“Not ‘big birds’; not ostriches, flamingos, eagles, pelicans, storks or dodos. Only crows.”
Her fingers were still moving gently over my forehead and as the last of the panic receded I caught her hand, pulling her down into my arms. She must have understood that my wild kisses were partly reaction, because she allowed them to go on longer than usual. Even so, I didn’t want to accept her limits.
“Maddy, I love you! Don’t you care for me at all?”
“You know I do, Matthew.”
“It’s been two years now. Surely I mean something to you?”
“Of course you do.”
“More than Philip?” I hadn’t meant to say it.
I felt her surprise but she replied calmly, “I know you better, don’t I?”
It was not the answer I wanted, and I said unfairly, “He has this crow phobia too.” I didn’t intend my disgraceful behaviour to be to Philip’s advantage.
“What started it, do you know?”
“It’s something we’ve always had. No doubt there’s some Freudian explanation. I’m sorry I made such a fool of myself.”
“Don’t be silly, you couldn’t help it.”
“That’s no comfort.” I rubbed my hands over my face. “I could use a stiff drink but I spilled even the last of the coffee!”
“Do you want to go on, or shall we turn back?”
“We’ll go on,” I said.
So we continued our climb, but the day was spoiled. I knew my irrational behaviour had disturbed Madeleine and I even blamed her for having been there to witness it. Nor was my discomposure limited to that afternoon. During the week that followed I was constantly on edge and my resulting lack of judgment led to a course of action I instantly regretted.
Glancing at a newspaper during a free period, I came across a review of Jason Guinn’s play which had just changed theatres, and its title, Clouded Crystal, vividly recalled the American professor and his talk of Macbeth prophecies. Almost without thought, I tore a page from one of the exercise books in the pile at my elbow and wrote in large block letters:
IF YOU STILL DOUBT THE EXISTENCE OF MACBETH PROPHECIES, COME TO CROWTHORPE AND SEE ONE FULFILLING ITSELF!
I found a used envelope in the waste paper basket, scrawled out the address and substituted Quinn’s name, care of the theatre where his play was running. I sealed it with sticky tape, then, before I could change my mind, went straight out and posted it in the pillar box at the corner of Broad Walk.
Almost immediately, I wished I could reclaim it. It was a childish thing to have done and I hadn’t even had the courage to sign my name. I told myself that Jason Quinn must be used to anonymous letters and would pay no attention to it, and with that bleak comfort I had to be content.
The summer crawls on. I’ve developed the habit of going for long, solitary walks over the fells. I have this compulsion to keep testing myself, to see if on my next encounter with a crow I could make better account of myself. Then what? Should I run to Madeleine and say like a child, ‘Look – this time I wasn’t afraid!’?
Philip came in the other day while I was working on this account. It was the first time he’s found me with it since I usually write in my room at night.
“What’s that?” he asked curiously.
“A record of the things that have happened since we came to Crowthorpe. A kind of diary, really.”
“Evidence for the prosecution?”
“Perhaps.”
He said uneasily, “You’re not putting everything down, are you?”
“Most of it. It’s no use unless it’s a full account.”
He shrugged and turned away. “Well, if you’ve nothing better to do with your time ...”
But this afternoon when I came in from school I found him in my room with the papers in his hand. He turned sharply as I entered.
“You’ve certainly been dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s. Do you think it’s wise?”
With forced calm I took the papers out of his hand. “It won’t do us any harm. If anyone ever reads it, we’ll be well out of their reach.”
He frowned. “You talk in riddles these days.”
I made some noncommittal reply and the moment passed. But it was a warning I can’t afford to ignore. I was aware the power might compel me to destroy this, but I’d overlooked the possibility of its using Philip. Perhaps if I’d been a few minutes later he might have removed it, taken it away somewhere to burn or tear up at his leisure. Because Philip is as deeply committed in all this as I am, and as much in thrall to whatever it is that governs us.
