He turned around and rested his elbows on the walls, staring blindly at the house while waiting for Karragan.
Jeffrey Isle.
He frowned.
And was still frowning when a hand reached over the wall and grabbed his shoulder.
Chapter 4
“Jesus!” John yelled, and whirled about so violently that his feet became tangled and he fell to the grass.
A woman laughed gaily.
He looked up at the face peering over the fieldstone and decided that the only sensible thing to do now was crawl back into bed and hide his head until tomorrow.
“Good afternoon,” he said glumly.
Betty Jerrard winked at him, her face clear and round beneath a pale green cap that fit so snugly it fluffed out the sides of her short brown hair. When he stood, slowly, he could see she was wearing her cycling costume-puffed sleeves on a green overblouse open to the waist and revealing the white silk blouse beneath; her legs were covered with bloomer-like pants, and when she posed prettily beside her bicycle, he couldn’t help grinning .
“You’re a picture, and that’s a fact,” he said, resting his forearms on the wall.
“You think it’s silly,” she replied, glancing down at her outfit. “You think it makes me look like I’ve swallowed a balloon.”
He laughed. It did. And when she laughed in return, he could not help but stare at the large brown eyes, the full lips, the color in her cheeks. Too many of his dreams were taken by her presence, yet too many of his waking hours reminded him that her brother-in-law, Sterling Avlock, had little use for the Vicars, and less use for the sole survivor.
“Do you want to come?” she said, nodding east toward the valley. “I’m going out to see the colts.”
“I don’t think so,” he answered with genuine regret. “I’ve things to do, I’m afraid.”
Her face clouded.
“Really,” he insisted gently. “I do.”
“Well,” she said brightly, “the least you can do for the insult is have dinner with me Friday evening.”
He would have laughed had he not seen the look on her face. “You’re serious.”
“Of course I am, silly. Sterling is not a complete ogre, you know.”
Somewhat flustered, he was about to render his regrets when Karragan came up behind him, dressed in brown-and-gold livery that had seen better days. John had given up trying to tell the man that such dress was inappropriate, at least for him, but the Karragans had been with the family too long to change.
With an apologetic glance at Betty, he asked Leo to see if Mr. Isle wouldn’t please join his friend for dinner this evening. A matter of some importance. Karragan’s face made no secret of his distaste for the Isles, and young Jeffrey, but he nodded and swung himself astride a bicycle he’d wheeled from the almost empty stables on the right side of the house. The vehicle was too small for the size of the man; Karragan’s knees were at comical angles from the front wheel, and Betty giggled as soon as the man was out of earshot.
“For heaven’s sake, John,” she said, “the man is ancient. Why don’t you let him ride?”
“He doesn’t much like horses,” he said, his gentle mood gone as he watched the old man’s back. In truth, the only animals left in the stable were a roan he rode for distances longer than he felt like walking, and a sullen old mare used only for the carriage. Karragan hated her and refused to use her more than he had to; the roan was John’s, and no one could ride it but him.
“And speaking of horses, didn’t you purchase the Bartlett Livery?”
He looked at her sharply, and instantly regretted it when she stared at the ground in guilt.
“Sorry,” she said. “I guess I’m not to know that, am I.”
He wanted to be angry, to demand how she’d found out, but when her woebegone expression wasn’t able to hold and soon broke into an impish grin, he grinned himself and sighed loudly.
“I have no secrets from you, do I?” he said.
“Then you have?”
He nodded. “I’m going to rebuild it as soon as I can, if you must know it all. Clear it all out, get rid of the stalls and, with a bit of luck, the smells too. Then I’m going to sell motor cars.”
Her mouth opened, but nothing came out.
“Terrible, isn’t it,” he said in mock sadness. “What a thing for the Vicars to come to, selling merchandise like an ordinary shopkeeper.”
“But John, that’s wonderful!” she exclaimed. “My god, you’re going to make a fortune!”
He held up one hand and crossed his fingers, though he was unable to hide his pleasure that at last someone didn’t think he was a complete fool all the time.
“When are you going to start?” she asked excitedly.
“As soon as I can. By summer’s end, with luck.”
The sound of a carriage approaching from the east made him glance over, then back.
Betty looked as well, shrugged, and said, “And is Jeffrey going to be your partner?”
“Ah. He’s spoken to you then.”
She nodded. “Just this morning, as a matter of fact. He came to see Sterling and barely had a dozen words for me. He was terribly upset.”
John wondered what she’d say if she’d seen him after the meeting at Syd Edmunds’. Then, without thinking, he told her about Isle’s gambling debts and his desperate attempts to regain possession of Reskin’ s sales. And as he spoke, he wondered aloud if perhaps the items had in fact been stolen.
“Reskin wouldn’t be above that sort of thing,” he said.
Her eyes widened in fascination. “Really? But I thought he was a professor or something.”
“He calls himself that, true. But as far as Sydney or I can determine, the man has no credentials save those of an interested amateur.”
Excitement brought a deeper glow to her face, and she bit lightly on her lower lip. “Yet he’s successful, isn’t he? I mean, Sterling is always saying that Mr. Reskin has delivered more important finds to museums than anyone else except the British.”
