Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 06] - The Noblest Frailty (32 page)

Now, however, knowing he was very tired and overwrought, he
turned from an argument, saying merely, "I would think you had better
things to do, is all, when we accomplish so little of what we'd hoped
for."

"No, but I think we have accomplished a good deal."

"The devil! All we've managed to do is alienate the whole
damned county! The yokels mistrust you, and now they've turned on me
because I'm trying to help you."

"Yes, I know. And I wish you will go back to London. You do
not look at all the thing."

Devenish was silent. That he did not look well was very true.
There were dark shadows beneath his eyes and a drawn look to his pale
face. His nerves were taut, his temper flaring more frequently these
days, his frustration over their lack of success finding expression in
an irritability that he was at times unable to contain.

Watching him, Tyndale said, "You have spent too much time in
the saddle."

"And learnt nothing! But they know—damn them! Some of 'em, at
least! They know
something
, but will tell me
nought!" He added moodily, "Besides, you have ridden as much as I."

"I do not have a game leg." Tyndale saw the immediate drawing
together of the slim, dark brows, and went on hastily, "And
I
sleep. Why you must sit up half the night when you come in worn out, I
cannot fathom."

Again, Devenish returned no answer. The truth of the matter
was that these six days had been a nightmare such as he had never
before experienced. Despite his carefree demeanour, his life had not
been completely free from care. He had endured a good deal of merciless
mockery because of his good looks, and although his friends were
numerous, he had also made bitter enemies, many of these because some
admired lady's eyes had wandered wistfully in his direction. He had
known deep disgrace, and a prolonged siege of physical suffering that
had not entirely left him. None of these experiences, however, had
served to extinguish his ebullient optimism, or to daunt him for very
long. But he was close to being daunted now. Just as, with every day
that passed his cousin admired his heritage the more, with each hour
that passed his own dread and loathing of it was increased. So long as
he was inside Castle Tyndale, whether by day or night, he was tormented
by the instinct that he was watched by other-worldly eyes. Often, he'd
had the sensation that something stood so close beside him that his
skin would creep with the fear of being touched by some cold, invisible
hand. Prompted by the conviction that he was followed, his glance
flashed constantly over his shoulder. His hesitant attempts to explain
his experiences to his cousin had been met with a faintly incredulous
simulation of understanding, but the sensitive Devenish had thought to
detect amusement beneath Tyndale's gravity, and pride forbade him any
further reference to the matter. If Tyndale thought him either
over-imaginative or a poltroon, he would be driven into his grave
sooner than add to either suspicion.

His terror of betraying cowardice forced him to retain the
same bedchamber despite his first ghastly night in the castle. Each
evening he lingered by the book-room fire for as long as he could
maneuver either his cousin or Montelongo to remain with him. When he
did seek his bed, it was as much as he could do to open the door, and
he avoided looking in the direction of his mother's portrait until
shame forced him to glance at it. Only once, on the third night, had
the gruesome transformation been repeated. He had sat up in bed,
determined to keep his eyes upon the portrait to see if the change
would take place while he watched. But he had dropped off to sleep and
awoken, as before, to find his candle extinguished but the room
illuminated by that soul-freezing glow emanating from the ghastly
portrait. His teeth chattering, his limbs weak as water, he'd somehow
driven himself to spring from the bed and rush to the painting, but he
had tripped over some unseen object and by the time he'd picked himself
up, all was normal again. The second and fourth nights had been
entirely free from any manifestations, but he had been unable to sleep,
his ears straining for the first sound of His unwelcome visitors. On
the fifth night he had slept at last, only to awaken to a man's voice
calling his name repeatedly, this swiftly followed by the sound of a
woman's heart-rending weeping. Sick with fear, he had pulled the covers
over his head and slept again from pure exhaustion, to awaken half
suffocated when dawn lit the tall windows.

Even the memories were sufficient to make him shiver, and he
was horrified to find Tyndale eyeing him curiously. Flushing, he said,
"Instead of worrying about my sleep, cousin, you would do better to
reflect on our failure to prove what we came here to prove. Dash it
all, here we stay, achieving nothing, freezing with cold, victims of
Monty's 'cooking,' ghost-ridden, and—"

"Nonsense! I have seen no ghosts, and if Monty has good luck
in Kilmarnock today, we may soon have some servants to provide you with
the comforts without which you evidently cannot exist."

