Come to Castlemoor

by Wilde, Jennifer;

  We moved into the circle of stone. At least twelve figures stood in a semicircle behind the altar, all in white robes with hoods that concealed their faces. I could pick out Buck only because of his enormous size. All of them raised their arms in unison and chanted some ritual greeting in a language unlike any I had ever heard. Edward returned the greeting, pronouncing the unknown words in a harsh, guttural voice. He was the only one who did not wear a hood. He released me. Two of the others moved forward solemnly and took hold of my arms and led me to the altar, standing guard while Edward launched into a tirade long and loud and completely incomprehensible to me. The fire burned fiercely. The wood crackled. The circle was filled with orange glow and black shadows and figures in white who gave ritual replies to the sentences Edward unleashed with furor. I felt a cold terror as I listened to those mad voices.

  I remembered the factual accounts I had read about these ceremonies. I remembered all the gruesome details. I shook my head, trying to push those lurid pictures out of my mind, but it was impossible. As the fire crackled, and the furious, incomprehensible tirade continued, I kept seeing graphic scenes I had read about with scholarly relish—a stone, a girl, a group of robed men removing their robes one by one, and one by one approaching the stone, the girl. It couldn’t be happening, I told myself. Things like that happened only in the pages of musty old books. This couldn’t be real. Please, I whispered to myself, please, don’t let it be real … don’t let it happen.…

  I closed my eyes, my lips moving in silent prayer.

  I must have fainted, for when I opened my eyes I was leaning against the altar, and the only sound I heard was the sound of my own labored breathing. All else was silent. I lifted my head. The figures were standing in a wide circle around the altar, spaced out several yards away from me. The fire had burned down to a heap of glowing orange coals. There was no movement, no sound. I felt curiously languorous and empty-headed, no longer afraid, no longer truly aware of my plight. There was an empty cup on the altar beside me, a few drops of liquid spilled on the stone. I smelled a strong, cloying odor. They must have forced me to drink some kind of narcotic, I thought, and I tried to sit up. When I moved, it was as though I were moving under water.

  Edward was approaching me. His face was severe, his mouth turned down, his eyes like agate.

  “You have sinned,” he said. “You must pay.”

  I tried to answer him, but no words would come. Edward frowned, and then his face seemed to soften, grow human again. He took a deep breath, swelling his chest. His robes swirled softly, blue-white with shadow, the material rustling. He glanced over his shoulder at the cultists stationed around the circle, then turned back to me.

  “I’m sorry, Kathy,” he said, his voice low-pitched, barely audible. “I’m going to be merciful. I’ve persuaded the others to forgo the customary procedures. There will be pain, yes, but it will be over quickly. You’ll be spared the other …”

  I stared at him, and I saw that he held a great curved knife in his hand. The blade gleamed and glistened. He took another step and raised the knife. It was very long, very sharp. I studied it objectively, thinking how lovely it was, steel reflecting the glowing orange coals. I heard a shout, but I paid no attention to it. I was fascinated by the blade. I was aware of flurried movement, low voices, a maelstrom of activity, but it didn’t concern me. There was the blade, only the blade. Edward paused a few feet away from me, a look of bewildered amazement on his face. Why? What was wrong? Then I saw his face contort with savage anger, and the drug stopped working, and I saw death and tried to scream, and he raised the knife for the final plunge. An orange flash streaked across the air; he let out an anguished cry, and strong familiar arms pulled me away from the altar as Edward fell hurtling to the ground.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Now, in June, it was over, and London was warm and green and full of noise and activity. From the hotel window I could see the park across the way, blue pond afloat with toy white boats, children playing under leafy boughs, nursemaids in starched uniforms keeping an eye on their charges or pushing black perambulators along the sun-flecked walks. Elegant carriages and humble carts clattered down the street. Beautifully dressed women studied the windows of expensive shops, and a tough-looking man in leather apron cried the virtues of the flowers in his white wooden cart. I had missed all this during the weeks at Castlemoor, but now I felt a certain sadness that made it all seem less inviting than before.