So this page will be my last entry. Tomorrow I shall parcel it up and take it to the bank with instructions that it be held unopened till Philip’s and my death. Thereafter, it is to be handed to Douglas Braithwaite to deal with as he thinks fit.
So, Douglas, if the time ever comes for you to read this, say a prayer for all the Crowthorpe twins. We shall have need of it.
Part Two
Nine
“My God!”
“What now? Death and disaster in the evening paper?” Jason Quinn held out a brimming glass and the other man took it.
“Death, certainly, and in one of the villages where I stayed last month.” He took a sip of his drink and lifted the paper again. “‘The victim, Patsy Lennard, 19, was a chambermaid at the Lakeside Hotel. Her body was found early this morning near the megalithic monument known as the Gemelly Circle. The eyes had been removed – ‘pecked out’, according to a witness – and the throat savagely torn as though an implement such as a beak had been used. There are carrion crows in the area, but since they rarely attack people, the police are treating the death as suspicious.’”
“Should do wonders for their tourist trade!” Jason commented, leaning back in a corner of the sofa. “Where is this place?”
“Up in the Lakes – a village called Crowthorpe. In fact, that was where –”
“Crowthorpe?”
“You know it?”
“The name rings a bell. I’ve a feeling that was the place mentioned in a crank letter I received a few months ago. Unsigned, naturally. I threw it in the waste basket with the rest, and then for some reason retrieved it.”
He went across to his bureau and flicked through the pigeon-holes. “Yes, here it is: postmarked last September. I remember now; it intrigued me because it referred back to Macbeth prophecies. Remember that programme I did with a Yankee professor? See what you make of this: ‘If you still doubt the existence of Macbeth prophecies, come to Crowthorpe and see one fulfilling itself!’”
“A crank, as you said.”
“Written on a torn piece of paper and the envelope has been used before. The address is scratched out but still legible. Crowthorpe Primary School, Broad Walk, Crowthorpe, Cumbria. Not quite as anonymous as our mystery writer intended, perhaps. ‘Light thickens, and the crow makes way to the rooky wood.’”
“If you’re going to quote from the Scottish play,” said a light voice, “I shall leave again at once!”
Jason looked up and Ted Latimer rose to his feet as Tania pushed the door shut behind her and come down the three steps into the sitting-room.
“Sorry I’m late, blame it on the traffic.” She pressed a cheek against Ted’s and went over to her husband, dropping a kiss on top of his head. “Hi, lover. A large brandy, if you please, and pronto!”
Ted watched her with a jaundiced eye as, tossing her jacket over the back of a chair, she ran her fingers through her blonde, frizzy hair, making it stand out even more.
“God, it was hot at the theatre! I’m not sorry we’re coming to the end of the run.”
“Nor am I,” Jason murmured. “We’ll be able to eat at a civilized time again.”
The clock on the mantelpiece showed it was past eleven.
“Anything else lined up?” Ted asked dutifully.
“Not till the autumn, thank God. Then we go into rehearsal for the new Pinter.” She flopped into a chair and took the glass Jason he
ld out. “What was that sinister quotation in aid of, anyway? You should know it’s bad luck to quote Macbeth.”
“Only backstage, they tell me. There are gruesome goings on up in Cumbria, in a village someone asked me to visit.”
“What someone?”
He picked up the sheet of paper. “The letter’s unsigned, but at least it’s not abusive for once.”
“What does it say?”
He read it to her, adding, “My quote was simply association of ideas: Macbeth and crows.” He looked at Ted. “And crows are mentioned in the paper, too. The girl’s eyes were apparently pecked out.”
“Thank you!” Tania rose in one fluid movement. “I shall take my glass with me to the bathroom and have a quick shower. Shall we eat outside? It’s still very warm and I love seeing all the lights. What has Françoise left for supper? I’m ravenous.”
“Cold soup and crab salad. I saw them when I put the wine in the fridge.”
“Fine. Give me ten minutes, then we’ll eat.”
Ted watched her go. “I saw Penelope today,” he said abruptly.
Jason smiled. “Subtlety was never your strong suit.”