They had reached the main floor and were starting across the
echoing vastness of the Great Hall. Devenish wrenched Tyndale to a halt
and expostulated angrily, "I have existed without comforts before this,
blast your eyes! But it was in the good clean open air, not cooped up
in a clammy, brooding—"

"Well, God knows you have often enough been invited to leave!"

"D'ye take me for a flat? I'm well aware of how eagerly you
would gloat and sneer and spread about that 'poor old Devenish's nerve
has gone!' Well, it has not! I can last as long as can you—and longer!"

His own nerves somewhat the worse for wear, Tyndale grated,
"Devil take you! I would do no such thing!"

They stood in the middle of the big room, glaring at one
another, and were both shocked when a discreet cough warned that they
were not alone.

Mr. Hennessey, an Irishman who owned a small farm nearby,
stood just inside the front doors, hat in hand, and an embarrassed
expression on his ruddy face. "Sure and 'tis sorry Oi am did Oi disturb
yez, gentlemen," he said in his soft brogue. "Oi've fetched the eggs
your haythen—Oi mean, your man ordered. And some bacon and pork and
chickens, besides. Oi'll bring 'em insoide if 'tis convenient and will
not disturb yez at your brawling."

The tension eased. Devenish laughed, and explained, "This was
one of our quieter discussions, Hennessey. By all means, bring in the
provender."

"Well, Oi tried, y'r honour, so Oi did. But 'tis beyond me
poor powers to get the kitchen door open. If you could be so kind as to
unlock it, Oi'll be fetching the stuff."

The cousins at once preceeding to the kitchen found the outer
door not only unlocked, but standing open, a fact that caused Mr.
Hennessey's dark eyes to become very round and his mouth very solemn.
He carried in the supplies with marked rapidity, so eager to be away
that he all but drove off without the flimsies Tyndale offered.

"So much for your 'large, bright rooms'!" grunted Devenish as
they loaded the food into the stone pantry. "Do you decide to live
here, you are not like to be pestered to death by company!"

"Gammon! Hennessey said he'd been trying to get the door open.
Likely he had got it almost free by the time he came for aid, and the
wind did the rest. As for living here, I may very well do so. There
must be
some
rational folks hereabouts who do not
shiver and shake and fancy every sound the work of shades and goblins!"

Devenish flared, "You refer, perhaps, to me, sir?"

"Good God!" groaned Tyndale, swinging shut the door of the
pantry. "He's off again!" He turned, half laughing, but was given pause
by the stark fury in Devenish's blue eyes. His own eyes narrowed. After
a silent moment, he said thoughtfully, "We have been here almost a
week. Time we looked at the battlements—if that would not cause you to
be overset."

Why he would choose this of all moments, Devenish could not
comprehend, but he as damned if he would show alarm, and so followed
his cousin into the hall.

In stern, unsmiling silence, they went side by side to the
stairs and up until they came to the winding side steps that led to the
northwest tower. It was too narrow here to walk abreast, and Tyndale
took the lead, Devenish following until they reached a certain narrow
window, where he paused. He had fought against looking out, but now his
Uncle Alastair's sombre voice echoed again in this ears… "I saw a
darkness flash past the window. I heard this… this terrible scream…"He
stood immobile, gazing at the narrow aperture. How terrible a thing to
have seen what Alastair Tyndale had seen. How frightful to see someone
of whom you are fond, plunge—

"Well? Are you coming, or not?"

A look of irritation on his face, Tyndale waited at the next
landing "Insensitive clod!" thought Devenish. "
He
should be plagued by guilt and remorse!" Yet it was very obvious that
if Tyndale felt anything at all, it was merely impatience. Cursing
under his breath, Devenish resumed his climb. They must, he was sure,
have negotiated literally thousands of steps when the stair at last
ended before a diminutive landing and a Gothic arched door. Tyndale
hesitated briefly, then raised the heavy iron latch and the door
creaked open.