“I wouldn’t know about that,” he said. And he slapped a palm against his thigh. “Damn, why didn’t I think of it before? Lord, Jeff could be covering up for problems with the authorities. Not only here but in Egypt as well. Damn!”
Betty raised a finger. “John,” she cautioned.
He knew without her saying it — his own curse of leaping to conclusions had more than once dropped him into hot water, and more than once during their lives had Betty and Jeff saved him from his own too-quick tongue.
The difference now was — Betty hadn’t changed, and Jeffrey certainly had.
“Anyway, that’s why I need to see him,” he said, indicating with a nod the direction Karragan had taken. “I don’t like it when we fight. It serves no purpose except to get us both upset. And I need to talk some sense into him, Betty. If he goes on like this, he’s going to end up in jail. Or worse. And I can’t help the feeling that he’s not telling me everything he should. He acts as if . . .” He waved a hand in frustration. “Damn, I don’t know. I just wish I knew what to do.”
She started to say something, but never had the chance. The carriage, a sleek black brougham, swept up the Pike at a rate that made its gilt-edged wheels roll over the earth like thunder. The driver was hunched over on his high perch, furiously whipping the air above matched bays whose heads were high and whose flanks were touched with flecks of lather. He was about to comment on its speed when, just before it drew abreast of them, the near front wheel dropped into a deep rut.
With a harsh squeal of springs and wood the vehicle heeled sharply to the left, and the driver shouted his anger at the animals who were pulling frantically the other way. Immediately, John cried out a warning as he vaulted the wall, grabbing Betty and spinning her away from the looming carriage, just before the wheel popped out of the rut again and its back end slewed around within inches of where she’d been standing.
The whip cracked.
One of the bays
whickered and snorted.
And the carriage moved on without slowing down.
“Damned idiot,” he said. “Christ, he could have killed you.”
“An accident,” she said weakly. “I’m . . .”
When she swayed he slipped a quick arm around her waist and, when she did not protest, moved her gently to the wall so she could lean against it.
“Are you all right?” he asked, concerned for the lack of color in her cheeks and the way her arms trembled as she hugged herself tightly.
“I think so.”
“He’s an idiot,” he muttered again.
And they watched in silence as the speeding brougham swerved alarmingly to the right several hundred yards up the road and vanished up a drive.
It was heading for Isle Hall.
John jammed his hands into his pockets and glared as if he could bring the driver back for an apology. “It’s that guest of Jeffrey’s,” he said, walking toward the center of the road and back again. “I don’t know his name. Far as I know, Jeff hasn’t invited anyone over to even meet him.” And he stopped when he saw the look on Betty’s face. “You know him?”
She nodded, her color slowly returning, her breathing growing more calm. “His name is Khirhal Bey,” she answered quietly. “He has something to do with Jeffrey’s partner.”
“Reskin?” he said, astonished. “Peter Reskin?”
“Yes. At least I think so. Sterling says Mr. Bey and his wife are something like aristocrats in their country. I gather they’re quite wealthy.”
“You don’t say.”
Betty came to stand beside him. “Do you think he has something to do with Jeff’s trouble?”
He managed a brief smile. “I doubt even Jeff could get in gambling trouble that far from home without leaving home himself. I would guess, though, that your Mr. Bey might have something to do with those things Jeffrey wants to buy back.”
A glance at Betty who was swinging aboard her bicycle, and he looked back at the place where the carriage had swept out of sight.
“About dinner Friday,” he began.
“Eight o’clock,” she said. And as she passed him, a coy glance over her shoulder, she added, “Jeffrey’s going to be there too. Never let it be said that when I have a dinner, I have one everyone knows will be dull.”
He couldn’t help it — he laughed, and laughed harder as she nearly pitched herself into the bushes at the side of the road when she looked over her shoulder and raised a mock fist. Then he hurried into the house, passing through the long front hall into the kitchen where Mrs. Karragan was at the sink. She was as short as her husband was tall, round as he was sturdy, and with her faintly greying brown hair, just as youthful until one saw the lines about her eyes.
Knowing he was in for it, he hastily explained the impulsive dinner invitation, asked her to lay it on as best time would permit, and ignored her complaints about his constant changes of plans that generally required her to be both cook and magician.
Life in the Vicar house wouldn’t be right unless she raised the roof about something at least once a day. As she had the evening he’d returned from the Brass Ring where he’d met Peter Reskin with a check that was exchanged for the artifact Jeffrey now wanted so badly.
It was a shallow wooden bowl, its painted designs faded, its purpose unknown though the partial figures and hieroglyphics around its border seemed to indicate something of a ceremonial nature. Nevertheless, from his first sight of it he’d thought it beautiful in its simplicity, and inspiring in its age, and had immediately cleared a space on the mantel for it.
Mrs. Karragan told him she could do better at Crenshaw’s and for less than half the price.
When he had grinned and told her the artisan who’d made this was far more likely to have his work around in another millennium than anything Oliver Crenshaw could fashion, she’d begun her tirade, not the least part of which was a stiff reminder that the silversmith was her cousin, twice removed.
