Portrait of a Girl

by Mary Williams

  I didn’t think I’d manage to sleep well in the stuffy surroundings, but I did, I was too exhausted to keep awake, and in the morning after a good breakfast of gruel and boiled ham, I made enquiries about Signor Luigi.

  ‘Luigi?’ the manageress asked me, arching her heavy black brows over a hawk-like nose. ‘You meant the proud little Italiano? — the music teacher?’

  ‘Yes. I have to contact him.’

  She was a stout woman with her dark hair piled high over a plump pink face. Gold rings dangled from her ears, jet beads and locket decorated her large bosom.

  ‘He is a friend of Mr Verne’s,’ I explained, ‘and was giving me singing lessons until — well, until my throat became bad — I had a fever you see, and had to stop them. But it’s important I contact him now. Which is the quickest way to his home? I feel like walking, and—’

  ‘Oh, but you won’t find him there now,’ the plump woman stated very definitely, ‘He’s gone.’

  ‘Gone?’

  She shrugged. There was something Spanish about her, nonchalant and slightly contemptuous, as though a famous maestro was of no consequence to the clientele of the hostelry.

  ‘That’s what I said,’ she told me. ‘You never know when those foreigners are likely to take off. He’ll be back, of course, sometime; he often does it in the winter — prefers a bit of sun on the continent to the cold here. I don’t blame him, being a free man, if he is. But then you never know, do you? He could have a wife or a woman tucked away in Italy.’ She paused, eyeing me shrewdly, ‘Was your business important with him, Miss — Miss—?’

  ‘Lebrun,’ I answered. ‘Josephine Lebrun.’

  ‘Ah yes. I remember now.’ She folded her arms and regarded me knowingly.

  ‘And my business wasn’t important,’ I added, before she could get another question in. ‘Not with Signor Luigi. The person I really have to contact is my — my—’ I searched for the right word and miraculously found it ‘— my sponsor, whose name you have, Mr Verne. First of all, though, before going to Kerrysmoor, I have to call at Tregonnis.’

  Her jaw dropped. ‘Isn’t that the place, the cottage where — where that dreadful thing happened?’

  ‘What dreadful thing?’ I asked sharply. ‘What do you mean? What’s happened?’

  Her mouth tightened into a small button.

  ‘Ah. That’s what we’d all like to know. But if you go there you’ll certainly have a shock, Miss — Miss Lebrun. As for Mr Verne — it’s hardly likely you’ll find him at Kerrysmoor. Not at the moment.’

  ‘But why? You must explain.’

  ‘Pardon me!’ she said in ridiculously haughty tones. ‘There’s no must about it. I gave my solemn word to Master Verne to keep my mouth shut about things going on in that bad place — we all have. All of us here. Of course, there are all manners of rumours spreading, some may be true, some not. But if you take my advice you’ll stay here for a time until Mr Verne makes it his business to contact you. When you didn’t turn up before he was very put out, and called here twice. It was, if I may say so, a little thoughtless of you to go wandering about when you were under his protection. Still, that’s not my affair. I have collateral, and assurances from him that any expenses incurred by you will be amply repaid. You are, in a way, under our protection. I hope you get my meaning, Miss Lebrun.’

  Yes, I got her meaning, and I had not the slightest intention of complying with it.

  At the first opportunity I decided to sneak out of the Crown and somehow make my way to Tregonnis.

  The opportunity arrived that same afternoon. A November mist hung heavily over the streets of Truro, and with my valise packed, and wearing my brown cape over the warmest and most inconspicuous gown I had with me, I made my way softly down the stairs, tip-toed past the parlour where the landlady was having her beverage of tea, laced, I guessed, with something stronger.

  A wave of foggy air greeted me as I stepped into the street. Any traffic there was, crawled. Figures were mere blurred shapes passing by. This was all to my advantage. No one would be likely to notice the indeterminate figure of a woman passing with chin sunk into dark clothing, just one chilly pedestrian among others making her way to some vague destination. I walked aimlessly for a time, simply taking any corner that appeared unexpectedly willy-nilly, uncaring of where it led. At one point I tried to hail a cab, but the jarvy was huddled into his coat and passed unheedingly, which perhaps was as well. I was getting short of funds, and realised that I’d probably need all I’d got for cheaper transport covering a longer distance. Tregonnis was a considerable distance from Truro — a fact that I’d not properly considered before.

