by Jane Godman
The hood of my cloak fell back and a familiar scent—that of expensive cologne and a warm masculine body—made my nostrils twitch appreciatively. But just because I knew who my assailant was, I reasoned, did not mean he wasn’t dangerous. Cad was a suspect, perhaps the prime suspect, in the murders. Under the circumstances, surely I should demonstrate a little natural wariness? Instead, I succumbed to a very different instinct. Leaning back against him, I luxuriated in his strong warmth and the way his arms immediately folded tightly about me.
“What are you doing here, bouche?” he asked. “Don’t you know what has been going on lately? It is too dangerous for you to be out alone.”
“Am I in danger now?” I asked, a little breathlessly.
“From me?” His lips just brushed my ear and his hands moved up from my waist to rest just below my breasts. A quiver of pleasure and anticipation ran up my spine. “Always, bouche, always.”
I turned in his embrace, and the impish light that danced in the amber depths of his eyes instantly drove the laughter from my lips. My heartbeat slowed to a dull thud and the inclination that made my teeth chatter had nothing to do with the icy air. A slow, dangerous smile curved Cad’s perfectly carved lips, and he began to draw me inexorably closer. I was powerless to resist, but I still could not quite distinguish which of my churning emotions was uppermost. Like a moth drawn to a flame, excitement and fear went to war in my breast. The outcome was still undecided as he bent his head toward me, and my eyelids automatically closed.
“Mr Jago! Sir!” Cad released me and turned toward the young footman who came running full tilt from the direction of the house. “They’ve found her. They’ve found Nellie Smith!”
* * *
Her body might have been discovered sooner if bad weather had not kept the fishing boats in the harbour. Cruelly flung down on the rocks in a tiny cove just along the bay from Port Isaac, Nellie Smith would have been clearly visible to anyone sailing out in a northerly direction. Her throat had been cut before she was stabbed in a murderous fury reminiscent of that unleashed on Amy Winton and the still-unnamed Wadebridge prostitute. Inspector Miller, in his lugubrious manner, stated that which was glaringly obvious. It was highly likely that all three girls had been killed by the same person.
She was found by a young boy who was out walking his dog. The dog ran down the steep slope into the cove and stood in a watchful stance on the rocks as though guarding something just out of his young master’s vision. When admonished to return, the animal had commenced a loud, distressed wailing. His owner, threatening dire consequences, scrambled down into the cove, only to stumble upon its awful secret.
I sat in the parlour with an open book in my lap, mindlessly reading the same passage over and over. My ears were attuned to the whispered conversation of the two parlour maids who were ostensibly polishing the wooden floor just outside the door.
“It were Jimmy Walker what found her.”
“Had she been…you know?” From the other girl’s shocked giggle, I guessed that a crude gesture had accompanied the words.
“They don’t know because her women’s bits had all been cut away.” Silence prevailed for a few minutes while the pair presumably pondered this awful circumstance.
“I didn’t know Nellie Smith right much. Were she walking out with a lad?”
“Don’t think so. She were a shy little thing. Proper tiny, an’ all. Nothing up top, you know? Most lads like a bit of a handful.” My mind’s eye saw the speaker grasp her own breasts and thrust them upward to illustrate the point.
“Jimmy Walker told his ma her face weren’t touched. He said if you didn’t look at her body, you’d think she were sleeping peaceful. But when you did look close, you’d see her head were near cut off. And her hair were all loose—she had lovely hair, did Nellie Smith, thick and fair—and spread about her head. It were like she’d been arranged, he said.”
“Sick bugger.”
“What in thunder are you two gossiping about?” It was Porter’s voice, and it was followed by the clatter of dropped brushes and polish and an accompanying flurry of activity.
Snow had come on noiseless, stealthy wings during the night, leaving deep drifts and icy shards. Exactly as Porter had predicted. Nature played a coy game with the landscape, not revealing the whole story, keeping her secrets well hidden. All at once, winter caught Athal House up in a private, quiet world, keeping its inhabitants close to the hearth and making introverts of us all. I gazed out the window at the silent, dreaming garden with dismay. I could not imagine anyone making a journey today. Or anytime soon. Sandor could not leave, which also meant I could not escape him.
