The laughter rose in her, erupting with startling suddenness that shattered the solemn atmosphere of the churchyard. The laughter subsided, the tears fell and the gentle sobbing disturbed no one. Least of all the quiet souls now released from earthly pain.
Edward Summers’s grief had turned to fury. It was betrayed in the thin gash that was his mouth and in the condemning eyes that bore into Scarlet. ‘You bewitched my son!’ he screamed, ‘killed him as sure as if you’d pushed him over that cliff with your own hands!… You blinded him to all reason.’ From the library, where he was consumed by thoughts of his only son lying in the cold ground together with the grandson he had come to adore, Edward Summers had heard the knock on the door. When the maid went to answer it and Scarlet’s voice came to his attention, the sum of his terrible grief hardened into hatred. Frantically wheeling himself to the other side of the room, he had grabbed the shotgun from its place on the wall. There was vengeance in his heart as he flung the door open wide, causing the maid to stumble. Startled to see the master almost out of his mind, she fled to summon the housekeeper.
‘Get away from my house, or they’ll bury you… like they buried him and the boy.’ The shotgun had lain across his knee. In a swift, deliberate movement he swung it upwards, pointing the barrel at Scarlet’s head, his hands trembling with emotion and the tears falling unheeded down his thin, stricken face.
Scarlet stood resolute and unimpassioned. His grief was no more crippling than was hers. He had lost a son; she a daughter. The boy was a tragic casualty of circumstances. ‘I’ve come for Cassie’s things,’ her voice was cold, unafraid. ‘Her toys… the clothes I knew her best in. Just Cassie’s things. As for myself, I’ll take nothing from this house but the clothes I stand up in. I came with only the garments on my back… I’ll go the same way.’ Her black eyes were like granite. Didn’t he know that something had died in her also?
‘Get away from here!’ he yelled. ‘You’ve taken enough from my house.’ When she made no move, he cried out, struggling to cock the firearm. In his frenzy he unbalanced the wheelchair and was sent reeling sideways. The gun lodged fast between the wheel spokes and, as a shot rang out, splintering the top panel of the door, Ruth Taylor came running from the kitchen. At once she called the maid to assist her in making the chair upright and restoring the master to it. When she saw that he had suffered no real harm, but was deeply shocked, she came to the door, her glance scathing as she told Scarlet, ‘I warned him from the start that you were trouble! Take your black heart from these parts, Scarlet Pengally.’ Before she slammed the door shut, the housekeeper smiled. ‘And may the devil go with you!’ she hissed. Scarlet smiled also, for she knew that he would.
‘John… John Blackwood, open the door. It’s Scarlet.’ Stepping back a pace, Scarlet looked over the cottage for the umpteenth time. All was silent, the cottage remained in darkness. Scarlet’s heart sank. Once more, she thought; she would try once more. ‘John!… Ada, please come to the door. I need to talk.’ No reply. The silence was eerie. Still, she could not accept that the Blackwoods were out so late, and with young Trent. Scarlet recalled how, some time ago, Shelagh had mentioned that Ada Blackwood’s great-aunt in Barnstaple had been taken seriously ill. It was possible, then, that the old woman’s health had deteriorated further and John had taken his wife over in the trap, and of course they would take the boy with them.
After she had twice more walked round the cottage and found no sign of life, Scarlet sat on the front doorstep. What now? She had hoped that John would be here, and that he would go to Greystone House to fetch Shelagh. She and Shelagh could talk things through, decide what was best. Only now, when she was so desperate and outcast, did Scarlet realise how very lonely and friendless she was. A glimmer of hope warmed her, though. There was still Shelagh. The hope was dashed. Shelagh was inside Greystone House. Inside, with him. Her father’s face loomed into her mind, leering, beckoning. The image was superimposed with that of Silas. She closed her eyes and shook her head. Go away. GO AWAY! Shaken by the experience, she forced herself to think of more pleasant things: babbling brooks, the call of an owl, and a black sky dotted with twinkling stars. Still the images persisted, awesome, weaving in and out of her senses and flowing with her blood to every corner of her being. Clasping her hands to her throbbing temples, Scarlet thought this was how it felt. Madness. Was she insane? Yes, that was it. NO! It wasn’t her. It was them! They were the insane ones. She had to believe that. She had to believe that, or she was lost for ever.
