The Macbeth Prophecy

by Anthea Fraser

  THE MACBETH

  PROPHECY

  Anthea Fraser

  CHIVERS

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data available

  This eBook published by AudioGO Ltd, Bath, 2012.

  Published by arrangement with the Author

  Epub ISBN 9781471310287

  Copyright © 1995 by Anthea Fraser

  The Author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

  All rights reserved

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental

  Jacket illustration © iStockphoto.com

  Contents

  Part 1

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Part 2

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Epilogue

  “What are Macbeth Prophecies? They are forecasts of the future which, deliberately or unconsciously, well meant or malignant, cause to happen what they foretell.”

  Paul Tabori, Crime and the Occult (David & Charles)

  Part One

  One

  Jason Quinn was on television this evening, complacent as ever about the limitations of his narrow world, as abrasively incredulous of anyone who dared question them. I longed to confront him with all that has happened since Philip and I came to Crowthorpe, but of course he wouldn’t believe it. There are times when I don’t myself but it still goes on, though whether the motivating power is collective human consciousness or something which emanates from those cold, grey stones on the hillside, I’m no longer able to judge.

  Seeing his patronizing face took me back to that other programme which alerted us to the full significance of Janetta Lee’s prediction, and still farther back – almost seven years – to the selves we had been when we first came to Crowthorpe; jaunty, overconfident, supremely pleased with ourselves and each other.

  Part of our high spirits had simply been the result of being together. Identical twins have a unique relationship. Philip is and always has been simply an extension of myself. Even our mother soon gave up her attempts to distinguish us, distributing rewards and punishments equally since she had no way of knowing which of us had earned them. It was a small price to pay for having a doppelganger.

  Over the previous few years however, we’d been unavoidably separated. I had completed my university course and moved first to a college of education and then to a primary school in Swindon, while Philip remained behind pursuing his seemingly endless medical studies. At the time of that holiday he had been qualified for just over a year and we were on the lookout for a move that would bring us together again. Quite simply, we were incomplete apart.

  Though perforce a jack-of-all-trades at the primary school, my subject was history and it was in the pages of a history book that I first saw the name of Crowthorpe. It appeared in a chapter recording the notorious witch trials of the seventeenth century, and the entry read: The Bray twins of Crowthorpe in the county of Cumberland, on trial at Lancaster assizes, confessed to “extreme abominations”.

  The association of twins and crows fleetingly caught my interest, since Philip and I had had a phobia about the birds all our lives. Then, barely a week later, I came across another reference in a different context. Twin brothers from Crowthorpe had been shot as deserters during the Napoleonic Wars. It struck me as incredible that a small Lakeland village had twice in the last three hundred years produced twins famous or infamous – enough to reach the history books.

  Was it only coincidence? Is there, indeed, any such thing? Whether or not, I was sufficiently intrigued to look up the village in my atlas and discover that just beyond it lay an ancient stone circle. That, for me, clinched the matter. One of my main interests was Celtic culture and I had written a paper on it for my thesis. That evening I phoned my brother and proposed that we went there for our Easter holiday.

  “Crowthorpe?” he’d repeated incredulously. “You can’t be serious!”

  “But it’s in the Lakes, Philip. We were thinking of going up there at Easter. And the place seems to breed twins! One pair in the seventeenth century were convicted of witchcraft and another shot as deserters during the Napoleonic Wars. Don’t you think that’s a coincidence?”

  “The coincidence,” Philip said slowly, “is that you happened to read about them.”

  However his interest was aroused, as I’d known it would be, and the discovery of the proximity of the famous Gemelly Circle settled the matter. Whether purely by chance, or as the result of a nudge from fate, we wrote off for accommodation and the evening before the holiday, met by arrangement at our parents’ house in Gloucester.

  Philip was anxious to see the leaflets I’d brought with me, but after a cursory glance he nodded and turned away. “Yes, just as I thought,” he said. I made no comment. Often it was enough that one of us should read something for both of us to acquire the knowledge. It was an aspect of our closeness which we accepted but never discussed, instinctively shying away from any admission of telepathy. Ironic, now, to remember that former caution.

  Our mother, however, with no such convenient methods of divination, wanted all the details of our proposed holiday. “Where exactly is this place you’re going?” she demanded as we sat with pre-dinner drinks.

  “The northern Lake District,” I replied somewhat obliquely, and added, with the forlorn hope of stemming further questions, “a few miles north-east of Keswick.”

  “But what’s it called?”

  Briefly my eyes met Philip’s, watchful, still not entirely at ease. “Crowthorpe,” I said reluctantly. “It’s at the northern end of Lake Crowswater.” And before I was aware of it, an involuntary shudder trickled down my back.

  “Crowthorpe?” Mother repeated sharply, no doubt reminded of embarrassing scenes with two hysterical children.

  Philip came to my aid. “We’re big boys now,” he said dryly.

  She looked from one of us to the other. “The physician has healed himself? I’m glad to hear it, specially if you’ve cured Matthew at the same time. But is this some kind of test? There must have been plenty of places up there, without deliberately seeking out a double helping of crows!”

  “There’s a stone circle we’re interested in,” I said, almost steadily.

  “Well, I can’t say it would inspire me to drive all those miles! What you see in those dismal lumps of stone I can’t imagine. Why don’t you go somewhere where there’s a bit of life and you’d meet some nice girls?”