I found Eddie alone in the library, regarding the pearl-and-lace pattern of the snowy coastline with an unfathomable expression. He smiled as I entered the room, but I was shocked to see how gaunt he looked. It occurred to me then that his family home was slowly killing him.
“When Christmas is over and the snow clears, let’s go away from here. Let’s not wait any longer,” I said, going to stand next to him and leaning my head companionably against his shoulder. He slid an arm about my waist, and we stood there for a long time without speaking.
“Neither Karol nor Miss Cadwallader will be leaving Tenebris anytime soon,” Eddie said, echoing my earlier thoughts. I sighed. I would have to tolerate Sandor’s brooding watchfulness and Vicky’s giddy attempts to ensnare Cad for even longer. “In fact, it seems likely that they will be at Athal House for the entire festive season.”
“Will this weather hinder the police in their attempts to find out what happened to Nellie Smith?” I asked. I felt him draw away from me slightly.
“These murders sicken me.” His voice throbbed with emotion. “I’m so afraid, Dita. This place is evil, yet it is mine and it claims me. How can I hate what it makes me into and yet love it at the same time?”
Chapter Eleven
It is a nothing, lightless moon that turns the red-brick walls black and transforms the shallow doorway where he stands into a deep, dark cave. Drunken shouts and curses ring out from the tavern over the road. Hooves ring loud on the cobbles and a train drums steadily by.
This one is a beauty with her pearly skin, curls that tumble to her waist and a body that would make any man’s heart sing. In his case, she also makes his knife hand throb. He cocks his head, waiting to hear his master’s voice. It doesn’t come. But it matters not. He has to have this one. She is all his. A reward for his continued obedience.
The girl is busy with a punter in the next doorway. The man is taking his time. His grunts and groans are becoming tiresome.
The girl clearly agrees. Her sigh is weary. “Get a move on, darlin’, do. I’m freezin’ me arse off here.” The words are less than encouraging, but they work like a charm. A howl of something close to pain signifies her troublesome customer has reached his climax at long last. Seconds later, she emerges from her trysting place.
He steps out in front of her, and, hands on her hips, she throws back her head. “Well, aren’t you the saucy one? Was you waitin’ for me to be done? And you such a fine, handsome gent! Come on then, lover, I know a little place down by the railway line.” She grabs his arm and, laughing, leads him to her death.
* * *
Christmas was known as Nadelik in Cornwall and was celebrated in a traditional manner at Athal House. Lucy and Tynan scorned the fashionable additions to the festive season that had been introduced by the royal family. Their house was decorated with boughs of greenery, and a vast yule log burned faithfully in the fireplace. Eleanor taught me to say “Nadelik Lowen” and laughed delightedly at my accent. We gathered armfuls of ivy and hunted down some mystical fronds of mistletoe with which to adorn the doorways. I was aware of Sandor’s menacing presence and knew he was biding his time, furious at the delay that kept him at Tenebris. I was even more aware of Cad, but for very different reasons. Eddie appeared to sink deeper into his own private darkness with each passing day. I missed my friend and agonised abou
t how to reach him and lift him out of the trough of his own despair.
Eleanor explained that one of the Athal traditions was the strange and mysterious celebration of Montol, which was held every year on the winter solstice, a few days before Christmas. Montol Eve saw a procession of masked and disguised locals—known as guisers—dancing through the narrow streets of the village in a parade that resembled an Italian carnival. This procession then wound its way to Tenebris, where a spectacular feast awaited the revellers.
