Moth to the Flame

by Maxine Barry

  The hall was full of people as they turned the bend in the sweeping staircase. Winstone, the Butler, was just admitting an older couple. A mammoth urn of white orchids, freesias, roses and carnations frothed in the centre of the black-and-white tiled hall.

  It was one of those moments when everyone seemed to freeze for just a never-to-be-forgotten moment of time. The older couple looked up at the spectacularly handsome, contrasting young couple coming down the stairs, and their faces softened.

  The Earl and Countess followed their gaze.

  The Countess, for the first time ever, looked approving. By her side, she felt Rupert swell. The evening was already a success. And she was glad. But she was even more pleased that tomorrow she’d be going back to Oxford.

  Back to Jared.

  The Warrington Ball passed as the March Ball always had—in a whirl of vintage champagne, dancing, gourmet food and music.

  Rupert danced with Alicia constantly, and the fact was not missed by the more matrimony-minded ladies of the county. Midnight came and went. Two o’clock came and went. Eventually Warrington began to empty, and Alicia bade the Earl and Countess goodnight.

  By four o’clock, the house was silent.

  Feeling bone-weary, Alicia crawled into bed and fell instantly asleep. She was awoken by the sound of blackbirds singing and some heavy object sitting down on the end of her bed. She opened bleary eyes, saw a descending blond head, and felt herself being kissed. She struggled instantly into alert, appalled wakefulness.

  ‘Rupert,’ she spluttered, pushing him away from her. He was still dressed in his tuxedo, and when he leaned back from her, his face was oddly flushed. She realised she wasn’t the only one who had drunk too much champagne.

  ‘Rupert,’ she said again, sitting up against the headboard and pulling the sheets up under her chin. ‘I don’t think you should be here,’ she said warningly.

  Uneasily, she realised she was potentially in a very embarrassing position. On the other hand, she didn’t intend to put up with any nonsense from Rupert, either.

  ‘Sorry,’ Rupert said quietly, instantly putting her fears to rest. ‘I know I shouldn’t have. But you looked so beautiful, lying there asleep. I really came in to give you this.’

  And, whilst she wilted in relief, he suddenly held out his hand. In it was the most amazing ring she’d ever seen. A square cut sapphire, surrounded by a starburst of diamonds. A veritable Queen’s Ransom of a ring.

  It looked ancient. And priceless.

  She gaped at it. ‘Rupert?’ she breathed. ‘What . . .’

  ‘It’s the Warrington Ring,’ he said simply. ‘It’s an heirloom. It’s been in the family for over a hundred years.’

  Alicia felt her mouth fall open. She wondered, for one brief moment, if she was actually dreaming. If she’d never woken up. ‘Rupert, but . . . we’re not engaged,’ she blurted out. She pushed the hair out of her eyes. Tried to struggle free from this feeling of growing unreality. Had she missed something, somewhere? Had she . . .

  ‘I wanted to make it official, darling,’ Rupert said, leaning suddenly closer. And for the first time, Alicia clearly saw, in the gleaming, feverish light of his eyes, the ugly, scary, unmistakable glint of insanity.

  She felt herself go cold. Deathly cold.

  ‘I know father approves of you,’ Rupert carried on, his voice tumbling over itself now in its eagerness to explain. ‘And that’s important. Really important,’ once again he reached out to grab her arm in a familiar gesture, but this time his fingers curled around her wrist in a strong, talon-like grip.

  She licked her lips, blinking, trying to force herself to think. Keep him talking, she heard a quiet, firm voice pipe up in the back of her head. Whatever happens, keep him talking. ‘Is it? Why?’ she asked gently, quietly, as if she was talking to a terrified horse that might bolt at any moment.

  ‘Because of the money, you see,’ Rupert said, waving a hand in the air. ‘He was going to give it all to Camilla, but now he’s seen you, I know he won’t.’

  He’s not making sense, Alicia thought in growing panic and hysteria. He’s not making any kind of sense at all! She fought back a desperate wave of panic. Of self-recrimination. Why hadn’t she spotted this . . . mental unbalance in him before? Was she so blind? So stupid? ‘I see. Money,’ she echoed, trying to keep her voice flat and calm and soothing. She had to get him out of here. Then she would be able to think!

