He ferde as freke were fade,
And oueral enker grene.’
‘Sir Gawain, isn’t it?’ said Emily. ‘And the Green Knight?’
‘Good! Marvellous! Then you know it?’
‘I did English at university for a while,’ said Emily.
‘A pretty girl with a degree! How fortunate a meeting this has been.’
‘No,’ corrected Emily. ‘No degree. I never finished the course. But what’s Gawain got to do with Skinburness? I remember Carlisle was once posited as a possible site of Camelot, but I thought Cadbury had everyone’s vote now.’
‘Perhaps. But it’s not that. No, there was also a theory now generally discredited that the Green Chapel in Sir Gawain could have been situated here, near Skinburness. The Chapel of the Grune, you see. Or rather you hear, eh? Ha ha ha. No one important thinks there’s anything in it now. But me, I like it. It’s just the spot. Do you remember how Gawain finds the chapel on New Year’s morning? And he stands there, looking around for any sign of life? Then suddenly a sinister sound breaks the silence.
‘What! hit wharred and whette, as water at a mulne;
What! hit rusched and ronge, rawthe to here!
‘It’s the edge of the Green Knight’s axe being sharpened on a grindstone! That’s what I’d love to find here. Eh? Imagine turning up a medieval grindstone! I don’t dare say such things to Inwit! And even if I did find one he’d offer some perfectly reasonable explanation for its presence. Which would probably be true. But I’d let him feed his learned journals with it. I’m on holiday and it’s food for the imagination I want.’
They had reached the track which led up to the hotel and Emily halted there. The look of high-spirited enthusiasm which had been on Plowman’s face as he talked now faded. ‘Well, I must be off to see that poor woman,’ he said. ‘It’s been a pleasure talking to you, my dear.’
‘For me too,’ she said. ‘The Green Knight. Why was he green?’
‘Oh that.’ He laughed. ‘Green is a fairy colour, isn’t it? It’s the colour of vegetation and most of our English mythology is vegetative in origin. Things which are dead come back to life. The Knight loses his head, but picks it up again. Hence most of our fairies, bogies, elves, goblins and what have you, if they’re any colour at all, they’re green. So don’t stop to talk to any green men, my dear, will you? Goodbye for now.’
Chuckling again, he set off towards the hotel. As she watched him go, Emily realised he had still not really told her why he was digging in the middle of a thicket. Now she remembered Fenimore Castell’s return to the hotel the previous evening. He too had announced he’d met Inwit and Plowman in the middle of a clump of gorse and fern.
Perhaps they’re just a pair of particularly shy archaeologists, she told herself.
Cal snorted, apparently in disdain. But Emily recognised the sound as a demand for his midday snack of about a pound of dog-meat.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘I could stand a lettuce leaf myself. But this afternoon, mark you, I’m just going to lie in the sun and not talk to a single soul!’
She kept her promise to herself, though not without difficulty. There were several people on the shore near the spot where Fenimore Castell’s shirt had been found. At first she thought they were just staring with ghoulish aimlessness at the sea, but on looking herself she saw a helicopter far out and low over the water. Her heart sank; she knew they could only be looking for a body now, and she felt vaguely guilty as she kept to the inland paths to avoid meeting anybody.
She didn’t stop until she reached the Point itself. Here there was no one and as always the place gave her a feeling of great remoteness, though there were plenty of signs of human activity. There was a small pill-box, a remnant of the war years when the whole shore had been controlled by the military. She clambered up on its grass-covered roof and leaned on the rough stone cairn which had been built there.
To her right lay Skinburness Creek where the English fleet had once been anchored. Now there were a couple of sailing dinghies lying askew on the shore and an old rowing boat around which sheep were grazing.
Out over the water to her left she could see the tall masts which rose above the village of Anthorn, distant sisters of the ones at Caerlaverock over the water. There was some kind of naval research station there too, she knew, but was very vague about its purpose.