In his bedroom he threw off his sweater, kicked off his shoes, and stood for an indecisive moment at the foot of the bed. It was too soon to dress for dinner; he still had almost four hours.
Time enough however, he told himself, to begin du Maurier’s book about the mesmerist, Svengali, or do the figures on the proposal Turnbell had made about investing in the village’s telephone system. The banker had advised against it; there were only, he’d warned, ten thousand or so subscribers in the entire country, and he didn’t see the situation changing anytime soon. On the other hand, Turnbell had also been opposed to purchasing the livery and would probably never own a motor car, electric or gasoline-powered, in what remained of his life.
Jeffrey.
He scowled at himself.
But the name wouldn’t be banished.
And it occurred to him suddenly that there had to be, there must be items of equal if not superior value in Isle Hall that the young man could sell. Why, then, did he insist on having the bowl? Or Edmunds’ gold statuette of the jackal-headed man? Or Turnbell’s scarab?
A fist rose to his cheek as he groaned aloud in frustration. He was making all this so confusing, pretty soon he wouldn’t be able to make sense of himself. And he felt worse when Karragan returned with Jeffrey’s regrets; now he would have to wait until tomorrow, because Isle’s departure from High Street today had made it rather clear that a surprise visit from John would be decidedly unwelcome.
“Damn!” he said. “Why the hell don’t you just give him the money and be done with it.”
Chapter 5
The night was filled with noise-leaves rubbing harshly like the palms of a crone, branches creaking like the knees of an old man, the woodland’s nocturnal creatures foraging among the trees for midnight prey; the cry of a train, the rush of a stream, the stamp of an anxious horse against a stout stable door.
Noises unheard in the room made of stone whose color was once white, now darkening with age and the dust that filtered down from the hair-cracks in the ceiling. It was just barely large enough for the banded wooden chest squatting beside the door, the brass-and-copper brazier in the center of the floor, and the huge stone cabinet against the far wall.
There was smoke in the air, sharp with incense, turning upon itself and casting its own ribboned shadows on the darkly damp walls and over the figures painted there, in· rows, in columns.
On a stone table beside the cabinet was a shallow wooden bowl whose bottom had been burned black, a slender gold statuette of a jackal-headed man, and a scarab ringed with pearls. In the center lay a gleaming white robe with silver trim at the neckline, the ends of the billowing sleeves, and at the hem where the silver was intricately twined with gold.
And set apart from them all, near the table’s corner, a small bronze chest encrusted with gems that sparked and flared in the light of the fire that burned low in the brazier.
When the door opened, the flames leaned away; when the door closed, the fire sighed and the embers brightened.
The man dropped his suit jacket on the floor, kicked off his shoes, pulled off his socks.
His face, though dark and smooth, was nonetheless weary, and dark eyes blinked against the smoke and stinging incense; the lips tightened, the jaw steadied. It was a mask of grim purpose, and only when the rest of his clothes were in a huddle by the door did he permit himself a smile that chased the weariness away.
He put on the robe, muttering to himself; he touched the head of the jackal, muttering to himself in a cadence monotonic; he opened the small chest with a small key from a chain bound to his left wrist and pulled out a necklace he slipped over his head, adjusting the sweep of tiny emerald skulls and tinier silver ankhs over the white silk across his chest.
He lifted the bowl and brought it to the fire, placing it on a wired stand that kept it away from the flames.
Then he turned to the north wall and stretched out his hands.
The cabinet doors swung open.
Inside there were stairs that led upward int
o darkness; and down them crawled the night’s mist and the dim glow of the moon.
The man didn’t hesitate; he spread his fingers, bowed his head, and waited.
The night was filled with noise that made the small cottage a few yards west of the rail line seem smaller and colder and less a place of solitary enjoyment than a place of isolation. The trees that flanked it on three of its clapboard sides grew higher as daylight fled, grew darker as the clouds rolled, grew fingers that clawed and hands that grasped and throats that sounded like the harsh laugh of a demon.
And just after sunset, the wind.
Always the wind that rolled across the fields and slammed into the woods, bending new branches and shredding new leaves and passing over the chimney like the baying of a hound.
In the front room, whose walls were lined and stacked with books and journals, Peter Reskin knelt at the hearth, ignoring the wind as he tried to stoke the fire into giving him a comforting heat he had sorely missed while hiding in the forest just north of the village. Hiding until he had known it was useless and had taken the risk of returning, if only to feel the warmth once again.
Now if only he could find where he had lost youth and hope.
The flames spoke to him, and he held out his palms, sighing in the heat he hadn’t really felt in almost ten years. He had been a young man then, just out of his twenties and feeling the power that knowledge had given him, feeling his way through a world the rest of the world didn’t know existed.
Now he was just gone forty, and he never looked in mirrors because he didn’t know the old man on the other side of the glass.
A stick hand held the poker, stick legs held him up, and the flesh across his cheeks was tight and growing tighter as the flames bellowed toward the flue. Perspiration drenched his face, the skin reddening from the heat, yet he stabbed at the logs and threw on more kindling and grunted when a spark flew to his wrist and scorched him.
The Universe of Horror Volume 3: The Long Night of the Grave (Neccon Classic Horror) Page 3