  ‘But now it’ll be fine,’ Rupert rushed to assure her. He didn’t like to see his beloved so upset. ‘Father approves of you. We’ll be married, and you’ll have sons to carry on the family name. That will please him.’

  ‘Yes,’ Alicia murmured faintly. ‘I’m sure it will. But, Rupert, don’t you think you should leave now? If your father were to catch us together like this he might . . . er . . .’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course, darling,’ he agreed. ‘You’re so sweet. So old-fashioned. But you’re right of course. It simply wouldn’t do.’ He was so relieved it was all over. She’d accepted him. They were engaged. He was safe.

  Alicia let out a shaky breath. Then, before she could stop him, he suddenly grabbed her hand. She felt her whole body stiffen in shock, but he only reached for the ring and slipped it on her finger. To her horror it was a tight fit. She felt herself wince as he forced it brutally over her knuckle. Of course, when the ring was made, women were tinier than they were now. And had much smaller fingers. In portraits of more recent Warrington women, she’d noticed this very ring adorning their little fingers.

  But Rupert had pushed it on to her engagement finger. She could feel the finger throbbing slightly at the tight restriction of the band.

  ‘Now, I’d really better leave,’ Rupert said. ‘I can’t resist you!’ Then, with a smile of dazzling brilliance that in itself could never be classed as normal, he leaned forward and kissed her again.

  Alicia had never in her life been prepared for something like this, and simply froze. But the kiss was soon over, and then he was backing away, smiling, talking inanely about life at Warrington, about looking in the attics to see if he could find a crinoline and lace gown for her to wear for their wedding, and she could think of nothing to do but watch him back away. Then he was gone.

  Instantly, Alicia shot out of bed and locked the door. She leaned against it panting. She was scared. And upset.

  She’d never had to deal with a mental illness before.

  She thought about the cold natures of the Earl and Countess, and shook her head. It was not surprising, really, that a man as sensitive and vulnerable as Rupert should have problems.

  But . . . Oh, what should she do about it?

  She ran to the bathroom and thrust her hand under the tap. Rubbed soap vigorously around the ring, but it was no good. She simply couldn’t get it off. And, in truth, she was wary about pulling too hard, in case she should damage the ring. It was obviously a museum-quality piece. She forced herself to take a deep breath. Stood over the sink, gasping and shaking and telling herself uselessly not to panic.

  Her finger was swollen, that was all. Rupert had bruised it putting the ring on. As soon as the swelling went down, she would take the ring off, and send it back to the Earl with a sort note of explanation. But even as she thought it, she shook her head. How could you write a letter to an Earl telling him his son needed psychiatric help? What would he do to Rupert? She shuddered, imagining his rage at his son. Would Rupert be locked away in an institution?

  No. Surely not. She shuddered again. Not even the Earl would be so cruel. Would he?

  She spent a miserable few hours then, hours spent pacing her room and waiting for the rest of the household to stir. After such a late night, they were not going to be early risers. She packed, longing to get away. She even, at some point, contemplated calling for a taxi, and leaving like a thief in the night. But somehow, she couldn’t do that to Rupert. It would be so cowardly. So unfair to leave him to face the music alone. No matter how badly he’d scared her, she was sure he woul
dn’t harm her, and she didn’t have the heart to do that.

  So she waited until the breakfast gong sounded, and then, dressed once more in her blue suit, went down to the small breakfast room. But there, the Countess noticed the ring almost at once. Camilla, in the process of helping herself to bacon and eggs, froze at her mother’s gasp. The Earl noticed the frantic head-bobbing motion of his wife as she kept looking pointedly at Alicia’s hand.

  Instinctively, as Alicia walked towards the table, she tried to keep her hand behind her back to hide it, but suddenly Rupert was there. Taking her hand firmly in his own. Leading her to the table where everyone could see his mark of ownership.

  And Alicia didn’t dare say anything, realising grimly that she was no psychologist. She might do Rupert irreparable mental harm if she just blurted out that it was all a mistake.

  That she didn’t love him. That she had no intention of marrying him. What she had to do, she realised, was get him to see an analyst. Perhaps once they were back in Oxford, away from this damned house and these awful people, she could persuade him to see someone.