Something moved suddenly below her, and, startled, she swung round. But it was only a sheep. Cal’s ancestral ghosts stirred him to jump down and give the animal a gentle butt with his head which sent it scurrying off.
Emily laughed at the sight, but admitted the fright to herself.
Your nerves are a bit thinly stretched, she told herself. Treatment: Stage one: Sunshine and rest.
She jumped down and picked out a grassy spot overlooking the Firth. Then, after taking off her towelling wrap and anointing every inch of her body except the small area covered by her bikini, she stretched herself out and went to sleep.
When she awoke it was late in the afternoon and Cal had disappeared again.
She spent a fruitless half-hour wandering around, calling for him.
‘Damn! Damn! Damn the animal!’ she said. ‘This is getting to be a habit.’
Putting her wrap on and running a comb through her hair, she set off back towards the village.
I’ve been too soft with him lately, she thought angrily. Just because I made such a fuss of him yesterday, when he did this, he thinks he’ll try it again. We’ll see, my lad. We’ll see!
Her suspicions were confirmed as she approached the cottage and saw the familiar brown and white bulk lying up against the front door.
‘Cal!’ she called, with every ounce of sternness she could muster. ‘Heel, sir! At once!’
Obediently the dog rose and came towards her. Instantly she knew something was wrong. He was moving at a good rate, but nothing like his usual cavalry charge. And he was obviously hanging his left foreleg.
‘Cal!’ she said, the tone of her voice changing. ‘What’s the matter, boy? What is it?’
The matter was plain to see when the two of them met.
His Great Dane leg, unprotected by the shag of hair which covered his torso, had three deep parallel claw marks running from just below the quarters to the joint. And there was a thin stain of blood oozing through the hair above his right eye.
Emily felt sick when she saw this. This was his one good eye. A close examination revealed, however, that there was only the slightest of scratches beneath the hair and this was well up over the eye itself.
She whistled with relief when she saw this, but went hot with anger as she looked once more at the gashes on his leg.
‘That bloody cat!’ she said. ‘You big soft dope. You wouldn’t hurt a fly and that vicious creature tears you to pieces. I hope you bit its head off!’
Awareness of the contradictions in her speech did not appease her anger. Gently she led Cal into the dark cottage and bathed his wounds. Then ‘Scott,’ she said, and seized the telephone directory. She was already dialling the first ‘Scott’ in the book when she remembered what little she knew about the man.
‘The college!’ she said out loud. ‘He’s something to do with the college.’
Swiftly she turned to the ‘C’s’. No college was listed. Similarly under ‘S’ for Silloth and ‘S’ for Skinburness there was no college. She thought for a while and then turned to ‘Cumberland’ and ran her finger down the list of council and other offices. Still no college. ‘E’ for education was no help either. Finally in frustration she flung the book across the room and dialled the operator.
A young girl answered. Briefly Emily explained her difficulty. There was a long pause. A few seconds later a new voice came over, older, more assured.
‘Can I help you, madam?’
‘You can start by telling me who you are.’
‘I am the supervisor here.’
‘Good,’ said Emily. ‘All I want is a telephone number. I’ve given your girl the deta
ils.’
‘Yes. I see. I’m afraid that the number is ex-directory, madam.’
‘Look,’ said Emily, her original anger against Scott now overflowing into new channels, ‘if you’re so powerless you can’t give me the number, perhaps you could dial it for me. Make it a personal call. Say I want to speak to Mr. Scott. That way I’ll get my call and you’ll keep your precious secret.’
There was another long pause. Emily began to feel she had been unnecessarily rude. But the voice spoke again. ‘I’ll see what I can do, madam.’
Everything went dead and remained so for so long that Emily became convinced she’d been cut off. She began to joggle the rest.
‘Hello,’ said a man’s voice.
‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Mr. Scott?’
The man ignored her. ‘Who is that speaking?’ he asked in peremptory fashion.
‘Listen,’ said Emily, ‘is that the college?’
