It was after eleven when the last person went home. Neil let himself out of the side door of the hotel and walked slowly down the gravel drive towards the brake of trees which sheltered it from the sea. Behind the trees sprawled the ruins of the castle.
It was a cold blustery night; very dark. There was no moon and only one or two stars appeared between the threatening clouds. Neil found his way almost by instinct towards the castle and stood, his hand on the crumbling stone of the seaward wall, listening to the deafening crash of the waves on the beach. Every now and then he could see the white foam on a rolling breaker exploding in the darkness below him. The air was sharp with salt; the ground seemed to tremble beneath his feet with the power of the sea – the ground with its dark, hidden reserves of oil.
He sat down on the wall, the collar of his jacket pulled up around his face, his hair whipping round his ears, feeling specks of spray stinging his skin. The first round had been played; the first shots fired across Sigma’s bows. He stared thoughtfully into the dark. The money would be a lure to the locals, he was under no illusions about that. They were hard realists. They might love Duncairn but they lived here. They knew the poverty which could come with a poor fishing season. They were not sentimental. He had to appeal to a deeper, more atavistic instinct than sentiment. Sentiment would do for the people of Edinburgh and Glasgow; for the readers of the English newspapers, and for himself.
He ran his hand over the cold stones with their wet film of spray. They belonged to Clare Royland and she belonged to them. Why, oh why, could she not feel it too?
The house in Campden Hill seemed far too small with Sarah and Casta there as well. It was suddenly full of the smell of wet dog and cooking as Clare changed out of her jeans in the bedroom, putting on a dress for dinner. There had been no word from Paul. She had waited for an irate phone call as soon as Henry took the papers back to him the day before, but none had come. There had been no word last night and none this morning before she and Sarah had set out for London.
She was sitting before the dressing table combing her hair when she heard the front door slam, then the murmur of Paul’s voice as he spoke to Sarah. It was a full ten minutes before he came upstairs. He stood for a moment looking at her, then, slowly taking off his jacket he proceeded to hang it up in the cupboard.
‘I hear the traffic was bad coming into town.’
Clare swallowed. ‘It was heavy,’ she agreed cautiously. After a long silence she went on, ‘I wasn’t sure if you were dining here this evening?’
‘I have already told Sarah I am.’ He pulled off his tie and unbuttoned his shirt. ‘Chloe phoned last night, by the way. She wants to meet you for lunch tomorrow. I told her you would unless she heard to the contrary tonight.’ He disappeared into the bathroom and she heard the water running into the basin.
She had been breathing deeply, expecting any moment a tirade of abuse. This cold politeness was more than she could bear. She stood up and went to the door. Paul was washing his face over the basin. Looking at his broad back and heavy shoulders she felt an unaccustomed shiver of distaste. ‘Aren’t you going to say anything about the document?’ she said defiantly.
He paused for a moment over the basin, then he went on sluicing water over his face and neck. ‘What is there to say?’
‘You tried to trick me into signing it!’
He straightened and groped for a towel. ‘In what way did I try and trick you?’
‘You hoped I’d sign it without reading it!’
He scanned her face slowly. ‘If you are foolish enough to sign things without reading them, Clare, then you must expect occasionally to sign things which surprise you.’ He permitted himself a tight, humourless smile. ‘The surprise in this case seems to have been avoided.’ He pushed past her and pulled a clean shirt out of the drawer.
‘You don’t even bother to deny it?’
‘Why should I deny it?’
She stared at him in silence. There was a cold hardness about him which frightened her.
‘Paul, is it true you’ve lost money in the City?’
‘Did Henry tell you that?’
‘No. No, not Henry. Is it true?’
‘I have to find a large sum of money by settlement day, certainly.’
‘When is settlement day?’
‘The 7th.’ He spoke curtly.
‘And if you don’t pay then?’
‘I will probably be able to get some extra time, but not much.’
‘And then? What happens then? Are you in real trouble, Paul? Is it true you’ve been insider dealing?’
