In the Mini, she felt safer. Why not just leave? she asked herself. Why bother about Margaret’s taunts? If she crept into Kilruthan and packed, she could be on the road to London in an hour. There was Rosemary of course, she thought as she drove the Mini on the pavement and waited while a builder’s truck squeezed by. But was Rosemary any concern of hers? Could one be responsible for older people unless they were really old, incapable and in their second childhood? Especially when they made it plain that they didn’t want your help.
The drizzle was slackening. Perhaps she would go for a walk and try to clear her mind. It was difficult to think at Kilruthan. Something, the atmosphere of the houses or the personalities of the people, was too strong. They bemused you, clouded your judgment. It was too late to leave today; anyhow she didn’t relish driving through the night alone.
As she drove inland, the rain stopped and a faint patch of blue sky showed itself. It was going to clear up, thought Jenny, taking the road to the moor. She wouldn’t go far. She would park the car by the bridge and follow the stream toward its source; she wanted to see if it gradually grew smaller and smaller.
Around the bridge, there was broom now adding its slightly less animated yellow to that of the gorse and, as she followed the barely defined uphill path, she saw the lousewort, flowering prettily pink among its fretted leaves, giving no hint of parasitic habits. Beside her the stream gradually lost the tinkling note of its wide placidity. Cooped within narrow banks, hurried by the steeper descent, it rushed and gushed, but the sound was still soothing and Jenny struggled to think objectively. Was Margaret right? Was her intended flight from real danger, from an impossible situation or merely a refusal to accept life as it was? And what was she going back to? It mustn’t be a return to her previous misery; had she stayed away long enough to cure her moldering for Colin? She walked on and on. The stream widened and narrowed, cut deep and dark or ran in lazy shallows, changing its music with its bed.
Intent on her thoughts, Jenny had no eye for the general view and gradually, she came to a decision. She would see Rosemary once more and if she still proved beyond persuasion, there would be no point in staying and she would start for home on Sunday morning. Her mind made up she turned and found herself enclosed in a tiny world. Mist or cloud had fallen; dun-colored and clammy, it swirled about revealing this, concealing that, as though it had power and purpose of its own. The moor road and the bridge and the car had entirely disappeared and a momentary panic seized Jenny until she reminded herself that she had the stream for a guide; she had only to follow it down. But even without the least danger of being lost, she felt afraid. She began to look for lurking enemies in the mist, to listen for the crash of falling boulders as she hurried faster and faster for the womblike safety of the Mini. The way seemed much longer than she remembered and she became filled with doubts about the stream. Had it produced an unnoticed tributary that was leading her miles from the bridge and the car? She stifled her panic and forced herself to think carefully, to recollect in detail the upward journey. Had there been any branching from the main flow? Any ditch, or stream or trickle which could have grown as it progressed and now be leading her astray? But it had been a single stream, she reassured herself uncertainly, she would certainly have noticed a branch if she had had to step over it and, as she had not changed banks, how could she be following any fork from the other side? Unconvinced by her own arguments, she hurried on, almost running as she noticed more and more unremembered aspects of the stream.
At last, without warning, the Mini and the bridge and the road appeared, solid dark shapes in the gray intangibility of mist. Jenny ran to the car gratefully; even Kilruthan with Margaret in a mood seemed a haven after this. She slammed the door and turned the ignition key almost in the same movement; there was a total lack of response. She turned the key again, unbelievingly, but there was still silence; not even the weak wail of a failing battery or the small groan which diagnoses damp plugs. She switched on the windshield wipers, but they too were bereft of power. Jenny felt like bursting into tears. The car couldn’t have gone wrong again. Not just when she had made up her mind to leave this fog-ridden, danger-haunted place. Gloomily, she supposed that the new wiring had come adrift at some vital spot. She turned the key again. Still nothing. She would have to walk, the nearest garage would be Mr. Crew in St. Marla. There was no point in waiting hopefully for rescue, so few cars passed and fog thickened at dusk. Reluctantly, she left the Mini. Pulling the collar of her coat high about her neck, she crossed the bridge and thought gratefully that she would soon be off the moor. Not that the road to St. Marla was much more populated, one village, the odd, isolated cottage, but it would feel more sheltered, more civilized, less at the mercy of ancient evils and primitive ghosts than the open moor.