  At last I came to the outskirts of the city. The lights that had feebly illuminated the streets before, had flickered out one by one. All now was hushed and grey, and dark. Hedges, the occasional distorted shape of a building or shed came into looming blurred visibility then faded again, taken into coils of thick vapour. A damp river smell crept from low land to the road, and I had a brief glimpse of what could have been water lying beyond a clump of bushes. The next moment it had gone. I walked on mechanically for some way, chilled and a little frightened, knowing I had behaved unreasonably. It would have been wiser to have waited until the morning when the fog might have cleared. How would I reach Tregonnis in such weather? How would I find shelter of any kind to help me on my way?

  I was debating whether to turn and somehow find my way back to the Crown when a beam of reddish light straggled through the mist some distance ahead of me. As I drew closer I realised it filtered from somewhere round a bend in the roadway, carrying with it a distant malty smell characteristic of a tavern or kiddleywink. Relief filled me. An inn of any kind must provide temporary warmth and shelter.

  I quickened my steps, and was taking the corner when a broad shape lumbered against me, swaying and muttering obscenities. I almost fell, but managed to step aside and plunge on, with the reeking smell of spirits thick in my nostrils. The inn stood on my left. There was a sign of some sort swinging over the door, making a creaking sound that became peculiarly interrupted with the rise and fall of voices and raucous laughter from inside. Remembering to keep my reticule safely close in an inner pocket of my cape, I entered. The air inside was thick and cloying, steamy with male breath and beer. I hesitated before entering the tap room, and put my valise down for a moment to easy my aching arm. It was then that a burly figure emerged from the bar, obviously on the point of leaving. In the glow of the reddish oil lamp his face showed a rubicund and rustic kindliness that somehow suggested he could be a local man, probably a farmer, and that he was not inebriated.

  ‘Well!’ he exclaimed in a Cornish burr, ‘a lady, on a night like this, an’ alone. Where ee bin from, m’ dear, and where ee be too? Tedn’ a right place for ee in theer. Travellin’? Eh?’

  In a rush, because I had no one else to confide in, and he appeared honest enough, I told him I had to get to Tregonnis that night somehow, that I could pay a certain amount for transport, and that if he knew of anyone willing to take me, or a waggon—

  ‘It’s very important,’ I urged. ‘I was wondering whether to stay here, if they could put me up, and then start off early when the light was better. But what I have in my — in my bag — isn’t enough for a proper bedroom and food, and — and—’ I broke off desperately, knowing I was making a poor exhibition of myself.

  A large palm descended on my shoulder.

  ‘Midear young wumman, this place edn’ for the like of you, an’ like as not theers no space ’tall for virtue this night. A man o’ any kind c’n take care of isself, but you?’ He gave a gruff laugh, ‘Now tell you what, chile, I can’t say I’ve heard tell o’ this ’ere Tregonnis you do speak of, but I’ve me cart outside an’ good stout mare. Goin’ westwards I am, of I can give ee a ride — alongside, I’ll do et willin’, an’ no questions asked. No pay neither. Joseph Killiwarne I be, an’ the Killiwarne’s is honest farmin’ folk—’

  Well, I accepted the offer gr
atefully, and minutes later I was once more setting off, with someone I’d never seen or heard of before, into the dark and thickening Cornish night. He’d said westwards, and Tregonnis was to the west, in the direction of the wild North Coast.

  We’d been driving only a few minutes before he asked, ‘Where’s it near to? This Tre — Tre-whatsit? — you mentioned?’

  ‘Kerrysmoor,’ I told him. ‘Mr — Mr Verne’s place.’

  ‘Ah! Him.’

  ‘Do you know him by any chance?’

  ‘Only by repute midear, as they say. ’Bin trouble like, I do b’lieve. Some wumman.’

  My heart sank. I felt suddenly so very alone and lost again.

  ‘Oh. I had heard but wasn’t sure what the trouble was. But I—’ I thought up as reasonable an explanation as I could. ‘I used to work there. And I’ve business to discuss.’