He looked at her with withering contempt. ‘Clare, you don’t even know what that means! You know nothing about the City –’
‘I know enough, Paul.’ To her surprise she felt completely calm. ‘I also know that you could cover yourself by selling the Royland shares. There is no need to sell Duncairn.’
She was watching his face in the mirror as he stood with his back to her tying his tie and she saw the muscles around his jaw tighten. His face was white. ‘I cannot sell the Royland shares, Clare.’
‘Why not?’
He turned to face her. ‘Because there is a condition that I have to offer them to Geoffrey and David before putting them on the open market.’
‘So?’ She sat down on the bed.
‘Do you think for one moment I would let them know I am in need of money?’
‘They already know. You’ve been trying to break the children’s trust, remember?’
‘The children!’ He spat out the word. ‘Of course. The children. All the Royland grandchildren.’
Clare clenched her fists. ‘Paul, please –’
‘Please? Please what? You can’t give me children, and you won’t give me Duncairn.’ He swung round to face her. ‘You are useless, Clare! A barren wife with no loyalty!’ He turned back to the mirror.
Clare stared at him. ‘That is not true.’ She felt completely cold.
‘Isn’t it?’ He peered at himself in the reflection. His handsome face was pale and expressionless. He turned back to her. ‘If you’re ready we’ll go down. Sarah has cooked us dinner and there is just time for a drink first.’
Clare looked up at him in disbelief. ‘I’m not hungry.’
‘Then you must force yourself to eat. There is no need for Sarah to be upset. We will not discuss this any more.’ He looked at her thoughtfully for a moment. ‘You have been under a great deal of strain in the past few weeks. It is beginning to show. I think perhaps you should see a doctor.’
Clare stood up. ‘I don’t want to see any more doctors, ever. I’m perfectly all right.’
He smiled. ‘Are you?’
They dined in almost total silence and after dinner Clare excused herself and went upstairs to the bedroom. For a long time she sat on the end of the bed, staring into the distance, clenching her fists. She could not bear the atmosphere downstairs; she did not want to be near Paul, yet up here, alone, she was afraid.
Isobel was near her, she was sure of it. She did not want her; did not want to see what terrible things were happening in the past – did not want again to smell the burning flesh, see the cruel faces of the ogling crowd.
The bedroom had become very cold. She shivered and stood up, walking across to put her hand on the radiator. It was hot. ‘Oh God!’ She stood for a moment, her hands pressed against it for warmth, but she was still shivering.
Outside the window she was sure she could hear the sea. She backed away from the window, her heart thumping. ‘Paul –’ she called. ‘Paul, please come.’
But he didn’t. There was no sign of Paul.
Standing in the middle of the room she looked round desperately. Go downstairs. Now. Go down to Paul. Don’t be alone. She went over to the door and put her hand on the handle, then she turned away, afraid of the darkness outside the door. Busy. She must keep busy. That was the answer. Get undressed. Have another bath. Put on the radio as loud as possible, to drive away the echoes. Hurrying
around the room, she began opening and shutting cupboards and drawers, before going through into the bathroom to turn on both taps full, throwing a handful of bath crystals into the swirling water. At least that blocked out the sound of the sea. Always the sound of the sea. She rubbed frantically at her face, removing her make-up, and then scrubbed her skin until it tingled. She bathed and washed her hair. The hairdrier too would take away the silence. She would like to have gone down to the kitchen for the small portable television, but something stopped her. She still did not want to go out on to the shadowy landing. She didn’t have the courage to call Sarah, nor did she call Paul again.
The atmosphere was gone as soon as it had come. The shadows had drawn back. She stood quite still. It was as though a tangible presence had left the room. She turned off the radio and listened. The house was in total silence, save for the slight rattling of the windows in the brisk wind which had arisen, bowling the dead leaves down Campden Hill.
Exhausted and trembling she crawled under the sheets and tried to sleep at last. Paul did not appear.
She met Chloe for lunch in Knightsbridge. Chloe, smartly dressed in a blue Jaeger suit, had ordered them both a glass of white wine. She gave Clare a quick kiss on the cheek, noting the dark circles under her sister-in-law’s eyes. Clare was wearing a black skirt with a black-and-white striped cotton sweater. She smiled at Chloe as she raised her glass. ‘Is this what vicars’ wives generally do for lunch?’ she said, forcing herself to sound cheerful.