The fog whirled about her thickly; it was growing worse. But she could see the road at her feet plainly enough so there was no real danger of getting lost. She had only to march on briskly, she thought, trying to muster her ebbing courage. Then she heard the footsteps. There were the even, steady footfalls of one person striding along in low-heeled shoes. A man’s footsteps, thought Jenny looking behind her, but the owner was still invisible, lost in swirling mist. She began to hurry. The crepe soles of her desert boots made only a subdued scuffling, but behind her the heavy tread came on, gaining. What ought she do? Leave the road, hide behind some rock or bush and risk getting lost in the fog? Or hurry on, hoping to keep her distance, in the knowledge that every step would bring her nearer to human aid? The moor was dangerous. Robert had said that cattle were quite often lost in bogs. She listened to the steps again. They were still gaining on her, but not so quickly since she had increased her pace. She listened to them; the very calmness of their tread seemed to suggest an inexorable doom. She broke into a jog trot. She must keep some breath for the moment when her stalker tried to pounce, for the moment of real flight which would follow this cat-and-mouse phase.
With her eyes on the road and all her thoughts on the footsteps behind her, Jenny failed to see the robed figure on the rock, black and bird-like with outstretched arms, hovering above her in the mist, until in a loud and baleful voice it began to cry down curses. Then she looked up and saw the outstretched arms, the glint of steel, and, screamed as the figure flung itself upon her, plunging heavily from the rock, bearing them both to the ground. She felt the rough robe, broke away from the clawing hands, caught a glimpse of a terrible gargoyle face as she fled, away from this attacker, away from the footsteps, across the moor.
Torn at by gorse, stumbling over stones and tussocks and heather, she had no plan beyond running, beyond escape from the panting breath and pounding footsteps behind her, and no mental picture of the mist-hidden, land ahead. Unexpectedly, a stone wall loomed up. She couldn’t climb it, she was too out of breath, he was too close; she swung to the left, putting on a spurt for he could cut the corner. There was a gap in the wall, but she didn’t dare go through: walls here didn’t mean farms, but derelict buildings and summer-grazed fields, corners where she could be trapped. She ran on, her breath coming in gasps, a stitch gnawing agonizingly at her side. But her pursuer wasn’t gaining. Her flight became less frantic, more calculated. She listened to his heavy breathing, stumbling feet and tried to think of ways to outwit him, to shake him off or at least to circle around so that she was once more heading toward civilization. She looked back. If she could see him then he could see her. She glimpsed a bulky robed figure and failed to see the ragged overhung ditch, scooped from the peaty soil by an emerging spring. She fell heavily and heard the whoop of triumph from behind. Before she could struggle up the robed figure smelling of moth balls and male sweat was on her. She fought for her life. Kicking, striking wildly with clenched fists, scratching at his face, dragging at his ears, struggling frantically to evade the hands that were trying to pinion her arms. Then, unexpectedly the heavy, clutching body rolled off her. She was free, unassailed and yet the sound of the fight – the blows and grunts, the heavy
breathing and thudding bodies – went on. Mystified, Jenny raised her head, brushed the tangled mess of hair and peat and heather from her eyes and saw the robed figure rolling beneath another man, a stranger with wet, reddish hair, who was landing vicious blows yith a fearful regularity on the wriggling figure beneath him. Then the robed body went limp and ceased to attempt to protect itself. The stranger stood up. He was a young man, Jenny saw, dressed in corduroys and a tough reefer jacket. He seemed to be searching for something in the heather; suddenly he stopped and picked it up, then he turned on the robed figure threateningly.
