Sing Witch, Sing Death

by Roberta Gellis

  "Lady Pamela is not my mistress, nor did we meet by assignation."

  "No? Well, sorry. Mistook your expression. Light in my eyes, perhaps. Where's the fob? I'll take it, if I may."

  "God damn it, George, you cannot pass it off like that. Do you mean to pretend you didn't know I had gone over into the gully?"

  "What? Good God, no, I didn't know. No wonder you asked me why. Thought I'd tried to ease myself into the succession, eh? Damn it, Vyvyan, that's a stupid way to do it. I could find a dozen better ways of polishing you off if I wanted to. Besides, you should know better than that. First of all, what's there to succeed to? You die, off goes Hetty, loan sharks swallow the place. Better off as I am. What's more, fond of you. Said so before."

  "But you must have heard the noise when Sergeant went down."

  George's protuberant eyes narrowed. "Don't know what's eating you, Vyvyan. Don't want to know, but you're coming over quite nasty. I'll tell you, because you've had a shaking up and maybe you aren't quite clear in your head. I didn't hear you. Did you hear me riding away? I was coming from the other direction, the shortcut from the Penzance road, and I saw Lady Pamela. She didn't see me because of the rocks there. I was about to give her a hail when I saw you coming."

  George’s eyes remained fixed on St. Just. "You wasn't looking at the path or at me, Vyvyan, you was looking at her. Maybe I was wrong in what I thought, but all I wanted was to get clear of there before I heard something I shouldn't. If I'd never seen you, we wouldn't have to talk about it—or specially not talk about it—would we? Anyhow, I took off the way I'd come. Felt the fob catch on that tree, but I guessed you'd be too busy to notice it. Path drops a bit there. Pretty sure you wouldn't notice me, either. Rode straight back to the road and came up the long way through the village. I did hear Lady Pam call, 'St. Just,' but I thought she was hailing you. So help me, I didn't hear you fall. Sorry. Could have helped."

  "No, I'm sorry, George. I never believed it. I don't know why I asked. I suppose you are right about my being shaken up. But you really must believe that Pam isn't my mistress."

  "Your affair, old bean. Nothing to do with me. Don't fancy her type. Won't cut you out."

  St. Just burst out laughing and held out his hand. "Bless you, George. You'll make me laugh on my deathbed."

  "Doubt it. Got a few years on you. Natural course of events, I'll go first. Not but what you look like death warmed over right now. Go to bed, Vyvyan."

  "Yes, I will. Send Sarah up here, will you, George?"

  "Right. You might say a word to her. Don't like Hetty. Shows it."

  St. Just nodded, but in fact he said nothing to Sarah about his wife. He told her instead to fetch Pamela to him as soon as she was free of Hetty.

  * * * *

  "Laying in trouble for yourself, that's what you're doing. Master Vyvyan. And I'd like to know how you came to fall. I'll get it out of the lady if you don't tell me."

  St. Just made no attempt to convince Sarah that he was indifferent to Pamela. He had failed signally with George; and Sarah, if anything, knew him even better.

  "The fall was an accident. That was what I wanted to tell Lady Pamela. Both of us thought my horse might have been startled deliberately, but that was not the case."

  "No? Well, I'll fetch her."

  "Not out of Hetty's room," he said with belated caution.

  Sarah looked at him with the pitying expression one might assume over the witless remarks of an idiot child, and left without answering. Almost immediately, Pamela entered.

  "Hetty did not keep you long. Was she unpleasant?" St. Just asked in a rather constricted voice.

  "No. You look dreadful, my lord."

  "Do I? I feel much better, in my mind, at least." He recounted what George had told him, except for George's suspicion about their relationship. A specious excuse for George's decision to return by the main road contented Pamela for the moment. She liked George, and she was tired and worried about St. Just's physical condition.

  "Thank God," she sighed. "It was too dreadful. It could not be real. The shock made us both imagine things."

  "Yes," he agreed. "I had to tell you tonight. I did not want you to cast repulsive glances at poor George tomorrow. Now I will drag my aching bones to bed."