Coming to the foot of Packhorse Bridge, Scarlet looked across the bank and beyond, to Greystone House. Swathed in black night, and silhouetted against a silver-streaked sky, the house made a formidable sight, its tall gables reaching upwards and the slim fluted chimneys towering above like watchful sentries; there was something uniquely magnificent about the ancient house. And something chillingly sinister.
In spite of herself, Scarlet felt the magnetism of Greystone House, felt it tugging at her, drawing her nearer, into it. Slowly she went forward. The house held all of her secrets, coveted them with almost human possessiveness. Her mother was there still; Scarlet as a child; Vincent Pengally, fornication, the love of her mammy, Silas. Forbidden things… pain, fear, terror. Nightmares. Nightmares that would never end. They were all there, entombed in that house. They were all part of her. The essence of her existence. She belonged here. She could never belong anywhere else. Suddenly a lullaby came into her head, soft and caressing; her mammy used to sing it. Scarlet sang it now, her voice soft and plaintive, floating upwards and forwards, towards the house. The song soothed her, gave her a peculiar magical sense of well-being. In an instant they were all with her: Hannah, Garrett and the boy, David, Cassie. Oh, Cassie! The pain came back and the song was ended. Shelagh. She needed to talk with Shelagh. Yet she did not want to stay here a minute longer. Run away! Now was the time, she told herself. But where? She had no money and only the dress she wore. The coat was warm, though: best woollen cloth, with a deep fur collar to keep out the cold. The tears sprang to her eyes. Garrett bought it for her as a ‘thank you’ when she delivered him a son. Oh, God! What would become of her now, she wondered. The fear flooded her heart, but with it came a spiral of defiance. She could overcome the fear. She had done it before!
There were two lights burning in the house: one downstairs, in the drawing room; the other, a more subdued light like the glow of a candle, upstairs in his room. Scarlet thought of how Shelagh had described him. ‘Too ill to hurt you… bedridden… dying.’ The thought made her smile. She envisaged Shelagh now, sitting in the black horsehair armchair beside the fire-range, her homely brown head bent over one or another of her domestic duties. The thought was comforting. She went forward, needing the comfort that Shelagh could give.
Strange! The front door was slightly ajar. Scarlet stood on the step, hesitant, confused. It was not like Shelagh to leave the door open. Cautiously she went forward, up the step. Softly she inched open the door. Almost immediately the smell overwhelmed her: that familiar odour of damp and rotting wood, the camphor he always used to ease his aching back after a day’s labour… all mingling with the pleasant tarry smell of burning peat. And something else! Something intangible, bitter and unpleasant to the senses. Scarlet wrinkled her nose in disgust, going into the hall and quietly pushing the door to behind her. She must remember to warn Shelagh of the danger in leaving the door open. The moors were a natural hiding-place that could harbour the most fearsome creatures.
Going deeper into the lamplit hall, Scarlet gave an involuntary shiver. He was here. His evil presence lay like a pall over the house. She glanced furtively towards the stairway, recalling Shelagh’s words… ‘can’t hurt you… bedridden… dying.’ She felt small comfort. STAY THERE AND DIE, YOU DEVIL. DIE HARD. Her black eyes glittered. On tiptoe she moved nearer the drawing room. The door was open wide; the teapot stood warming on its trestle in the hearth, the fire was brightly burning. But there was no sign of Shelagh! In the softest of
whispers, Scarlet breathed her name. ‘Shelagh… where are you?’ The silence closed in on her. Even the sound of her own voice was unnerving. ‘Shelagh.’ On swift quiet footsteps she went from room to room, searching the drawing room, the kitchen, across the hall to the best parlour. There was no sign of Shelagh. When Scarlet found herself standing beside the cellar door, it crossed her mind that maybe Shelagh was down there. But no! Only her father ever ventured into the cellar, only he kept the key. She brought herself up sharply. That was when he was strong and well. Gingerly, she raised her hand to the door knob. The cold forbidden touch sent ripples of horror down her back.
Suddenly there was a shuffling noise from upstairs. ‘Shelagh!’ Relieved, Scarlet silently mounted the stairs. Of course! No doubt Shelagh had been attending to him before she retired for the night. A small bubble of warmth burst inside her at the thought of a few delightful hours sitting by the fireside and discussing events with her friend. Shelagh would know what to do for the best. She would advise her well.
