by Mary Stewart
Without a word Emory drew the keys from his pocket and dropped them on the table. They fell with a little jingle. He slid lazily from the table’s edge and straightened up, still smiling. James cleared his throat again, but said nothing. I suppose we must have stood there for only a few seconds, but it seemed to stretch out like a year; three strangers, parting, in a cold room.
I felt curiously numb, I suppose with shock, though I should have been prepared, after the Bad Tölz affair, for the realisation that Rob had been only too right about my Ashley cousins: they were more than just self-willed and ruthless men; they were criminals. There was no need, now, to hear from Walther about the photograph. I knew for certain, as if my father himself had told me, that it had been Emory there on the Wackersberg road, and Emory who had gone (in the person of James) straight to Jerez, while James had doubled for him here at home. As before, I crushed the thought aside, in case Rob should catch its echo and react to it. All I wanted now was to be rid of the twins and their dealings, and for ever. I was conscious of a dull kind of hope that, once the arrangements were made with Mr Emerson, I need never see my cousins again.
But even so, when the keys fell from Emory’s hand to the cottage table, the sound they made was a tiny knell to the past. Yet another knell. Ashley was gone from me, and with it, how much more.
I shook it off, and, turning abruptly, went to the door and opened it. The wind was higher than ever, tempestuous. The beech trees beyond the orchard roared and swayed against a fast-moving sky where the clouds, massing and counter-massing, piling and breaking and streaming off in spindrift, left blinks and glimpses of the moonlit immensity beyond. The orchard, with its pale tents of blossom, reeled in and out of light and shadow, its torn flowers snowing down the gusts of wind. The rain had stopped.
To my relief the flying moonlight showed me the path still empty, and away beyond the roaring boughs a light still in the Court. But it showed me something else. The lawn in front of the cottage was under water as far as the lilac tree. The level of the Pool must have risen half a metre. And while I watched, a gust of the driving wind sent the water slapping across the flags almost to the doorstep.
‘It’s all right,’ said Emory, just behind me. ‘That’s what we meant by “reprieve”. We’ll go across now and shut the High Sluice. So, dear cousin, lie easy in your marriage bed.’
‘Shut the High Sluice?’ I whirled on him. I felt myself go as white as a sheet. ‘What do you mean?’
He took me by the shoulders. Behind me the door, caught in a gust of wind, slammed shut again. He shook me, quite gently. ‘I told you it’s a reprieve. We haven’t been quite honest with you, my dear. We didn’t come all this way just to get the books. You were going to give those to us anyway, weren’t you? We came to – well, to hasten your decision to sell the cottage strip.’
No misunderstanding this time. I got the whole picture straight away. ‘You wanted to flood the place again? You mean you opened the High Sluice deliberately, and on a night like this?’
‘We could hardly choose our night. We had to take the chance, with you and the Underhills away. The weather was just a bonus. It quickened things up a bit for James – he was the one at the Sluice. I was otherwise engaged.’
‘And you needn’t tell me how. You made the alibis. It was your turn, wasn’t it?’
The grey eyes narrowed. ‘What do you mean?’
I caught at my flying thoughts. I had been thinking about the Bad Tölz alibis, but I knew better now than to push my luck, not under those Ashley eyes. I said hoarsely: ‘I was thinking about Cathy.’
‘Oh, that. Yes, that was work wasted, but I’ve always been one to write off my losses. I don’t bear you any grudge over that, Bryony, my dear; not the way things seem to be turning out now.’ A brief laugh as Cathy was dismissed. ‘Well, now you know the lot. We reckoned another bad flood would put paid to the cottage, and force your hand. Brutal of us, wasn’t it, but needs must, they say, and the devil’s certainly been driving for the last six months or more . . . Believe me,’ said Emory, sounding sincere and very charming with it – ‘we’d have been sorry about the cottage, if you really like it, but you should have more sense than to get sentimental about a gold mine.’
The words set up an echo of some kind; James speaking with regret and genuine bitterness about the Court and the dereliction everywhere. And somewhere in the distance the sound of hammering.
