"That does it! I cannot remain as Hetty's companion after this."
St. Just's lips curled back from his teeth in a feral snarl. "If you leave here—if you kill my hope—I'll kill Hetty!"
He would not kill her in cold blood; Pamela knew that, but as she stared at his distorted face, she feared he might well carry out his threat in some blind fit of rage. They backed away from each other as Hetty's voice came up the stairwell to them. St. Just muttered an oath and disappeared into his room, while Pamela leaned against the wall, trying to still her trembling. Steadying herself with an effort, she rounded the corner of the corridor as if she were coming out of her own bedchamber to greet Hetty.
All of the countess's good humor seemed miraculously restored. She smiled at Pamela, apologized for her bad temper, and told her contritely that she had reconsidered. A little drive had cleared her head, she admitted.
The beneficent mood held, to Pamela's amazement, even after Hetty had complained of Maud's insolence to St. Just and had been told it was merely the old woman's normal manner. Perhaps the way he explained was what had the good effect. He was subdued and genuinely apologetic. Hetty did not press the point; she laughed and said she had expected nothing more conciliatory from her husband.
The evening would have been perfectly pleasant, had not George, the mainstay of light conversation, seemed oppressed. He was obviously very much surprised both at the mention of Maud's name and at the attitude St. Just displayed. His expression grew blanker by the moment, but his eyes moved uneasily from Hetty to St. Just over and over.
The more silent George grew, the merrier the earl became. He began to twit George on, of all things, his innocence. A flush of color lent a rich glow to his sun-browned skin, and his eyes sparkled dangerously.
"It is very warm for May," St. Just said with a laugh, as general conversation faltered, and he flung open one of the long double windows.
"Don't act the fool, Vyvyan," George snapped. "It's moon-dark," he added, and for the first time since she had known him, Pamela heard a nervous quiver in his voice. "If you must open the window, at least don't stand in it outlined against the light that way."
"Why?" St. Just asked tauntingly. "There is no one on this land who wants to harm me—is there, George?"
"Listen to the birds," Pamela interposed. "Whatever is wrong with them?"
There was always some sound of sea-bird cries at Tremaire, but it quieted toward evening as the marine hunters and scavengers, who depended upon their sight, came to rest. Tonight it seemed as if every gull and osprey in the heavens had gathered above the house to wail and shriek.
Part of the answer Pamela guessed. The wind was almost still, and the surf was also gentler than usual, so that the bird cries were not masked by other sounds. But why were they flying and crying at all in the dark? she asked.
"Storm coming," St. Just said. "A bad one." His nostrils were flared and his head raised like a questing beast sniffing a scent.
"Witch blood," George murmured. "Always know, don't you, Vyvyan? When?"
"Not tonight."
"Are the witches singing a storm, Vyvyan?"
"I don't know." St. Just answered his wife with a strange glinting smile. "They are singing something tonight. I should imagine it is something big and bad."
He seemed amused rather than disturbed, however, and for some reason the attitude annoyed Hetty. She lost a little of the sunny sparkle in her eyes and told him, rather crossly, to shut the window, because the candles were flickering. Although there was scarcely a breath of wind, St. Just did not argue. He did as he was told, then yawned hugely and said he would go to bed. The others soon followed.
Pamela rang for Sarah and then stood at her window puzzling over the unaccountable actions of the others in the house. Loving St. Just could not blind her to the contradictions in his behavior. In the light of that, Hetty's determined cheerfulness took on frightening undertones. And what was dreadful enough to discompose George?
"You rang, Miss Pam?"
"Is there going to be a storm, Sarah?" Pamela asked without turning.
"Yes, tomorrow night, or the day after. Looks too calm to storm, but it's coming."
"How do you know? Lord St. Just knew too."
Sarah laughed. "Making himself mysterious, is he? Don't let Master Vyvyan tease you. It's the birds. There's no witchcraft in knowing when this kind of sea storm is coming. The fish swim ahead of it, you see, and the schools are so thick that the birds can get them even in the dark. No matter where they dive, they hit fish. The whole fishing fleet is out too. Everyone knows."