  "One minute more, my lord. I did have something to tell you—or rather, ask—but in the excitement I forgot." Pamela then described the situation of the pregnant maid and the gardener. "Shall I tell Mrs. Helston that you will set matters right yourself, St. Just, or shall I try to get to the bottom of it?"

  "My head is muzzy, Pam, but not that muzzy," St. Just said with a wry smile. "You are deliberately killing time. Why?" And then, before she could answer, Sarah came in bearing a nauseous-looking liquid in a glass. "Oh, no!"

  "Oh, yes," Pamela said. "Sarah guessed you would protest. Now, drink it."

  "A conspiracy," he complained. "I wish you would both remember you are in my employ. Conspiracy is an adequate reason for dismissal."

  "Drink it, my lord. Your hand looks frightening, and your head must feel like something better not discussed." She took the glass and offered it to him. "I shall hold your nose, and Sarah will tip it down your throat," she threatened laughingly. "I am quite strong enough, you know."

  He drank, made an agonized face, and said, "Discretion is the better part of valor—but you won't trap me again."

  "No," Pamela replied smugly, "we will design another ruse." She did not notice the glance St. Just and Sarah exchanged, but went on, "Good night, my lord. Oh, what shall I tell Mrs. Helston?"

  "To go to the devil," St. Just replied with a beatific smile. He controlled himself with an effort. "No, don't frown. You handle the maid. Find out if she is worth saving and whether this is likely to be her only slip. I'll speak to the gardener. I'd send them both off like a shot, but if she is a foundling, it would be like murder to do that. And the man's wife and children must be considered, too. God, my head hurts. Good night, Lady Pam, I'll see you in the morning."

  Without expression, Sarah tugged the bell cord that would summon St. Just's valet and then held open the door for Pamela, whom she followed into her room. Surely, Pamela thought, as she submitted gratefully to Sarah's deft ministrations, I am approved.

  It was very pleasant to have an experienced maid caring for her wants. It was also pleasant to know she could count on St. Just's authority to back her decision about the maid, but was it fair or right? She was usurping Hetty's position in the household. Hetty did not want it; nonetheless, it was an injustice to her, to the servants, and even to St. Just. The house would be run better now, and everyone would be happier, but when she left, the contrast would increase the difficulties and further embitter the situation.

  Sarah turned back the bed covers and waited for Pamela to slide in so that she could cover her. "Oh, Lord," Pamela cried, "I forgot the horses. Sarah, I must dress again and go to see to them."

  The maid looked at her with approving eyes. This was the mistress Tremaire should have, a woman who understood responsibility and would sacrifice her own comfort to fulfill a duty. She shook her head.

  "No, you won't do that. Master George will take care of what's needed in the stables. And don't you fret about Master Vyvyan either," she said, her eyes and mouth a little softer than usual. "I'll look in on him during the night. He's had worse knocks."

  "Do not hesitate to call me if you need me. Thank you, Sarah. Good night."

  The maid snuffed the candles and closed the door behind her. Pamela expected to go out like the candles, but for all her aching fatigue, sleep would not come. St. Just had asked if Hetty had been unpleasant, and she had denied it. On a personal level she had told the truth, but the scene she had been involved in had been far from enjoyable. Poor Lord St. Just, Hetty did hate him—and not completely without cause.

  Far from being angry or scolding Pamela, Hetty had asked if she were hurt, had apologized for her husband's lack of consideration in making her eat in his room to save the ser
vants trouble. She had asked, of course, how Pamela happened to be involved in St. Just's accident, but had accepted the explanation without a flicker of any concern beyond that for Pamela's fright and exhaustion. Finally she had shaken her head.

  "Oh, dear, how unkind of me to be asking questions when you must be worn to the bone. I only called you away from Vyvyan's room so that you could rest. He is never tired and never thinks anyone else could be—no, nor would he care if he did think it. He is a beast."

  "No, Hetty," Pamela had replied, automatically soothing a constant plaint. "You think he has disobliged you, but there are certain situations in which servants become…well, just as he could not send George away if George offended him, he cannot dismiss Sarah for offending you."

