Touch Not The Cat (27 page)

"Good night," I said.

They went together through the dusking apple trees, arms round one another, his head bent to listen, hers raised in excited talk. A child who had been let off punishment, and a man who could take care of anything. So that, I thought, was that. And now, back to my own problems.

The thrush, unnoticed, had been singing for some time. Soon the owls would be out, and after them the stars.

Rather drearily, I latched the wicket and went back into the cottage, fished William's Brooke out from its hiding place, and turned on the reading lamp.

Ashley, 1835

He threw back the coverlet and, still naked as he was, trod lightly across the carpet to the window. Beyond the open shutter the daylight showed an oblong of grey. He pushed the glass wide and leaned out. The hedges of the maze loomed dark, but with a faint shine on them of dew.

It was later than he had thought. Already a thin plume of smoke was rising from the kitchen chimney stack. No matter, though. No lights showed yet, and no one would be there to see him as he let himself in through the side door.

And she—she would be home by now, and they were safe.

My dreams presage some joyful news at hand . . .

—Romeo and Juliet,
V, i

I had had supper, and read for an hour, and I had still only reached line 357.

"What hap have I," quoth she, "to love my father's foe? What, am I weary of my weal? What, do I wish my woe?"

So Arthur Brooke's Juliet . . . Sighing, I lowered the book and sat back, pushing my hand through my hair as if I would clear a quicker way through the shuffling press of words. It would have been dull reading anyway, but I found it hardly possible to take in any meaning, with my brain running ahead looking for something, no matter what, that might be the tenuous clue to this other Ashley maze. But look I must-even, if I had to, as far as line 3020 ... I tried again.

But when she should have slept, as wont she was, in bed,

Not half a wink of quiet sleep could harbour in her head,

For lo, an hugy heap of divers thoughts arise,

That rest have banished from her heart, and slumber from her eyes. And now from side to side she tosseth and she turns, And now for fear she shivereth, and now for love she burns.

I soldiered on for perhaps twenty minutes more, then shut the book with a snap. It could surely wait. It was impossible to get right through it tonight, and if I was going to London tomorrow, I would take the book with me and hand it over to someone at Christie's who would know how to value it. It would have been civil to let Leslie Oker look at it first, but he would surely understand.

I put it to one side and picked up William Ashley's
New Romeo.
Here again, from the center of the maze on the bookplate, the wildcat snarled and clawed. "The map?" Certainly the map. But why? I turned a page and ran my finger down the list of contents.

The Catamountain. The Maze. Corydon's Farewell. The Minotaur's Lament. What Palace Then Was This? The Lover Leaves His Mistress. The Lover Returns.

And so on. Well, the poems could not be worse than Arthur Brooke's, and at least they had the merit of being short. I turned to the first one, "The Catamountain."

What hunter is there who could think to meet In these low lands the leopard from the sun? Long hath he lain here, silent 'neath the feet Indifferent, which all unknowing tread Across the spotted catamountain's head. See! By his side the wine-god Bacchus runs, His basket brimming o'er with lusty grapes And in his train the lesser godlings go . . .

The Romans again, it seemed. Probably, I thought, only the usual classical conceit. But no, here was the cat I was looking for . . .

And now in this late age he comes anew From Scotia's heights, the catamountain wild, Brought here by thee, my gentle lady mild. As Venus led him locked in flowery chain, So thou, my Julia, bring'st thy wildcat tame.

A shadow fell over the page. I looked up with a start, but it was only Rob, pausing outside the casement. The thrush hadn't even faltered in its song.

"I thought you were going to be careful. Sitting here with the window open, and so deep in a book that you never even heard me coming."

"Well, but it's early still. I never thought . . . that is, I thought you meant tonight."

"I did, mainly. I just came down to see you were all right, and properly locked up."

I shut the book and put it with the others, making rather a play of it, to hide a touch of embarrassed shame for my cousins' sake. "You're taking this very seriously, aren't you?"

"Aren't you?"

There was no answer to that one. I got up. "All right, I'll shut the window now. Are you coming in?"

"For a minute, then."