“So it was a knife I saw. What the hell were you playing at? I’m going to march you off to the nearest police station for attempted murder. Hey, are you all right over there,” he called to Jenny. “He didn’t knife you, did he?” he asked hurrying toward her.
Jenny sat up. “No, I’m all right really. A bit battered.” She tested her arms and legs. “I hurt my ankle when I fell, but I don’t think it’s sprained or anything.”
“Well, look, what’s going on? I mean was it a holdup or some sort of publicity stunt, or a jealous boyfriend; do you know?”
“It’s something to do with the local witches,” Jenny explained. “One of them is trying to get rid of me, to frighten me into going back to London – I don’t know why.”
“Witches?” The stranger recoiled slightly. “Do you belong to the coven then?”
“No, I’m not a witch and I don’t want to be a witch. I’m just Margaret Shaw’s secretary. Oh, he’s running away.”
“Let him go,” said the stranger. “I’ve got his – er – knife – and the repulsive mask he was wearing. Anyway, it’s not much good going to the police if you’ve got yourself mixed up with witchcraft, the supernatural’s outside their province…”
“But I still don’t know who it is, who’s doing all these horrible things to me,” said Jenny trying to control her shaking voice and to prevent herself bursting into tears. “If only I knew for certain who it was it wouldn’t be so bad. You didn’t see his face I suppose? I mean you couldn’t describe him?”
“No. I’m afraid not. Except that he was a solidly built character, but not much of a fighter. What with the mud and the mask and the mist I didn’t get much of a look at his face, but I’d be very surprised if he hasn’t got two black eyes and a bloody nose, so you’ll identify him easily enough tomorrow.” He held out a hand. “Let’s get you on your feet.”
Jenny gave him a trembling hand and let him haul her up on to her shaking legs. She still felt fearful, it had been so horrible, it had given her such a fright.
The stranger was looking at her critically. “How did you get here?” he asked.
“Car,” Jenny answered. “It’s not far away. I left it by the bridge while I went for a walk and when I got back it wouldn’t start. I was on my way to the garage when – when this happened.”
“I’d better have a look at it. I think the road’s over there.” The stranger picked up the gargoyle mask. “And that’s the way your witch friend went and as he’s a local, he probably knows I haven’t been here for years.”
“He’s not my friend,” said Jenny with a shudder as she gazed fearfully at the dark shapes of rock and bush in the mist. “I only hope he’s not lying in wait somewhere.”
“Well, we’ve got the knife,” said the stranger cheerfully, “and I gave him quite a pasting. I don’t think he’ll be back for any more yet. Come on, let’s find this car of yours.”
The fog had lifted on the road, but thickened on the higher ground like an army making an orderly withdrawal to the mountains. Soon, they could see the Mini and the bridge. Jenny knew that she could walk that far, but supposing it still wouldn’t start? She would never get all those miles to St. Marla, she felt far too battered and shaky. She felt as though she had fought to the utmost limits for self-preservation. If the stranger turned out to be another villain instead of the rescuer he seemed, she must just succumb. She looked at him doubtfully, searching his face for credentials. It was a calm face despite the excitement he had just been through, his adrenalin must have drained away or been used up, thought Jenny. It was a sturdy face, weathered and freckled and yet the mouth was sensitive and the blue eyes held a glint of private humor. He wasn’t tall, five feet nine, she guessed. His body matched his height, it looked muscular and purposeful; Jenny felt that he was tough in an unobtrusive sort of way.
“There are my belongings,” he said, pointing to a knapsack and duffel bag lying at the roadside. “I chucked them down when you screamed. The fog was so thick I couldn’t see what was going on but I shot down the road and was just in time to see that bastard dive off the rock. He gave you a rough time, I’m afraid, before I caught up with him.”
“Yes, I’m a bit battered.” Jenny answered, suddenly aware that her clothes were caked in rich, damp peat, that her feet were soaking wet and very cold; she retied her scarf with muddy hands, wondering what sort of mess her face was in.