‘Every day if they possibly can!’ Chloe laughed. ‘So, how are you, my dear? You look absolutely shattered if you don’t mind my saying so.’
‘Oh, I’m fine.’ Chloe glanced over her shoulder at the party of young men settling themselves noisily around the table behind them. ‘Things are a bit difficult at the moment, that’s all.’
‘Paul?’ Chloe nodded sympathetically. ‘I gather he’s trying to break the family trust. Geoffrey says he was always very grasping, even when he was a little boy.’ She sipped at her drink. ‘So, do you agree with Paul about the money?’
Clare shrugged. For a moment she was tempted to confide about Paul’s troubles, but she changed her mind hastily. There was something a little too much like eagerness in Chloe’s face as she waited for Clare’s answer.
‘He’s going through a worrying time at the moment in the City,’ she replied cautiously at last.
Chloe raised an eyebrow. ‘Poor darling. You mean he’s down to his last million!’ She pushed back her chair. ‘Come on. We have to help ourselves here. Shall we go and choose something for starters before that lot go and finish every scrap of food there is?’ She nodded towards their neighbours.
Clare took some chilled melon, conscious suddenly that Chloe kept giving her close, searching glances. As they resumed their seats she said at last, exasperated, ‘What is it? Is there a spider in my hair, or something?’
Chloe laughed uneasily. ‘Of course not.’
‘Then what?’
‘I was wondering –’ Chloe looked down at her plate of Parma ham, embarrassed. ‘Geoffrey told me he had been to see you, Clare. He told me a little – scarcely more than Emma told us – he would never betray any confidences, but it’s all so intriguing.’
Clare put down her spoon. Her hand had started shaking. ‘You’re talking about my … my meditations, I suppose?’
Chloe nodded. ‘He is a bit worried, Clare, about what you’re doing.’ She sounded almost apologetic.
‘He seems to think I’m possessed.’ Clare did not meet her eye.
‘Oh, I don’t think it’s as bad as that.’ Chloe gave a little laugh. ‘But he is genuinely concerned.’ Her gaze was fixed on Clare’s face. ‘He does know what he’s talking about. It is his job.’
‘Did he tell you to come and talk to me?’ Clare still hadn’t looked up.
Chloe shook her head. ‘Heavens no! Actually he told me to keep away from you for a while,’ she added with disarming candour. She gave a nervous giggle. ‘But one can only love, honour and obey just so far, don’t you agree? And we are friends.’ She took a mouthful of ham and was silent for a moment as she chewed on it. ‘Were they true, Clare? The things you told him?’
Behind them the noise at the neighbouring table suddenly crescendoed. A young woman had crept into the restaurant dressed in a long black cloak and a high pointed hat. In her hand she was clutching a broomstick. She approached one of the men and threw her arms around his neck. To a chorus of ‘Happy Birthdays’ from around him she threw off her cloak. Below it she was wearing nothing but a black bra and panties with suspenders and black stockings.
Chloe put her hands over her eyes with a helpless giggle. ‘My God! Is that a kissogram girl? I’ve heard about them but I’ve never seen one before! Is she supposed to be a witch?’
Clare smiled. ‘It is Hallowe’en, Chloe,’ she said solemnly. ‘Didn’t you realise?’ She raised her eyes to Chloe’s for a moment and was quite gratified by the way Chloe paled. ‘It is tonight that spirits walk and witches celebrate their sacred festival. What did I tell Geoffrey? I’ve forgotten.’ She wished suddenly that Emma was there. Emma would laugh with her, lighten the atmosphere.
Chloe had put down her knife and fork. ‘Do … do you celebrate things like that?’ she asked hesitantly.
‘Of course.’ Clare looked grave. She knew it would get back to Geoffrey and probably to Paul, but suddenly she didn’t care.
Hiding a bitter smile she pushed back her chair and stood up. ‘Shall we get some more food?’