I shut the casement and drew the curtains. I heard his voice speaking to the collie, then a vigorous scrubbing of shoes on the doormat, and he came in rather gingerly.

"Sorry about the shoes, but I think they're dry now. I came across the orchard after I'd shut up the greenhouses."

"Would you like a cup of Nescafe?"

"I wouldn't mind." As I went into the little kitchen he picked up
Romeus and Juliet.
"What's this?"

"I forgot to tell you. That's what Daddy must have meant by
'William's brook.'
See it?

William Ashley's copy of something by a chap called Brooke. It's awfully rare, ap parently.

Daddy must have found out how valuable it was."

"Hm." He turned the small volume over, weighing it in his hand as if that would somehow give a clue to its worth. "Maybe so, but I wouldn't have thought he'd be troubling himself about that; not then. What else was it he said? Something about a paper or letter in it?"

"There's nothing. I looked. I was reading it to see if there was something in the text that would give me a clue, but it's next to unreadable."

"Looks it." He put it down, and picked up the
New Romeo.
"Is this valuable, too?"

"Oh, no. That's just William Ashley's own poems. They're not much better than poor Brooke, but I like the pictures."

"'What palace then was this?'" read Rob, and puzzled his way through a few more lines.

Somehow, I thought, the artificially stilted verses sounded even worse in Rob's voice with the soft country vowels. Worse than hothouse, somehow; distorted, wrong.

He put the book down and followed me into the kitchen. He leaned against the jamb and settled down companionably to help me watch the kettle boil. "Is that stuff supposed to be good? It sounded terrible to me, but then I'm no judge."

"I'm not, either. I don't think it's anything great."

"What was all that about, anyway?"

"Heaven knows," I said. "I haven't read that one yet. I got bogged down over Ariadne's clue in 'The Maze.'"

"Harry Who's clue?"

I laughed. It was the first real laugh since I had come home. "Oh, Rob! A girl called Ariadne. She gave Theseus the clue to follow into the maze. Greek myths, you know. William's writing about the maze, and getting a bit precious with his Greeks and Romans."

"How should I know? We can't all do Greek and Roman at school, can we?" said Rob, unworried.

The kettle boiled and I made the Nescafe. "Don't come the ignorant peasant over me, Rob Granger. You did Greek myths at Ashley School along with me. I remember it perfectly well. Here."

He took his mug from me and followed me back into the sitting room. "Don't be daft. I never did Greek in my life."

"Well, heavens, neither did I. I meant we did the sto ries in English. Don't you remember that book with the pictures? Icarus with those gorgeous big wings, and the Gorgons with snakes in their hair, and the Minotaur? That was the monster who lived in the middle of a maze, and Ariadne got this ball of wool or whatever, and gave it to Theseus, and he went in and fought him."

"Yes, I remember that." He sat down in the armchair, stretched his long legs in front of him, and stirred his coffee. It was the chair Jeffrey Underhill had sat in, and I could not help a flash of comparison. Rob did not, as the American had done, dominate the room, but somehow his quality of relaxation, of looking at home wherever he happened to be, made itself quite as strongly felt as the other man's powerful composure. "He had a bull's head. A black Dexter, by the look of him. Tricky-tempered beasts."

"Don't you remember, we used to play it here in the maze? I had the ball of wool, and you were the Minotaur, and I had to show Theseus the way in."

"And got lost," he said, grinning. "I remember sitting there in the middle and hearing you hollering for help, and wondering if I'd ever get out myself. Then James came in and killed me."

"I told you you knew the story."

"Aye, I remember it now. I never was much of a hand at stories, was I, but I was good at sums. I had the better of you there, every time. You used to copy from my book."

"I did not!"

"You did. And who was it told the teacher that a polygon was a dead parrot?"

"Isn't it? Oh, Rob, you've made me feel better! Another cup?"

"No, thanks."

He set his empty mug down on the hearth beside him. "Did I see Mr. Underhill going up through the orchard with Cathy? Had they been here? I suppose they came to tell you they'd be leaving tomorrow?" "You knew?"

"Well, yes. I'm the caretaker, remember? She told me when I went up to the house. Must have been while he was here with you."