The guisers, dressed in shabby black with tattered ribbons, known as “mock posh,” carried large, bell-shaped lanterns that turned the procession into a river of fire, designed to symbolise the death and rebirth of the sun. Leading the parade would be the Lord of Misrule. This was an Athal employee who was chosen by the drawing of lots to preside over the Montol ceremonies. For one night, masters and workers changed roles. The person who drew the longest lot enjoyed the powers of the King of Christmas and issued commands of a playful and ludicrous nature to his temporary subjects. Crowned with great solemnity, he had to make a solemn promise to act as the master of merry disport and madcap revelry. The Lord of Misrule had the power to command any of his subjects to do anything he asked, and they dared not disobey. His specific mission was to lead his followers along the path of dalliance, debauchery and delight. A modern-day Lord of Misrule fared considerably better than his predecessors. In the past, the lord’s throat had been cut on Montol Day as a sacrifice to the gods.
I was caught up in the thrumming excitement of the crowd on that icy night, as we donned our masks and cloaks and followed the lantern-lit procession through the village and along the cliff top. A determined band of villagers had cleared enough of the snow to ensure that the festival could proceed. Glistening banks of white rose high on either side, lending a mystical light to the proceedings. A band dressed to resemble medieval mummers played raucous pipe music and kept time with bells and drums. Acrobats tumbled and children clapped their hands, squealing with glee as they attempted to emulate the more adventurous feats. The crowd assembled to watch the Lord of Misrule light a beacon at the westernmost point of the Athal peninsula. This year’s lord was a young farmer who wore a battered top hat and tailcoat. He danced and twirled his staff to the wild, rhythmic Celtic tunes and imbued the occasion with a spirit of fun and mischief. The revellers had to obey his orders or face dire consequences, he constantly reminded us.
Inside the house, a whole boar was roasting on the spit and the table groaned with delicacies. Tynan and Lucy had gone by boat to stay with friends a few miles down the coast. Eleanor explained to me and a thoroughly overexcited Vicky that the festivities might well prove too raucous for them. Rather than spoil the spirit of Montol with their disapproval, the Earl and Countess of Athal opened their home to the revels but left its enjoyment to the younger family members. Class distinction and the laws that govern sensible behaviour were suspended during the feast. Wine and ale flowed like water. Cross dressing, bawdy songs, drinking to excess and gambling on the church altar were only a few of the wanton acts of previous years, at least according to Eleanor, who imparted the news to me in a gleeful whisper. Public drunkenness and licentiousness were not only tolerated, they were expected. All guisers were given full license to indulge their passions and taste of every pleasure, however base. The Lord of Misrule could only call his reign a success if, when the world turned right-side-up the following day, his merrymaking followers recalled their antics with shamefaced blushes.
That night, the young Lord of Misrule issued a steady stream of instructions to us, his subjects. Eddie and Cad were instructed to serve wine to the servants, which they did with much aplomb, and to the accompaniment of great laughter. A young lad from the village was tasked with the job of carrying his sweetheart on his back like a donkey for the duration of the night, and two girls from the village tavern were ordered to sing bawdy songs to the lord and his friends.
When the meal was over it was time for traditional carols and a dance known as the Dons Cantol. This was an intricate performance that involved dancing around and leaping over painted, lighted candles. It required considerable skill, and I approached the activity with caution, afraid of setting light to my skirts. It seemed the done thing was to hold them up to midcalf, which I did, provoking much appreciative applause. The dancers held hands, alternating men and women, and circled the flames in time with the music.
“Now then, me lads,” announced the Lord of Misrule. He was standing on the table, top hat askew and cheeks ruddy with the effects of too much wine. “‘Tis time to choose the lass who will be yours for the night!” At least a dozen pairs of hands reached for me, and I dodged them while looking around frantically for a means of escape. I could see Sandor bearing purposefully down on me from the other side of the circle. Panic rose in my throat before rescue unexpectedly and anonymously came my way. Strong hands lifted me bodily away from the other grasping fingers, and I was thrown over a broad shoulder. The breath was driven out of my lungs by this action, and I hung limply, unable to see who had claimed me.
“Just one final rule, lads,” the lord continued, swaying slightly on his perch. “‘Tis the lasses who are in charge. From now until dawn, you must do as they say!” This order prompted some ribald shouts and much laughter as girls dragged their swains away with them. Lifting my head, I saw Eleanor in a passionate embrace with… No, that couldn’t be right. I wanted to call out in protest as I saw Vicky move determinedly toward Sandor, but I was swung purposefully away toward the stairs.