  The door flew open, and Donald came charging into the room, tossing his top hat on the sofa, flinging his gloves on a chair. His handsome face was aglow with excitement, dark-brown eyes sparkling merrily, cheeks ruddy with health. Seeing him now in his gleaming brown boots, plum-colored suit, and white silk shirt with ruffled front, I found it hard to believe that just a few weeks ago he had been thin and pale, cheeks sunken, dark smudges under his eyes. For a few days the doctors had been deeply concerned, but with proper nourishment and care, he had soon lost the haggard look and regained his energy, enough to fight with the reporters who clamored around him as he left the hospital, enough to sit through hours of hearings at Old Bailey while the cultists were tried and convicted. They were behind bars now, and Edward was buried in a musty country cemetery. The policeman who had shot him had received a promotion.

  “It’s done!” Donald cried. “I’ve signed a staggering contract. They agreed to everything—and handed over a whopping big advance. Seems everyone’s eager to know about the man who returned from the dead. My publishers believe the book will be a fabulous success.”

  “I’m so glad,” I said feebly.

  “They want an exposé—a personal account of my adventures—but I told them I intended to include chapters of scholarly information as well. Readers will skip the academic sections, I know, but I intend to include ’em just the same.”

  He pulled off his jacket, tossed it on a chair, and loosened his brown silk tie. “Where’s Bella? She’s going to have to get a move on! We’re leaving for Castlemoor first thing in the morning.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’ve already made the reservations.”

  “Well, you can cancel mine,” I said firmly.

  “What? What is this? What do you mean?”

  “I’m not going back to Castlemoor.”

  “Nonsense! You know I have to be there to write the book, and you know I can’t do it without you. What’s the matter with you? You look like you’ve just made peace with God and taken the last sacraments.”

  “Nothing’s wrong with me. I just don’t plan to go back to Castlemoor. Aunt Clarice came to call this afternoon while you were at your publishers. She wants me to spend the summer with her.”

  “You’ve lost your bloomin’ mind, that’s what! I know for a fact you’d rather cut off both arms and part of one leg than to spend three days with that old hag! What is wrong, Kathy girl?”

  “Nothing!” I snapped irritably.

  “Ah, so—” he replied quietly, drawing the words out. “I know. Yes, indeed. You’ve been moping around here for the past month, and it just now dawned on me why.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “I mean Mr. Burton Rodd hasn’t come to pay his respects. I saw the way you looked at him during the trial, and the other day Bella gave me a few details about what was taking place while I was in that cell. She said you and Rodd—”

  “She knows absolutely nothing about it!” I cried. “And furthermore, I don’t intend to discuss it one minute more. Wild horses couldn’t keep Bella away from Castlemoor, now that Alan’s back in Darkmead, but as for me—”

  “As for you?”

  “I’m going for a walk,” I said abruptly. “There are times, Donald, when I find you absolutely impossible to live with, and if you think—”

  “I think you’d better go for your walk if you’re going, because we’ve got a tremendous lot of packing to do.”

  I marched out of the room, my blue eyes blazing, spots of color on my cheeks. Donald
burst into gales of loud laughter as I slammed the door behind me, and that made me all the more furious. I walked angrily down the hall with its pale-gray walls and thick maroon carpets, passing glittering mirrors that hung in gilt frames and large pots containing dark, waxen green plants. I swept down the curving staircase and passed through the crowded lobby, paying no attention to its heavy chandeliers or gray marble columns. I stepped outside, welcoming the sunshine and all the heady odors of London that filled the early summer air.

  Donald had touched a sore spot. I knew it. I knew I had no reason to be angry with him. I had studied Burton Rodd all during the trial, admiring his cool, crisp manner and complete command of the situation. He had been extremely handsome in his elegant black suit and tailored white shirt, blue satin ascot about his neck, and I hadn’t been the only woman to find him impressive. One of the female reporters covering the trial devoted a whole column to “the dashing Mr. Rodd” whose suspicions had first alerted the police about the cult. I thought the article in incredibly poor taste and had tossed it in the wastebasket immediately.

