Mariana (17 page)

'But the shops wouldn't have been open yet.'

'I'll lay you odds at least one of them was,' was my brother's determined reply, and I watched him walk across the square and disappear into the newsagent's. When he emerged some ten minutes later, he was carrying two polystyrene cups and looking terribly pleased with himself.

'Coffee?' he offered, handing me a cup as he slid back into the car seat and pulled the door shut behind him. It was still raining lightly, and he brought the dampness with him, drops of moisture glistening on his black hair and dark-blue overcoat.

'I can't drink this stuff,' I complained, looking down at the cup in my hands. 'It isn't real coffee, Tom.'

'Suit yourself.' He took a great swallow from his own cup before speaking again. 'You
were
here this morning, as
it happens. The lady in the shop saw you. Or at least she saw a "wee little dark lady with short curly hair," standing in the square at around seven-thirty. At first she thought you were looking in the window of her shop, but when she went to speak to you, you had gone. She saw you a few times, walking around the square. Figured you were waiting for someone to come get you.'

'And how did you get her to tell you all this?' I asked him politely. 'Or do I want to know?'

'Nothing to it.' Tom shrugged. 'I told her I was a doctor from the psychiatric hospital, and we were missing one of our patients. She was properly sympathetic'

'Tom!' I was scandalized. 'You're not serious! This is a small community, you know—word gets around. I won't be able to set foot outside my house!'

'It's still too easy, love.' His smile was indulgent. 'To get a rise out of you, I mean. You can calm yourself, I only told her that I was supposed to meet you here earlier, and that I'd had car trouble so I arrived late. I asked if she'd seen you, she said yes, and then I pretended an enormous amount of guilt and bought my coffee. She probably thinks you got tired of waiting for me and went home, and that I'm now on my way to try to placate you. All right?'

'Yes.'

'Good. Then just duck your head down a little as we drive by, will you? I don't want the woman to think I'm a philanderer as well as a thoughtless cad who leaves his girlfriends waiting in the rain.'

I ducked my head obediently, and we rounded the marketplace statue, heading back along the Old Marlborough Road toward Exbury.

'So,' I said, straightening up now that we
were
safely out of range, 'what would you like to do for the rest of your visit? All this melodrama must be terribly boring for you.'

'On the contrary, I haven't had this much excitement in ages.' Tom grinned broadly. 'But I have to admit my plans
for the day were more mundane. I had thought we could have lunch at that pub of yours....'

'What, the Red Lion?'

He nodded. 'I think it's time I met some of your new friends. For curiosity's sake, if nothing else. And then, after I've put new locks on your doors, I thought I might take you up to Swindon for the rest of the day. We could poke around the shops, if you like, have a classy dinner somewhere, maybe even go to the pictures afterward. Remember going to the pictures?'

'No.'

'Neither do I,' he sighed. 'So, what do you think?'

'I think it sounds heavenly,' I admitted.

'Good. Then that's what we'll do.'

We drove in silence for a moment, and then Tom frowned suddenly and looked at me.

'Julia, I've been thinking.'

'Yes?'

'This past-life business. I don't think you ought to be playing around with it, trying to make things happen.'

I stared at him. 'But last week you said—'

'I know. But that was before I'd seen ... what it was like. What you're like when it's happening. And now that I've seen it, I've changed my mind. Just think about it, for a minute,' he implored me. 'You could get mown down by a car on the road, or something. And the past might be just as dangerous. How do you know this Mariana person didn't hang herself, or drown herself in the river, or throw herself off a cliff?'

'There aren't any cliffs near Exbury.'

'You know what I mean. We simply don't know enough about the whole phenomenon yet, and I don't think it's safe for you to be playing around with experiments, that's all. Bad enough it happens spontaneously, sometimes.'

I turned my head to look out the window at the passing landscape, not answering him, and Tom went on in a cautious tone.
'Julia? I want you to promise me that you won't try anything like this again until we learn a little more about what's happening. Will you promise me that?'

