Tower of Silence

by Sarah Rayne

  It was then that Emily knew that she had been wrong, that there was nothing in the least defenceless or pitiable about this woman, and it was then that she bounded forward and knocked Selina to the ground.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  When Mary came out of the Round Tower there was another of those frightening moments when the world felt as if it was expanding all around her, and as if it might be opening up onto other worlds. For several dreadful seconds she had no idea where she was.

  And then she saw the Round Tower’s bulk, and she remembered about the car that had driven down the narrow, barely visible road, and she remembered that the driver might have seen activity within its dark fastness and her mind zipped back into top gear. The car was still there; it was going along the road that branched off the main highroad and meandered around a bit before ending up at Teind House–Mary had noted that on her way here.

  Was it likely that anyone would use that road, other than someone who lived at Teind House? Selina March? Presumably Selina had a car, as most people had nowadays, and presumably she would take the little road as a short cut to her own front door. Mary’s heart began to thump with excitement and apprehension. Selina. I’m about to confront you at last. I’m about to redress the balance for all those years.

  Krzystof Kent was not dead but he was bleeding so badly that he did not pose any immediate threat. He could safely be left up in the tower, where he would most likely bleed slowly to death, although if necessary Mary would go back to finish him off. She had better go back to check on him anyway. She considered briefly whether he might be able to call out a warning, but that was patently impossible. He was on the little landing by the window twenty feet up, and the tower was solid stone so that any mewling cry he might make could not possibly be heard outside.

  The car was going slowly–slowly enough for Mary to run after it, and wave both arms. Adrenalin was flooding her body in huge torrents and the vast menacing darkness had ceased to matter. It was no surprise when the car’s brake lights came on, and it stopped. I can do anything. I can make anything in the world happen.

  She walked swiftly up to the driver’s side, and waited for the window to be wound down. The driver was a young woman, and even in the uncertain light Mary saw she was too young to be Selina March.

  But the unknown female was saying in a friendly way, ‘Hello? Is something wrong? I’m just going up to Teind House,’ and Mary recovered herself at once, because this was another of those situations where you had to think on your feet. Whoever this was, she clearly had not heard any television or radio bulletins about the escape of the infamous Mary Maskelyne. She glanced into the car’s interior; no, the radio was not switched on. It was unlikely that this woman would have stopped for a lone female if she knew about the escape. ‘Be wary of hitch-hikers’ was what the news reports would say.

  Even so, she would be cunning, and remember about being one jump ahead of everyone else. So she said, ‘I’m sorry to flag you down–I don’t know if you’ve heard yet, but one of the prisoners has escaped from Moy, and there’re search parties out.’

  The response was instant. ‘Oh, how dreadful,’ said the woman. ‘No, I didn’t know. I’ve been driving for the last three hours and I haven’t had the radio on, I’ve been playing tapes. Who’s escaped?’

  ‘Mary Maskelyne,’ said Mary, hugging herself inside at the brilliance of this. ‘We’re scouring the countryside for her, and I’m with the group that’s using that old tower as headquarters.’ Had that sounded convincing? Yes, the woman seemed unsuspicious. ‘And we’re trying to warn everyone to keep a very sharp look-out,’ she said. ‘Did you say you were going to Teind House?’

  ‘Yes. Selina–Miss March–is my godmother. My name’s Gillian Campbell, by the way.’

  ‘I called at Teind House a while ago,’ said Mary with perfect truth. ‘To tell her what’s happened. The phone lines are down because of the storm. Only she wasn’t in. She lives on her own, doesn’t she?’ It was not as long a shot as it might sound; the librarian at Moy had given a pretty good thumbnail sketch of Selina’s life.

  ‘Yes, she does,’ said the woman. ‘She must be out somewhere. But I’ve got a key, so I can get in. I’ll tell her about the escape when she gets back.’ And then, as Mary appeared to hesitate, the woman said, ‘Or you can come back with me now, if you like.’