‘Luck all the way,’ said Emory. ‘Luck for you, too. Your being here tonight might have bitched the whole thing up, quite apart from the fact that Rob Granger usually goes home as soon as he’s done his rounds at seven, or else away down to the Bull. As it is, I suppose he’ll be coming along this way at any minute, and he’ll be bound to notice the water level. Tell him there’s no need to trouble; we’ll go straight to the High Sluice now.’
‘But—’ I began, then shut my teeth on it. I wasn’t going to tell them that Rob was doing his rounds now, and would certainly, darkness or no darkness, have seen the level of the water. His reaction, I knew, would be to check straight away on the sluices. He must not run into my cousins tonight on the same errand. If I could get rid of them now, I could call him in my own way, and warn him off.
‘You’d better hurry, then,’ I said quickly. ‘The way the Pool’s risen it looks as if the Overflow can’t carry it all away. It must be coming over the bank already. For pity’s sake, Emory—’
‘Calm down, calm down. We can get the Low Sluice open.’
‘You certainly can’t! It’s been wedged shut again. You should never have touched it, it’s been unsafe for years! Just get the High Sluice closed before there’s some real damage done . . . You’d better get going.’
But as I turned to open the door for them again, the telephone rang.
Ashley, 1835.
A cock crowed from the direction of the farmyard. Night’s singer was silent, and day’s first chorus had died to desultory pipings. A rustle from somewhere near the edge of the maze made him pause and listen, head aslant. A badger on its way home, perhaps. Or a roe. If deer had been in the garden again he must tell the keeper to take the gun out after them today.
Today . . . Today was not just another day. Today he would have to face them. His father was dead, and he was Ashley. From somewhere he must find the courage to face them with what he had done. Then, afterwards, she would be with him.
Something showed pale on the grass near the mouth of the maze. Stooping to peer, he recognised the kerchief he had given her: it was of silk, and, for fear it should be seen, she wore it always in her bosom. Wondering how she had come to drop it there, he picked it up, and, smiling, held it to his face. The gentle fragrance of lavender brought her near again, and with her the sweet days of summer.
Still smiling, he walked out of the maze.
19
The letter was not nice, but full of charge,
Of dear import; and the neglecting it
May do much danger.
Romeo and Juliet, V, ii
The three of us stood as if struck still, while the harsh threshing of the bell drowned out even the wild sound of the night. Then I made a move. Emory’s hand shot out and gripped my wrist.
‘We’re not here, remember? And neither are you. Leave it.’
‘It might be Cathy.’
‘And if it is? She doesn’t know you’re back here. Leave it.’
I was angry now. ‘It’s my phone, Emory. I shan’t tell anyone you’re here, if you’re afraid. But what is there to be afraid of now? Your crime’s been called off, hasn’t it?’
‘There’s a light in the Court.’ James spoke quickly, from the window. ‘Rob must have gone over. If he’s seen the water level he may be telephoning here before he goes over to the High Sluice. She’d better answer, or he might think something’s up.’
‘Could be,’ said Emory. Then, to me, swiftly: ‘Is he likely to call help in if he’s seen the level?’
‘I doubt it. He’s quite capable of de
aling with it himself. He’s kept the Court going for long enough.’
I did not trouble to keep the bite out of my voice, but Emory didn’t seem to notice. ‘Well . . .’ he said, and stood back.
Only as I picked up the telephone did the other possibility present itself. As late as this, the call must be urgent. It would certainly not be Rob, but it might well be Herr Gothard. He would not have received the photographs yet, but he might speak of my promise to send them; or he might even be ringing to tell me of some other progress made towards identification of the guilty driver. I had the receiver half back to its rest, but a voice was already talking quickly, and very audibly, through it. Not Herr Gothard; it was Leslie Oker, not even waiting for me to respond, but in full and joyous spate with his news.
‘Bryony? My dear, I simply had to ring you. I know it’s a dreadful hour of night, and I’m sorry if you were asleep, but I’ve been trying to get you off and on all day, and when you hear what I have to tell you I’m sure you’ll think it was worth it. My dear, the book . . .’