The stranger was picking up his knapsack. “Could you take these?” he asked, holding out the mask and knife. Jenny shuddered and drew back. “I’d rather carry the knapsack,” she said.
He laughed. “Well, have the duffel bag then, it’s lighter.”
They were almost at the bridge now.
“You know whoever it was must have followed me from Ermeporth,” said Jenny. Bernard had been there, with her in the shop, but then Robert lived there and David Carr taught there and Nigel? Well, he wasn’t really what you could call well-built.
“Yes, whoever it was must have followed just hoping that I would do something crazy like walk on the moor. But I suppose if I’d gone straight home he’d have lurked in the garden or something.”
“He certainly meant to give you the fright of your life, if nothing worse,” agreed the stranger. “But you say you’re not a witch?”
“No. They would like me to become one. At least Margaret Shaw, she’s a novelist and my employer, and Robert Cavendish would like me too, but I said no. In fact I’d just made up my mind to leave; the whole set-up’s too creepy.”
“These are new names to me,” said the stranger, “but it’s ten years since I left. I’m the returned wanderer, the prodigal son.” He laughed. “I ought to have waited until I made good and could come back in style – plush car, large fat cigar. Still, if I hadn’t been walking I wouldn’t have seen what happened to you.”
He opened the door of the Mini and dumped his luggage, the mask and the knife on the back seat. “Would you like to get in and try her again?”
There was still no sign of life from the car. But surely it shouldn’t have gone wrong again so soon, thought Jenny, as the stranger’s head disappeared under the hood. A great feeling of weariness swept over her. If it couldn’t be persuaded to work, she would just have to stay here until help came, she felt incapable of further effort.
Presently, the stranger’s voice called, “Try her now.” And as the engine leaped to life, he slammed the hood shut and came around to her. “Lead off the coil,” he said, “your witch enemy made sure you’d walk past his rock. Look, is the car insured for anyone to drive? Because if she is I’ll take you home. You still look pretty shaky to me.”
Jenny moved into the passenger seat. “It’s St. Marla,” she said, “but are you sure it’s not going to be out of the way for you?”
“It’s dead on target. That’s where I come from,” said the young man cheerfully. “Where are you living?”
“Kilruthan Lodge.”
“Well that is a new one. There was no lodge in my young days.”
“It’s not really a lodge. The house is divided into two and I suppose they had to give each half a name to avoid confusion.”
“I see. And do the Forrests still live in Kilruthan itself?” He seemed relieved at Jenny’s answer.
“I don’t know if you’ve heard of me?” he went on, a slight note of diffidence in his voice, “I’m Simon Forrest, their adopted son.”
9
An Ally
“Oh, I am glad you’ve come,” said Jenny when the first surprise had passed. “This means that another of my problems will be solved. Look, drive very slowly otherwise we’ll be there before I’ve told you half of what’s going on.”
“Do we have to go straight to Kilruthan?” asked Simon. “I mean are you due back? I’m not expected and after ten years an hour one way or another’s not going to make much difference. If you’ll lend your car we can go and have tea or coffee or something in Bodmin.”
“Aren’t I too muddy?” asked Jenny.
“We don’t have to go grand. If you took off your headscarf and scraped the mud from your left cheek you’d just look like my fellow wanderer. Is this heater full on? We both need drying out.”
“It’s your mother who really worries me,” said Jenny pouring tea, “she seems to have given up. She won’t have a doctor, she just says she knows about ‘it’ and there’s nothing to be done. And there’s another mystery connected with it: I told Margaret and Robert and later Bromwyn about the horrible-looking meals she was eating, out of the salad bowl with a wooden spoon and they all jumped out of their wits; though Robert insisted she was only saving washing up.”
Simon looked at Jenny with a faintly amused expression. “Well, you’ve convinced me that you’re not a witch,” he said. “And it looks as though my mother’s still fighting in her own way. You see if you suspect someone of having put a spell on you, or ill-wished you, as they call it around here, you must eat saltless food out of wood and with wood, to counteract it.”
A Place With Two Faces Page 9