I was still out of breath when, with unerring steps, my abductor reached my room. He set me down on my feet, turned the key in the lock and faced me. “I knew every man would try to claim the most beautiful woman in the room, bouche. So I decided to take decisive action to secure you for myself.” The relief that ran through me was followed by a thrill of anticipation. This was, after all, what I had dreamed of for so long. Who was I to fight the Lord of Misrule?
“Be quiet,” I said sternly. He raised his brows in surprise but was dutifully silent. “I am in charge tonight. The Lord of Misrule must be obeyed.” I didn’t know whether it was the heady wine, the primeval throb of the dance or whether I was just too tired of fighting how much I hungered for him. But I decided there and then to make Montol night count. The moment was all that mattered. Fear and recrimination could wait for morning.
“Take off your mask and cloak.” He obeyed without hesitation. I stepped forward and tugged the fine lawn material of his shirt free from the waistband of his trousers. He reached for my waist. “I did not give you permission to move,” I told him severely, and his hands dropped instantly back to his sides.
Cad stood obligingly still as I slid my hands beneath his shirt and gently caressed the unyielding muscles of his chest, my fingers tracing the crisp hair and lightly brushing his nipples. Once or twice I dipped a hand tantalisingly lower to stroke his taut stomach, rejoicing in the indrawn breath the action provoked from him. With infinite, tormenting slowness, I undid the buttons and slid the shirt down from his shoulders. A little clumsily, I freed his arms and dropped the garment onto the floor. Standing back, I studied him, thrilling at the magnificence of his physique, delighting in the way his broad shoulders and well-muscled chest tapered to his narrow waist and hips. Walking around him, I traced the outline of each muscle, first with my fingertips and then with my tongue.
I lowered my gaze to where his erection pressed insistently against the cloth of his trousers. With fingers that were almost steady, I reached for the buttons to release him. Cad’s eyes widened and he drew in a sharp, ragged breath. His cock sprang free of the restraining material, and I touched my tongue to my top lip in a gesture of anticipation. Slowly, I slid my hand down the straining shaft. He groaned slightly in an expression of appreciative agony. Pleased with this response, I repeated the movement.
“Bouche, I can’t answer for the outcome if you do that again,” he said huskily, gazing steadily into my eyes.<
br />
“Stop talking,” I ordered, “And take the rest of your clothes off.” He obeyed, and I allowed myself a little, appreciative smile.
“I have no maid to help me tonight. You will have to take her place and undress me,” I turned my back so that Cad could undo the laces at the rear of my gown. Following his lead, I remained stock-still while he removed my clothes. Soon my dress and undergarments lay in a heap on the floor alongside his clothing, and I stood before him in only my silk stockings and garters. Reaching up, I freed my hair from its pins so that it cascaded down my back in tumbling waves. Cad’s arousal was gloriously obvious, while my own desperate need was apparent only in my burning cheeks and the way I trembled beneath his touch. My heart leapt as he carried me to the bed and placed me carefully down so that I was sitting on its edge. Kneeling before me, he drew the delicate material of my stockings down, tracing a path along my thighs with his lips and, once or twice, nipping the tender flesh lightly with his teeth. I toyed with the idea of objecting to him taking the initiative, but I liked it, so I stayed silent. When I was finally naked, he continued to kneel before me. Spreading my legs apart, he bent his head and just touched the tip of his tongue to my throbbing clitoris. My whole body jerked violently. Erotic memories of Paris came flooding back. I knew only too well what that tongue could do. I wanted to fall back on the bed and give in to this treatment, but I was enjoying the game far too much. I wanted to make it last. Tangling my hands in his hair, I hauled his head up. “I think, Mr Jago, that you are forgetting who is in charge.” Storm clouds of desire darkened the ochre depths of his eyes. “You may only touch me when I tell you to. I believe a penance is in order.”