  Philip said with amusement, “We don’t exactly lead a cloistered existence, Mother!”

  “I’m well aware of that, but it’s never anything serious, is it? I used to be proud of my handsome sons but I’m beginning to think good looks are a mixed blessing. It’s too easy for you, that’s the trouble; you just sit back and the girls come running. It’s high time you settled down.”

  “You want to be a grandmother, don’t you love?” my father teased her, winking at us.

  “And a wife’s one thing you won’t be able to share!” she continued, ignoring him. “Don’t think I didn’t know how you carried on at university, with those poor girls never knowing which of you they were with! Highly unethical, I call it.”

  “But so convenient!” murmured Philip unrepentantl
y.

  By the next morning we were in a fever of impatience to be on our way and made straight for the motorway, eating up mile after mile of unvarying road until, at last, the Midlands fell behind us, the hills came nearer and the land opened out on either side. We turned off at Penrith and the excitement which had hold of me was no longer pleasant, drying my mouth but making my hands damp and clammy. I sat gripping the road map and hoping Philip wouldn’t notice my growing agitation. Perhaps, like myself, he was belatedly doubting the wisdom of staying in a village called Crowthorpe. “We’re big boys now,” he’d said. But phobias don’t end with adolescence.

  I forced myself to look out of the window at the stretching fells and the crags looming against the innocent blue of the sky. Some of the higher ones were still capped with snow, reminders of the long cold winter just behind us. A few miles short of Keswick, the road we were watching for opened up on our right. “Barrowick 5, Crowthorpe 11” read the signpost. And now that our journey was almost complete, I was aware of holding back, of wishing the miles that separated us from our destination were lengthening rather than shortening.

  In no time it seemed we were through Barrowick, with its parks and gift shops, and the road was running alongside Lake Crowswater – one mile wide and six long, according to the guide book – hugging the western shores closely. On the far side of the water the hills came down almost to the lake and it was obvious that any paths there might be over there would be suitable only for walkers.

  I was so intent on the beauty of the scenery that I didn’t notice the bird until Philip swore suddenly and the car skidded to a halt. Jerking round, I turned to ice as a huge crow rose almost from beneath our wheels, filling the entire windscreen with its dark menace. Either it moved abnormally slowly or sheer terror made it seem so. Philip and I continued to sit with sweat coursing down our bodies while the creature blundered over to a signpost beside the road, where it sat glaring at us balefully and uttering its hoarse, staccato cry. Finally, just as my nerves reached snapping point, it took off with a clatter of heavy wings, rising in laborious flight towards the hillside directly ahead of us. When I was able to look at him, Philip’s face was white and shining, a mirror, I knew, of my own, and I wondered whether the increasing malaise I’d felt over the last hour had foreshadowed this encounter. He nodded to the post where the bird had briefly perched. “Crowthorpe,” I read.

  “It’s gone ahead to announce our arrival.”

  I forced an uncertain laugh. “Hardly the welcome we might have hoped for! Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea after all.”

  “Now he tells me!” Philip said tonelessly. “Got a cigarette?”

  I looked at him in surprise. Neither of us had smoked for years. “Sorry. Look –” I moved awkwardly. “Would you like to turn back? We don’t have to stay here. We could spend the night in Barrowick and then go on to Grasmere or Ambleside.”

  “Because we were frightened by a bird?” Philip turned his head to look at me. “Matthew, I’m a doctor of medicine, heaven help me. Superstition has no place in my philosophy.”

  I could still feel the sickeningly irregular beating of my heart. I think I was almost annoyed with him for not taking the chance I offered and reversing the car at once. But perhaps there was no turning back, even then, and Philip had simply recognized the fact before I had. Whatever his reasons, he switched on the ignition and the car moved slowly forward. We had reached the head of the lake and on our right lay the imposing entrance to the Lakeside Hotel.

  “Well?” Philip said unevenly. “You’re the navigator.”

  I had the street map ready. “We take the left-hand fork up Fell Lane. Honeypot Lane should be the third turning on the right.”

  We were still too shaken to make conversation, but the prettiness of the village helped to steady us as Philip drove slowly up the twisting cobbled street. Down near the main road the houses had been imposing, three-storeyed buildings set in large gardens, but as we climbed, these gave way to small cottages which either opened directly on to the footpath or boasted miniature patches of brightly coloured flowers. It was the beginning of the tourist season and everything was fresh and sparkling for our arrival.

  We ticked off the turnings as we came to them: Ash Street, Broad Walk, Honeypot Lane. Philip turned into it and stopped outside the bay-windowed, comfortable-looking house which was number twenty-two.

  Mrs Earnshaw, our landlady for the next ten days, was small and stout and bustling, but her welcoming smile faltered as she opened the door to see both of us standing there. “Twins, is it?” she exclaimed. “You never said!” Then, recovering herself, “But of course, you wouldn’t, would you? Come inside, gentlemen. You’re our only guests for Easter, so you must make yourselves at home.”

  We followed her up the narrow stairs and into the room reserved for us. It was square and neat, furnished with the bare essentials. We had expected nothing more.

  “I don’t do evening meals, as you know, but there’s plenty of choice in the village. There are several pubs where you can get a hot dinner and a café or two on Lake Road or the High Street. Or if you feel like treating yourselves your first evening, all the hotels are open to non-residents.”

  “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.