  ‘I see. I see. Tedn’ my affair midear. Whatever business you do have mus’ be important to get you goin’ theer on a night like this. Funny weather. I doan altogether like et. Could be a storm comin’, one o’ they freak kind you doan quite know what t’expect. Bein’ used to the land an’ its ways, I got a nose for this sort o’ thing. Ais! — a storm brewin’ for sure.’ He paused, and when I said nothing, continued, ‘Know Tharne, do ee?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ I exclaimed. ‘Tharne isn’t far from Tregonnis. If you could put me down there, I’d be perfectly all right.’

  ‘Depend on th’ fog,’ the man said. ‘We’ll see. I’ve a nephew theer, callin’ on him I am, before tekkin’ off ’gain, f’r Penzance way.’

  I didn’t ask his nephew’s name, or probe in any way about his business. Neither did I comment on the fact that it was unusual for any farmer to be making such a journey at so late an hour. It wasn’t my affair. He could be involved in any lucrative sideline. What lay under cover at the back of his cart was his concern and his alone, whether of a legal or smuggling nature.

  So we clattered on down unknown ways and turns stopping only occasionally to give the horse a rest, while Joe Killiwarne took a nip of whisky from a bottle, and forced a little on me.

  Very gradually the fog lifted considerably, revealing, as the man had predicted, a sullen belt of black cloud, blanketing the night sky. Everything was very still, but occasionally the clouds parted to reveal a thin stream of watery moonlight emphasising the deep gloom of approaching rain.

  When we reached Tharne he offered to take me on to Tregonnis after his business with his nephew was over. But I refused.

  ‘It’s only a short distance,’ I told him, ‘and once I reach the main road I can soon be there. I don’t want to waste any time or hurry you. I’m very grateful for the lift.’

  I offered him payment once more, but he wouldn’t accept it, and following a few more polite and cursory remarks we parted, and I was on my way towards the cottage.

  The light became eerie. The overhanging heavy sky seemed to lower as an insidious rustling wind scurried along the ground swirling what remaining mist there was in grey coils over the wet earth. A few dead leaves tapped my ankles; the surface of the nearby stream quivered into glassy brilliance for brief seconds when shafts of silver-green moonlight momentarily pierced the massed clouds before dying again into stygian blackness. I found my way more from habit than sight. Every moment I half expected to hear the clip-clop of hooves and heavy wheels of Joe Killiwarne’s cart approaching. If I had, then I’d have taken an offer of a lift for the rest of the way to Tregonnis if it was still forthcoming. But there was no sound of human presence or activity — only a low rumble of thunder from the distance and intermittent flashes of lightning.

  Soon spatters of rain intensified. The wind rose, and I pulled the hood of my cape well down over my head, pushing my hair beneath. As the storm properly broke, realisation of my own folly swept over me. Who would have thought though, that from such an over-quiet misty afternoon and evening, such a deluge could arise? And why hadn’t I waited until the morning before making my reckless journey to Tregonnis? Who or what did I expect to find there?

  There was only one answer. Rupert. Rupert — Rupert — I almost called his name aloud. Surely something of him — some sign of his presence, or that he had been there — must await me at the cottage?

  I pushed on, while the rain increased into torrential force. When I took the turn in the main lane leading round the base of Rosecarrion I was already soaked to the skin. The wind had become a savage elemental force whipping its fury against me, and as a tree crashed down ahead, my head rang with the mocking illusion of wild fiendish laughter — the triumphant screeching of the Three Maidens. Gasping for breath and trying to wipe the dripping water from my eyes, I clutched at the twisted trunk of a bush for support. The ground seemed to rock beneath my feet, and when I tried to move on I was helpless against the holocaust. How long it was before the storm gradually eased enabling me to continue, I had no idea. Thunder still rolled ominously through the air and my boots were ankle-deep in mud when at last I reached the gates of Tregonnis. Moonlight zig-zagged across the path, or where the path had once been.

  I blinked, screwed my eyes up, and looked again, hardly believing what I saw. An acrid bitter smell rose from the boggy earth. Rocks and stones were strewn about everywhere, and the building was just a hump of debris — no more. The outhouse — where I’d thought I could shelter if there was no one there and the door was locked against me — was merely a blackened pile of fallen granite and timber. The cottage too, — there was nothing; just nothing but charred relics of what once had been a dwelling.

