by Mary Luke
"Well, if you insist, I see I can't stop you. I can't join you till the weekend, for unlike a few lucky people I know, I do have to slave for a living." Timothy grinned at Andrew. "Promise me you'll leave the demon and Lure until I get there. Just stay in Madame Caudle's attic—I can't imagine any harm can come to you therel"
Andrew left the next day for Sparrow Field Farm. "Mrs. Williams will be glad to have you, sir," Rosa Caudle said, "and you should be comfortable. They have two rooms, a bedroom and one for the telly on the first floor. Harry and me are at the back, but there are three large rooms at the front where we used to take in paying guests. Are you looking for anything in particular, sir?"
Andrew hesitated. He didn't want to deceive Rosa Caudle, but the story he'd have to tell her now would be so farfetched and with so many loose ends he'd only stretch his credibility—or her credulity. When everything was solved, he'd tell his hostess the whole tale. "I want to see everything that's up there, Mrs. Caudle, particularly any diaries, letters, journals—I've pretty well combed through everything you have upstairs here." She nodded and wished him a good journey.
An hour later he was in a large room overlooking Domino's garden. Was it the one Julian had stayed in? Or had it been occupied by Chloe or Rosa Cuddington? He remembered the tapes and
Julian's hearing the name "Chloe" and his annoyance at the laughter that followed. And then he'd gone on to Nonsuch and met his charmer. Would that I had that luck, Andrew thought grimly—all I find there is a demon that's out to kill. After Mrs. Williams' comfortable lunch and her "good hunting, sir," she left him at the attic stairs. He climbed to the garretlike room, smaller than he'd expected. The pitch of the roof didn't leave much floor space, and he made a mental note to move carefully or he'd surely hit his head on the beams.
He switched on the one overhead light, and his heart sank. There wasn't nearly as much as he thought. Several old trunks, some dilapidated chairs and lamps of no particular period. A venerable sewing machine and several handmade radio sets. A rusted and chipped filing cabinet disclosed scrapbooks, newspapers and magazines of fifty years ago that some Cuddington had thought important. There were boxes of bank statements, checks, bill stubs and tax forms—all obviously brought from Cuddington House to Sparrow Field, where the family had more time to work on them. Ancient Christmas tree ornaments and a box of old frayed and tarnished costumes. But how old? Carefully, he sat on a trunk and sorted out the eight or nine pieces. Simple country clothing—anything ornate would be in London. The dress, he guessed, was early Victorian. A shawl—probably vintage Empire. A handsome riding habit belonging to a Georgian Cuddington was moldy and torn in spots. A fan and a pair of ivory satin slippers, small and trimmed with pearls and a darkened silver buckle. Well, we're getting there, thought Andrew; they're about 1750. Most of the clothing, he realized, had been kept for costuming. Undoubtedly instead of discarding these items, they'd found their way to the trunk, and with no children at Sparrow Field in years, the garments had lain untouched for over a generation.
At the bottom Andrew found a small linen bundle. An accessory, he decided, that needed wrapping against the ravages of time. Carefully, he picked it up and, turning toward the light, uncovered a small coffer—the kind that might once have held jewelry, potpourri or hairpins. A handsome piece and very old. With hands that suddenly shook, he opened the lid, and there, on the bottom, lay the faded remains of what had once been a very elegant cap—the kind one might give a child. It was of violet brocade, creased and worn. In places, the cloth had given way, revealing the stitches
holding tiny seed pearls. They appeared pristine and fresh. An empty circle near the top was certainly where a jewel—long lifted out—had originally been placed.
Andrew felt a tightening in his throat. Here it was—just as Julian's Chloe had described it—the cap she'd visualized in all its fresh beauty that had been the original Chloe's birthday present. He could imagine the delight of that little girl at receiving such an elegant gift. As he stroked the little cap, he felt an unwonted tenderness for that long-dead child. He was playing the complete fool, and he knew it. Yet here was a tangible reminder of the two Chloes that had meant a lot to them both. So he'd play the fool and be content.