It was in Scarlet’s mind to leave Dunster, to go right away, perhaps to another country altogether. But there had to be a cohesive plan, and she needed money, a loan, that was all. Shelagh had money. She was thrifty. Also, for as long as Scarlet could remember, Vincent Pengally always kept a considerable cache of notes in the drawing room. In spite of his meanness, he was a wealthy man. In that same top drawer in the oak chest was her mother’s jewellery. Hannah never wore the trinkets – ‘where would I wear such fancy finery… when I’m doing the potatoes?’ she would ask Scarlet with a shy smile. The jewellery had been her mother’s, handed down through generations and reputed to be worth a small fortune. Maybe Scarlet would just take the two gold and bejewelled brooches. She would not sell them, but merely borrow against them, until such time when they could be recovered. But, by rights, they were hers anyway. Her mother had always promised her so; although her father had kept them from her, vowing, ‘You’ll not adorn yourself with things that might attract the scavengers to you… not while I’m alive!’
Scarlet waited at the top of the stairs, her wary gaze drawn towards the low shaft of light emanating from the room that was her father’s. ‘Well… you won’t be alive for much longer, will you?’ she murmured, leaning against the wall, listening and watching for the moving shadow that would tell her of Shelagh’s departure from the room.
Patiently, Scarlet waited. And waited. Still, Shelagh did not come. Impatient, she toyed with the notion of returning downstairs to wait in comfort by the fire. She had grown chilled and slightly irritated. What in God’s name was Shelagh doing? Curiosity getting the better of her, Scarlet crept noiselessly along the landing, until she was standing at the door to her father’s bedroom. Not for the first time she was seized by an overwhelming compulsion to turn and run. But there were other, deeper, inexplicable instincts, telling her to stay. The house was sucking her back. It was an eerie sensation, yet strangely pleasant. She felt its smothering embrace, could feel the house breathing all around her, laughing, whispering, HANNAH… SCARLET… SILAS. In her head the whispers were like gentle soothing waves, splashing onto her like a caressing tide; surging, receding, each time taking with it a part of her. She gave no resistance; the experience was curiously satisfying.
Peering into the semi-dark room, Scarlet knew that she should escape the house before its embrace became a deathly stranglehold, yet she was loath to resist the warm, loving, hostile aura that held her there. She lingered a while in the gloom of the corridor, shivering with cold. Presently, with the tremulous fingers she pushed the door wide into the room. At once the smell assailed her nostrils; that unfamiliar distressing smell that she had noticed downstairs – a stinging vapour, hopelessness, the taste of death. He was dying! And she desperately needed to see the ugly truth of it. She had to be sure.
Driven by a morbid fascination, Scarlet went forward, her gaze fixed to the bedhead, searching him out. She trembled at the thought that he might sit up at any minute and see her there. The only sounds in the room were the soft tiptoeing of her feet on the carpet, and the harsh, uneven breathing that seemed to keep tempo with the fluttering of her heart. There was no turning back. She had to face the devil. FACE THE DEVIL! Fear became courage.
With painstaking slowness, she walked towards him, waves of panic engulfing her. For a long unnerving moment she stood by the foot of the bed, her quivering hand caressing the round brass sphere that decorated each of the four bedposts. Suddenly a strange thing happened. Her dark hesitant gaze alighted on his face and, astonishingly, all was calm inside her, deadly, shocking calm. Fascinated by his face, she could not tear her gaze away. It was not the face she knew. It was a long grey mask, gaunt, silent. Scarlet was drawn closer. Her eyes washed over his body; still a bulk of a man, pushing up from beneath the clothes, his chest rising and falling with that painful, rasping breathing, his long shapeless arms above the covers, heavy like dead hammers, the fingers involuntarily twitching. Scarlet was shocked rigid; relieved, quietly smiling as she dared to move nearer; peering into that strange face and hoping the breathing would stop. WILLING IT TO STOP. How easy it would be, she thought, how effortlessly she could trap that irritating, broken sound with the tips of her fingers; trap it in his throat; press her fingers into the grey parchment and squeeze – squeeze until the sound was no more. The thought became an urge; the urge became an insane compulsion. Oh, how easy it would be.