  I rubbed my eyes, wondering if I was suffering from some strange hallucination, but the ravaged scene only appeared intensified. A feeling of weakness made me lean against a blackened stump of tree, and slowly the fit of trembling ceased. I knew I had to get away as soon as possible. Nothing remained there but desolation; I had either to find my way back to Tharne where some cottage might provide refuge until the morning — or take the turn along the main road to Kerrysmoor. Presumably someone was in residence there — if not Rupert or Lady Verne — servants who’d take me in. To wait longer in my wet and shivering state could be dangerous not only for myself, but for the child I was carrying.

  So I forced myself from the gate, and with my head bowed into my cape, made my way down the lane to the road. The rain slowly ceased at last, leaving the black and savage landscape washed to luminous sinister clarity from the moon which was now fully risen. Cold! everything appeared cold and clearly cut — black and lemon silver-white, as though a cruel giant hand had swept Nature free of growth and future life. A dead land. No bird even cried or flapped its wings from the beaten undergrowth. There was no sound but a dripping and murmuring of water trickling in streams and rivulets from the moor.

  At last in its darkened valley I saw the turreted shape of Kerrysmoor crouched beneath the hill. I stood for a few seconds to get my breath and gather more strength before taking the turn leading upwards to the house. As I walked up the avenue and joined the drive, I lifted my head and stared upwards, at the stretch of wild moorland rising from the back of the mansion, to its rugged summit where the vividly silhouetted shapes of the Three Maidens stood.

  There they were primeval, stark against the cold sky, emitting a malignant elemental force that to my heightened nerves heralded disaster. Long shadows streaked like clawing gigantic fingers down the slope. At the same time I heard an ominous rumble as though the earth itself was shuddering in response. Then, before I could force myself ahead, I saw it — a dot of black, with arms outspread to the moonlight. It wavered and jigged against the sky, before leaping and jumping downwards towards the house.

  Terror held me rooted where I was. I thought at first I must be in a nightmare or had lost my senses, as my fixed gaze detected another — either human being or some distorted creature of the night scrambling and crawling up the moor for combat or greeting. And as I watched, the trembling of the earth intensified. Horrified, I saw the great stones — the Three Maidens —
move convulsively from their beds and with the crashing and roaring of Nature come rolling, tumbling down the moor, accompanied by great boulders and an eruption of earth and stones that claimed the dots of figures, bringing them in their landslide of destruction to the valley.

  Rivers ran; the far wall of Kerrysmoor collapsed. Above the thundering and screaming of rocks and debris, I seemed to hear a frail human crying for help.

  Why I thought of Rupert I don’t know. But suddenly, with terrifying certainty — a knowledge far beyond human sense or reasoning, I knew he was there — dying maybe, and needing me. I ran then, rushed with an energy I’d not known I possessed — stumbling, crawling, getting to my feet again, and going ahead, climbing over mounds of mud, forcing myself against the angry streams of stones, shale and wrenched undergrowth, to the great wall of erupted moor where any victims of the avalanche must be. Sometimes I had to sink breathless to the boggy ground, clearing my eyes of dust and mud. Once I glanced back and saw the creeping filth claiming the near wall and roof of Kerrysmoor — an immense tide of hungry destruction.

  I went on again, pulling myself up by any projecting root of tree or rock available, and at last, beyond the barrier came to a pit already half-filled with still slipping boulders. I slid some yards down, and then saw them — the Three Maidens. One was half upright, the other two sucked to the ground, almost submerged by rubble. The largest lay over the dot of a victim — a human figure with gaping mouth in its distorted face, entangled in reddened debris. I could have vomited, but forced myself to look away.

  And then I had the worst shock of all. Only a few yards ahead was the body of a man lying flat on his back, with a stream of blood coursing from his head. A rock lay over one leg which was twisted at a distorted angle from the knee. Despite the fitful wan scene which at times flared still from flashes of receding lightning blending with the moon’s glow, the features were clear and could have been those of some legendary knight resurrected from his tomb. The rest of his form was caked with thick mud.