Beyond the rain-soaked swells of Wexley Chase, a flock of birds rose in a beating, shifting cloud, wheeling in tight formation above the softly smudged green fields. I looked away from the window and smiled sweetly at my brother.

'Yes, Tom, of course,' I said. 'I promise.'

Seventeen

I think your brother is rather wonderful,' Vivien commented. 'Not at all like a real vicar.'

It was half-past nine in the morning on the following Saturday, and I was taking advantage of the brilliant sunshine and mild temperature by attempting, in my amateurish way, to weed the dovecote garden behind my house, while Vivien sat perched on the tumbled stone wall, drinking tea from one of my cracked cups and keeping me company in my labors.

'Yes, well.' I straightened my back, tossing a handful of what I hoped were weeds to one side. 'I'm afraid the Church tends to agree with you. Nothing like a real vicar, although the people of his parish think the world of him. And he can be serious, when he wants to be. Is that a flower, do you think?'

I looked dubiously at a small, delicate plant with fern-like leaves, tilting my head to one side.

'I honestly can't say,' Vivien told me. 'I'm hopeless with gardens. Look, are you sure you want to be doing this? Iain I’ll have your hide if you pull up one of his prize South African whatchama-whoosits by mistake.'

I left the questionable plant alone and ripped out what
looked like a clump of grass instead, setting my jaw in what my brother would have instantly recognized as defiance.

'I'm not afraid of Iain Sumner. Besides, he can't possibly do everything. He can't help out up at the manor and keep his garden going
and
take care of his sheep all at the same time.'

'He's got an orchard, as well.'

'There you are, then.' I pulled another clump to empha-;ize my point. 'I'm saving him from a nervous collapse.'

Vivien grimaced. 'Well, don't say I didn't warn you. You've never been on the receiving end of one of his tirades.'

'They can't possibly be any worse than my brother's.'

'What, that lovely sweet man who sat at my bar telling funny stories all the afternoon? Don't tell me he has a temper?'

'Fire and brimstone,' I affirmed. 'In biblical proportions."

'Well.' Vivien smiled, swinging her legs. 'At least when lain starts yelling, his accent gets thicker, so you usually can't understand a word he's ... No, don't pull that one,' she stopped me suddenly. 'That one I do recognize. It's some sort of a daisy, or something.'

I withdrew my hand obediently and sat back On my heels, surveying my handiwork with satisfaction. The garden
did
look neater, I told myself, and happier, free of the creeping green tendrils that had been choking out beautiful flowering mounds of columbine and peonies and purple iris.

'It really is a pretty garden,' I said aloud, and Vivien nodded.

'Built on several centuries of pigeon droppings,' she rationalized. 'There must be heaps of nitrogen in this soil.'

'I hadn't thought of that.' I rose to my feet, gathering my stock of weeds into a neat pile for disposal. "When did this stop being used as a dovecote?'

'I don't know. I'll have to ask Aunt Freda. Probably sometime in the last century. Not many people eat pigeons anymore, do they?'
'I don't. I suppose those little niches are where the birds nested.'

Vivien leaned forward to look, slipping her hand into one of the narrow holes between the stones. 'Yes. You can hardly see them anymore, can you, the stone has been worn down so much. The holes get bigger behind the opening, you see, and the birds could—' She broke off abruptly, her expression changing. 'Well, I never!'

'What is it?'

'There's something in here.' She frowned. 'I can't reach it from this position, I'm afraid. Do you want to try? It's something metal, I'm sure of it, right at the back of the nesting hole.'

She drew her hand out and I stepped forward, sliding my fingers across the damp, weathered stone. The narrow entrance of the hole executed a sharp right-angled turn and opened up into a cavelike space, presumably designed to give the nesting pigeons an illusion of privacy.

My fingers brushed across a gritty layer of dirt, and a small tuft of what felt like moss or lichen, before touching metal. My hands were small, but my fingers were conveniently long, and by scraping my wrist slightly against the constricting walls of the opening I could just grasp the object between my searching fingertips.