  "I was not thinking of that," the countess said. "Stay away from him, Pam." And before Pamela could make an angry protest, she continued, "I could see you felt sorry that he was hurt. You should not. He is evil. Oh, you do not believe me, but you will see. He killed my brother to inherit my father's entire fortune through me…and he plans to kill me too."

  "You must not say things like that, Hetty. You are upset. St. Just may not always be as considerate a husband as he should be, but he means you no harm."

  The pale blue eyes bored at her like gimlets. "I cannot prove it, but I know. You know what Vyvyan is—the finest swordsman, the finest shot, the most bruising rider, the best whip—well, I had a brother not twenty years old, and he idolized Vyvyan. He had to do everything Vyvyan did. And Vyvyan encouraged him. Taught him to fence, encouraged him to shoot and ride—encouraged him and laughed at him. He was a wild boy, and Vyvyan… Oh, it was easy. Vyvyan had a horse, a big red devil as mean as he. He let Harry ride his other horses, but he kept at him all the time about that one. Harry must not touch that stallion, must not try him. It took a man to ride that horse, Vyvyan would say…and laugh."

  "But surely it was right to warn your brother that the animal was dangerous."

  "Warn! You did not hear him or see him. He was daring Harry, not warning him. Oh, it was easy. Harry rode the horse…and Harry died."

  "How dreadful!"

  Tears filled Pamela's eyes, not for the foolish dead boy but for the man who bore the burden of that memory and for the woman whose marriage—whatever it had originally been—was now beyond hope of repair.

  "When did this happen, Hetty?"

  "A year ago. We had been married four years. He was angry because he had found out something about our marriage contract he did not know was in it."

  "Hetty, people do not commit murder because of disagreements over a marriage contract. I understand your grief, but do not take it out upon your husband. He must feel even worse."

  "He made restitution," Hetty said dully. "He shot the horse. There were tears in his eyes when he did so. There had been none when he had the news of my brother's death."

  "I am so sorry, Hetty, but I am sure St. Just blames himself as much as you can. It is horrible, but men do tease boys unthinkingly. To say that St. Just intended murder is not reasonable. It merely increases your unhappiness."

  That Hetty heard her was improbable. And Pamela had not spoken with any intention of mitigating Hetty's grief or suspicion. Hetty wanted to feel those things, and Pamela knew that nothing could reconcile Hetty to her husband. Yet it was impossible to stand in silence and seem to agree. As long as Hetty accused, Pamela was forced to offer mitigating platitudes.

  "You think I hate him," the countess said after a short silence. "Indeed, Pam, I do not. I am so consumed by fear that there is no room left for hate. Cannot you see why I am afraid of people like that Sarah, who is so devoted, fanatically devoted? Do you think she would not slip poison into my morning chocolate? Do you think the grooms, who worship the ground Vyvyan walks on, would not do something to the horse I drove, or to my carriage? Do you wonder why I surround myself with my own people?"

  "Hetty, Hetty, this is hysteria. Even if St. Just were what you said, for practical considerations alone he would not harm you. Suspicion would fall upon him directly. You will make yourself ill with such thoughts. You do not believe this yourself. Why would you remain with him if you did?"

  "Why? Have you never wondered why, if the money is mine, Vyvyan pays your wages, pays the bills, hands me my pin money?"

  Naturally Pamela had not wondered, since in England husbands regularly controlled their wives' fortunes. She had no time to say this, however, since Hetty had continued to speak with a half-mad intensity.

  "Why? Because when I was utterly beside myself with grief over my brother's and father's deaths, before I realized what had really happened—one does not, as you say, believe such things easily—Vyvyan induced me to sign some papers that put my entire fortune into his hands. Did you not notice how quickly I was hustled out of London? How seldom Vyvyan was away from my side? He does not dare let me come in contact with a solicitor who might advise me on how to free myself from this coil."

  "No, really, Hetty, this cannot be true."

  "Do not argue with me. I know what I know. He is planning something or doing something away all day in the hills. Watch him; you will see."

