The Whispering Rocks

by Sandra Heath

  “Sarah! Humor me in this. Who can say how Holland will react? He may tell your father, thinking to have Edward disinherited, and he would probably succeed ... in the end. But I want Edward’s neck, Sarah, and I mean to have it. So please don’t tell Holland.”

  “Paul, I don’t like the sound of this. Promise me that you won’t do anything rash if you prove that Edward was here.” The light in Paul’s eyes revealed a side to him that she had never seen before, a side which was capable of a fearful revenge.

  There was a knock on the door and Marks came in, a letter in his hand. “Excuse me, sir, but another letter of condolence has arrived.” He held out the black-edged envelope.

  Paul took it, glancing coldly at the rook crest which was emblazoned on it. Sarah recognized her cousin’s writing and she swallowed. Marks closed the door and Paul threw the letter on the fire, unread. “He has a gall, writing to me like that!”

  He went to pour himself another glass of cognac and Sarah watched him, then noticed the silver platter on the sideboard containing all the other letters which had arrived within the last day or so.

  “Paul, is it usual for letters to be sent so late? I mean, it seems strange to me that no one wrote when Melissa first disappeared. I know that it was not certain that she was dead, but even so they could have written to express their concern. It seems so unmannerly.”

  He sighed, glancing at the huge pile of the black-edged envelopes. “No one knew until recently. I kept the matter to myself.”

  “But it was in the papers. That’s why I asked.”

  He shook his head, running his fingers through his hair. “No, it was not in the papers, Sarah. I made certain of that. I made the matter public only when Melissa’s body was found.”

  She stared at him.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Sarah left the dining room and stood in the main doorway of the house. The mist had closed in and now she could only just see beyond the iron gates. Sounds carried a great distance through the white fog and the air seemed alive with unseen things. The gravedigger walked past the gateway, his shovel over his shoulder, the newly disturbed earth still clinging to it. She shivered.

  Had Jack already gone to the stables? She could hear the horses in the yard and the sound of voices and so she began to walk in that direction. Wellington was sitting in the door of the gatehouse and he jumped up, tail wagging joyously. With a little bark of welcome, he set off behind her.

  In the stableyard the men were lighting lanterns, for the mist was dulling the daylight. The lights flickered in the thickening vapor.

  “We cannot ride out now, sir. We can barely see our hands in front of us.”

  Jack was standing by the chestnut horse. “You’re right. We’ll have to forgo riding today.” He glanced regretfully toward Hob’s Tor again and then patted the neck of the stallion as it nuzzled his hand gently.

  Wellington dashed delightedly into the yard, a place normally out of bounds to him but today miraculously open. He bounced around yapping, and wagging his stumpy little tail.

  The chestnut horse threw its head back immediately, its eyes rolling anxiously as it watched the tiny black-and-white shape of the dog. Its hooves clattered on the cobbles and its tail lashed nervously. Jack steadied it, patting the trembling shoulder. His voice was low and persuasive. “There, boy, there.... Quiet now, that’s it ... that’s it ...” The chestnut ears twitched to and fro, listening to the calm, gentle voice.

  Sarah scooped the mischievous Wellington into her arms. “You shouldn’t be in here, you little rascal.” She shook him as if in anger, but he licked her hand and wagged his tail, whining with excitement.

  Jack stared at the dog. “I thought that beast was dead.”

  “Wellington? No. Whatever made you think that? His mother is dead....”

  “Ah, that must be it. He’s very like his mother, isn’t he, and that’s why the horse is frightened?”

  “Yes, they’re like two peas in a pod.” She scratched the puppy’s ears affectionately. “How did you know that? Kitty was dead long before you came to Mannerby.”

  He smiled, reaching over to tickle Wellington, who squirmed with delight. “Martin told me.”

  “Then you’ve succeeded where we have failed, for Martin will not speak of Kitty to anyone, not even Janie.” She remembered then what she had come to see him about. “Jack, are you sure that you read about Melissa’s death in the papers?”

  “Why do you ask?” He pursed his lips, smiling.