I withdrew my hand and stared down at the small object on my palm with unbridled curiosity.

'It's a key,' Vivien said, unnecessarily. 'What an odd place for it.'

I heard a faint humming sound in my ears, felt the first faint twinge of dizziness, and closed my eyes resolutely, clenching my teeth with determination.
Not now,
I told myself firmly.
It can't happen now.

The ground rocked and then steadied, and I opened my eyes again to find Vivien bending down to look at our find, unperturbed. I was still riding a rush of relief when she asked, in an offhand manner:

'Is that Geoff coming?'
I looked up and toward the back of my house, and saw a familiar dark figure striding across the grass toward us. How she could possibly have been aware of his approach, with the turf absorbing his footsteps and her back turned to him, I did not know. Either Vivien Wells had very sensitive hearing, I ruminated, or else her aunt Freda wasn't the only witch in the family.

'Yes,' I said simply, 'it is.'

He was wearing a black sweater over dark jeans, and his hair had been trimmed since I'd seen him last. He drew level with the ruined wall and leaned his elbows on it, squinting into the sun.

'Good morning,' he said. 'And what are you ...' His face fell suddenly as he took in my rough, dirt-stained clothing and the pile of weeds at my feet. 'You're not messing about in Iain's garden, are you?'

I felt irrationally guilty.

'I just pulled a few weeds.'

'I warned her,' Vivien said, in self-defense, 'but she didn't listen.'

'Well'—Geoff gave me a faintly pitying look—'what's done is done. We'll make sure you have a proper funeral, at any rate.'

I was opening my mouth to respond when he caught sight of the tarnished bit of metal in my hand.

'What on earth is that?' He arched an eyebrow.

'It's a key.'

'We found it in one of the nesting holes in the wall, here,' Vivien supplied, when I failed to offer any further information. 'Quite intriguing, don't you think?'

He held out a hand. 'May I see it?'

It looked even smaller in his hand than it had in mine. He turned it
over
once
or
twice and scraped at the metal with his fingernail, frowning. 'It's brass, I think. It could be a door key, I suppose, though it doesn't seem big enough. How interesting.' He studied it a moment longer, then
handed it back
to
me. 'I didn't know that pigeons collected keys.'

'Someone could have put it there,' Vivien suggested.

'But why would they bother?' Geoff asked.

I pocketed the key and shrugged. 'I guess we'll never know.'

We were all three silent for a minute or so, reflecting on the possibilities, and then Vivien swung her head back and smiled brightly.

'So, you two are off to that estate sale near Calne, are you?'

'Yes.' I nodded. I turned to Geoff. 'I'm not late, am I?'

He shook his head. 'I think I'm early.'

'I've got to change, anyway,' I told him, looking down at my gardening clothes. 'Do you mind waiting a few minutes?'

Vivien waved me off. 'Take your time,' she said. 'I'll keep him amused for you. I don't have to open up the Lion for another half hour, yet.'

'Thanks.'

I scurried across the yard and into the house, pausing just inside the back door to kick off my tattered shoes, my heart racing. I was more excited by the fact that I had been able to stave off an impending 'experience' by the force of my own willpower, than I was by my discovery of the mysterious key.

That the key held some connection to Mariana Farr, I had no doubt, but I knew I would have to wait for that connection to be revealed to me. In the meantime, I could revel in the knowledge that I was capable not only of triggering my own flashbacks, but of preventing them as well. For the moment, at least, I was in control, and it was an exhilarating sensation.

No less exhilarating, I thought, than the promise of spending the rest of the day in the company of a handsome young man, basking in the sunshine of a glorious English
spring afternoon. Upstairs, I placed the key carefully on my bedroom dresser and smiled into the mirror.

*-*-*-*

A short while later, having bathed and changed into clothes that were in keeping with Geoff’s casual wardrobe, I found myself standing on the neatly mowed lawn of a sprawling Victorian mansion to the north of Calne, caught up in the cheerful whirl and bluster of a genuine country estate sale.

