On the subject of London she asked him how his recent trip had been. It had gone well, he told her, adding, after a pause: ‘As a matter of fact—I didn’t want to come back.’
She looked at him and shook her head. ‘Oh, dear, that’s a shame.’
‘Yes, it is. But it’s the truth.’ He looked about him at the shops, the villagers going by about their business. ‘There’s just something about this place that—that doesn’t suit me. It’s good for Rowan, but it’s not good for me. And it’s not good for us—our relationship.’
‘So—what are you going to do about it?’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I wish I did. I keep telling myself it will pass—my feeling about it—Moorstone. Maybe it will, in time . . .’
She nodded. ‘Yes, I expect so. You’ll settle eventually.’ With a smile she added, ‘You’ll see—you’ll end up like all those other people.’
‘What other people?’
‘All those young people who come to Moorstone for a visit or something and end up staying, making it their home. They all seem to, don’t they?’ She paused. ‘But here’s one who won’t. When I leave on Monday with Geoff that will be it.’
They turned from the High Street onto School Lane. After continuing in silence for a while Hal said:
‘By “those young people” I suppose you mean Lewis Childs and Paul Cassen . . .’
‘Yes. And Mary Hughes—and David Lockyer. And there might well be others I don’t know about.’
He looked at her but said nothing. They came to the end of the houses and he gestured towards a five-barred gate over to the right. ‘Would you like to stop for a cigarette?’
‘I would indeed.’
After he’d propped his bicycle against the gate they lit cigarettes and leaned on the top bar. On the distant hill the shape of the Stone reared up, black against the sunlit hills beyond. Hal said:
‘Paul Cassen told us that he was befriended by a doctor when he came here . . .’
‘Yes. A Dr Richmond. He died in Primrose House.’
Hal looked at her.
‘Yes,’ she went on, ‘and Lockyer’s benefactor. He was a composer—named Edwin Leclerc.’
‘Rowan said something about him. Mrs Palfrey was telling her about him.’ He paused. ‘You say he also died in Primrose House?’
‘Yes.’
‘How do you know all this?’
‘It’s no secret. Besides, I’ve become . . . interested. I’ve asked a few discreet questions. And there’s one thing I’ve come to realize . . .’ She gave a strange, humourless little chuckle and added, ‘I’ve come to realize that if you’re a villager and befriend some young newcomer to the village you’re quite likely to end up being committed.’ She stared at him and then shrugged. ‘Sounds insane, doesn’t it? But that’s what happened with Paul Cassen and Dr Richmond, Leclerc and Lockyer, and Mary Hughes and Miss Larkin.’ A little silence fell, then she went on: ‘There’s a funny thing. You remember I was telling you about how Miss Larkin came round to The Laurels that day?’
‘Yes?’
‘She’d managed to get out of Primrose House, you remember. Well—in the short time while I was there with her at the front door—she called me Alison. Yet I’d never even really talked to her before. Why should she call me by my first name? And why—in the first place—did she come round asking for me?’
For the third night in a row he had found himself unable to sleep, and now once again he was at the bedroom window, gazing out over the shadowed village. In his hand was a cigarette; beside him a mug of tea, now swiftly cooling. Behind him in the bed Rowan was sleeping. Like last night and the night before she’d come to bed before him . . . This day past, like the previous one, had seen them no closer. Tonight, when he’d climbed into bed beside her she had briefly awakened and he’d nestled up to her warmth; he was tired of the tight-lipped silence that had prevailed since his return from London. But she had moved away from him. The movement of her body had been slight, the merest cold tightening, but it had been enough—enough to drive him back so that they no longer touched. Then, after an hour he had got out of bed to sit where he now was, looking out into the night. It was almost two o’clock.
He straightened suddenly in his chair. He could see a light ahead. The tiniest pinpoint of light, up on the hill beyond the village. Then a second one appeared; then another, and another. In the end they were clustered there, moving slowly along the line of the hill to where the Stone rose up.
He sat watching as the lights moved up onto the rock itself and remained there, wavering, moving about, for at least an hour.