After a few minutes he carefully replaced the clothing, laying the bundle at the bottom as he'd found it. One down and several to go, he thought. What next? Well, just for starters, how about the Lure, Madam Fate? If it's not out there in that pile of ruins—and I really think it is—how about up here? He rummaged in trunks of blankets and sheets, others with table linens and piles of napkins—remnants of a time before the paper doily. And a small portmanteau filled with books. Andrew began to comprehend the system inaugurated by a long-dead Cuddington. Trunks and boxes for "costumes," some for "household goods," one for outmoded and out-of-season "clothing," another for "business items." And here one for books.
The contents seemed, as in the others, to be in time layers. Books on top won as a school prize by some intellectual Cuddington in 1915. Music books, art books, histories—all old and probably worth something in the rare book market. He must tell Rosa Caudle. They'd be better off restored and in a proper collection. Gardening books and produce records of Domino's garden dated 1783. Then several thicknesses of newsprint. He picked one up and read, "Bar-rons' Broadsheet, printed in Ewell at the Sign of the Quill, May 7, 1700."
May 7, 1700? The date was familiar. Then he remembered. That was the year Julian had arrived in England, and—surely he had it correct, for he'd been meticulous in jotting down the tape dates—it had been May 4 when Julian, Rosa and Chloe had gone to Vaux-hall. The next day they'd returned to Sparwefeld, and that night Chloe and Julian had stolen out of the house to visit Nonsuch in the moonlight. Andrew felt the hackles on his neck rise. There had to be a reason this forerunner of the newspaper had been saved. Gin-
gerly, he replaced the books, took the several sheets in hand and returned to his room.
"All right, Andrew! All right! I understand—yes, I'll leave directly after my last appointment, which is"—Timothy Hodge consulted his calendar—"at five o'clock. I'll be in Ewell by six thirty. Steady, old boy, you're about to come through the phone! Calm down, I have to ring off now—it'll all keep for another few hours!"
By six Timothy was en route to Ewell. He'd been surprised by the agitation in his friend's voice and wondered at the hornet's nest Andrew's hypnotic regression had stirred up. He didn't know whether to be pleased or troubled—so much depended on whether Andrew discovered what he was looking for. If he didn't—and unless he could put it behind him as an unsolved and tantalizing mystery and get on with the business of twentieth-century living-Timothy could visualize some emotional difficulty ahead. Already Andrew had been in London for more than a month, spending most of his time in the elusive search for a palace, a woman and now a Lure. And it was consuming him. The physician in Timothy was concerned, even as the companion of Andrew's search was intrigued and excited at his apparent find. Clearly, the attic had yielded something.
Andrew was pacing the drive when he arrived at Sparrow Field. Timothy admired the building previously seen only at a distance-Julian had described it very accurately. The site of the "vision" and the old manor house were in the back, he remembered. Andrew came bounding toward him and nearly pushed him through the front door. Timothy commented on his eagerness, even as he stopped to admire the glowing Elizabethan portraits on the wall. By Bartholomew Penn, Rosa Cuddington had said. He hoped he'd have time later for a more careful scrutiny. Right now, Andrew could hardly wait.
"Tim, I've got something to show you—God, what a find! If they hadn't saved the newspaper, we'd never have known. Sit down, Tim. Can I get you anything? You were great to come—you'll never believe. . . ."
"Steady, old boy, steady, you're sounding like quite a hodgepodge! No, I don't need anything—it's early for liquor and too late
for tea! Now what have you found? And sit down, Andrew, for God's sake, and stop pa
cing! Tell me."
Already Andrew was lifting what appeared to be an old newspaper from the table and, smoothing it carefully, said, "Now listen, Tim. The date, incidentally, is May 7, 1700. Does that mean anything to you?" Before Timothy could answer, Andrew said, "It was just a few days after Julian, Chloe and Rosa returned here after visiting Vauxhall Gardens. Now here—the headline, if you can call it that—is Tragedy at Nonsuch."
"The body of a young man in his early twenties was discovered at Nonsuch Palace on the morning of May 6. He was found lying semidistant between the site of the wine cellar and plinth of the fountain which is in the middle of the Inner Court. Although his clothing was not disarranged and there was no evidence of a struggle, he had obviously been stran-gled."