  ‘I suppose your aunt–did you say aunt? Godmother, sorry. I suppose she ought to be properly warned,’ said Mary, appearing to consider this. ‘There’s a system of procedures we like people to adopt in this situation. Doors locked and so on. And if you’re two ladies on your own—Yes, it might be better if I go through it with you both. Leave you an emergency number to ring, and so on.’

  Too late she remembered that she had already said the phone lines were down, but Gillian Campbell did not seem to notice. She said her godmother was probably back home by now. ‘She almost never goes out after dark. Get in and I’ll take you up to the house.’

  ‘Thank you very much,’ said Mary. ‘I think that’s what I ought to do.’

  She felt better in the car’s enclosed space: she felt shielded from the menacing darkness, and the knowledge that by joining forces with Gillian Campbell she would be outwitting the real search parties brought a shaft of pure pleasure. Everything was falling into place for her, even to the extent of being invited into Selina March’s home. You’re doing pretty well, Mary. You’re on your own–you don’t really need Christabel at all, because you’re dealing with the world and its people as smoothly as if you hadn’t been inside institutions since you were fourteen.

  ‘Selina isn’t precisely expecting me,’ said Gillian Campbell, as they pulled up in front of the house. ‘But someone who was staying with her has apparently vanished rather mysteriously. I thought the old dear might be in a bit of a flap about it–she worries about everything in the world and she sounded quite agitated on the phone–so I drove up to give her a bit of moral support.’

  As she parked and switched off the engine, she looked half questioningly at Mary, and Mary understood that this was the point at which she was expected to make her own introduction. She said, ‘I’m Leila Edwards.’ Leila Edwards had been her mother’s maiden name, and it was the only one that came into her mind. ‘I’m one of the wing governors at Moy.’ At least she could give a reasonable portrayal of that.

  ‘Have you been there long?’ Gillian Campbell reached into the back of the car for her handbag, and Mary looked at her sharply. Had there been a sudden questioning sideways look then? As if the woman was suddenly suspicious? Mary slid a hand unobtrusively into the pocket of the jacket snatched, more or less at random, from the hall stand in Teind House earlier on. Was she going to have to produce the knife and make threats? Get out of the car, and if you try any tricks I’ll kill you…? How cumbersome would it be to take Gillian Campbell hostage?

  She said, ‘I’ve only just been transferred here. So I don’t know the countryside yet.’

  ‘It’s a very restful place,’ said Gillian. ‘I like coming up here.’ She stood up and surveyed the house. ‘It doesn’t look as if Selina’s back yet. But let’s go in, anyway. Mind your step–it’s a bit dark, isn’t it? There’s usually a light over the porch, but the electricity’s a bit erratic and if there’s been a storm it probably knocked the power off. Thank goodness that awful rain’s stopped at last.’

  The feeling of slightly panicky distortion and menace nudged her mind again as they went into Teind House, but Mary pushed it down determinedly. It’s only a house, for goodness’ sake!

  She had not decided yet what she would do with Gillian Campbell; she did not especially want to kill her, but she would do so if it became necessary. She would see what happened.

  Gillian was taking off her coat and hanging it on the hall stand with the ease of long familiarity. ‘I’ll just nip up to the loo and have a wash, if you don’t mind,’ she said. ‘I’ve been driving for nearly three hours without a break. It looks as if the elec
tricity is off, doesn’t it? I thought it would be. Wait a minute, I’ll see if I can find the oil lamps—’There was a brief pause and Mary heard Gillian moving around the hall. ‘I’ve got them,’ she said after a moment. ‘And the matches next to them–Selina prepares for just about every eventuality you can think of. Hold on, and I’ll light a couple; it’s like the black hole of Calcutta in here…That’s better.’ Soft golden light spilled into the darkness. ‘Go through to the kitchen, will you?’ said Gillian. ‘Straight at the end of the hall. It’ll be warm in there because of the range. I’ll make us some tea or coffee.’

  It was a great many years since Mary had been in this kind of casual domestic situation and there was a prickle of confusion again, because she had no idea how people behaved these days. She did not know, for instance, whether Gillian would expect her to fill the kettle and set it to boil while she was upstairs. Mary’s mother, all those years back, would have considered it very impolite to do such a thing in a stranger’s house, but people were far more relaxed these days, Mary knew that. The confusion was replaced by a surge of resentment because she ought not to have been kept away from ordinary things like this.