From the buffet, in the mood to continue her teasing, she selected some rare beef, something she would never do normally. She let the chef pile on vegetables and carried her plate back to her place, then she smiled. ‘It is so hard to get the blood, isn’t it? It helps to contact the dead, if you drink blood, you know.’
Chloe put down her knife and fork. For a moment Clare thought her sister-in-law was going to walk out, then she changed her mind. Instead she threw back her head and broke into peals of laughter. ‘You almost convinced me! Clare, you idiot, you musn’t say things like that. You’ll get yourself into terrible trouble.’
Behind them the witch had settled herself on the young man’s knee. His initial euphoria was waning beneath her plump proportions and he was beginning to look desperate.
‘Geoffrey would never realise you were joking, bless him. Did you do that to him? Did you lead him on, saying outrageous things like that?’
Clare pushed the meat aside in disgust. She wasn’t hungry anyway. ‘Perhaps, a little –’
‘Oh Lord! You shouldn’t have. He took everything you said terribly seriously. He is genuinely worried about you.’
‘I told him, Chloe, that it was none of his business.’ Clare sighed, her sudden moment of grim humour gone. ‘You tell him too. Please. I don’t want the Church’s prayers, however well-intentioned –’ She broke off abruptly. Isobel had had a brother-in-law in the Church too and he had made her life his business with a vengeance. She shuddered violently, her knife and fork clattering on to the plate.
Chloe stared at her. ‘Clare? For goodness’ sake, what is it? What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing. Nothing at all.’
‘Are you sure? You looked as though you’d seen a ghost –’ She broke off abruptly. ‘You hadn’t – you didn’t see something –?’
‘No.’
‘Then what?’
Clare was staring down at the congealing, bloody gravy on her plate. ‘They don’t burn witches any more, do they?’ she said softly without looking up.
‘Of course not,’ Chloe whispered. She wiped her fingers nervously on her napkin and she pushed away her own plate with a shudder. ‘You can be helped, Clare.’ She said it so quietly that her words were almost lost in the general noise of the restaurant around them. ‘The Church knows how to deal with these things.’
‘Does it?’ Clare stared at her bleakly. ‘I wonder.’
15
Mary refused to go back to Londo
n with him.
‘You’re crazy! Do you know that? All our savings, Rex! What about the house in Martha’s Vineyard?’ There had been tears in her eyes when she said it. ‘What about our plans?’
‘Screw our plans!’ He was drinking heavily again, every now and then doubling up in pain as he clutched at his stomach where the ulcer throbbed and burned. ‘This is special, Mary! The ancient castle of the Comyns – my ancestors, for Chrissake!’
‘Your ancestors!’ Mary’s voice was scornful. A daughter of the Mayflower herself, with a pedigree to prove it, she sounded pitying. ‘You and your Scottish ancestors, Rex! All the genealogists said to you was that the name Cummin could have come from Comyn! That’s all, Rex!’
‘I’m a direct descendant, Mary!’ He pressed his stomach uncomfortably. ‘And I’ll prove it. The genealogists are getting there –’
‘Getting where? They’ve managed to go back barely a hundred and fifty years! There’s another four hundred or so missing!’ Usually she encouraged him with his dream, supporting his quest for his roots, massaging his ego with remarks about his aristocratic bearing. The sudden acid from her hurt and astonished him.
‘They know my family came over from Scotland –’
‘So did about a quarter of the population of North America!’ she retorted tartly. She was not going to grant him even an ounce of hope. ‘If you go ahead with this, Rex, I’m leaving you.’
He had stared at her. ‘Mary, honey –’
‘I mean it, Rex. I’m not going to Scotland.’
‘But you’d love it.’
‘I would hate it.’ She said it with great energy. ‘Be realistic, for heaven’s sake. You are talking about a ruin! A few old walls on a cliff in the coldest part of Europe! To rebuild your castle would cost millions of dollars and you still couldn’t do anything about the climate!’ She shivered ostentatiously in spite of the carefully controlled seventy degrees in their apartment building – no higher, no lower, whatever the season.
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