The Whispering Rocks (14 page)

“Armand!” Paul thumped his fist on the side of the coach. “That crazy Frenchman seems to haunt me. And I thought he was dead!”

“Reckon we all did, Mr. Ransome, but it did sound like him. You know how he was with Miss Melissa, like a lapdog following her about. Maybe I couldn’t swear on the Bible, but I’d go a long way toward that in saying it was him.”

“And then what happened?”

“Well, she was out of the coach and on her horse before Jim and me really knew what was happening, and she almost rode us down. She and the strangers rode off together, going up toward the high moor. There was nothing we could do, sir. I’m sorry.”

“When did this happen?”

“Over an hour ago. It took us all of that time to get the carriage free. We came back as quick as we could; drove like the devil I did. You could hear us coming for miles.”

Paul’s head was bowed. The patterned brocade of his dressing gown was a rainbow of subtle colors as he turned toward the butler shivering in his woolen coat.

“Get everyone back to their beds, Marks. There’s nothing can be done in the middle of the night.” He nodded to the two coachmen. “Put the coach away and get yourselves to bed. It was not your fault and I put no blame on you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Martin, we’ll make a search in the morning. Perhaps they left a trail you can follow.”

Martin nodded grimly. “Aye, if they’ve crossed the moor I’ll find their tracks, make no mistake.”

Paul sighed. “Did you find out anything about this man with the red horse?”

“He’s not from these parts, sir. I’ve been asking all over and there’s not a soul knows him. Most reckon he’s from London way, on account of the way he looks. As to it being Armand just now, well, I couldn’t say about that. But this I do know: there’s others have lost their lives in Hob’s Brook but they’ve always been found in the end. The Frenchman’s body was never recovered, and that’s strange.”

Paul looked up toward the distant moor and the dull gray silhouette of Hob’s Tor in the moonlight. “I thank God that Melissa knows her way.”

Martin nodded. “The Green Pool, you mean, sir?”

Without answering, Paul went back into the house and Sarah drew back from the window. “Janie? What is the Green Pool?”

The maid shuddered. “It’s a horrible place, miss, near the foot of Hob’s Tor. A deep pool of water—bottomless some say it is—covered with green weeds and slime. It merges so well with the land around it that you can’t see it’s there at all. To someone who doesn’t know, it’s invisible. There’s a few lives been lost up there.”

They heard Paul walk past the door of the room on his way back to his bed, and Sarah felt heavyhearted. Such a lot had happened in so short a space of time.

She went back to the bed and climbed in, and soon Janie was returning to her slumbers too. For Sarah sleep was a world away and she lay there once more wide awake.

The moonlight outside faded as dawn approached. The wind died away and a mist rose from the land, hanging thickly in the valleys and sheltered spots, obscuring everything but the rocky summit of Hob’s Tor which pierced the white blanket. With the vapor came that heavy silence which carries even the smallest sound for miles; but there was no sound.

The silence became overwhelming and Sarah sat up. Her eyes felt heavy with lack of sleep and her head was aching abominably. Perhaps some fresh air would clear it. She got out of the bed and went to her wardrobe, taking out her winter mantle and pulling on a pair of shoes. No one would see that she still wore her night robe. She went out of her room and down the stairs, past the Elizabethan lady and the huge Buddha, down the narrow staircase and past the tall grandfather clock which ticked its lonely way through the dawn.

The parlormaids were already about, hurrying to clean the fireplaces and to dust and polish everything before those upstairs arose. The butler remonstrated, “Miss Stratford, you should not go out at this hour.”

She turned to look at him. “I’ll be all right, Marks. I have such a headache that I think the fresh morning air will do me good. I couldn’t sleep.”

“I think everyone was awake last night, miss, especially the poor master.” He came nearer, smiling as he opened the door for her. It was such a change to see friendliness in his eyes.

She nodded, and slipped out into the clammy mist. She pulled her mantle more closely around her and went down the steps on to the slippery cobbles. Lamps burned inside the gatehouse and as she walked across the courtyard she heard the whining of Kitty’s puppies. The door was open and she stepped inside. Martin was putting down two dishes in front of the fire and the puppies waddled across to their breakfast, their little tails wagging.

