No, no I Not that. He’d humble himself, he’d get the money, but nobody should ever know why. He’d take her away—if she wanted to go—and put her safely somewhere and love her for ever but never go near her. ‘And won’t that be nice for you both?’ asked the voice of the tormentor. Caught all ways, the worm on the pin.
Oh yes, there was plenty of time for Hadstock to do his thinking.
And for Linda too. After all the pains she had taken to be careful—after all the self-derision … ‘What need for all this care? You’re not young, not pretty any more; you’re imagining it all. Just because you’re in love with him, were from the first moment when he was surly and defensive; just because he raved in delirium, muddling something you’d said to him with something Shakespeare had written….’
‘But it is true, and it is wonderful. We’ll go away and he can be somebody else’s bailiff and we’ll live in a little cottage and I’ll wash his shirts and have supper ready when he comes home.’
The inevitable sardonic voice in her mind reminded her that she had also been in love with Richard Shelmadine. And that there was no denying. Nor the fact that for years—years and years and years—she had gone on, carrying that love, that dead thing, corrupt, past any breath of
revival, any hope of warmth. Suddenly the burden of self-blame which she had shouldered rolled away. Never once in all their time together had Richard held her like this, with intent to comfort; never once in all those years had she felt that she could depend on him. He’d flashed into her life like a meteor; she’d fallen into his orbit and hung there, attracted, dazzled, compelled … and now she had been thrown off.
She stirred in Hadstock’s arms and he let her go, immediately.
‘I’ve always tried,’ she said shakily, ‘to behave properly … but this … Well, I think you know. You do know, don’t you?’
‘I know. This is not the time nor the place.’
The whole thing could hardly have lasted a minute, for the blood from Simon’s nose was still wet on her hand, sticky on the folds of her skirt.
‘He was hurt,’ she said. ‘And now he is … We must get him back. There’s something horrible in this house tonight, and if he…’
She began to hurry along the passage. There, where it ended by the closed door of the cellar, Simon had found himself baffled for the third time. Silently he was flinging himself at the door. The battering-ram tactics had worked before—either the thing gave way or somebody came and opened to you. He was bracing himself for another assault when Hadstock coming up behind him, whipped off his belt and slipped the end of it through his collar.
‘There,’ said Hadstock. ‘He’s safe.’ Linda gave a gasping breath of relief. The dog writhed and pulled against the constraint, snarled and pawed the door.
‘Now,’ said Hadstock in a brisker voice, ‘may I see you to your room. Or would you’—he hesitated and then brought out the crucial words—‘like to come back with me to the cottage? Unless, of course … Ockley? Muchanger?’
She looked at him and gave a shaky laugh with the echo of hysteria in it.
‘What could I say? Tell them the truth? They’d think I
was mad. Hadstock, we must know. And if it is true we should stop it—or try, at least.”
‘Not we. I. You take the dog and go to your room and I’ll investigate, if that is your wish. I’ve been in a weak position—I’m not supposed even to enter the house. But if you ask me to see what is going on, I will; and if I can, I’ll put a stop to it.’
He’d do that. he thought viciously. Whatever they were up to, even if it were—which he knew it was not—as innocent as sucking an orange. He’d take them by the scruffs of their necks and crack their silly heads together.
A glance at Linda informed that the glorious moment must be postponed a little.
‘I’ll come back with you; you’d never manage him.’ He hauled on the makeshift leash. ‘Light your candle from my lantern; I’ll leave it here and have both hands free.’
They left the lantern by the cellar door; then Linda, carrying the candle, led the way back into the main part of the house and Hadstock hauled Simon, who fought every inch of the way, his claws scraping the floor, his whole scruff pulled up to his ears by the straining collar.
Inside the sitting-room Linda set down the candle and took the belt’s end in both hands. Simon immediately gave a plunging leap.
‘You’ll never hold him,’ said Hadstock, looking round. ‘Look, I’ll tie him to the sofa leg. Then you lock the door behind me, and don’t open it to anyone but me. I shall come back.’
“Whatever Richard says. Promise. They’ll be so very very angry.’
‘That no longer matters. Don’t worry. Just lock the door and wait; I shan’t be long.’
He twisted the belt around the sofa leg and buckled it firmly; stood up, took the candle and went to the door. Linda followed.
Behind them there was a sharp crack as Simon lunged and the leg of the sofa broke off. They turned and he catapulted past them, the sofa leg still held by the belt, banging from side to side as he ran,
Linda gave a loud cry and Hadstock swore.
‘He’ll be all right; the door was shut. I’ll get him back. You stay here,’ he said; then, as she showed signs of intending to go with him, he gave her a slight push, snatched the key from inside the door, slipped out and locked it behind him. Then he ran.
Simon was not in the passage, nor was the lantern; and the cellar door was standing wide open. The scent of incense mingled with a rank reek of burning came to meet Hadstock as he crossed the cellar. At its farthest end a stout new door also stood wide, its heavy padlock dangling uselessly. And beyond was the wide passage down which the bulls had gone to the altar.
In the temple itself smoke billowed and swirled under the groined roof, but the fire had burned red and clear and the flames were steady on the thick dark, evil-smelling candles. All the horrid paraphernalia of Mr Mundford’s rites were spread about, and in the midst of them Richard Shelmadine lay on his side, his bloody hands still clutching his chest. At the very foot of the altar itself was Mr Mundford, whom this time Simon had caught without his cravat.
Miss Parsons had waited and waited. The fog thinned out a little and the air seemed to grow colder. She shivered and shivered and her teeth rattled without ceasing. But she must wait because there was nothing else in the world to do, and nowhere to go. She had forgotten everything except that she must wait for Damask. She had been waiting now since the beginning of time and must wait on until its end. Slow, cold centuries of the Ice Age went by.
Then there was life on the earth; something moved and there was light, a small, steady yellow eye, coming nearer and nearer. But it wasn’t Damask. Miss Parsons broke into loud lamentations of disappointment when she saw who it was so near, carrying the light. A very small Franciscan monk, a dwarf monk, hooded and robed, with the skirts of his robe tucked up into his belt. Monks did tuck up their robes that way when they needed to move freely;
Miss Parsons remembered reading about the militant Saxon monks who had tucked up their robes and gone into battle side by side with Harold’s house-carls at Hastings. She was not surprised to see a monk on the Stone Bridge in the middle of the night, but she was most dreadfully disappointed.
Tm waiting for Damask,’ she said, but the words came out all anyhow, what with the chattering of her teeth and her sobbing.
Inside the shadow of the hood the monk had a small white face and wide, sleepwalker’s eyes. She could see them clearly because the monk had halted and reached out his hand and said, ‘I am Damask.’ And it was Damask’s voice; and the hand which now pushed its way under
her rigid, shaking arm was Damask’s hand–-All most
peculiar and confusing; but comforting too. She brushed her hand against the coarse rasping stuff of the grey robe … and was immediately enlightened. Poor Farm stuff! What on earth would they do next to these poor unfortunate girls? Steadying her chin with her hand, Miss Parsons made an effort to speak clearly. ‘Poor child,’ she said. ‘You’re from the Poor Farm, are you not? You must come home with me … I will give you such pretty dresses.’