by Rachel Hore
The hours passed with agonizing slowness, and yet Jude didn’t want them to go quicker. The longer Summer was missing, the worse the prognosis would be. “Why can’t they find her?” Claire wailed again and again, and Jude concurred heartily.
Euan returned after several hours, the young constable with him. He told them in a low voice how the folly had already been turned into a crime scene, with blue and white police tape and a forensic specialist in attendance. At the news, the blood drained from Claire’s delicate features and she sat as still as a porcelain doll.
Jude, though quite as anxious, thought what to do. The idea of ringing their mother passed briefly through her mind. She rejected it for the moment, but when the first journalist arrived—from the local television news—she knew she’d have to tell Valerie before she got wind of the crisis from some other source. But when she made the call to Spain there was only an answer phone; she left a bland message about ringing Jude back. That was all she could do for the moment.
The detective returned to question Jude and Claire and Euan once more, going over and over the same facts, and Jude, despite Claire’s frowning looks, stumbled briefly through her account of Summer’s bad dreams and weird knowledge of events long past. The man clearly didn’t know what to make of this, but did his best.
“So you’re saying that she was maybe frightened after you read her the fairy tale and might have sleepwalked or something?” he asked.
“Possibly. But…” If only she could remember her own confused dreams from last night. “Look—I know it sounds daft—she might have gone off, I don’t know, on some quest to do with this story I told you about. She got quite caught up in it, you see. It seemed very real to her.”
“This girl from the eighteenth century,” he said unhappily. “It sounds a little strange.” Jude knew he wasn’t convinced. She couldn’t blame him.
When he finally left them, Claire turned to her fiercely.
“I wish you’d stop all that nonsense. Couldn’t you see he didn’t believe a word of it? It’s just crazy.”
“Claire, we’ve talked about this before. You agreed—”
“I didn’t agree anything. If you hadn’t stirred everything up Summer wouldn’t have got upset.”
“I didn’t stir things up. It all started before I came here. Her dreams, I mean.”
Claire’s eyes slid to Euan, who stood up and said shortly, “I’m going out to help look. I can’t sit here.”
“It’s you as well,” Claire cried. “It was when you took her to the folly that the dreams started. And she wouldn’t have gone to the folly last night, I know she wouldn’t, not of her own accord. She hated the place. Someone must have taken her there.” She looked hard and cold at Euan, who flinched. “Maybe you took her. For all we know it was you.”
There was complete silence, then Euan said, “Thank you for that vote of confidence. Now I’m going out to look for your daughter.” And he was gone.
“Claire. How can you have said that?” Jude whispered harshly. “You know it’s nonsense. You know.”
“It’s you that’s talked the nonsense,” said Claire bitterly. And she covered her face with her hands and began to sob uncontrollably.
* * *
The day passed. Then the night, which they spent in the tent again because Claire wanted to be close to where she’d last seen Summer, though neither of them slept much. In the small hours Jude woke and heard Claire whimpering. She shuffled her sleeping bag into the compartment where her sister lay and snuggled into her. Surprisingly, Claire allowed her to comfort her. Jude wondered when this had ever happened before. Claire had never played the protective elder sister, had never cuddled Jude when she cried. There was just that time after Mark died, when she came and hugged Jude as though it were the most natural thing in the world, and Jude had wept into her shoulder, letting her feelings go for the first time since the accident. And now the person Claire loved best in the world was lost to her and it was all they could do to cling to each other, Claire with the kind of desperation Jude had never, thankfully, seen in her before, and hoped never to again.
Was it really only yesterday she’d burned with jealousy of Claire? It seemed so long ago. And now she wasn’t jealous at all. Nor did she feel pity, because what Claire was feeling was what Jude was feeling, too. Summer was precious to all of them. And now they might have lost her. For this brief moment there was nothing between them. And in this moment of pure truth, Jude dared to ask the thing that she had never asked, indeed had never even acknowledged as a conscious thought before.
“Claire,” she said, “I know this is stupid, but a couple of nights ago I had the weirdest idea. That—you’ll say I’m crazy—Summer’s father … was Mark.”