And then they vanished. Quickly, one by one, they all went out and he was looking into the unrelieved shadow again.
He shook his head as if to clear his brain. Then, stubbing out the remains of his cigarette he got up from the chair. He must try to sleep.
Throwing off his dressing gown he climbed into bed beside Rowan’s stillness—but he lay apart from her; he wouldn’t risk another rebuff. Sleepless, eyes open, he stared into the darkness.
Into his mind came the memory of what Alison had told him by the five-barred gate. He could remember how he had looked at her, shaking his head in bewilderment; it was all beyond him. ‘Paul Cassen, David Lockyer and Mary Hughes,’ he had said. ‘Are you aware of what an incredible coincidence it all adds up to? They each come here from outside, get in with one of the villagers and end up staying on . . .’
‘Right. While the particular villagers—their benefactors—end up dying in the nuthouse.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ he’d said after a moment. ‘It’s like some bloody sickness.’
21
It was almost eleven when Hal awoke. When he had showered and shaved he went downstairs and found Rowan in the kitchen preparing breakfast. He could hear the rather aggrieved tone in his voice as he said, ‘You might have woken me—rather than let me sleep on.’
‘I did call you once,’ she said, ‘but you didn’t stir. So, as you were obviously tired I thought you might as well sleep a little longer. Did I do the wrong thing?’
He didn’t answer. Rowan turned back to the stove, picked up eggs from a bowl and held one poised over the frying-pan. ‘Are you ready to eat?’ she asked.
‘Yes, thank you.’ He noticed then that her right wrist was bare. ‘You got rid of your bandage,’ he said.
‘I took it off yesterday. Paul Cassen said I should if it felt okay.’ She turned to him with the faintest smile. ‘I thought as a writer you were supposed to be observant.’
‘Mmm . . . I suppose I had that coming.’ He returned her smile, just. ‘And does it feel okay now?’
‘Fine.’ She nodded. ‘It’s perfectly all right.’
Just after three o’clock Rowan announced her intention of giving Alison a ring. ‘She and Geoff ought to be back by now,’ she said, ‘and I’ve got to make sure they’re coming tonight.’ She had already spent some time in the kitchen making preparations for the dinner.
‘They are coming,’ Hal said. ‘She told me yesterday.’
‘Anyway, we’ve got to fix up a time . . .’
As she moved to the telephone Hal went up to his study where he sat looking out over the village. The sun was bright on the rooftops and on the Stone. Before him on his desk lay the file containing the results of his work on the novel. He hadn’t touched it in days. Beside it lay The Times, open to the section advertising houses and flats for sale. He stared at it for a while then got up, paced the room for a minute or two and then went downstairs. He was just crossing the hall when the telephone rang. It would probably be Alison, he thought as he moved to answer it. But it was not Alison. It was Tim Farson, calling from his home in London.
The conversation was brief and when it was over Hal replaced the receiver and stood for a moment in thought. Then he went in search of Rowan. Not finding her in the house he looked from the sitting room’s rear window and saw her in the garden. He went out to her.
She was sittin
g on the old wooden bench near the laburnum tree. She looked up as he approached.
‘Was that Alison on the phone?’ she asked.
‘No, it was Tim Farson.’
‘Oh.’ She sounded disappointed. ‘I couldn’t get hold of her just now,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘Alison. I couldn’t reach her.’
‘Oh.’ He nodded, unconcerned. But Rowan was frowning.
‘Miss Allardice answered the phone,’ she went on. ‘When I asked to speak to Alison she said she was too busy to come to the phone right then.’
‘Well—she does have a husband who’s just returned. And she hasn’t seen him in a while, has she?’
‘I know that. Even so . . .’
‘So what did you do?’
‘I asked her to get Alison to phone me as soon as she could—just to let me know about this evening. What else could I do?’
There was a pause, then Hal said: ‘Uh . . . about this evening . . . I’m afraid there’s a slight problem . . .’
‘What’s that?’
‘—I’ve got to go up to London.’
‘I see.’ She paused. ‘You’ve got to go?’