It was a loud telephone, Leslie’s obvious excitement carrying through almost as if he were in the room. Beside me, Emory made a sharp movement of interest. I started to speak, but Leslie wasn’t listening. He swept on.
‘I just had to tell you – I’m as certain as can be that the book’s genuine. It’s been rebound, and that will take something off its value, but it’s still very valuable indeed. I wouldn’t like to guess at a figure, until I’ve found out a little more about it . . . In any case, when you come to the real rarities, you can’t put a figure on them until they go into the sale room. But it could be very valuable, very valuable indeed . . . museum stuff . . . provenance . . .’
He talked on about the book, half technical jargon that I hardly took in. I put a hand tightly over the mouthpiece, looked up at Emory, and spoke under my breath. ‘Well, there’s your answer. Ready cash, or at any rate something to borrow on – collateral, do they call it? Now I hope you’ll leave my home to me for as long as I need it?’
I doubt if Emory even heard the bitter little gibe. His eyes were gleaming, and he mouthed something; I thought it was ‘How much?’ I shook my head as the telephone quacked what was obviously a question, and took my hand off the mouthpiece again.
‘Sorry, Leslie, I didn’t catch that. What did you say?’
‘I said, when I lifted it, I found something that might be in its own way even more interesting. It’s a bit long, but do you want to hear it now?’
‘Hear what? Lifted what?’ I asked unguardedly.
‘The bookplate. That curious rectangular design with the crest in the middle and that weird motto of yours, “Touch Not The Cat”.’
Something jarred me right back to the alert. ‘Oh yes, that,’ I said quickly. ‘Well, look, Leslie, I should have told you sooner, the book isn’t officially mine any longer. Since Daddy’s death all the family things belong to my cousin Emory. I’ll tell him to get in touch with you, and—’
He didn’t hear the rest, and for a very good reason. Emory’s hand had come between my mouth and the telephone, covering the mouthpiece again. His other hand closed on the receiver, over mine, and lifted it away from me. Held in mid-air in front of me, the metallic voice quacked on, all too clear.
‘. . . Sorry to hear that, dear, because really, such a find . . . Of course, moving it won’t militate against the value of the book at all, since the bookplate was put on so much later. After the rebinding, too, did I make that clear? In fact, it looked to me as if it had been lifted before, and pasted down again; recently, I’d say . . . So I felt quite justified in lifting it again, and indeed, I was right, because the original flyleaf was there. It puts the whole thing beyond the bounds of doubt. But this paper I was telling you about, that I found under the bookplate, well, that’s of real family interest, I would think, because there’s a note from one of your family, and the whole thing, love, looks like a mystery to me, too Gothic, really, but what fun. Listen.’
We listened, all three of us. Whatever Leslie had found, I did not see how I could stop Emory from finding out about it. All he had to do was ring back himself. It was his book, after all.
Leslie was explaining. ‘It looks like a page from a church register. It’s numbered seventeen, and there are only three entries. They may all be interesting, I don’t know, but the third one will just fascinate you. It’s dated April 15th, 1835, and it records the marriage of Nicholas Ashley, Esquire, of Ashley Court, to an Ellen Makepeace, of One Ash.’
Not for worlds would I have put the receiver back now. My mind meshed into gear like a racing engine. The consequences could wait; I had to know. (‘The paper, it’s in William Brooke. In the library . . . The map. The letter. In the Brooke.’)
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘go on.’
‘Further down the page someone has written a note. It’s signed “Charles Ashley”. Do you know who he was?’
‘He was Nick Ashley’s uncle, William Ashley’s brother. He succeeded to the Court after Nick Ashley was shot.’
‘Oh. Well, a note from him. It says – it’s rather long, so I’ll paraphrase the first bit – he says he bribed the clerk to recopy the page omitting the Ashley entry, and something about the incumbent – is that the Vicar, dear? – being a dependant. Does that make sense?’
‘I think so. One Ash was one of the Ashley benefices. If there was a younger son or a poor relation they were given the benefice. I suppose Charles Ashley could put pressure on him to keep quiet about the wedding. Is that what he says?’