"George did not seem to know."
"Oh, Master George." Sarah dismissed him. "He doesn't want to know. You go to bed now, and don't worry your head."
This time Pamela did not find Sarah's practicality particularly soothing, but there was nothing she could do except go to bed. She slept at last, to dream of the screaming birds, a dream in which storm-driven fish played no part. And the screams mounted in meaning and intensity until she sat bolt upright, gasping with fear. Even then it was a few sleep-dazed minutes before she realized that the screams were real and human, not dream bird calls.
"Hetty!" Pamela cried, and leaped for the door.
Chapter 9
The shrieks rose in volume as Pamela burst into Hetty's room, still struggling into her dressing gown. She barely restrained herself from adding to the countess's cries when a darker shadow in the dark straightened abruptly from bending over the bed. In the faint glow of Hetty's dying fire—the countess kept her room stiflingly hot—Pamela could see the dull sheen of a long-barreled pistol trained upon her. Before she really had time to feel afraid, however, the weapon dropped.
"Pam?"
"St. Just! What is the matter?"
"I'm damned if I know. Can you quiet her, or shall I?"
"No, don't hit her."
They had both been nearly shouting themselves to hear each other over Hetty's hysterical screams. Now St. Just stepped back, and Pamela bent over Hetty, begging her to be calm and tell them what had happened.
"Good God, what now?" George's resigned voice asked from the doorway.
He had recovered his aplomb and came in carrying a large branch of candles, which he lifted so that the room was partly illuminated. Under the influence either of the light or of George's calm presence, Hetty's shrieks began to diminish. She screamed again, however, as St. Just approached the bed, her eyes fixed on his pistol, but when Pamela waved him away, her renewed hysteria quieted quickly.
"There was a face, a face at the window," she sobbed, then began to whimper again as St. Just thrust back the curtains with the barrel of his pistol.
"Will you put that gun away, Vyvyan?" George said in a disgusted voice. "Hetty must have had a nightmare. Easy enough thing to do with the racket those birds are making. How could she see a face at the window when the curtains are drawn?"
"Cousin, there is no gainsaying your logic," St. Just replied dryly.
He thrust the pistol into the pocket of his dressing gown and moved toward the other window, stepping very softly. Less occupied now with Hetty, Pamela noticed how swiftly and silently the earl could move in spite of his bulk. Before George could make another remark, St. Just had opened his long arms wide and then closed them in a snatch, sweeping the entire area behind the curtains and the curtains themselves into his grasp. George stared openmouthed. St. Just threw the curtains aside and revealed the wide-open window.
"Good God!" George repeated in a shocked tone. "Do you sleep with your windows open, Hetty?"
"No, no, of course not," she whimpered.
"But, Hetty—" Pamela began, then bit her lip.
She had realized it would be impossible for the countess to have seen a face at that window because of the angle, even if her bed curtains and the window curtains had been pulled back—which neither of them were. This, however, was no time to raise difficulties.
St. Just had latched the window and dropped the curtains
back into place. He stood with his back to them, staring at his wife, his mobile face very still.
"You saw this face at the window, Hetty, not in the room?"
"In my room?" Hetty quavered. "I don't know. I was asleep. I don't know what woke me. I saw a face, and I screamed, and the face disappeared. The window was not open when I went to sleep. I know it was not."
"Who has been in the room besides yourself?"
"No one. My maid, but she could not have opened the window. She knows I am always cold. Anyhow, she did not go near it."
"Could you have felt too warm and opened it when you were half-asleep, so that you did not remember?"
"Don't be foolish, Pam," Hetty replied sharply. "I just told you I am always cold. I have not felt warm since I came to this country."
George brought the candles to the window and was examining the way they fit. After a while he reopened them and peered out at the frame.
"Hang on to me, Vyvyan," he said, and leaned out until he was almost upside down, his cousin's powerful hands on his hips alone keeping him from falling. "Pull me back," he gasped, and the earl helped him upright again. His face was encarmined from his position, but his expression was blank.