“Good morning, miss. You’re up early.” Martin straightened, looking at her in surprise.

“Yes, I couldn’t sleep.”

“Nor I, miss, and it’s going to be a hard day.”

Nodding, she crouched down by the puppies, stroking their fat furry bodies.

“Would you like to hold one, miss?” Martin seemed anxious to please her.

“Oh, could I?” She held out her hands and he pushed a wriggling black-and-white puppy into them.

“That’s Wellington, miss. You can have him if you want.”

“He’s not spoken for?” Her hazel eyes rested on his face.

“No, miss, and never was. I’m sorry for what I thought, miss.”

She smiled. “It was not your fault, Martin, and anyway I’m delighted to make Wellington’s acquaintance. What a funny name for a puppy.”

“Well, they say there’s going to be a great battle soon against the French, and that the Duke of Wellington will win it for England. So I thought that Kitty’s first puppy should have as fine a name as I could think of—so Wellington it was.”

Sarah cuddled the puppy in delight, smiling as the bright brown eyes looked up at her and the damp nose pushed against her hand. Kitty’s head was on one side, tail wagging a little.

Martin stood up and pulled on his cap. “I must go now, miss, for I’ve a lot to do before we go to ... to look for Miss Melissa.”

Sarah put Wellington back with his brothers and sisters. “I must go too.”

Martin semi-closed the gatehouse door behind them and then took out his keys and swung back the iron gates of the big house. He began to brush the cobbles, humming a little as he did so. Sarah hesitated and then stepped out into the village street, looking down toward the vague outline of the woods.

The mist swathed everything with a gray monochrome which drained color away from all but the nearest objects. There were few villagers about this early, but already the cottages were lighted by morning lamps as the country people prepared for their long day.

Opposite was the churchyard, and Sarah could see Betty’s grave. She made up her mind to search for some wildflowers that day and put them on the grave. She had not been able to do that yet, apart from some snowdrops, but now it was March and surely there were some flowers to be found.

The drumming of hoofbeats carried through the mist and Sarah turned to look up the moor. Kitty came out of the courtyard and sat beside her, ears pricked with interest. Perhaps it was Melissa returning. Sarah walked a little way up the street, listening as the hoofbeats grew louder. Then suddenly the horses appeared from the depths of the mist.

Melissa’s riderless horse came first, galloping at a headlong, frantic pace, and Sarah could feel the animal’s terror as it approached. Behind it rode the stranger on the chestnut thoroughbred. Kitty began to bark again as Melissa’s horse dashed past and into the courtyard. As it passed her, Sarah noticed the stain of green slime on its flanks.

The man reined in as he saw Sarah standing there. She could not see his face for he wore a high-collared cloak and a top hat which left his face in shadow. Growling and yapping alternately, Kitty ran forward, snapping fiercely around the capering hooves of the nervous horse. Sarah called to the dog but her voice went unheeded, for Kitty did not like this stranger.

The man’s voice was gruff and angry as he tried to drive the little dog away. The horse’s hooves began to scythe through the air as it reared and pranced. The man controlled it magnificently, but he could not save Kitty. The hooves cut into the soft black-and-white body and with a whimper Kitty fell to the ground.

Stunned, Sarah stared, feeling the eyes of the stranger resting on her for a moment before he gathered the reins and kicked his frightened mount away, back into the concealing mist.

Sarah was still standing there motionless when Martin darted past her. He bent to pick up the lifeless body of his beloved dog, speaking soothingly as if she could still hear him. Sarah closed her eyes as he carried Kitty back toward the gatehouse.

In the courtyard Melissa’s horse was causing a good deal of commotion. Paul had been sent for and he arrived just as Sarah hurried back through the gates. He put his hand to the nervous, tired horse and patted it reassuringly, staring unhappily at the green stain on its coat.

Marks stood next to him. “That’s from the Green Pool, sir. I’d know it anywhere.”

Paul nodded. “Yes, but where in God’s name is Melissa?”

“We could go to look now, sir. There’s light enough and the mist will soon start to lift.”