‘Yes, I have to. I must.’
‘When, exactly?’
‘I told you—this evening. The producer of Spectre is arriving in London later today, and I’ve agreed to see him first thing tomorrow morning. I’ll have to travel up tonight and stay at the club. There’s nothing else for it.’
‘But—Alison and Geoff are coming for dinner. You can’t just—go off like that . . .’
‘I’m sorry. I really am. But what else can I do? Goldman’s only going to be in London for one day. He’s going on to Rome tomorrow evening. We’ll have a lot to talk about with the screenplay and not much time to do it in. Unless you’d rather I flew out to the States and talked to him there . . .’
Rowan let this pass with a shrug. After a moment she said: ‘And when will you be back?’
‘Tomorrow, after we’ve finished our discussions.’
‘That is unless you decide to stay on longer, I suppose—as you did the other day.’
With patience heavy in his voice he said, ‘Rowan, try to understand. I don’t punch a time clock, and on occasion—very rarely—it’s necessary for me to do things that might possibly upset your plans—much as I hate to do it. I know Alison and Geoff are coming round, and I know you’ve taken great care in planning a really nice evening. But there’s nothing I can do about it. I can’t stay for it. I have to go. It’s part of my work.’
‘All of a sudden you’re interested in your work. That’s a novelty.’
She glared at him and he lowered his eyes under her gaze, turned and went back into the house.
By six o’clock his briefcase and overnight bag were packed and he was ready to leave. He couldn’t go yet, though; not with things as they were with Rowan. After hovering purposelessly in the sitting room for a few minutes he went into the kitchen where he found her busy at the stove. Much aware of stating the obvious, he said: ‘No word from Alison yet . . .’
‘Not likely to be, either. Now Miss Carroll’s phone is out of order.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I tried to call a couple of minutes ago—twice. Then I checked with the operator. It’s out of order.’ She shook her head distractedly. ‘Here I am doing all this food and I don’t even know whether anybody’s going to be here to eat the damned stuff. I don’t know what the hell’s happening.’ She picked up the oven cloth, threw it down again and moved away across the floor. ‘I’d better get ready, anyway, just in case somebody should come.’
He felt helpless and very conscious of the feeling that he was leaving her in the lurch. ‘Listen,’ he said as he followed her through the dining room, ‘I’ll drive over and see Alison. Find out what’s happening.’
‘I thought you wanted to get off.’
‘I don’t need to go just yet. Besides, I’d like to see her before I go—and say hello to Geoff . . . wish them good luck.’
They had reached the hall. At the foot of the stairs she stopped and turned back to him. ‘Well, you do what you want to do, but it’s up to Alison to let us know if she can’t make it. We shouldn’t have to do the running around.’
‘Well, with her phone out of order and Geoff only just having got here she does have something of an excuse. Anyway, they might not even be at The Laurels. Have you called The Swan? They might be over there. I should think that’s most likely.’
‘I already thought of that. She’s not there, though. I phoned. They told me that Mr Lucas checked in a while ago and then went out again. They hadn’t seen anything of Alison.’
‘Look . . . I’ll drive on over to The Laurels.’
She shrugged. ‘Please yourself. But she was too busy to come to the phone earlier and I’m not going to make the next move. If they get here I shall be ready for them. If not—too bad . . .’ Turning away from him she started up the stairs.
At The Laurels Hal walked up the path and rang the bell. There was some little delay before the door was opened but then Miss Allardice was there, smiling up at him enquiringly. He would, he said, if possible, like to see Mrs Lucas. Miss Allardice gave a concerned, worried-looking little frown and said: ‘Oh, dear, I’m terribly sorry, but I’m afraid she’s unable to see anyone right now.’
Somewhat taken aback he hesitated for a moment then said, ‘But—well—could you please tell her that Hal Graham is here . . . ? I think she’ll see me . . .’
‘I’m sorry.’ Miss Allardice looked rather distressed. ‘She can’t see anyone at all. Not anyone. She’s—she’s resting.’ Adding her sympathetic smile she started to close the door.