  I owed my life to Burton Rodd.

  I tried not to think of that terrible night when it had all come to a head. Much of it still remained hazy, due to the narcotic they had given to me, but I remembered Burton Rodd holding me in his arms while the policemen rounded up the last members of the cult and put them in handcuffs. He had been suspicious for weeks, ever since Jamie’s mysterious disappearance and Donald’s “accident,” but he knew he had to have concrete proof of the existence of the cult before he could take action. He had finally sent for the police, those men in tight suits whose hard faces had aroused such distrust in Darkmead. He had tried his best to make me leave Castlemoor, sensing the danger I was in, and after the day in his office when I refused to take his money, I had been under constant surveillance.

  One of the men had been assigned to watch me at all times, for my own protection, and he had been on duty night and day until that very afternoon I left the house to go to Castlemoor. Another of the men had learned that the cultists intended to meet that night in the ruined city, and they had concentrated all their force on the ruins, hiding among the rocks, hoping to catch all the cultists in one swoop. Burton Rodd had driven Nicola and his mother to the train station and returned immediately to join the men at the ruins. Night fell, and they waited among the shadows. Soon the figures in white began to appear, one by one. A fire was built, the chant began, and a little later Edward and I stepped from behind the rocks and started toward the circle of stone. Rodd had wanted to close in immediately, but the officer in charge of the police insisted they wait until they could actually prove a crime was intended. They surrounded the place, standing just outside the glow of firelight, and they waited until Edward took the knife out and started toward me. They closed in. Edward panicked. He refused to drop the knife. He lunged toward me. Burton had swept me off the altar just in time, even as the policeman fired the bullet that proved fatal to Edward.

  It was over. The nightmare was ended. My brother was back, bursting with good health now, and the trial was over. Even the newspaper reporters had stopped hounding us. Everything was settled … but I wasn’t. I had been utterly miserable during the past three or four weeks, and I knew the reason why. I could not forget that ravaged face. I could not forget those strong arms around me, those hard, firm lips pressing mine. I may have been unduly conscious of Burton Rodd during the trial, but I knew he hadn’t been entirely oblivious of me. More than once I had caught him staring at me. I had not misread the look in his eyes; I was sure of that, yet he had made no attempt to see me since the trial. He knew where I was staying. He knew I wouldn’t rebuff him if he came to call.… Well, I couldn’t care less, I told myself. I didn’t give a hang what he did. Life was rich and full of possibilities. I had done very well before I met Burton Rodd, and I could do very well without him.

  I was furious with myself, furious with Donald, furious with the man who said love conquers all. I wanted no part of it if it made one feel so grouchy and sad. I would forget Mr. Burton Rodd, but I certainly didn’t intend to go back to Castlemoor, where I would be bound to think of him every minute of every day. I would brazen it out with Aunt Clarice first—tea and crumpets, good works, sensible young men with secure futures whom she would force upon me with monotonous regularity. Better that than being all wrought up and snarling every time someone stepped into a room. Donald could do his book very well without me. I definitely wouldn’t go back.

  I stopped in front of one of the expensive shops half a block from the hotel. There was a stunning bonnet in the window, light-blue straw adorned with yards and yards of pink velvet ribbon. It would go beautifully with the blue silk dress I was wearing at the moment. I peered at the price tag. It was fantastically expensive. Donald would have conniptions if I bought it. It would serve him right! I went into the shop and bought the bonnet, as well as a pink velvet bag, two pairs of gloves, a blue silk parasol, and a box of linen handkerchiefs. I told the clerk to charge them to my brother and left the shop laden with packages and feeling absolutely glorious. I wondered how in the world I could have been so despondent such a short time ago. I could hardly wait to see Donald’s expression when I walked in with all these packages.