  “Well, it’s just that Paul says the news wasn’t made public until her body was discovered, and I just wondered ...”

  He was smiling broadly now. “This just goes to show that it doesn’t do to be inquisitive and unmannerly. I read about Melissa’s death, yes, but not in the papers. I was at Rook House, waiting for your father in his study, and could not help noticing the letter on his desk. It was open and I caught sight of the word ‘Mannerby.’ Knowing that you were at Mannerby, I was rude enough to read the letter, an exceedingly boorish thing to do. It was from Edward and it informed your father that Melissa was dead. I think perhaps your cousin had the same thought as you, that with Melissa dead there was no need for him to marry you.”

  Edward had written such a letter? Sarah’s mind was spinning, for this news seemed to confirm Paul’s suspicions about her cousin. “Paul must be right then,” she said, stroking Wellington and staring down at his black-and-white head.

  “About what?” Jack handed the reins of the stallion to the head groom, who led it away.

  It was too late. She had blurted it out and had let Paul down. Still, she could not see that any harm had been done. “Paul is certain that Edward was the one who was meeting Melissa on the moor, and that he was therefore the man who killed her. You told him that Edward hadn’t been with the army when he should have been, and now you say that this looks like his horse and that he wrote about Melissa’s death when he couldn’t possibly have known about it unless he’d been here. Anyway, with luck James Trefarrin will be able to identify Edward, for he saw him with Melissa. Paul is going to put the matter to James when he comes to dine tomorrow.”

  “Well, well, it would certainly appear that our foolish Edward has been more foolish than usual, would it not? And Trefarrin is coming here, is he?”

  “Yes, he and Paul are old friends. I believe they once went poaching together as children.” She smiled.

  Jack raised an eyebrow. “Paul Ransome guilty of so heinous a crime?”

  “It was only a boyish prank.”

  “Well, I shall be spared the reunion of these two boyhood pranksters, for I must go to Plymouth immediately the mist lifts.”

  “Plymouth?”

  He took a letter from his pocket. “This was delivered yesterday. It had been delayed by the weather.”

  “What is it?”

  “The French horses have already arrived. If the letter had reached me in time then I would have been there to meet them, but as it is I am still here in Mannerby.” He glanced at Hob’s Tor again, and for a fleeting moment Sarah thought she saw anxiety in his gray eyes.

  “Does Paul know?”

  “No. Under the circumstances of Melissa’s funeral and so on I thought not to tell him—the fellow is miserable enough already without this—but now I shall tell him he is spared my presence for a while.”

  He glanced around the deserted yard and then took the disappointed Wellington from Sarah and put him on the ground. “I do assure you, Miss Sarah Jane Stratford, that this is no boyish prank.” He pulled her into his arms and kissed her passionately. “I pray God that Trefarrin can identify the obnoxious Edward, for then there would be no obstacle to our marriage, would there?”

  Her eyes shone.

  * * *

  Something disturbed her sleep. She sat up in the bed, her head still drowsy. What had woken her? Nothing could be heard now; the night was calm and still. She pummeled her flattened pillow crossly and lay back, closing her eyes, thinking of Jack and l
ooking forward to his return from Plymouth in two or three days.

  There it was again! She sat up as she heard a creaking sound. It was a door or a gate, somewhere outside the house. She pulled aside the velvet curtains of the bed and went to the window.

  The mist had gone and a full moon shone with a silvery softness over the moor. The light was so bright that she could clearly see Hob’s Tor and the whispering rocks. There was an unearthly look to that gray scene, as if she were looking at it in her dreams.

  A light shone in the gatehouse, a tiny speck of warmth in the gloom. The ash tree rustled its leaves and she heard the beginnings of the scraping, scratching sound as it touched the windowpane. “I’m still here,” the scratching seemed to say. “I’m still here. Don’t forget me.” She opened the window, breathing in the heavy scent of the lilac blossoms. The ash shook its leaves as if jealous. She raised an eyebrow at her own gullible thoughts. She was as foolish as ... as Melissa to give such human powers to a mere tree.

