The Macbeth Prophecy (19 page)

“Then I'll tell you. I don't care for the fact that you were originally invited up there by some nut in connection with that weird Macbeth phenomenon. Secondly, there is something peculiar about those gypsy boys, whatever you might think. Give me credit for being able to distinguish between what actually happened and what didn't. Thirdly, you yourself discovered a connection between the dead girl and some gypsies, and fourthly since your phone call I've been wondering if this concentration of twins could be significant. How's that to be going on with?”

“Circumstantial, the lot of it. I shan't take unnecessary risks, I promise, but don't expect me to tote round a clove of garlic or whatever, for protection against evil!”

“I shall be thankful,” said Ted with feeling, “when this play is safely written and you're back here where you belong.”

Jason was remembering his words a week later as he drove in pouring rain along the shores of Lake Crowswater. Was he doing the right thing? he wondered belatedly. It almost certainly heralded the end of his marriage. Last night, he and Tania had made love for the first time in weeks, but it had been, he knew, a farewell performance. He was tinged with sadness by the thought, aware of impending loneliness. For all his aloofness he did not care for being alone. Acknowledging the fact, he recalled one of Pen's more penetrating assessments towards the end of their marriage: “You need a few acolytes around to bolster your ego, but don't try to tell me you give a damn who they are.”

Perhaps, he reflected bitterly, he should have accepted Lydia's offer after all. Pushing such thoughts from his mind, he turned into Ash Street and drew up outside Rowan House.

“Ah, Mr Quinn! You've made good time.” Mrs Staveley came out on to the porch, putting up a large umbrella.

“I was wondering about the car.”

“Yes, I should have said. We haven't one ourselves, so there's room for yours in the garage. Have you much luggage? I'm afraid you can't get any nearer the cottage to unload it, but if you'd like to wait till the rain stops my husband will give you a hand.”

“There's no need to trouble him, thank you, I haven't much. I'll put the car away now and unload it when the rain eases off a little.”

The garage at the back of the house was amply big enough for his car to go alongside the small Peugeot already there. He retrieved his raincoat and brief-case and, sharing Mrs Staveley's large umbrella, set off with her across the soaking grass to the bungalow. A gate in the picket fence gave access from the main garden, and they walked round the bungalow to the front door. Jason saw that a gravel path led from it down to a small gate in the wall, giving him his own access to, presumably, Fell Lane.

“Here you are then,” Mrs Staveley announced, opening the front door and stepping aside for him to go ahead of her. “Your bed's aired and I've put towels in the bathroom. There's milk and butter in the fridge, and tea, coffee and so on in the cupboard. That'll see to your breakfast for the first few days. After that you might like to do your own little bits of shopping, but if not let me know what you need and it can go on the bill at the end of the week. Now, what time would you like your evening meal brought over?”

“Would seven-thirty be all right, or is that too late for you?”

“Seven-thirty it is. Don't worry about me, the house is like a cafeteria at tea-time anyway, with everyone coming in at different times. My niece, Madeleine Peachey, will bring it across for you.”

Jason raised an eyebrow. “Peachey? Sounds like a girl out of James Bond!”

A sound at the open front door made them turn. “Oh, you're there, Madeleine. I was –”

“Sorry to interrupt but there's a phone call. Aunt Alice. Mrs Braithwaite, about the Mothers' Union.”

“Right love, I'm just coming. I was telling Mr Quinn you'd bring his supper over.”

The sherry-coloured eyes met his coolly. She hadn't appreciated his attempt at humour and he thought he understood why. For if she sounded like a Bond girl, she certainly did not look like one. Glamour was the last word to be applied to Miss Peachey. She wore no make-up and her skin had a polished, sunburnt sheen to it. Her hair, long and straight and the same colour as her eyes, was caught back in the nape of her neck by an elastic band, and she was wearing grass-stained jeans and an old anorak which she'd pulled round her shoulders to run across the garden.