There was a silence that went on and on and on. Finally Claire cleared her throat and said, “You’re crazy. How on earth could you think that?” and turned over, edging away. And a wave of despair swept over Jude.
At first light, police reinforcements arrived and the search resumed. The mood was darkening and there were shreds of talk about abduction now. The footprint in the folly might indicate Summer had gone there of her own volition, or that she’d been taken there. Jude overheard the detective say “no signs of a struggle,” which somehow wasn’t as comforting as it might be. The nature of the police questioning was changing, too. Who did Summer know? Who did Claire and Jude know? Did Summer use the Internet? Did she ever wander off by herself? Jude couldn’t tell from the set expressions of the questioners whether Claire’s answers were helpful to them or not.
At some point in the dreary confused hours, Jude thought to ring Chantal. She was slightly comforted to hear the woman’s warm sympathy. “I have been praying for the little girl. I am sure she will be found safe. Do not give up hope.” Jude had to cut the call short because her voice kept breaking as she thanked the woman.
Euan returned after a day of searching the forest. He was exhausted and somehow a husk of his usual self. He sat, hands clenched together, arms on his knees. Claire wouldn’t look at him. At one point he told her, “I will search and search and search until we find her. I will bring her back to you,” but Claire merely shrugged.
In the early evening, the detective came with the young constable and formally asked Euan to accompany him to the police station for questioning. He was assured that he wasn’t being charged with anything. Euan went, a shambling figure with the dust of the day still on him. Cameras flashed as he got into the police car and was driven away.
“Claire, sometimes I really hate you,” Jude whispered into the door jamb, but not loud enough for her sister to hear. The tears were falling down her face.
She knew with absolute certainty that Euan had nothing to do with Summer’s disappearance. But though in her mind she’d been over and over the events of that fateful evening she couldn’t remember something that she knew was there but was dancing just out of her reach. It was something, she knew, to do with the folly.
CHAPTER 32
Summer thought it was lovely going to sleep in the caravan, smelling the comforting, familiar scent of the painted wood, trying to make out the patterns on the ceiling, still faintly visible in the dying evening light. She was warm and comfortable and safe, with her best friend, Darcey, gently snoring next to her. She thought over the story Auntie Jude had read her and briefly imagined that she was Rapunzel in the tower, but she didn’t think she’d ever let something like that happen to her, so she imagined instead what it might be like to be the prince and to save someone you love from something bad. With this not unpleasant thought she sank into sleep.
She dreamed, not this time the lost dream. She was running through a forest all right, but she wasn’t crying for her mummy, she was running to help someone. She had a strong sense that something wasn’t right, someone was in danger and she had to find them. It was something to do with the folly, she knew that. She had to get there and help.
Still deep in her dream, she sat up in the darkness, pushed
the bedclothes back and swung her feet to the floor. A toe prodded something. A shoe. She bent down and grasped it, fitted it onto her foot, then felt about until she found the other and put that on, too. She pushed open the caravan door and felt her way down the steps. She knew the way up to the folly from here, and now she tiptoed past the tent and ran across the meadow—a little frightened, but not much for it was important to be brave tonight, like a prince. The owls, shuffling in their cage, saw her, but she didn’t notice them. She turned left out of the drive and walked all the way up to the junction with Foxhole Lane, for she knew the footpath would be nasty and brambly.
And now she could sense more strongly the urgent summons to the folly. Part of her didn’t want to go. It had been spooky there. But another part of her mind knew she had to find Esther and help her. Before it was too late. It was very dark under the trees, and misty, and she shivered, but then the mist cleared and she could make out enough to see her route. Quickly, she went, past several wagons huddled in darkness at the side of Foxhole Lane and the word Rowan formed in her head, then on she went, along the narrow path toward the folly. There were times in life, she knew from storybooks, when you had to do the thing you were most frightened of.
When she reached the folly, the door was unlocked. It swung open easily on new, well-oiled hinges. She started to climb the sturdy brick steps.