  She looked about her. The kitchen, seen in the oil lamp’s light, was larger than she had thought on her earlier visit. There was a massive old dresser against one wall, and a range, and there was the big scrubbed-top table at the centre. A couple of doors opened off the room; Mary checked to see what was beyond them because you should always know your terrain. But one was just a large, walk-in larder, and the other one, which seemed to lead out to the garden, was locked and bolted. She had still not made up her mind what she was going to do about this Gillian Campbell. She had been intending to focus her entire energy on Selina, and killing people used up a lot of energy. Each time you killed someone you gave away a little of yourself. That was one of the things the stupid sheep-creatures in Moy and Broadacre had never understood.

  Gillian was coming back down the stairs; Mary could hear her footsteps on the polished oak of the floor. They coincided exactly with Mary’s pounding heart. Beat-beat, pad-pad. Have-to-kill, have-to-kill. But as she came across the hall they were faster, so that the synchronisation was lost. Mary found this vaguely irritating. Like a fly buzzing against a window pane; a minor annoyance, only you could not ignore it.

  And then Gillian came through the door and set the second oil lamp on the table, and turned round. Mary thought she started to say something about a cup of coffee, but then for the first time she saw Mary properly, and her eyes widened in sudden alarm. For a moment Mary did not understand this, and then Gillian said on a note of puzzlement, ‘That’s my godmother’s jacket you’re wearing.’

  ‘No, it—’ This was crazy. And for pity’s sake, why shouldn’t two people own an identical jacket!

  ‘It is Selina’s,’ said Gillian, still staring. ‘That’s the gold lapel pin she got from the local Red Cross Society for her charity work. She always wears it on that jacket. Why would you be wearing her jacket—’ She broke off, and then said, in a different voice, ‘There’s blood on your arm. There’s a bandage.’

  Mary looked down, and realised that the bandage she had transferred from her wrist to the wound on her arm earlier on had unravelled, and that one bloodied end was dangling below the jacket’s cuff. Visible. Clear as a curse.

  In a voice of absolute horror, Gillian said, ‘You’re not from Moy’s staff at all, are you? You’re the escaped prisoner.’

  The escaped prisoner.

  The words ought not to have stung so sharply, but they did. They labelled Mary but in an odd way, and at the same time they rendered her anonymous. Just another inmate of a prison. A reference on a file. She stared at Gillian and thought: but I’m not just any escaped prisoner! I’m famous! I was the Sixties icon who made banner headlines, not once but several times over! Everything I did was seized on and reported. I was important! And now I’m out of prison and I’m going to stay out, and nobody’s going to get in the way of that! She slid her hand into the jacket pocket, her fingers closing around the knife once more. This person who was Selina March’s god-daughter was certainly not going to get in the way of Mary’s escape.

  Selina March. With the name, the hatred came again, filling her up with a black choking bile of fury and anger. Selina March. The creature who had brought about all Mary’s tragedies. And now, it seemed, there was something else. Selina had had a god-daughter. A god-daughter. All these years Selina had been able to enjoy a cosy godmotherly rôle–virtually that of a surrogate mother–while Mary, shut away inside Broadacre, had been deprived of her own daughter within minutes of the child’s birth. Another unfairness to add to all the other unfairnesses. The realisation of this smacked into Mary’s mind, churning up a fresh wave of resentment and jealousy.

  The strength came roaring in again, flooding her entire body, and she lunged forward, raising the knife, ready to deal with this creature who was Selina March’s god-daughter, but Gillian was already scrambling out of the way, grabbing the edge of the big pine-topped table and pushing it forwards so that it toppled over, crashing onto the floor, inches from Mary’s feet. The oil lamp rolled across the floor, and went out, plunging the room into darkness, and in the darkness Mary heard Gillian run across the room, and push past her. There was the sound of the outside door opening and then of the little car’s engine starting up.