  The Earl glanced at the ring. Looked quickly up at his beaming son. Glanced, with a more thoughtful look at Alicia.

  ‘Well,’ he said quietly, as Alicia felt her heart sink to her shoes. ‘We have reason to celebrate it seems?’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Davina walked up the now familiar Banbury streets, and made her way to a burger joint in the shadow of an impressive church. Sitting in the far corner, furthest away from the counter, was Gavin Brock. She was all business as she dropped a rather battered satchel beside her chair.

  ‘I’ve deposited the money in your bank,’ she told him abruptly. ‘You can check if you like.’

  Gavin did just that, walking to the nearest public telephone box, where a very helpful voice on the other end cheerfully informed him that his bank account was now looking very healthy indeed.

  ‘Well?’ she asked abruptly, as Gavin returned.

  ‘Everything seems OK,’ he admitted grudgingly. Then he leaned back cockily in the chair, and said more firmly, ‘Yeah. All right, let’s do it. What’s the next step?’

  She felt her throat constrict, and realised, too late, that she’d been hoping he’d back down. But now there was nothing stopping her. The destruction of Gareth Lacey could go ahead.

  Gareth! She swallowed the anguished cry back, and took a deep breath. The unspoken cry seemed to echo around the inside of her skull, like a trapped banshee. Grimly, she reached for the satchel and extracted a slim folder.

  ‘Those the . . . er . . . things?’ he asked nervously. ‘Can I have a look?’

  Davina’s lips twisted. ‘That was the general idea, yes,’ she said and watched him glance through the Modern Poetry exam papers.

  ‘These multiple-choice questions are killers,’ he whistled. ‘I’d have been guessing at least half of them, if not more. OK. So what’s the next step?’

  ‘The next step is to have one of your tutors accidentally find these papers in your possession,’ Davina said crisply.

  Gavin grimaced. ‘And how are we going to arrange that? They don’t go around demanding that you show them your books, or rifling your pockets.’

  Davina nodded. ‘I know. So. How are we going to do it?’ she mused, drumming her fingers on the table. For a while they were both silent. Eventually Davina sighed. ‘Well, there’s no way we can be subtle about it,’ she said at last. ‘You do have to hand in essays every now and then, don’t you?’ she asked Gavin sharply.

  ‘Yeah. Usually to that new bloke, Mr Carter.’

  ‘Right. So, when you hand in your next essay, slip one, only one mind, of the pages from the multiple-choice into it. Then, when he takes you aside and asks you what it is, you can act scared and defiant. Tell him the paper must have got caught up in your essay by mistake. Try to grab it back. He’ll question you, and you, very reluctantly mind, tell him that you paid good money for those papers. That Modern Poetry was your weakest subject and you knew you needed a little extra help if you were to pass the exams. Tell him that you heard on the grapevine that Gareth Lacey could be paid for advance copies of his papers. That he’d done it before. So you contacted him, and he told you it was a thousand pounds a paper. You paid it.’

  ‘Right,’ Gavin grinned. ‘Mr Carter’s still wet behind the ears, and this is his first teaching post, so he’s bound to fall for it. Funnily enough, I think he got his degree at Oxford. Yeah, don’t worry. I can handle Mr Carter all right.’

  Davina nodded. ‘Right. So you’ll do it this week, yes?’

  ‘I can do it tomorrow. I’ve got an essay due about Ted Hughes and some Pike.’

  Davina winced and pushed away from the table. ‘Well then. That’s all settled,’ she said. But couldn’t quite convince herself of that. She walked to the door, and out into the wet and windy day. It was settled. It was settled. She was about to achieve what she’d come to Oxford for. Justice for David, and revenge for herself. She walked back to the railway station, and on the way to Oxford took out her notebook and composed a short poem about the glories of revenge right there on the train. It flowed out of her, like molten lead, heavy, ponderous, deeply human. It was one of those rare moments when a poem wrote itself. Except, when she’d finished it, it wasn’t glorious at all. It was sad. And empty.

  And she knew it was going to be one of her finest poems.