"Oh, Jesus, Andrew, that's what happened!" Timothy remembered Julian's voice near the end of the moonlight visit to Nonsuch as he'd urged Chloe to leave. Eager and expectant—certainly he thought he'd found something. Timothy felt suddenly drained. What a waste!—a bright young life snuffed out by that hellish energy force which even he now, with all his twentieth-century knowledge, could not explain. "It was that demon force, of course-it got to the boy and killed him. Andrew, what do you think?"
"I know what I think and feel—and it's sadness, anger, pity and, yes, a little fear! Hell, Tim, I almost went the same way—not once but twice! And it took two times for whatever it is to get Julian! What a pity . . . and all so needless." He struck the table with his hand. "And if we only knew what it was! God, Tim, I know what that boy felt when he died." Andrew's face was pale, and his voice shook as he continued reading:
"The corpse was identified as Mr. Julian Cushing of Williamsburg in the colony of Virginia. Mr. Cushing had been visiting Sparwefeld as the guest of its owner, Mistress Rosa Cud-dington, and her niece, Mistress Chloe Cuddington. When questioned by the Ewell sheriff, I. L. Hinton, both Cuddington ladies said Mr. Cushing had been in good humour and health
at supper. Miss Chloe Cuddington stated she had left him at the ruins at about nine o'clock, had returned home and retired. She had endeavoured to listen for his return, but sleep overtook her. In the morning, she assumed he was still a-bed, having, perchance, spent a long time at the palace site. It was well known that Mr. Cushing was immensely interested in sketching antiquities, and she said they had gone to see the ruins by moonlight.
It was not until late afternoon that authorities informed the occupants at Sparwefeld of the discovery of Mr. Cushing's body. It was brought to the house where Miss Chloe Cuddington, who swooned at the sight, said she and her aunt would take responsibility and prepare it for burial. There was some rumour among the Sparwefeld servants that Miss Cuddington and Mr. Cushing were affianced. It is not known whether the young man had any survivors.
The sheriff and his staff have been plagued with complaints of highwaymen and thieves who inhabit Nonsuch Park at night, and it is believed one of them accosted Mr. Cushing, strangling him when, as Miss Cuddington verified, they found he had nothing of value to give. The sheriff has pledged more supervision of the park and its environs in the immediate future."
"Andrew, what that must have meant to both Chloe and Rosa!" "A supreme tragedy—for them as well as Julian. Everything had been going so well." Andrew's distress was apparent. "I still can't get it out of my mind that that force could get to him so overwhelmingly, and he was a fair distance from the fountain, too." He referred back to the newspaper. " 'Between the site of the wine cellar and the plinth of the fountain in the middle of the Inner Court' —I know exactly where. . . ." He broke off. "Tim, let's go! It's still daylight, but the workers will have gone." He rose, waving away the objections he could see forming on Timothy's lips. "Listen, Tim, we can be there in ten minutes. What can happen? I won't go near the goddamned fountain—not even midway between it and the wine cellar. I just feel I have to go back at least once more. I feel I owe it to that poor boy."
Timothy rose. He knew Andrew in this mood, and he'd go alone unless someone went with him. In moments they were out beyond
the wall, walking quickly to the site. The traffic was heavy with homebound workers from the excavations, as well as from Ewell village. But once inside the treelined drive, they were alone. A light burned in a caretaker's mobile home at the far end, and excusing himself, Andrew sprinted toward it, emerging a few moments later and pointing to the ruins themselves as a meeting place. He jogged up to meet Timothy. "It's over there . . . and we have official permission. I introduced myself to the caretaker the first day here. I told him we'd only be a few minutes, that I had a friend who wanted to see where old Henry kept his firewater." He was pulling Timothy in his eagerness.
Almost at once they faced the long, deep expanse of the wine cellar. "Now what do you suppose Julian was thinking when he stood here and sent Chloe away?" Andrew's voice was quiet, almost as if he were talking to himself. "I'm convinced he sent her home because he'd figured something out or realized something—but what?"