“Get everyone prepared then and have some food packed, for I’ve a notion we’ll be out a long time.” As he spoke, Paul saw for the first time the pitiful bundle in Martin’s arms. “What happened, Martin?” he asked softly.

Martin could not speak—his throat was choked with grief—and Sarah stepped forward, putting her hand on his arm. “She was trampled to death, Paul, by that chestnut horse.”

“When? Just now?” Paul’s eyes flew to the gates and the street beyond.

“Yes, but he’s gone now. He seemed to be pursuing Melissa’s horse and stopped when he saw the animal reach Mannerby ... and when he saw me watching him. Kitty was trampled beneath his horse’s hooves, for she frightened it with her barking. The man headed back toward the moor.”

Paul looked at her. “Melissa’s horse returns, galloping as if for its life and covered with weed from the Green Pool, and chased by the man who was Melissa’s lover? Why? Why chase a horse? What could have happened out there, Sarah?” He turned to look toward the ghostly outline of Hob’s Tor which was now vaguely discernible through the grayness.

She stared in the same direction, wondering and unable to give him an answer.

* * *

It was late afternoon when at last the searchers returned. A small boy saw them first from his place on the high ground above the village where he tended a small flock of sheep. Forgetting his boots, he ran barefoot down the track, shouting and pointing. The village street soon filled with silent watchers as Paul Ransome returned.

From the doorway of the manor house Sarah looked toward the gateway, observing immediately how dejected he was and how grim his expression. The men with him looked equally severe, especially Martin, who still seemed almost dazed. Sarah shuddered.

Paul dismounted, unfastening his cloak and tossing it into Marks’s hands. His eyes were dull as he glanced at Sarah’s anxious face, then he shook his head slowly and walked past her into the house. He went straight to the drawing room and she followed him, watching as he took a decanter and poured himself a large glass of brandy. He drained the glass and immediately poured some more, loosening his cravat with stiff fingers and sitting down on a chair near the fire.

“She’s dead, Sarah.”

Her heart seemed to stop with the shock of what he had said. “You found her?”

Again he shook his head. “No, but we found the place where she died. We’ll never find her body—that much I can tell you.”

“Was it the Green Pool?” She pulled up a footstool and sat beside him.

“Yes, we found her cloak and gloves.” He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a pair of white kid gloves. His voice was trembling and he paused, breathing heavily to steady himself.

“There were signs of a struggle, a terrible struggle. The hoofprints of her horse were everywhere to one side of the pool, large and slithering as if the animal had fought desperately to save itself falling in. Nearby were the smaller marks of ‘Lissa’s shoes, and those of a man’s riding boots. The toes of the boots had dug deep into the soft ground as if he was pushing forward, forcing something or someone toward the pool. Then we saw the claw-like fingermarks in the mud as if someone had tried to clutch on to the firm ground. The green slime was disturbed close by, torn aside where someone had fallen through into the deep water beneath. It’s a godless place, Sarah, and that’s where Melissa lies.” He choked.

She bit her lip, putting her hand on his wrist, her fingers crushing the thick white frills at his cuffs. What could she say?

He tore his arm away as he thumped his fist on the edge of the chair. “He murdered her, Sarah. I know it!”

“You must not think that!” She was horrified; murder was so terrible a crime. “It could be that you are reading all the signs wrongly and she is still alive.”

He put down his glass and the lengthening shadows of the room seemed to swoop in as he leaned forward, cutting off the light from the fire.

“Martin can read tracks as well as I can read a book. He looked very carefully at all the marks, seeing which was made first, and so on. The man, whoever he is, obviously meant to drown the horse as well, to make sure that there was no trace of my sister. He would have succeeded had it not been for the root of an ash tree which jutted out about a foot below the surface of the water. The horse gained a foothold which was just sufficient to give it the impetus it needed to drag itself clear. Even an animal has the intelligence to know when it’s face-to-face with certain death. It broke away and made for the only place it knew—Mannerby.

“He had to give chase, for he knew that the green slime all over the horse would give us certain knowledge of where to come looking for Melissa. Fear must have lent wings to the animal for it to have outpaced his great stallion all that distance. He did not give up the chase until he realized that it was too late and it had reached a sanctuary. But for the escape of her horse, we would never have known.”