"No way for anyone to climb up now, Hetty. Window's locked securely, too. Let me ring for your maid? See if you can sleep?"
It seemed a reasonable suggestion, but Hetty resisted wildly. Nearly half an hour was spent in soothing and reassuring her before she would agree. Her maid was summoned at last, however, and her drops administered.
St. Just took no part in this activity. He merely watched his wife with a calculating expression, as if he wished to guess how much distress she really felt. He preceded the others into the corridor when they finally left, but turned on George as soon as the door was safely shut.
"What did all that nonsense at the window mean, George?"
"No one came in that window, Vyvyan. No one opened it from the outside. And no one went out it, either. No ladder, no rope, no marks on the house, either."
"Yes, I assumed that from the beginning. There couldn't be much purpose to trying to enter or leave an occupied bedchamber when there are so many empty ones."
"Don't you care, Vyvyan?" George asked, seeming shaken again.
"Could we not discuss this in a better place?" Pamela asked softly. "Our voices will keep Hetty awake."
St. Just seemed about to shrug the whole thing off, but then he led the way to his sitting room, opened the door for them, and lit all the candles.
"I don't see what there is to discuss or care about. Hetty sleeps like the dead. She says not, but she does. Someone in the house entered her room and somehow startled her awake, then opened the window to make us think it was not a member of the household."
"Very nice," George said coldly, "except who would do it, and why? Our people have been with us a long time, and the lower servants ain't allowed to roam. Trying to tell me Hayle or Helston is turning thief now?" The remark held an unspoken warning, which St. Just chose to ignore.
"Thieves? Nonsense!"
He opened his mouth to say something more, and sneezed sharply instead. St. Just then looked down at his bare feet, picked up a branch of candles, and headed for the inner door that led to his bedchamber, obviously intending to put on slippers. There was no reason for him to close the door, and both George and Pamela watched him approach the bed, stop short.
"Good God! No!"
Pamela was the first to reach him. "St. Just, what is it?"
Wordless, he set the candles down and pointed at what looked like a scrap of yellowish paper covered with some sort of crude diagram lying on his pillow. Pamela moved forward and stretched out a hand.
"Don't touch it," St. Just snapped. His voice was firm, but his face showed revulsion and an angry pain, as if he had been betrayed by someone he liked and trusted.
"What is it?" Pamela repeated.
"A Saturn pentacle designed to bring about the destruction of the recipient," George said dryly. "For God's sake, Vyvyan, how could you let things go so far?"
Fury mixed now with impotence in St. Just's face. "I thought I had stopped it," he said. He reached toward the crude drawing, but George caught his wrist.
"Leave it alone."
"Why? That I have seen it is enough—is it not?"
The blazing green eyes narrowed, and Pamela felt relief at the display. Whether or not St. Just believed in witchcraft, there was no despair in his face now.
"If this is a declaration of war, I will give them a fight they will not forget," he added grimly, confirming Pamela's opinion. "But you are quite right, George, about not touching that thing. Pam, ring for Sarah. One must fight with fire. We will have to spread the news that the spell has been countered, because everyone will know that it was laid on me."
A smile without humor twisted St. Just's lips. "This is part of the operative principle," he said to Pamela. "Everyone looks at you with pity and fear until you begin to pity yourself and fear everything."
Pamela's well-trained face had been expressionless since George had explained the meaning of the scrap on St. Just's pillow, and now she curved her lips into a smile.
"It must be very effective with the ignorant," she said, hoping her voice really held the slightly contemptuous note she had tried for.
Then she said she would fetch Sarah. It was ridiculous that her heart should be pounding so hard she could feel it in her throat. The thing was nothing but a dirty scrap of old paper with a few ill-drawn scrawls on it. This was the nineteenth century, not the Middle Ages. She could not fear witches; she simply could not. She rang and waited, her throat constricting as she wondered whether Sarah could have gone out again that night. The cries of the birds, still flying, came to her faintly, and she turned sharply toward the windows.