“Sorry. I didn’t think it showed.”
“That you don’t approve of Tania? I’ve always known, though whether it’s just jealousy on Pen’s behalf –”
“She’s worth ten of this one. If you weren’t such a stubborn so-and-so you’d admit it.”
“I never discuss my wives, Ted, past or present. How was Pen?”
“Fine, as usual.”
“Did you meet by chance?”
“No.” Ted held Jason’s eyes steadily. “I might be your agent, but I’m damned if I see why I should break off diplomatic relations with Penelope just because you were misguided enough to leave her. Though from what she was saying I gather you see quite a bit of her yourself.”
“I drop in from time to time.”
“Can’t say I blame you. All right – sorry! Young Emily’s not too well, though. A touch of tonsilitis, Penelope thinks. She’s kept her home from school all week.” He looked across at his friend curiously. “Don’t you ever miss your children, Jason?” As he spoke, he wondered if such directness would be resented. Jason Quinn was not one to encourage confidences.
However, Jason merely answered lazily, “I’ve never been a family man. You know that, Ted.”
Perhaps that’s why he’d been such easy game when this self-centred little tart set her cap at him. While Penelope – Ted’s fingers unconsciously tightened round his glass, remembering how she had turned to him for support. Not for anything else, though, he reflected ruefully, and marvelled, not for the first time, that neither she nor Jason had any inkling of his own feelings for her.
“Right, supper coming up!” Tania had changed into linen trousers and a sleeveless silk top the colour of her eyes. “Make yourselves useful, both of you. Would you set the tray, Ted, while Jason opens the wine? I went on to the balcony after my shower, and the temperature out there is perfect – incredible that it’s only mid-May.”
“I hope you were decently clad,” Jason murmured, with a wink at Ted.
“Starkers actually, darling, but it was dark, so who cares? Not that anyone could have seen me in broad daylight. That’s the advantage of a penthouse flat.”
And not the only one, thought Ted, looking round the luxurious apartment, though for himself he preferred the homely atmosphere of Penelope’s little house in Blackheath.
Strategic lamps lit the roof garden, where pots and containers of all shapes and sizes spilled over with late spring flowers. A young vine had been trained up one of the white trellises and a pink magnolia contributed its oddly pungent scent of raspberry sorbet.
The iced cucumber soup was excellent, the conversation light and amusing, but Ted’s mind kept returning to the newspaper report. He could almost visualize that poor girl lying there on the hilltop –
He dropped his spoon with a clatter, feeling the hair on the back of his head begin to rise. Jason and Tania looked at him enquiringly.
“You can’t have burnt your tongue, Ted!”
“I’m sorry. I – just remembered something.”
“All right. I’ll buy it,” Jason said good-humouredly. “What did you remember?”
“Well, I was about to say earlier that it was in Crowthorpe that I had that attack of amnesia I told you about.”
Tania said, “I’ve heard quite enough about Crowthorpe, thank you. If you’re going to start talking about dead bodies again –”
“No, I’m not. At least, not human bodies.” He hurried on before she could speak. “I was on a walking holiday and spending a couple of nights there before going on to Keswick. The first evening, I went up to have a look at that stone circle where – well, that we were talking about earlier. I remember reaching it, and examining a few of the stones, and then – whoosh! From one moment to the next, nothing. Completely blank.”
“You mean you passed out?”
“I don’t know what the hell happened. If I did, it didn’t affect my mobility, because I managed to get myself down the hill and back to my lodgings. I came to as I was closing my bedroom door.”
Jason frowned. “You don’t remember going back?”
“Not a thing.”
“How peculiar. Have you had these attacks before?”
“Never. I don’t mind telling you it put the fear of God into me. The next day I went to the nearest hospital and asked for a full check-up. I was terrified it could happen again, when I was in the car or something. They were very thorough; went into all my past history, gave me a full neurological examination, tested my eyes and reflexes, the lot. What’s more, they referred me back to my own doctor, suggesting I went to see a neurologist, which in due course I did. But none of them could find anything wrong.”