For a moment longer she held his gaze. Then, without the vestige of a smile, pulled the door to on her aunt's fussy departure. Jason was left staring at the polished wood with an oddly deflated feeling. It was not the most auspicious introduction to someone he would presumably be seeing daily. He resolved to try to remedy it when she brought his tray later. In the meantime, he must explore his domain.

The tiny hallway where he stood boasted five doors apart from the entrance. He opened them one after another. The one on the left led to the sitting-cum-dining-room, which was some fourteen feet long and took up the whole side of the house. There was a gasfire in the grate, adequate chairs, sofa, coffee table and television set. At the far end was a rather scarred dining table and four chairs and beside it a door which presumably led to the kitchen. The long wall of the room was taken up with a large picture window which looked across the streaming garden to the towering grey shape of Rowan House.

The kitchen was small, compact, and interested him not at all. He intended to use it as little as possible. The larger bedroom at the front of the house had been prepared for him and the bed was decently covered with a candlewick spread. Its window looked down the neat front path to the gate. The second bedroom proved too small and too dark to make into a comfortable study, but since he wouldn't be entertaining there was no reason why he shouldn't litter the sitting-room with his papers.

He went back to the kitchen and began to read through the typewritten notes left on the table for his guidance: meters, nearest public telephone, doctor's number. The name given, he noticed, was Sampson, not Selby: the senior partner, presumably. The rain was still coming down heavily. He filled the electric kettle and made himself a cup of tea, drinking it standing at the sitting-room window staring at the house across the garden. It was three storeys high and the enlarged attic window at the top was presumably the Selbys' flat. He thought he caught a flicker of movement up there, but it might just have been a reflection on the glass. Remembering Philip Selby's reaction to the news of his staying on, he wondered again why it should have disturbed him. One of his first tasks would be to acquaint himself with all three pairs of twins. After that, he could either eliminate them from his list of queries or make a more detailed investigation.

As the rain was at last beginning to ease off, he decided to unload the car, and he had just put the last empty box away when Madeleine Peachey returned with his supper. He saw her coming across the grass and went to open the front door. She nodded an acknowledgment and went past him to the kitchen, where she set the tray down on the table.

“It had better go in the oven for a minute or two to warm through.”

He found her voice with its slightly flattened vowels oddly attractive after the clipped southern speech he was used to. It made her sound sensible, homely, dependable – though it was no proof that she was any of those things.

She was already moving towards the door and he said quickly, “I'm just about to pour myself a drink. Can I persuade you to join me?”

“Sorry, I'm going out. They're waiting for me.”

“Another time, perhaps.”

She gave him a brief smile which committed her to nothing and pulled the door shut. For the second time he was left staring at it feeling vaguely disappointed. He didn't seem to have recovered any lost ground.

“Has his lordship settled in?” Matthew asked caustically as Madeleine slid into the car beside him.

“It looks like it. He invited me to have a drink with him.”

“And you turned him down, the great Jason Quinn? That must have been a novel experience for him!”

“How did he strike you?” Philip enquired from the back seat.

“Only slightly larger than life. He wasn't as highly coloured as I'd expected.”

Philip smiled. “Perhaps you should have your television set adjusted!”

“I'd give a lot to know what he's doing here,” Matthew commented.

“Hoping to write a new play, isn't he?”

“But why here? And without his wife, to Philip's disappointment!”

“A lot of writers go into retreat, I've heard. He has Aunt Alice eating out of his hand, anyway.”

Matthew was silent. He couldn't explain the reasons for his uneasiness, but he was far from satisfied as to the real reason for Jason Quinn's return.

The following morning Jason decided to go to church. There was, admittedly, an ulterior motive for his decision, since he reckoned that the vicar would know more than most people about the local inhabitants. Accordingly, not unaware of turning heads, he took his place in one of the old, highly polished pews just before ten thirty. He'd explored the little church during his previous visit, and as before its grey stone walls exuded a peace which had no place in the tempo of his own life. He let it flow soothingly over him, while his dramatist's eye revelled in the ritual and pageantry of the service.

