, and there was a nice moquette settee and a folding table which you really could not tell was not a proper antique. It was just right for an intimate little meal for two, and it was a pity that pressure of work had so far prevented Dr Sterne from accepting any of her invitations.

But what with one thing and what with another, Freda had other things to worry about than the truancy of a dirty little tramp with no consideration for anyone and no morals either. She was in fact more worried about Imogen.

It had been disconcerting to see Mrs Caudle turn up at Thornacre on Christmas Day, but Freda flattered herself that she had been equal to the situation. She had been graciously welcoming, and she had naturally gone along to join in the tour they had taken because she had known that Dr Sterne would wish her to be there.

After the tour she had invited Mrs Caudle to afternoon tea in her own rooms, because she knew what was correct on these occasions. Proper afternoon tea they'd had (one of the nurses who had nothing better to do had been told to bring in cakes and scones and be sure that the tea was freshly made and hot), and Mrs Caudle had talked with interest about everything she had seen. And if she was
checking up
on their arrangement (a nasty, sneaky thing to do, but not improbable), she would have seen for herself that their bargain was being kept, the Ingram girl was still soundly and safely unconscious. Freda thought the visit had really gone off quite well, and Dr Sterne had even said afterwards that they might hope for a donation to Thornacre's funds. His eyes had glowed with fervour when he said this, and it had made Freda feel quite hot.

The problem with Imogen was that the signs of emergence were beginning to present. The girl was coming out of the long sleep very slowly indeed, but that she was coming out was something only a half-baked trainee would have missed. Freda was very worried indeed; she was occupied with trying to think up a suspicion-free way of retarding Imogen's recovery, and it was too bad of Quincy to draw attention to herself like this.

But it was necessary to give an appearance of concern, and so Freda took the trouble to question the nurses. One of them – a bold little hussy, she was, Freda had heard nasty stories about what she did with the male orderlies in the laundry room – said it was something that occasionally happened. Despite all your care, patients gave you the slip and wandered off, she said. Mad Meg did it on average once a fortnight, and Snatcher Harris sometimes took himself out into the grounds even though he was not supposed to go out without an attendant. As far as they all knew, he had never actually got beyond the gates, said the nurse, but he always leered evilly when he came back, to make everyone think he had been having his disgusting way with a woman somewhere, the sinful old reprobate. She said this almost as if she had an affection for the revolting Harris creature, and added that Dr Sterne was considering stronger restraints for him.

Freda listened to this impassively, and did not say that if she had her way it would be the locked cell with the cardboard table and chair and sheetless bed for Master Harris before long! It was galling to think that Dr Sterne might actually have discussed a patient's treatment with such a brass-faced piece of impudence.

Sipping coffee with the off-duty nurses, which was a little ritual she had introduced because you had to fraternise occasionally and she could not be doing with nonsense like going off to cinemas and wine bars, she said they would not start to worry about Quincy quite yet. The likeliest explanation was that Mrs Caudle had kept the girl out a bit longer than had originally been planned and if that was the case it was slightly thoughtless of Mrs Caudle, but nothing worse.

The nurse who had washed Quincy's hair that morning and helped her choose the blue sweater said, but supposing it was a bit more than just thoughtlessness? She did not think Quincy would have stayed out to supper without letting somebody know, and wondered if they ought to tell Dr Sterne.

‘Dear goodness, of course not.' Freda was not going to say that Dr Sterne was with Imogen and that it was more than anyone's life was worth to disturb him. But since Thornacre's supper was over, she telephoned Mrs Caudle, apologising for bothering her but explaining that there seemed to be some confusion about whether Quincy was staying out to supper. Mrs Caudle would understand that they had to keep a careful check on patients' visits outside Thornacre.

Thalia said, in a perplexed voice, ‘Yes, of course I understand. But, Matron, I dropped Quincy at Thornacre's gates more than two hours ago.'

Really? As long ago as that?

‘Certainly. We had tea here – I mean at the house here. Quincy seemed to prefer it. I wanted to take her into the tea rooms in Blackmere and to look at the exhibition of paintings, I thought she would enjoy it, but when we got there she took fright. I didn't know if it was typical behaviour but I thought I shouldn't force the issue. So I played safe and brought her here. We had tea and buttered toast and scones and chocolate gateau, if you want the details, and then I drove her back. Why? Is there a problem?'

‘Oh no, no problem. No, indeed there is not. Thank you so much.'

Over two hours. This looked like developing into a bit of a nuisance. Dr Sterne could be humiliatingly scathing if he thought a patient had been neglected. Quite tingly it made you feel to see him in a blazing temper, unless you were on the receiving end which Freda did not intend to be. It might be as well to be very responsible and efficient about this and so she rang the local police, explaining what had happened. It was nothing to fuss over too much; there was no need to start sending out tracker dogs or helicopters or anything like that. The child was vague and a bit out of tune with the world, but she was a lot more sensible than some of Thornacre's inmates and she would almost surely come back soon. ‘But I feel quite cold, Constable, when I think of all the things that can happen to these unwary innocents,' said Freda.

The officer who took the call, and who happened to be a newly-promoted detective sergeant and therefore a bit touchy about his rank, said temperately that it was likely that the girl had simply wanted an hour or two's freedom. ‘In which case she'll find her own way back, or we'll find her for you.' He made a few notes and wanted to know if Quincy was sufficiently sensible to ask for directions or make a phone call if she should have got herself a bit lost.