  Mary thrust the knife back into her pocket, and went out through the door, and into the dark night beyond it.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Emily had expected to be able to overpower Selina March with ease, but Selina fought back like a wild thing, her hands scrabbling at Emily’s neck. The feel of the thin dry fingers was so repulsive that Emily jerked back, half falling into a corner of the stone room.

  She was aware of Joanna shouting to her to grab the oil lamp and use it as a cosh, but she was dizzy and disoriented. She drew in a shaky breath, and saw Selina dart across the room towards the steps.

  ‘She’s going back up into the tower!’ shouted Joanna. ‘Oh, hell’s teeth, why can’t I get out of this bloody chair!’ She dragged uselessly at the snaking chains.

  ‘It’s all right,’ gasped Emily, clambering to her feet. ‘I’ll go after her—’ She stood uncertainly for a moment, the room still a bit fuzzy, and then her vision cleared, and she realised that Selina had already vanished back up the stairs. There was the sound of the stone trapdoor being pushed back, and then of scampering feet. ‘She’s going up inside the tower,’ said Emily. ‘But at least I can go for help now—Oh shit, no, I can’t, can I, because the minute I try to get to a phone she’ll be back down here to finish you off—’

  ‘You’re sounding like a Victorian melodrama,’ said Joanna. ‘But you’re right. You’ll have to follow her, Emily–but for pity’s sake take one of the lamps—’

  ‘Yes. Oh, bugger it, I left my mobile phone at home.’

  ‘Well, at least you’re sounding as if you’ve come out of the Victorian melodrama,’ said Joanna, and grinned. ‘Never mind the phone, just go.’

  ‘Yes.’ Emily paused to snatch up the lamp, and then pushed the second one to where Joanna could reach it. ‘Whack her over the head if she comes back,’ she said. ‘It’ll be horrid, but if it’s her or you…’

  ‘I’ve already worked that one out,’ said Joanna dryly. ‘For goodness’ sake get after her, and see where she’s gone. If you can safely get to a phone, do so.’

  ‘OK,’ said Emily, and went back up the stairs.

  The trouble was that once beyond the hidden room, there was no knowing where Selina had gone. She might be anywhere, thought Emily in trepidation, standing in the stone-floored room just inside the tower’s entrance, and looking about her. She might have gone back to Teind House or she might still be hiding in the tower somewhere. Her instinct was to beat it down to the main road and the phone box on the corner, but that might be to leave Joanna at Selina’s mercy. And there was no way of knowing how easy it would be for J
oanna, chained in a chair, to fight Selina off. I can’t risk it, thought Emily. I’ll have to find her first–I’ll have to go up to the tower’s top and make sure she isn’t up there. She thought she would hear if Selina went sneaking back into the hidden room, and she thought she could be back down the stairs quickly enough to get her away from Joanna.

  She hesitated at the foot of the twisting stairs, holding up the lamp and trying to see upwards. But the stair wound sharply around to the right, and after the first few steps there was only a thick blackness. Emily drew in another deep breath, and, steadying herself against the wall with one hand, began to climb.

  Even with the oil lamp’s thin light it was a spooky experience. The higher you went, the colder it felt, and the more you were aware of leaving the safe familiar ground behind. Emily tried not to remember how narrow the tower was, and how it might sway a little in a high wind. She tried not to remember that Selina March was almost certainly hiding up here, waiting to spring out and strangle her.

  She could hear the wind keening in and out of the narrow windows now, which presumably meant she was nearing the halfway mark. If you were fanciful, you might almost think the wind sounded like somebody moaning, very softly, in the dark. Selina, mourning her murdered childhood friends? Don’t listen. Just keep going, said Emily firmly to herself. If she’s up here you’ll just have to knock her out with the lamp, and then belt back down the stairs to get help.

  There was someone crying up here. There was someone crouching in the dark, sobbing dismally with loneliness and fear. The sound tore at Emily’s heart, but she set her teeth and went on, because this was something that absolutely had to be done, and it was no good hoping that rescue was at hand–in the shape of Patrick, dashing in and scooping her up in his arms? don’t be ridiculous!–because there was not going to be any rescue apart from what Emily could contrive for herself.