"That wasn't all he came for," I said. I gave him the gist of what had passed, and he thought it over for a few moments, then looked up.

"Are you really going to this party?"

"I think so. Cathy was very upset, and I think she'd feel that everything was all right if I did go.

Besides, I'd like a chance to put things straight with Mrs. Underhill."

"Will your cousins be there?"

"I didn't like to ask, but the party was arranged some time ago, so I imagine they will be, unless Mr.

Underhill tells them they're not welcome any more. I wouldn't put it past him."

"Then I'll take you to the train."

"Well, thank you, but I can use the Lambretta, and leave it in the station yard."

"And carry your party frock?"

"I've done it before." I smiled at him. "But it was nice of you to think about it."

"I wasn't," said Rob uncompromisingly. "I was thinking that I didn't want James or Emory to drive you."

I was silent for a moment. "Rob, you can't, you really can't think that this 'danger' thing could involve Emory or James deliberately harming me."

"I don't know." He made a restless little movement, rather unlike him. "We've had all this. Which of us knows what he'd do when pushed? And they are being pushed. Let's not leave it to chance."

"That's pure melodrama."

"Maybe." The stubborn line was very pronounced round his mouth. "But to see that they don't is pure common sense." A glimmer. "We peasants have a lot of that."

"But they don't know about the silver pen and the photograph."

"No, but they know you're no fool, and they want something badly enough to make them do what they've already done."

"Yes, I see. Once we admit that the thing's been done at all, it doesn't matter about the motives. I'll be careful. Well, all right, thanks. And the Underhills asked me to stay the night, so you don't have to meet the milk train . . . Rob?"

He looked an inquiry.

I asked: "Have you heard anything yet about Francis?"

"Not a thing, but then you know Francis. He never did write letters, or listen to the radio, or behave like anyone else. I remember him saying once that he had his own means of communication, and that was good enough for him."

I looked up. "Did he? What do you suppose he meant?"

He moved an indifferent shoulder. "His poetry, I suppose. Is it any better than that stuff there?"

"What? Oh, yes—that is, I don't know. I don't understand a word of it." I picked up my own empty mug, and crossed to pick up Rob's from the hearth. "I wish he'd show up, that's all. I just get a queer feeling that it might solve a thing or two."

He got to his feet. "Well, I'd better be going. Thanks for the coffee."

"You're welcome. At least you won't worry about me tonight if the twins are both away in Bristol."

"No. But I'll still take a look, if I may, to see if the door has a decent bolt. That's something I never checked. Would you like me to leave Bran with you?"

"Oh, no. He'd whine all night. I promise I'll lock the doors and windows, and I've got a telephone."

And time was, I thought, as Rob went to look at the back door, that I'd have had a private line if I needed it. But not any more. Not one I can use . . .

He finished his inspection and came in. "Seems O.K. You should be safe. Well, I'll go now. Good night, Bryony."

"Good night. And Rob—" Yes?

"Thanks for everything."

He smiled. "For nothing. 'Night."

When he had gone, with Bran like a shadow as usual at his heels, I locked and bolted the door behind him, feeling a fool as I did so. For all that had happened, for all he had said, this was still my old familiar place, and the men we had been talking about were my own cousins. One of them, in spite of all seeming, might still be my own dear friend.

But I bolted the back door and checked the window catches for myself, and when I went up the narrow stair, I took the Brooke with me, and went to sleep with it under my pillow.

I woke with the feeling that I had just come out of a lovely and familiar dream. There had been a beach, a long, long shore of golden sand which stretched as far as the eye could reach. Farther. Ninety miles . . . Why did I think it was ninety miles long? There were dunes behind it, pale sand with long reeds blowing in the wind. The ocean poured and poured eternally in from the west. Tall grasses with feathered tops nodded and blew. The sky was huge and clean and the sand felt hot and the wind full of the sea's salt. Lonely, beautiful, quiet and safe.

Safe, safe, safe . . .
The word went on echoing in Rob's voice round the dim walls of my bedroom. I remembered it all, then, the book under my pillow, the locked doors and windows, my cousins away in Bristol, the telephone by my bed if I should need reassurance.