They stepped out on to the battlements and into a brisk, clear
afternoon with the wind coming straight off the sea and full of the
damp, clean smell of it. On their first day here they had found two
flags in the basement, one the Union Jack, and the other a banner
bearing the arms of the House of Tyndale. Montelongo had decided that
these must be flown, and they were now whipping merrily at the
flagpole. A line of clouds was building in the northeast; westward, the
wind raised little whitecaps on the waves and sent surf crashing
against the guarding rocks, and, far off, the islands in the Firth of
Clyde were clearly visible.

Postponing the inevitable, Devenish sauntered to the east
battlements to scan a fair prospect of rolling hills, lush meadows, and
forest land. He breathed deeply of the bracing air and could not wonder
that his mother had been so fond of this home of her childhood. Craig
stood at the western side between two merlons of the battlements, at
the very edge of the embrasure, looking straight down. Devenish
thought, "My God! How simple it would be! There's nothing to stay his
fall…" He went over and murmured a dry, "You're a trusting soul, I'll
give you that!" His cousin neither replied nor moved and, reluctantly,
Devenish looked down, also. It seemed terribly far to the jagged rocks.
What had been in his father's mind as he fell? Only the ghastly
certainty that death awaited him? Or had he thought of the wife and
little son he loved? Shrinking, Devenish wondered what he himself would
think of at such a moment. And he knew: Yolande.

Tyndale said huskily, "I had so hoped the roof would be
faulty. That your father might, perhaps, have stumbled over an uneven
or sloping surface. But—see, it is clear, and level." He drove one fist
against the parapet and cried, "I still cannot credit it! I
cannot
!
He may have been wild and reckless; resentful, perhaps. Obsessed with
his conviction that the castle is haunted. But—he adored your mother.
He would never have sent the man she loved to so cruel a death, knowing
it might very well kill his twin also!"

"You surprise me," said Devenish, with a curl of the lip. "I
had come to think you cared not a button for the whole ugly business."

His despairing gaze still fixed on the beach, Craig muttered,
"Dolt." He drew a hand across his eyes, then, regaining his control,
said, "Now—tell me what has you up in the boughs. I've seen no trace of
'em. Have you?"

Devenish stared his astonishment. "Trace of who?"

"Whoever else is dwelling in the castle. Good God, Dev, you
surely have realized we're not alone here?"

"Not…
alone
? You—you mean you also have
felt—"

"That we are watched? Oh, yes."

"But—but you s-said you had seen nothing!"

"I said I had seen no ghosts. Which I have not." Peering at
his cousin's astounded face, he asked keenly, "Lord, is that it? Have
you been subjected to more—er—jousts with the Unseen?"

Devenish fixed him with a defiant glare. "Several!"

"The deuce! Tell me!"

So Devenish told him and, because he was extremely angry,
spared no details but did not embellish with dramatics, biting out his
words in such terse fashion that the fearsomeness of the episodes he
described became very vivid to his listener. "Well," he finished, "do
not deny yourself, Major Tyndale, sir! Tell me what I already know;
that you do not believe a word of it!"

Instead, watching him with wide, shocked eyes, Tyndale
breathed, "By Jupiter! And you faced that all alone… ! What a total
clunch! Why in the
devil
did you not tell me?"

"Because," snarled Devenish, "I knew what a fine laugh you
would have at my expense, and how you would delight in telling me I ate
too much rich food for dinner, or some such fustian. As you did to
Monty on that first night!"

"Gudgeon! Had you only swallowed that ridiculous pride and
told me all this sooner! I had my suspicions, but—"

"You had your suspicions, did you? And kept them to
yourself
."
His eyes fairly speaking, Devenish raged on, "While I endured hell's
own misery. One word from you—one hint that it was all contrived would
have spared me! But—no! Because you have no sensibilities yourself, you
just sat back and watched. Gloating! Dammitall! I should…"

He had paced nearer, thrusting his flushed face under his
cousin's nose, and stepping back instinctively, Craig teetered on the
brink, and made a grab for the edge of the parapet. "
Will
you control that insufferable temper of yours? We must take no chances
up here!"