Timothy didn't answer. He watched as Andrew descended the broken stone steps and walked around the cellar. The cobbled floor slanted with a gully in the center running to a soakway. How many bottles of royal bubbly had gone down that drain? Timothy wondered. The walls, at least seven feet high, had probably been covered by casks or storage vaults with shelves for jugs and bottles. They were faced with oddly shaped stones interspersed with blocks of chalk and brick. Some were smooth; others, exceedingly crude and rough. An interesting mix; apparently odds and ends of several types of building material had been used in the foundations. One piece, a rounded, deeply carved stone, caught his attention.
"Norman," said Andrew, following his gaze, "pure Norman. A wonderful piece, called a roundel. It must have come from some building here, perhaps the church or priory. I think a good part of the foundation here is rubble from other buildings old Henry had pulled down."
Andrew had begun to walk along one rectangular side; Timothy followed along behind him. The sun had set, but it was not yet dark—that special moment of mellow twilight before true darkness falls. The air was still, and the sound of traffic outside the park seemed muted. Andrew, shoulders hunched, hands in his pockets, appeared lost in thought. At the far end, about sixty feet, Timothy judged, he turned around the shorter end and retraced his steps to
their starting point. After a moment, he began again, retracing his steps, but in an ever-widening arc.
It was Timothy who first realized what was happening. Andrew was walking exactly as Julian had walked. Along one side, around the end and back, going farther from the wine cellar each time. "We're going in circles, Andrew," he spoke quietly.
"Will you hush!" Andrew's tone was sharp. His expression was quizzical, almost searching. He looks as if he's trying to remember something, Timothy thought. He looked like Andrew, yet somehow different. He seemed younger, more vulnerable—and apart. Angered at the remark, Timothy wanted to protest further. They were going in circles—couldn't he see that? Julian had been walking in an ever-widening arc when he'd sent Chloe home. And later, apparently, he'd walked such a wide arc he'd been drawn toward that fountain site just as Andrew was now drawn. . . .
"Andrew, I insist, this is foolish, it's getting dark." Timothy got no further. Ahead, his friend had stopped in his tracks and was staring at the fountain as if he were seeing a ghost. His face was dead white and contorted with rage. As he took a step in the fountain's direction, Timothy ran and pulled at his sleeve. Andrew jerked it away. "Let go, oh, let go! I can handle this." His tone was authoritative and unafraid. Suddenly, leaning down, he picked up two sticks from the ground. Advancing a few steps, he stopped, as if bracing himself for an onslaught or to ward off a blow. He seemed to be entangled with something Timothy couldn't see, but he could feel its power and presence. There was a deadness in the air, almost as if they were suspended in a vacuum, and an icy chill seeped deeply into his bones. This wasn't the same as before when Andrew had been engulfed by heat. Yet it had to be the same force. . . .
Rooted to the spot, Timothy could only listen amazed. The voice was not Andrew Moffatt's. The tone was reasonant and low-pitched, yet even his body appeared different. The stance, the slant
of one shoulder, his hands with those ridiculous sticks clenched tightly appeared almost alien. They were raised out in front of him now. In benediction or in defense? Timothy could not tell. But Andrew's feet were firmly planted, and his whole attitude suggested strength. He obviously meant to stand his ground. Timothy knew intuitively there was little he could do now, for it was not Andrew Moffatt shouting at—whom? Who was Hurst?
". . . and you are an obscene spirit, Hurst, obscene and impure! Jesus has given the power to drive out demons and to speak in tongues and has ordained one may even take up serpents with their hands! You are a serpent, Hurst, but you cannot hide from the Hosts of Heaven or the Lord. You will fall like the most spent star, Hurst. See, I make the sign of the cross that held our Lord! Begone, you hostile soul!" Andrew had straightened up. He appeared full of confidence and authority, and Timothy felt his own concern subside, even though his heart was pumping and he felt ice cold. He kept his eyes on Andrew, who showed no sign of relenting. Instead, raising the two sticks high in front of him so they formed a crude cross, he took another step in the direction of the fountain and shouted at whatever it was he saw.