When it was over, he delayed his departure to allow the rest of the congregation to disperse, reading the memorial slabs which lined the aisles until the vicar stood alone at the door. “Mr Quinn, isn't it? Welcome to Crowthorpe.”

“Thank you. As a matter of fact, I was hoping to enlist your help. There are one or two local points I'd like some information about.”

“Certainly. Perhaps if you have a moment you'd care to come back to the vicarage for a glass of sherry? I'm sure my wife would be delighted to meet you. My name's Braithwaite, by the way.”

He led the way among the ancient sloping tombstones to a gate which opened on to the vicarage garden. “What in particular were you wanting to know?”

“Firstly, I'm interested in the Gemelly Circle. It's a curious name, that. Has it any particular significance?”

The vicar hesitated. “It's derived from the Celtic, of course. A number of theories have been put forward but nothing definite established.”

Jason glanced at him curiously. He had the impression that the man was not telling him as much as he could, and wondered why. Braithwaite opened the front door and ushered him in.

“Eve!” he called. “Mr Quinn's come back for a sherry. Can you spare a moment?”

Mrs Braithwaite was an attractive woman in her early forties, with curly red hair and wide-set eyes. She smiled pleasantly enough and held out her hand, but again Jason thought he detected a faint reserve, as though she were on her guard. He was becoming fanciful, he told himself derisively.

“Mr Quinn is wanting some information, dear,” the vicar was saying as he handed her a sherry, and this time there was no mistaking the quick, warning look she flashed him.

“About the stone circle principally,” Jason enlarged smoothly, “and the death up there.”

“Yes indeed, that was a shocking affair. In a village this size, the whole community is shaken by something of that nature.”

“They're no nearer finding who was responsible?”

“Not as far as we know. The police have interviewed hundreds of people but at this time of the year Crowthorpe has a floating population. In all probability it was some stranger who was well away before the crime was even discovered.”

“Perhaps.” Jason rested his head against the back of the chair and studied the ceiling. “Personally, though. I'd have been more inclined to that view if it had been a run-of-the-mill killing. Since it bordered on the ritualistic, it seems more likely to be someone local. Which is why I was wondering about the Circle, whether there are any legends attaching to it that might account for the more lurid features of the case.”

The grandfather clock ticked for some seconds into the silence. He lowered his head to find Eve Braithwaite staring at him. Meeting his eyes, she gave a strained smile.

“Come now, Mr Quinn, surely you of all people don't give credence to old superstitions?”

“Not personally, no, but someone else might have. What
are
the superstitions, Mrs Braithwaite?”

“Nothing to account for poor Patsy's death, I can assure you.”

Since skirting delicately round the subject had produced no result, Jason said baldly, “Her eyes were pecked out, weren't they? That was the word used by one of the witnesses – ‘pecked'. Which obviously suggests birds – crows, perhaps, in view of the name of the village.” He smiled slightly, but his smile wasn't answered. “So I wondered if there are any myths concerning the stones which are connected with crows?”

Douglas Braithwaite cleared his throat. “As it happens there are, but they're very far-fetched. In Celtic times, one of the cults in the area was that of a Crow goddess, who was supposed to live at the bottom of the lake.”

“Ah! And she ventured as far as the Circle?”

Before he could reply, there was the sound of a door opening and a voice called, “Eve? Are you there?”

Eve Braithwaite jumped out of her chair and ran to the door, but she was fractionally too late. As she reached it, it was pushed open and her twin sister came into the room.

Jason's hand tightened convulsively round his glass. Thank God he hadn't got on to his question about the twins. He rose slowly to his feet.

“My sister, Anita Barlow,” Eve said woodenly. “How do you do?”

The newcomer took his hand eagerly. Her face was flushed and there was a feverish glint in her eye. “This is a surprise. I knew you'd arrived, but I didn't expect to see you here.”

“Mr and Mrs Braithwaite were telling me about your stone circle. Did the Crow goddess ever visit it?”