‘Wait a minute—’ Hal stepped forward. ‘Please—uh—my wife and I are wondering whether Mr and Mrs Lucas are coming round for dinner. We haven’t heard anything from them . . .’
‘I know nothing about that, I’m afraid.’ She looked wide-eyed into his face.
‘I don’t get it,’ he said. He felt completely at a loss. ‘I can’t believe she won’t even see me—talk to me for a minute.’
She shrugged. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Graham, but what can I say? I’m only doing as I’m instructed.’ She paused, then, lowering her voice, added, ‘You see—Miss Carroll is not at all well—and Mrs Lucas is looking after her.’
‘Oh . . .’ He nodded, still not understanding.
‘Miss Carroll, I’m afraid, is really very poorly,’ Miss Allardice said. ‘Poor Mrs Lucas—she’s been up all night and most of the day. As I say: now she’s resting, but as soon as I can I’ll tell her you called. No doubt she’ll be in touch with you.’
‘Your phone’s out of order,’ he said. ‘Did you know?’
‘Oh, dear . . .’ she clicked her tongue, ‘if it isn’t one thing it’s another.’ With a final little smile and a nod she closed the door.
22
The tampon she discarded was barely stained. Her period was over. A bare three days it had lasted; her usual time. She was back to her regular pattern. All that hope, that promise; it had all gone, leaving no sign now that there had ever been cause for it to be.
Mechanically she showered, dried herself, got dressed and began to brush her hair. After a while she heard the car pull into the drive. Then Hal’s feet sounded on the landing and he came into the room. She looked at him in the glass as he stood behind her. ‘What did she say?’ she asked.
‘I didn’t see her. According to Miss Allardice Alison’s resting. She’s been up all night looking after the old lady. Miss Carroll, apparently, is not at all well . . .’
Rowan was silent for a moment, then she said impatiently, ‘Well, are they coming or not?’
He gave an infuriating shrug. ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’ Then he added, ‘Offhand I’d say don’t count on it. I’d say it’s very doubtful.’
‘But—she can’t just leave it like this. She can’t just—say nothing, do nothing . . . Did you ask to see her?�
�
‘Of course I did. But Miss Allardice said she had instructions not to disturb her. No doubt Alison will be in touch, she said. Her words.’
Rowan got up and turned to him, shaking her head. ‘This is ridiculous,’ she said vehemently. ‘The whole thing. She hasn’t sent any message round; there’s not been so much as a single word from her at all. It’s suddenly as though we don’t even exist for her.’
‘So it seems.’
‘But I don’t understand it. There’s got to be some explanation. For her to be so—uncaring and so—so cavalier . . . It’s just not like her. Somehow it’s all wrong.’
‘I agree,’ he said. He paused. ‘But what’s new? Every bloody thing seems wrong to me in this place.’
‘Please!’ She flapped her hands before him and then put them up to her ears. ‘Not that. Please don’t start on that again!’
He looked at her for a moment longer, then turned and went from the room.
A few minutes later when she went downstairs she found him in the sitting room, looking out onto the lawn.
‘I thought you had somewhere to go,’ she said.
He turned to her with his back to the window. ‘What are you going to do?’
She shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’ Then, knowing it would hurt, she added: ‘Do you care that much?’
‘—Rowan . . . don’t.’ He paused. ‘Look—why don’t you come with me? We’ll spend two or three days in London.’
‘You know I wouldn’t like that. Why should I want to go there? I like it here. And anyway, what if Alison and Geoff turn up? Then what happens?’
‘They’re not coming now. You must realize that.’
‘Oh, you’re so sure about everything, aren’t you? And if you’re that concerned about leaving me here, then don’t go. Stay.’
‘You know I can’t do that. I’ve made all the arrangements. I’ve got to go.’
‘You could phone him—that man, Goldman. See him another time. Or if he’s that desperate to see you then let him come down here.’
‘Aw, come on, Rowan, be sensible. I couldn’t do that. And I can’t change everything now. Look—this meeting is important.’
The Moorstone Sickness Page 15