Had the curtains bellied? Pamela swallowed sickly and took a noiseless step backward. Then her generous mouth set hard. She was a big, strong woman, the equal of most men. The green draperies that curtained the windows were still now. Well-measured, their ends swept the floor, so that anything might be hidden behind them. Pamela advanced soundlessly oh the nearest, arms spread wide, about to use St. Just's technique. It there was an intruder, she could grapple him and pull the curtains down on him.
"Hide-and-seek, Miss Pam?"
Sarah's harsh voice made Pamela whirl, her cheeks flaming. Too embarrassed to explain what she had been doing, she plunged into the story of what had been found in St. Just's room. Sarah's face set like stone.
"Go back and stay with him. I'll get Maud."
Half an hour later the gross creature waddled in. Her insolent, muddy eyes wandered over George without pausing. To St. Just she sketched a curtsy so slight as to make it mockery, and then her gaze fastened on Pamela.
"Give me your hand," she said.
Reluctantly Pamela rose from her chair.
St. Just stood also. "No. She is not to be involved in this."
The old woman moved her head slowly. "Tha wert alwey one to set thysen ayen t'tide. For t'blud 'tween us, I ha come wha I list na be. Send she hen, tha, na and alwey. Tha canst na bi wi lif an na liv."
Pamela could not understand what had been said, but St. Just did. He made no move when Maud's eyes moved back to Pamela.
"Are you afraid?" the old woman asked in perfectly clear English.
"Yes," Pamela replied truthfully.
Maud smiled grimly. "You are wise. Will you give me your hand?"
"Yes."
"You have courage." Maud took Pamela's proffered hand and held it for a moment. She nodded as if satisfied. "Good, then. Come."
Hand-in-hand they walked toward the bedchamber, leaving St. Just to stare after them, fists clenched and teeth set in his lower lip.
"Keep handfast," Maud said quietly. "Take a taper and light the fire. When that flares, throw it"—she gestured at the pentacle—"into the fire. It must land in the flames; they must touch it at once, so be careful where you throw."
The
whole thing was silly, Pamela told herself, utterly and completely ridiculous. Yet her hand clutched Maud's as if it were a lifeline, and somehow the fat figure seemed solid and reassuring rather than flabby and repulsive. The ready-laid fire caught, and Pamela watched the flames crackle.
More frightened than ever, and more irritated with her own irrationality, she moved toward the bed. When she seized the drawing, she gasped with surprise and nearly dropped it. The thing was not paper at all. Slightly damp, warm, and flexible, it was like…like fresh-flayed skin.
Maud's hand tightened on Pamela's until her nails bit into the flesh. She was muttering softly, but no language that Pamela could understand, nor were the words addressed to her.
I am a fool, Pamela thought desperately, and she thought the words over and over as if they were a charm that could insulate her against her unreasoning fear. She held the pentacle fast now, but by a corner not covered by the drawing. Fool or not, Pamela could not bring herself to touch the diagram.
The two women walked to the fire, and Pamela made a casting motion, but she did not let go. Tugging Maud's hand, she knelt on the hearth and put the pentacle directly into the heart of the flames. She drew breath sharply as the fire scorched her, but the drawing was exactly over the reddest embers when she released it.
Still, it did not burst into flame. It browned and shriveled, and a revolting odor of burning flesh came from the fireplace. Maud watched, still muttering, and Pamela, feeling nauseated with revulsion, stared at the withering thing until, quite suddenly, it crumpled into black ash.
For one instant before it disintegrated completely, the design returned to view, a startling white against the now-black background. Pamela drew in her breath sharply again at the manifestation, but Maud broke off her muttering and chuckled glutinously.
"I have won this round," she said, "and you have played your part well, my lady. When you want a favor—if this does not bring you your heart's desire—come to old Maud. Or if I do not last out your time"— she chuckled again— "and I may, I may, the coven will remember."
Sing Witch, Sing Death Page 11