Massive cupboards and chests of drawers and elegant sideboards were lined up beside the gravel drive, like troops awaiting review. Countless smaller items littered the tops of trestle tables and blanket chests, and spilled out of boxes tucked beneath the tables for want of space. I accompanied Geoff through the wildly intoxicating display, pausing to examine a mantel clock here, or a musical box there, or to stroke a particularly appealing piece of satinwood furniture.

My father had loved sales like this one. Even when I was very young, he had often taken me with him, teaching me how to spot quality in an old chair, and how to recognize an antique dealer hidden among the crowd of common country folk. Once, I remember, there had been a small statue of a hunting dog that I wanted very badly. It was nothing special, just painted celluloid over a plaster form, a cheap Victorian thing—but I wanted it. I would have been about seven years old at the time.

I stood guard over my treasure until the auctioneer worked his way round to it, by which time everyone in the crowd could see I had staked my claim. The opening bid—-of fifty pence—was mine, and I was
so
eager and so determined that when the auctioneer asked if anyone would give him seventy-five, my hand shot into the air again, making me the first person in our county to outbid herself at auction. Had the auctioneer been a less scrupulous man, he could probably have worked me up to two pounds, the amount I was carrying in my pocket, but instead he only
laughed and gave me the garish piece for my original fifty-pence bid.

Afterward, he leaned down and warned me never to let anyone know how badly I wanted to own something. 'You're young now, child,' he'd said, 'and chances are that no one will bid against you. But when you get older, it will cost you dearly.'

I had long since forgotten what happened to that plaster hunting dog, but I never forgot the auctioneer's advice. I remembered it now as I passed a box of books, and what appeared to be a first edition of J.R.R. Tolkien's
The Hobbit
peeked out at me from amid a jumble of cheap hardcover mysteries. Casually—oh, so casually—without letting my expression change, I opened the covers of a few of the books in that box, leafing idly through the yellowed pages.

'All this belonged to just one man, you said?' I asked Geoff, striving for a normal tone of voice.

'That's right. Lord Ashburn. He died last month, I believe. Old fellow was in his nineties, at any rate. I hadn't seen him in years, but he used to play golf with my dad when I was a kid.'

I opened the Tolkien book, flipped a page to check the date, then turned to the back flap of the dust cover to read the jacket copy, my excitement mounting as I spotted a misspelled word that had been corrected by hand, another detail that marked the book as a first edition. Closing the book, I looked at Geoff and smiled.

'Lord Ashburn certainly had eclectic tastes,' I commented.

He nodded. 'And heaps of money. He was a bit of an eccentric, actually, almost a hermit. Didn't even live in the main house. He lived in that cottage over there.' He pointed out the roof among the trees at the back of the property. 'Made the house into a sort of museum, for his own private use.'

'I guess we should be thankful for that,' I said, letting my eyes roam the cluttered lawn and milling crowd of
browsers and buyers. 'Do you see anything that interests you?'

'A few things. Those globes, for instance.' He nodded toward a pair of standing library globes, terrestrial and celestial, a few yards to the left of us. 'They're dated 1828, and in rather good condition. Rosewood stands, I think, which makes them fairly high quality. I'm always on the lookout for something that will add more character to the house.'

I was smiling at the thought of anyone referring to Crofton Hall as a mere 'house,' as though it were nothing grander than a three-bedroom bungalow, when the auctioneer tentatively cleared his throat over the microphone and called the crowd to order. Geoff slung his arm around my shoulder, quite naturally, and guided me to a good vantage point at the outward edge of the tightly massed group. Bending his head, he spoke low into my ear.

'Are you going to bid on it?'

'Bid on what?'

'The Tolkien,' he said, smiling. I could feel that smile against my hair, and tried stoically to ignore the sensation. 'It
is
a first edition, isn't it?'