  The night was quiet; there were no more strange noises to disturb the calm. An owl screeched across the wide moor and she glanced in the direction of the sound, jumping at the loudness of the call. Her heart seemed to shudder to a halt as she saw him. The chestnut horse was moving up the slope toward the high moor. As she looked, the man reined in, his face in dark shadow. He stared directly at her before turning his mount and kicking his heels.

  She screamed then, her shaking hands pressed against her mouth. The door of the gatehouse was instantly flung open and Martin rushed out. Behind her the door of her room was opened and Janie hurried in, followed by Paul. Janie’s mobcap was pulled ridiculously over her tousled hair and she was carrying a candle, although there was no need in the strong moonlight.

  Paul was tying his dressing gown around his waist as he strode across the room toward her. Mutely, Sarah pointed out of the window, but when Paul looked there was nothing there. Horse and rider had vanished.

  “What is it, Sarah? What did you see?” He took her by the shoulders and shook her very gently.

  “He was there again. It was Edward. I saw him.” Her voice was almost inaudible for her hands were still pressed to her lips.

  He tugged her hands away, smiling. “You were dreaming, Sarah. That’s all.”

  “No!” She pulled away from him and looked pleadingly at Janie. “I did see him. I swear I did. He was on that chestnut horse again.”

  Janie put down the candle, pushing her hair out of sight beneath her mobcap. “But, Miss Sarah, the horse is in the stables here. You must have been dreaming. It’s probably because of the funeral and all.”

  Sarah’s face took on a stubborn look and Paul smiled. “Very well, we shall prove that it was a dream. Put on your robe and we’ll take a look in the stables. Do you promise to go back to your bed then, when we prove the whole thing was a nightmare?”

  She picked up her pale turquoise robe, nodding, but convinced that she and not he would be proved right.

  He put his arm around her shoulder as they walked down the stairs and out into the courtyard. Marks hurried down the stairs behind them, rubbing his eyes and scratching his head. What was going on now?

  They walked swiftly to the stableyard and Paul shot back the bolts on the building that housed the horses. They went to the end stall, but as the door creaked open it was plain that the stall was empty. The horse had gone.

  Martin came running up then. “I know what Miss Stratford saw, sir. That murdering hound is back. I saw him on the same horse.”

  Paul thumped his fists against the wooden stall. “I’ll have your miserable neck this time, Stratford. Damn your eyes.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  “Saddle two horses, Martin. We’ll follow him! He shouldn’t be too hard to follow on a night like this.” Paul turned and ran back toward the house, leaving Martin to open two stalls and bring out the first horse. Sarah went to help him, but her fingers trembled so much that Martin eventually pushed her aside.

  “I’ll finish it, miss. You’d best go back inside, for it’s cold out here.”

  The head groom’s sleep had been disturbed by all the noise, and he came down the ladder from his little room in the loft above the stable, yawning and scowling, thinking that some of the lads were drunk. His eyes widened in surprise when he saw Sarah. “Oh, it’s you, miss. I wondered what was happening.” He caught the eye of his good friend Marks, who went eagerly to tell him all about the return of the stranger and the theft of the horse.

  Paul came back, fully dressed now. He took the reins of the nearest horse and mounted quickly. The leather squeaked and the horse snorted, tossing its head excitedly. Paul steadied it as Martin mounted the other horse, and as Sarah watched he carefully pushed a pistol into his belt.

  She grasped the bridle of his horse anxiously. “Paul, don’t take the pistol, please!”

  “When I’ve finished with your cousin, Sarah, he’ll wish he had never been born!” He kicked his heels and the horse whirled away, tearing the reins from Sarah’s fingers.

  “Paul!” She called his name after him, but the sound was drowned by the noise of the hoofbeats. She leaned weakly against the wooden stall where until so recently Edward’s horse had been housed. Paul’s rage and hatred would lead him to commit—to—”Oh, what can we do?” she whispered.

  The maid put her arms around her mistress’s shoulders. “Nothing, miss, nothing at all. And don’t worry so. Mr. Ransome will come to no harm.”

  Sarah stared away beyond the stables toward the two fast-moving shadows of Paul and Martin as they rode up the incline of the moor. “That’s not what worries me so, Janie. It’s what he might do.”