“Did you go back to the Circle?”
“Too right I did, though it took a bit of doing. And nothing untoward happened at all. I walked round and round the stones without so much as a flicker.”
“And you never remembered that blank half-hour or whatever?”
Ted stared down at his cucumber soup. “Not until now.”
They waited expectantly.
“It suddenly came back, just a minute ago. I was thinking of the report in the paper, and the stones, and – it was there, every missing detail. I almost wish it wasn’t.” He smiled faintly. “Sorry, Tania. I’d better stop or I’ll spoil your appetite.”
“Oh, you’ll have to go on now. I shan’t eat another mouthful till I know what you saw.”
“OK, if you can take it. I hope I can! I remember going round behind one of the stones and seeing a couple of boys a few yards away. Only small, six or seven, I’d say, and gypsies from the look of them. They were bending over something on the ground, but I couldn’t see what it was. Then someone called from a distance away and they started to run off without seeing me. I was curious enough to go over and look at what they’d left lying there. It was a dead sheep.”
Jason raised an eyebrow. “That’s the punch-line? I should think sheep-stealing’s fairly common among gypsies.”
“No doubt. But you don’t usually find the abandoned carcass with its throat slit and all the blood drained out of it.”
Tania’s hand went to her mouth and a sudden breeze bent the candle flame.
“Go on,” Jason said quietly.
“I stood staring down at it, feeling decidedly queasy,
I admit, but still perfectly clear-headed. Then I heard a faint sound. I remember wondering if the boys had come back, and if so what I could say to them. They were there all right, as alike as two peas – twins, I suppose – but I didn’t get the chance to say a thing. They stood gazing at me, and so help me I felt a kind of paralysis creeping over my brain. Can you imagine that? I could actually feel myself forgetting – the stones, then the dead animal, and finally the kids themselves. And I remember turning like a robot and trotting meekly back to the village, for all the
world as though that was what I’d been ‘programmed’ to do. What’s more, I doubt if I’d ever have remembered what happened, if it hadn’t been triggered off by that report in the paper.”
Jason was looking at him with narrowed eyes. “You’re suggesting the episode was deliberately blotted out of your memory?”
“I’m damn sure it was. I tell you I could feel it happening.”
Tania said on a high note, “Are you going to finish your soup?”
“Sorry. Yes, of course.” He picked up his spoon and sipped the last of the pale green liquid. Somehow it didn’t taste quite as good as before.
No-one spoke while Tania removed the plates and put the salad on the table.
“Do you think the two things are connected?” Ted asked then. “The throat seems to have been attacked in both cases.”
Jason pushed the salad bowl towards him. “You never struck me as a likely case for brainwashing, Ted.”
“All right, we all know your views on such things. I was inclined to agree with you, till this. And brainwashing is a fact of life. Look at all those prisoners of war –
“By specialists, under rigorous conditions, yes. But by a couple of small children on a Cumbrian hillside?”
“Perhaps,” Tania said shakily, “you’re lucky they stopped at brainwashing.”
“Oh, come now, darling! You surely don’t imagine those little boys had anything to do with the girl’s death?”
“As Ted said, there are similarities: location, method of killing. The sheep, that is, not Ted!”
“Thank God!” muttered Ted under his breath.
“It could be,” Tania continued, “that your unknown correspondent had a point, and there is something strange going on.”
“You’re sure you do remember all that, Ted? Could your memory perhaps have been ‘assisted’ by what you read in the paper?”
“Not in the way you imply. I swear, Jason, I remember it all perfectly clearly now. And as I said, I rather wish I didn’t.”
“I wonder what the Macbeth prophecy was,” Jason mused. “The one which is supposedly fulfilling itself. If, of course, it hasn’t already done so by now. You know, this village of yours is beginning to interest me.” He glanced at his wife. “How do you fancy a holiday, my love, when the play comes off? A touch of clear Cumbrian air would revive you wondrously.”
The Macbeth Prophecy Page 11