  Burton Rodd was standing in front of the shop, almost as though it had been prearranged. I felt my pulse leap. I almost dropped my packages. I quickly gained control over myself and met his eyes with a cool, level gaze that showed complete lack of concern. He might have been a rather dull acquaintance, out of sight, out of mind, or someone met at a party and forgotten as soon as the music stopped playing. He wore an elegant black suit and a pearl-gray satin vest embroidered with darker-gray fleurs-de-lis, smoky-blue ascot, and dark-gray top hat, which he swept off his head as soon as he saw me coming out of the shop.

  “I suppose you expect me to believe this is a coincidence,” I said in a cool voice.

  “On the contrary,” he replied. “I was on my way to your hotel when I saw you going into the shop. I’ve been waiting out here while you’ve been laying the foundation for your brother’s bankruptcy.”

  “He just signed a wonderful contract this morning,” I said icily. “I seriously doubt that my purchases will send him to debtors’ prison.”

  He grinned. There was something different about him, something that had not been there before. It was more than the elegant new clothes, went much deeper than the surface. The face was still ravaged, still lined, but the tragic stamp was missing. The dark eyes sparkled, no longer brooding, and there was about him a new vigor that affected his whole personality. It was as though an oppressive weight had been lifted from his shoulders, giving a jaunty spring to his carriage and making him even more formidable. I summed up these changes in him while the grin played on his lips.

  “How have you been?” he inquired.

  “Smashing,” I said nastily. “And you?”

  “Busy.”

  “Indeed?”

  “I left for France immediately after the trial,” he informed me. “My mother sent me a wildly incoherent letter about an eccentric Russian countess and a secret formula and a fantastic new business enterprise. I rushed across the channel posthaste. I finally located her in a musty laboratory in the slum district, wearing a soiled blue smock and surrounded by bottles and burners and glass tubes and baskets of violet petals. She handed me a bottle of perfume, introduced me to the countess, and said they had formed a partnership to manufacture the stuff. I was horrified, as you might imagine, yet surprisingly enough, the scheme is quite sound—so sound that several avaricious French businessmen were moving in, hoping to take over. I put an end to that. For the past three weeks I have been consulting lawyers, signing papers, making arrangements to sell the factory in Darkmead.”

  “You’re going into the perfume business?”

  He nodded. “Incredible, isn’t it? The business is going to boom, and someone has to keep a firm hand on the reins while the women dash about in
the laboratory. They already have a staggering number of orders from leading boutiques, and the countess is experimenting with a face cream that is supposed to remove wrinkles and restore a pearly glow to dry skin.”

  “Amazing,” I said.

  “I’ve even sold the castle,” he continued. “Have you heard of Lord and Lady Cleland? They’re vegetarians and antivivisectionists who have an enormous following—a cult, you might say. They believe the world is going to end in a year or two, and they want an isolated place where they can await the dire event surrounded by their apostles. Castlemoor is ideal. My lawyer is drawing up the final papers this afternoon. They want occupancy no later than September. That’ll give me just enough time to take care of all the final details at the factory and gather up the various items Mother wants shipped to France.”

  “And then?” I inquired.

  “I have my eye on a house on the outskirts of Paris,” he said. “It’s small and unpretentious—no dungeons—but surrounded by acres of parkland and countryside. I’ve almost decided to buy it.”

  “Will you?”

  “That depends,” he said quietly.

  We were still standing in front of the shop. Burton took the packages from me, gripped my elbow, and started walking me down the street toward the hotel. I was confused and bewildered, unable to sort out my reactions to all he had been telling me. We walked slowly, and the silence between us was unnerving. I felt I had to break it.

  “How is Nicola?” I asked.

  “Making life hell for an Austrian diplomat, an English lord, and a miner from America who apparently owns half the state of Montana. I think the American has a slight lead on the others. The last time I saw her, she was babbling about the challenge of frontier living and the fascinating possibilities of copper and silver.”