  Janie led her back into the house where the long night’s wait began. Sarah sat by the window of the drawing room, watching the dawn approach, her hands twisting again and again in her lap. She desperately wanted Paul to prove that the stranger was indeed Edward, but now she prayed that Paul would not be the one to find him.

  The dawn came slowly, stealing across the eastern skies and spreading from behind Mannerby in a haze of lemon and pink. Sarah watched it dully. Outside in the hallway the grandfather clock ticked the hours away and from the kitchen came the sounds of the maids and the cook beginning to prepare breakfast. Oh, Jack, why must you be away now! Come back, for I need you so.

  Sarah could have wept with the weight of her anxiety, and more than anything else in the world right now she needed Jack’s calming influence, his sensible, cool presence which would set everything to rights. Blankly she stared at a column of thick black smoke which rose away over the moor and vaguely she surmised that it came from Bencombe.

  “Come and eat something, Miss Sarah. It will make you feel better.” Janie touched her shoulder, smiling, but her own face was pale and worried as she wondered what had kept the two men out for so very long.

  Sarah went into the dining room and sat down. She still wore her dressing gown but did not care; now was not the time to bother about such pointless, foolish niceties.

  Marks came in, his face beaming. “They’re back, miss, both of them.”

  She closed her eyes with relief and stood, following Marks to the door. Paul and Martin were just riding through the gates and she saw that their faces were black and grimy, that Martin’s leather jerkin was ripped and bloodstained and that Paul’s hair was singed and his coat dusty and gray-black. Janie’s reaction was immediate; she ran down the steps toward Martin, calling his name and weeping. Sarah stood there unable to move.

  They dismounted and there was a pungent smell of smoke on the maid’s crisp clothes as she wept her tears of relief. “There, there, Janie, ‘tis all right now. I’m well enough.”

  Sarah followed Paul into the house. “What happened? Where have you been?” She touched his arm and suddenly he turned, sweeping her into his arms and holding her tightly. He said nothing but just held her. The smell of smoke was strong. Slowly she slipped her arms around his waist and returned the embrace. He seemed almost overc
ome by something—but what? His eyes were red-rimmed, both from the smoke and from lack of sleep, but there was something else in his eyes, a hollow look, a tired sorrow.

  He put his cheek next to hers, still holding her tightly. “James is dead, Sarah, burned to death.” He released her.

  She stared at him. The column of black smoke she had seen. “Oh, Paul, I’m so sorry. Tell me about it.”

  He went into the dining room and sat by the table, pouring himself a large cup of black coffee. Sipping it he leaned back in the upright chair, closing his eyes.

  “When we left here Martin found the trail quickly and we followed it right up on to the high moor. Then we had to slow down for the trail became harder to follow; the ground was stony and there were fewer discernible tracks. We were to the east of Hob’s Tor when we lost them altogether. For two hours or more we rode back and forth over the rubble of stones and chippings, but without success. We had almost decided to give up searching and come back to Mannerby when Martin saw the smoke. It was coming from Bencombe, we could tell, and the fire was obviously a big one. We rode as swiftly as we could, for the more hands there are to help the better it is. It was the Blue Fox, Sarah, blazing like tinder. God alone knows what happened this time, but the place was alight from cellar to attic, with no hope for anyone trapped inside. It was an inferno.”

  He loosened his dirty cravat and poured some more sweet black coffee. “Around dawn the flames had relented sufficiently for us to begin searching. No one knew, you see, if anyone had been in the building. James and his wife had been planning to go to Plymouth and no one knew if they had gone or not. James’s body was found in what was left of the parlor, by the doorway as if he had got that far and then been overcome. We could only identify what was left of him by a ring on his finger.”

  Paul’s voice choked a little and Sarah went to him. James Trefarrin had been his lifelong friend, a companion of his childhood, and he had died a lingering, painful death. She closed her eyes, remembering the crude chalk drawing of the blue fox being consumed by flames. But how could this still be Melissa’s work? Her head was spinning. Could it be Edward? She slipped her hands gently into Paul’s.