The long thick fingers twitched erratically. He was disturbed. Scarlet knew it was her thoughts that had disturbed him. Even as a child she was always terrified that he knew exactly what she was thinking. The fear flooded back. Quickly! Get away! BUT IT WAS TOO LATE. In a swift snake-like movement that almost stopped her heart, his fingers leapt out and locked around her wrist. The cold grey eyes flicked open, piercing her like hard glinting steel. ‘I knew you’d come back.’ His voice was low, sinister, raising every nightmare she had ever known. His smile was a grimace, creeping over his face like slime. ‘I’ve been waiting… waiting.’ His fingers dug into her flesh, tugging her down to him. She could feel the arid stench of his breath on her face. His mouth opened to kiss her.
Suddenly she was screaming. Writhing to free herself, with her free hand striking him again and again until the skin on his forehead burst open in a shower of crimson spots. Still he clung to her, his long jagged nails snapping as they sliced deep into her flesh. When weakened by her onslaught, he relaxed his grip on her, Scarlet ran. She kept on running, her mind a whirl of confusion. Where was Shelagh? Why hadn’t she come at the sound of her screaming? Got to get away! But what of the money? The jewels? How could she go without them? AND WHERE WAS SHELAGH? Her heart skipped a beat. She was being pursued! He was out of bed. Following her! She began running down the stairs two at a time. In her frantic haste she slipped, her ankle doubled up beneath her, the pain shooting through her body like knives. GET UP! GET UP! From the corner of her eye she saw the dark shadow looming above her. Quickly! There was no time to make it to the front door. She must hide. HIDE! But where? She was a child again, playing hide and seek and her mammy could never find her. The kitchen. Dear God, help me. Limping badly, with the pain dimming her senses, she found her way to the kitchen and into the old shaft where the disused dumb-waiter stood. Silently closing the hatch behind her, she curled up in a ball, afterwards remaining perfectly still and hardly daring to breathe. In the distance she could hear the approaching footsteps muffled and terrifying. When they came closer and filled her with such fear that the sweat trickled down her face, she held her breath, her big black eyes turned towards the shaft door, expecting any minute to see it flung open.
After what seemed like hours, Scarlet woke with a start. Had she slept? All she could remember was hearing the footsteps come right up to the shaft door. Presently, when they had departed, she still dared not move. Supposing he was waiting, watching for her to leave her hiding-place? She must have slept. Her eyes were hot and gritty. Her body stiff and cramped. The sickness of fear had
left her empty and weakened.
With painstaking slowness, and being careful not to make a sound, Scarlet climbed out of the old shaft. The lamp that had been lit on the mantelpiece was now out. She found herself in the same impregnable blackness as inside the shaft. But she knew her way. Every line and angle of this house was imprinted on her mind for ever.
After what seemed to be an excruciatingly long time, when even the noiseless press of her feet on the carpet appeared to echo from every wall, Scarlet came to the drawing room. Feeling her way round the familiar obstacles: the big polished table, the floral-covered armchair beside which was situated a tall plant-stand and jardiniere, the dull brass fender and the coal scuttle to its left; Scarlet remembered them all and skirted each one without difficulty. When at last she was standing before the dark oak dresser, her trembling fingers tracing the round bulky knobs either side of the top drawer, her heart was in her mouth, beating so furiously that she was certain it could be heard all over the house. With shaking hands and the blood in her body running cold with fear, she eased the drawer open. It creaked. Wait! She held her breath, her dark anxious eyes towards the direction of the door. The pitch blackness unnerved her. Had he heard? Was he on his way towards her even at this minute? She strained her ears, stretched her eyes wide, looking for the shaft of light that would herald his approach. WHERE IN GOD’S NAME WAS SHELAGH? The silence settled again, thick and suffocating. She dared not open the drawer any further. Instead she slipped long sensuous fingers beneath the drawer, probing, shifting, searching for the cord bag that held the money. A disturbing thought came to her. Was the money spent? After all, he had not worked in a long time. The jewellery then! Surely he would never let that go? She recalled how he would spend many hours seated by the fire with the sparkling gems spread out on his knee. He fawned over it, was fascinated by its exquisite flawless beauty, caressed it as a lover might caress his woman. No, she could not believe he would ever part with it, under any circumstances. Did he have it up there in his room, then? The thought made her search more desperately, until there! She had it in her grasp. The feel of the ribbed cord, the shapeless bulk caught between her fingers made her almost collapse with relief.
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