‘Could be. He says – shall I read the rest to you?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘“It is said that the girl goes with child, and should she bear it before the nine months’ term is up since my nephew’s death, there will be those who, for their own base ends, will rumour it abroad that the child was already begotten on her by my nephew, before she married her husband. But it is neither right nor fitting that the fruit – if it be so – of so hasty and base a connexion should take the property from the hands of my own fair family who are sprung from alliance with the highest in the County, and who are of a fair age and disposition to administer the Estate. Moreover, and it is this which has driven me to act as I have done, the brothers of the said Ellen Makepeace did kill and murder my nephew Nicholas, so to my mind it were better that the child were born dead, than usurp this place with blood upon his head. So, God be my witness, it is not upon my conscience to do what I have done. The girl bears herself lowly, and has avowed publicly that the child is that of her own husband.”’ A pause, during which I could even hear the rustle of the paper in Leslie’s hands. He gave a little laugh. ‘She would, of course, poor creature. The dear Squire would probably have had the baby quietly put down otherwise. Well, well, poor things. Past history is always a good deal better in the past, isn’t it, Bryony dear? Does all this mean anything to you?’
Emory lowered the receiver to me again. I didn’t look at him. I cleared my throat, but even so my voice came out rather unfamiliar, borrowing, falsely, a little of Leslie’s own over-exuberance:
‘I think so. Yes, I think so. Leslie, I’m terribly grateful to you. It’s all so exciting, isn’t it, and I’m awfully glad you rang. May I come over tomorrow, perhaps, and hear all about the book, and look at this paper? We’ll have time to talk about it then.’
‘Well, of course. This awful hour . . . But I knew you’d like to know straight away. Look, there’s a chap in London who’d know more about the Romeus than I do. I’ll give him a buzz in the morning, shall I, before you come?’
‘Please do. Thank you, Leslie. But Leslie—’
‘Yes?’
‘This friend of yours – ask him about the book’s value by all means, but would you please not tell him anything about the letter; not till we’ve had a look at it, and worked out what it means?’
‘Well, of course not. It’s safe with me, dear.’ No emphasis, but I knew it was. ‘Good night.’
‘Good n
ight. Thank you for ringing.’
The telephone went dead. Emory’s hands relaxed, and he stood back from me. I put the receiver down half blindly, so that it fell with a clatter. James picked it up and replaced it, and I sat down rather heavily in the chair beside the table.
‘That was sensible,’ said Emory. ‘Well, how many more surprises do you suppose this night will hold? This Ellen Makepeace . . . if she actually had that baby—’
I hadn’t looked at either of them, but James, prompted perhaps by something in my expression, or by some stray instinct of the Ashley gift, or, what was more likely than either, by some residuum of jealousy, got there with frightening speed.
‘She did. You can bet your bloody life she did. Makepeaces . . . One Ash is full of them, and the Grangers are connected.’ Then, savagely, to me: ‘That’s it, isn’t it? Rob Granger – that’s who it is! You can bet your life he goes straight back to this stupid, so-called marriage. That’s why you did it, isn’t it? Why you married him? Because you knew he was an Ashley, and legit., at that. Why else would you marry a lout like that?’
‘Shut up, Twin.’ This, sharply, from Emory. ‘That sort of thing gets us nowhere. Bryony, did you know about this?’
They would only have to look in the parish register, or even, country memories being what they were, ask any adult in One Ash, to find that Ellen was indeed Rob’s ancestress ‘straight back’. I nodded. ‘I knew he was an Ashley, but I didn’t know about the marriage. Neither does he. He told me he was descended from Nick Ashley, but on the wrong side of the blanket. That was all.’
‘Oh, he knows that much? Then I suppose all his family know, too.’
‘Only the same story we’ve been hearing all our lives, that the brothers shot Nick for debauching Ellen, and that she married the Granger lad and had a baby son, but swore on the Bible it was her husband’s, so people accepted it.’
‘And all the time,’ said Emory, with a twist to his voice, ‘she was telling the exact truth. Poor Charles. He must have fairly sweated it out until she saw she was going to be sensible.’