  * * *

  In his room, Gareth Lacey saw the attractive blonde student to the door. ‘And remember, Leigh Hunt and Keats need to be explored together. Take them separately, and you don’t get half the sense of power in their work.’

  The blonde nodded enthusiastically as Gareth gently shut the door behind her, ignoring the interested look in her eyes.

  He walked to his table and gathered his papers together, wondering if he could push the girl to a First. At the moment she was strictly 2.1. But with some effort . . . He put her file away in the cabinet, and as he did so, the file of another student caught his eye. The tag on the side was black. Indicating that the student was deceased.

  Slowly, reluctantly, he pulled it out. David Garrett.

  Just the sight of the boy’s name made everything inside him wince. He hesitated, his hand hovering over the innocuous beige folder. He should just leave it. Should just close the drawer shut, and then get on with something else. Life had to go on.

  Last term he’d had this beige file out time and time again, torturing himself with it. Asking himself over and over again if he’d done the right thing. If he shouldn’t have spoken out . . . He sighed and lifted the folder clear of the cabinet drawer, walking with it to the big leather armchair set at right angles to the log fire, blazing away in the hearth. He sat down, and reached for the tortoise-shell glasses lying on the table, slipping them on and opening the folder, already knowing its contents by heart.

  The first page was the usual form containing the student’s personal details. After that, end-of-term reports. His Prelim Exam results. Then . . . The mass of paperwork that dealt with his cheating.

  Then his notification of expulsion. Then the stark announcement of his death. Gareth had clipped out his obituary notice from the local Hastings Paper that he’d asked the Librarian to get for him. No need for it, of course, but by then . . . By then, Gareth thought, he was feeling as guilty as sin. Because he should have known there was something wrong with the boy. Hell, it was obvious for anyone who was looking. The trouble was . . . he hadn’t been looking.

  Gareth leaned back in his chair, slipping off the glasses, his eyes filling with tears he could no longer shed. When David had first come up he’d been a typical First Year student. Bright, but not brilliant. Open, refreshingly honest, and with a cheeky sense of humour that had instantly endeared him to everyone, Gareth included. And then he’d begun to change . . . to get moody. And paranoid. And then . . . angry . . . Gareth sat up in the chair, pushing the glasses back on his face. He should have known something was badly wrong.


  Instead he’d put it down to teenage Angst and the Oxford blues. And he’d just blithely assumed that David would eventually settle, that whatever was bothering the lad would sort itself out. And therein lay the guilt. The awful sense of failing the boy. All that pain he must have been going through . . . Grimly, with a sense of dread, Gareth turned to the very last page of the file. To the letter that he had shown no one, not even Sin-Jun. The letter that he had kept back even from the Coroner.

  The letter David had written him even as he started to succumb to the massive dose of sleeping pills he’d taken . . .

  Gareth read it again, although it was already committed to memory. For ever burned into his brain. And, once he’d read it—yet again—he shut the folder, and put it back in the filing cabinet, and locked it. And then he reached for the typewriter and the final chapter of his latest book on the life and times of Alfred Lord Tennyson.

  But the ghost of David stayed with him, long into the darkening evening.

  * * *

  Alicia walked into the noisy theatre, still feeling as if the weight of the whole world was on her shoulders.

  The ride back from Warrington had been a nightmare. Rupert had been effervescent, talking without stopping; about what a hit she’d been with the family, about how happy she’d made him, about their wonderful future together. It was as if he didn’t dare pause for breath, and she had had to sit and listen to it, with a growing sense of horror and helplessness, fighting back the urge to scream.

  It had been a huge relief to get back to St Bede’s yesterday afternoon. To finally be able to say goodbye to him. To finally drag herself to her room and the blessed peace and quiet and sanctuary of it. But last night, as she’d lain in bed, sleepless and heart-sick, her mind had just gone round in ever widening circles. All night long she’d tossed and turned, going over her options. The Warrington Ring still throbbing on her hand, too tight to remove.

  She’d thought about going to the Principal, but something about telling Sin-Jun of Rupert made her uneasy. Wouldn’t he be more inclined to believe that it was she who was being hysterical, not Rupert? No, somehow, rightly or wrongly, Alicia just didn’t trust Sin-Jun.