* * *
In the safety of the tent, Jude’s eyes had briefly opened then fluttered closed. She had sunk once more into sleep.
It must have been past midnight when Esther heard the key turn in the lock downstairs and the door handle turn. Her flash of hope was immediately followed by a prickle of fear of who or what it might be. She flew across the room and flattened herself against the wall next to the doorway and listened to the sound of slow footsteps trudging up the staircase, louder and louder. A man bearing a flickering lantern loomed in the doorway, spiky shadows leaping up round the walls. When he lowered the light she gasped with relief, ‘Oh, Mr Trotwood, it’s you.’
He looked her up and down, somewhat warily, but with no surprise.
She said in a rush, and not without a catch in her voice, ‘I got locked in. I don’t know how. I expect you’ve all been looking for me. You saw the light, I suppose.’
Mr Trotwood ignored her, but held up his lantern to inspect the room, noticing the mattress and the book open on the table. His expression hardened. He turned to her and said, ‘You’ll be hungry, I expect.’
‘Why, yes,’ she said. ‘I’ve had nothing for three days.’
‘And cold, I should think.’
‘Yes, I have been.’ She pulled her cloak around her, with growing alarm at his strangeness.
He made a little noise in his throat, the meaning of which she couldn’t gauge. He dropped the bag he’d been carrying on the floor near the wall.
‘Mr Trotwood, thank you so much for rescuing me, but can we go now?’
She moved towards the doorway.
‘Not so fast,’ he said, very quietly, and seized her by the arm. She stiffened, terrified.
‘The mistress is finding you, shall we say, inconvenient.’
‘What?’ she said, then, absorbing his words, ‘Was it you who shut me in here?’
‘No,’ he said in his slow, deliberate voice, ‘but somebody did a useful job, didn’t they? Come on,’ he ordered, twisting her arm painfully behind her back. ‘Up here, there’s a good girl.’ He pushed her to the ladder.
‘No!’ she cried. ‘Leave me alone.’
His response was to clamp a leathery hand over her mouth with a hissed, ‘Don’t give me any more trouble now, yer little upstart.’
He hauled her up the ladder one step at a time as she fought and flailed and tried to cry out. Finally he got her out onto the roof. ‘It’s over you go,’ he cried, dragging her towards the parapet. ‘Then they’ll say, “Poor little thing, grief-stricken after the old man’s death,” and you’ll be out of everyone’s—’ He gave a sudden cry and kicked out, nearly letting her go. Someone had bitten his leg, damn them to hell. He swung round to see a girl, thin, ragged. Where had she sprung from? He kicked at her again and she fell sprawling across the platform. The moonlight shone on her face and Esther saw with surprise that it was the gypsy girl.
With Trotwood’s attention elsewhere, Esther took her opportunity. She bit his hand hard. He tore it away with a cry. She twisted out of his grasp and stepped back, tripping over the telescope stand and nearly falling. He advanced. She grabbed the telescope and yanked part of it loose, then wielded it like a cudgel. He put out both arms to snatch it from her. Rowan launched herself at his legs, making him stagger, and Esther hit him on the shoulder with her weapon. He reeled, then recovered himself and kicked Rowan away. She scrambled to her feet. Both the girls were facing him now, Esther with her nasty weapon. He backed away, then edged sideways, perhaps intending to deal with Rowan first. What happened next was a surprise to them all. His foot caught in the top rung of the ladder and he pitched sideways, his head hitting the parapet with a great crack. For a moment he lay like Goliath hit by the stone, blood pouring from a cut on his head.
After a while he sat up, dazed, but the girls were past him. They scampered for the ladder like two frightened mice, Rowan getting down first, then Esther, who lowered the trapdoor and bolted it behind them. Then they waited in fright below, clutching each other, listening to Trotwood bang on the trapdoor and roar curses. After a minute or two of this he desisted suddenly. They heard a thud, shufflings and then a groan. After that, silence.
The two girls looked at one another. The gypsy girl’s eyes were huge in her thin face. She put out her hands and took one of Esther’s and stroked it gently.
‘How did you find me?’ Esther asked. ‘I’m so glad that you did.’