  Of course, Pamela knew what St. Just was doing in the hills, but she made no attempt to tell Hetty. George had done so several times already, and had apparently made no impression. Instead Pamela had said that she was tired and left.

  Now Pamela shifted her aching body in the bed and sighed. The man she had left a short time ago was not the sort who could plan and carry out the murder Hetty described, although if Hetty drove him much further he might throttle her in a fit of rage. If Hetty, who must know her husband after five years of marriage, concluded that her brother's riding accident was murder, it was because she wanted to believe that.

  No one in his right mind would choose so unlikely and unsure a method for murder. Broken arms and legs, broken collarbones, and bruises were frequent results of riding accidents, but deaths were unusual. They did occur, but were certainly not a thing one could plan on.

  As far as keeping Hetty from a solicitor, that was another fiction of her mind. What had there been to stop her from excusing herself on one of their shopping expeditions and seeing one, or even taking Pamela to his office? In addition, Hetty drove to the village of St. Just almost every day. What could prevent her from posting off a letter from there and asking a solicitor to meet her at the inn?

  Although she could have wept with fatigue, ideas continued to squirrel around in Pamela's head. She was sorry for Hetty, who insisted upon being blind and making herself miserable, and sorry for St. Just, who was trapped by circumstances. At least she did not need to be sorry for George, and he was the best one to help with Hetty.

  The connection brought Hayle's suspicions to mind, and that led her thoughts back to St. Just's accident. Quite clearly Pamela perceived that the reason George had given for riding off was ridiculous. A wave of fear enveloped her and was swiftly rejected. If St. Just accepted George's explanation, it was doubtless her own thick-headedness that caused doubt. That thought eased her tension, and at last Pamela felt sleep coming.

  It was snatched away by the sound of footsteps in the uncarpeted corridor. Pamela pulled on her dressing gown. If St. Just had taken a turn for the worse, she could help. She opened her door, stepped out, and the corner of her eye caught Sarah, standing quite still and staring at Hetty's door.

  "St. Just…" Pamela said softly. "Is he all right?"

  Sarah turned, and Pamela's breath caught. The maid's eyes were…were like the earl's. They were not so large nor so well-lashed, but wide open now, in the pale moonlight, they had the same long shape and were of the same weird green. And like St. Just's when he was intense, Sarah's eyes also glowed. Her face, however, was expressionless.

  "That woman is a fool to think she can be rid of me and so be free to play her game." She spoke softly, not to Pamela, but not excluding her, either. "She has brought evil to this house. There has been great trouble here before, but that was tr
ouble born of love. She has brought hate into Tremaire, where hate never lived before. There is a death wish in this house—a threat of death-singing—and the dark of the moon is coming."

  A single convulsive shudder shook her body, while her face remained unmoved.

  "Master Vyvyan must be free of her." Sarah's glance shifted up and down Pamela swiftly. "Tremaire needs a better mistress," she added in a flat, practical voice.

  Before Pamela could speak or move, Sarah had turned away from the patch of moonlight and disappeared down the black stairwell, her feet unfaltering in the dark.

  Chapter 6

  Incredibly, Sarah woke Pamela the next morning, smiling her grim smile as if there had been no meeting in the dim corridor. Pamela accepted the cup of chocolate and watched Sarah hang the cleaned riding habit in the wardrobe, lay out a morning gown and suitable underclothing, and pour hot water into her washing basin. Beyond a "Good morning, my lady," the maid said nothing, and Pamela found the strangest reluctance in herself to bring up the subject.

  "How is Lord St. Just this morning?" she asked at last.

  "Sour as bad wine, but much better. Swelling's nearly gone from his hand. He's feeling his bumps and bruises now."

  "He will not ride out today, will he?"

  "Not even Master Vyvyan's fool enough to try to handle his horses with a bad wrist. He'll find mischief enough to be up to around the house."

  Pamela was washed and half-dressed when she turned suddenly on Sarah. "What did you mean by what you said in the corridor last night?"

  The woman was unabashed. "I meant what I said. I can smell evil, and the death wish is so strong it chokes me."