‘Oh yes,' said Freda. ‘All our people have a little card with our address and phone number, and
quayte
sufficient money for emergencies. We are
very
careful about that, Constable.'

‘Well, we'll get the various patrol cars to keep a weather eye out,' said the sergeant, and asked for a description. Small and thin and pale, medium-brown hair and grey eyes. What was she wearing?

‘Does anyone know what Quincy was wearing when she went out? Nurse Carr, you know, don't you? Well, I should have thought you would have that all ready for me, you might have known I would need—Ah, a navy sweater and skirt, with a dark raincoat. Have you got that, Constable? No, a
dark
raincoat. Well, if you would circulate the description. And you'll ask about a bit in the villages? Thank you so very much.'

It was still more than Freda's life was worth to disturb Dr Sterne.

Light was pouring into Imogen's secret forest, raying out and out into the violet mists like a glittering gossamer cobweb. It was as if the portcullis to a light-filled fortress was being slowly raised, and as if soft, gentle light – like molten gold, like melted silver – was leaking and running out in little rivulets into the shadows.

For a moment Imogen could almost see it: shards of pure, clean sunlight and spikes of luminous moonlight cascading through the ancient trees, leaving little scatterings of radiance everywhere. She could feel her mind spanning the two worlds as well: one half still deep within the magic-laden enchantment where there was only the sick twilight, the other half going forward, going up, into the warm light.

There was a sudden feeling of panic and the impression of something dark and heavy hovering over her head, blotting out all the light. Something was happening. Something good? Or something bad? The evil, slavering thing creeping towards her? It was still there – Imogen could smell that it was still here, like a whiff of old evil tainting the darkness.

It was at this precise moment, with the waves of pouring sunshine lighting up the forest, that the forest itself began to crumble. The ancient enchanted wood where she thought she could hide was suddenly no longer safe. It might never have been safe in the first place. But now it was abruptly and dreadfully a sham, a pretend-place, and as soon as Imogen saw this, she knew it could no longer hide her. And as soon as she knew that, she understood it was necessary to leave it.

It was as if she had been engrossed in a marvellous play or a film, and was jerked abruptly into the realisation that the marvellous castles and the mist-wreathed isles and the cloud-capp'd towers and gorgeous palaces were plaster and timber, and that there were men behind them creating an illusion. The insubstantial pageant was fading; it was not made up of hundred-year-old bramble hedges or lichen-crusted stone archways or moss-covered paths. After all it was not a deep greenwood or a hidden thicket; it was tawdry pinchbeck and flimsy cardboard. It was a fake.

As soon as Imogen saw it for what it was, she felt the real world start to trickle in. Remembered fear and panic came with it. There were things she had run from: appalling things. Somebody trying to prove she was mad. Edmund's head at the funeral. And Quincy seeing Thalia in the graveyard, and Imogen's own nightmare journey out to the cemetery. Men digging up the grave, by torchlight. And the red raw screaming thing in the coffin, and finally, the dizzy tumble down and down into the deep purple twilight, into the enchanted bewitchment where nothing could touch you and nothing could get near enough to harm you.

The fragments whirled crazily for a moment, like too-bright jigsaw pieces that would not fit together. Imogen made a huge effort and pushed back the last clinging shreds of melting cobwebs and opened her eyes. She did not know where she was precisely; the room was unfamiliar, and there was a too-strong light in it, that hurt her eyes. There was someone in here with her, and it was someone she ought to know. In just a minute she would remember.

A soft voice was telling her she was safe and repeating her name. It was a voice you could believe – it was strong and reassuring.

Imogen said, ‘Safe.' Her voice sounded dry and husky because of not having spoken for such a long time and the person with the soft reassuring voice held a cup of water to her lips. Imogen discovered she was so weak it had to be held there for her. The voice said, ‘Just a few tiny sips.' There was a good scent of soap and clean skin. ‘Don't try to remember yet, Imogen,' he said. ‘Just think that you're safe. I'm with you, and everything's all right.'

Safe. Yes, she was safe. Or was she?

Because something had followed her down and down into the pretence-forest, and that something had hunted her there, exuding its hungry evil.

And supposing it had followed her? Supposing it was in the real world up here?

A
s Thalia made the now-familiar round of October House, locking doors and checking window latches, she was aware of a strong, sensuous pleasure at what she had accomplished.

The odd fey Quincy was exactly and precisely what she had been looking for. To start with she had been surprised at the ease with which she had found the child, and then not surprised at all. She had been guided to Quincy, just as she had been guided in everything else.

There had been a titillating piquancy about the brief abortive episode before the fire, the child obediently naked and apparently prepared to acquiesce in whatever was asked of her. The feeling of you-are-entirely-at-my-mercy had been amazing. Thalia had felt as if she was surrounded by an immense force-field, entirely of her own creating. I am invincible. I can do anything.

And it had been intriguing to explore this new source of sensuality. There was a piquancy in allowing her senses to be raked into arousal by the child's immature body, and the feel of Quincy's hands on her skin. A smile curved her lips. She would do it again – perhaps she would do it tomorrow night before the final glorious culmination of her plan. It would add an edge of remarkable sensuality. She would bring the girl up from the cellars, and she would force her to undress again, by the light of the fire in October House's large sitting room. She would make Quincy caress her and she would relish the child's fear and repulsion.