The girl uttered two harsh syllables, and when Esther frowned uncomprehendingly, she mimed a little scene.
‘You were asleep,’ said Esther, watching closely, ‘and somebody woke you. No, you had a dream?’
The girl nodded, and mimed running and panting.
‘Well, I’m glad you came.’ The girl pulled out of her skirt pocket a small piece of brick with one of Esther’s messages still wrapped round it. It was soaked, the writing indecipherable. ‘Yes, that’s mine. Thank you, oh thank you.’
They both listened in case of any sign of life from the roof, but there was none. Then Esther noticed Mr Trotwood’s bag. There was a dead rabbit tied to the strap. She eagerly undid the buckles, hoping for food. Inside was a pistol and a lump of fruitcake wrapped in a cloth. She placed the pistol on the desk next to her journal, untied the rabbit and gave it to the girl, who received it with a show of pleasure, then she divided the cake between them. Both of them ate hungrily.
Esther picked up the pistol. She’d never handled one before, but she fiddled with the catch then fitted her forefinger over the trigger and pointed the gun shakily at the window. Yes, she thought she could do it if she had to. She marched over to the ladder, climbed up and pushed at the trapdoor. It would not move. There was something weighting it shut. She gave up and came back down, returned the pistol to the desk with some relief. She wasn’t sure what her intentions had been. To rescue him, bring him down the tower at gunpoint, perhaps.
Outside, the wind was beginning to get up. Esther went to a window and watched the snowflakes beginning to fall. Then she said to herself, What shall I do?
Trotwood had confirmed her worst suspicions, that not only did Alicia wish to deny her the inheritance of the Hall, but she had hoped to deprive her of her very life. And Trotwood had supported her in this. Who else would, among the servants? Obviously not Susan, who loved her like a daughter, and she couldn’t imagine Mrs Godstone or Corbett taking against her, or Betsy. But the more she thought about it, the more frightened she was at the idea of going back. She had no one of any power or influence to support her and now there was the problem of Trotwood, lying dead or dying upstairs. It was an accident, of course, in the e
nd. He’d slipped and cracked his skull, but it could still look bad for the two of them, very bad.
The other girl finished the last crumbs of cake, then snatched up Trotwood’s bag and rummaged in the side pockets. All she could find was a couple of wizened apples. She handed one to Esther and began to eat the other noisily. Esther watched her small white nibbling teeth with fascination. The girl’s headscarf had slid back on her head and in the lantern-light Esther saw that the hair was paler where it sprang from her scalp but streaked with dirt or tar. Seeing her curiosity, the girl quickly pulled the scarf forwards.
Esther began to pace the room, rubbing her arms for warmth, her thoughts whirling like the snowflakes outside. What should she do? There was surely nowhere for her to go. The servants couldn’t help her. She thought of Matt. No, she couldn’t endanger him. It suddenly struck her how truly alone in the world she was.
Now the girl uttered, ‘Esther,’ and said something in her strange tongue, gesturing towards the stairs.
‘You want me to come with you?’ Esther said. The girl nodded, then her gaze alighted on the pistol and the apple cores.
Esther took her meaning. She returned the pistol to the bag, which she laid against the wall as it had been. Then she set about collecting up every piece of evidence that she’d recently been there, tidying the ink in a cupboard, placing everything she’d brought with her back in her bag. She hesitated over the journal, then wrapped it in an oilcloth and took it to the hiding place in the wall. She opened it and saw the box containing her necklace. She had forgotten all about it, but she might need it now. She opened the box and lifted out the string of stars, her heart leaping to see the beautiful sparkling charms. Quickly, she undid her cloak and slipped the necklace round her neck, looking up to see Rowan’s expression of amazement and, yes, desire. The box went into her bag, then came the problem of fitting the journal inside the hideaway. It simply would not go. She stood in an agony of indecision. The journal was precious, with its record of discovery, but it belonged with the others, back at the Hall. She’d leave it in a cupboard. No one would know how long it had been there. But the account she’d written of herself might be useful one day.