‘Who is speaking?’ repeated the voice.
‘My name is Emily Salter,’ she said, deciding that this might be the quickest way to achieve results. ‘I would like to speak to one of your staff, a Mr. Scott.’
‘What is your business with him?’
Emily snorted with indignation. ‘That I think is very much my business.’
‘It is a personal matter?’
‘Yes. It damn well is.’
‘Wait.’
The wait lasted seconds only.
‘Mr. Scott is not available. I will ask him to contact you.’
Again the line went dead.
‘Why, you ill-mannered bastard!’ cried Emily, and began beating a violent tattoo on the rest with her forefinger.
Suddenly another voice spoke clearly in her ear.
‘… and your brief is to watch. Merely that.…’
Then the line went dead again.
Emily sat looking at the phone in utter stillness for a while.
‘Your call is over now,’ said the supervisor’s voice. ‘Please replace your receiver.’
Without a word, Emily obeyed. Cal came to her and thrust his great head on to her lap.
‘Well, Cal,’ she said shakily, ‘this place is really getting on my nerves. I could have sworn that voice … it sounded just like Sterne.’
The dog growled softly at the name and Emily tousled his head. When she felt him wince slightly as she touched the cut over his eye, her quiet mood fell from her.
‘Not available, isn’t he!’ she said with all her former anger. ‘Then I’ll just make him available!’
Quickly she changed from her bikini into a dress.
‘Stay,’ she ordered Cal, but he looked at her so reproachfully that she relented.
‘All right. It’ll stop your leg from stiffening up too much, anyway. But stay close to me!’
Her first thought was to make for the college itself, but as she closed her door behind her, a new idea came into her mind. It was now six o’clock, after opening time. It was not impossible that Scott might already be in the back room at the hotel. In any case, she felt the need for a drink and there was nothing in the cottage.
Outside the smoke-room door she tapped Cal on the head and obediently he sat down. There was no notice here forbidding entry to dogs, but harsh experience had taught her the dangers of pushing open a bar door and sending Cal in first. Most other dogs kept away from the moving mountain he represented to them, but some seemed to regard his size as a direct challenge.
Tonight it was all right. It was early and there was only one man in the room, but she didn’t let Cal follow her, all the same.
The man was Michael Scott.
He looked up as she closed the door behind her. Her intention was to preserve a dignified coolness, but again as on the previous night she felt as though his glance had flicked her aside dismissively, and she found herself trembling with rage.
‘Mr. Scott,’ she said.
‘Yes?’ he said, faintly surprised and looking up again from the book he was reading.
‘I would like to speak to you.’
‘Speak away,’ he said coolly. ‘Is it a standing-up speech or a sitting-down speech?’
She ignored this.
‘Mr. Scott, that cat of yours has attacked my dog again.’
That sounds ridiculous, she thought, and Scott obviously considered it as such. He laughed shortly, showing even white teeth, very sharp-looking.
‘You mean that pit-pony? Yes?’
‘It’s no joke!’ she cried, feeling herself slipping further away from the cool dignity she desired. ‘I don’t suppose it’s any use hoping that a man as insensitive as yourself can understand other people’s feelings, but I’d like to try and make mine quite clear. I consider what you said today on the beach about poor Mr. Castell was utterly deplorable. And your peeping-tom act and the vicious pleasure you must get out of animals’ pain all add up to a pretty unpleasant character to me.’
She really was trembling now, she thought ruefully. She hadn’t meant it to come out like that, all mixed up. Especially as it didn’t seem to be having the slightest effect on Scott except to cause him slight amusement. It wouldn’t take much to bring tears to her eyes, she knew, and rather than risk that she put as much contempt as she could manage into her face and turned to the door.
‘Wait,’ he said easily. ‘How’s the monster’s leg?’
Triumphantly she swung round.
‘You admit it, then! You know he’s hurt his leg, so you admit your cat did it!’
‘Why, of course she did,’ he said equably. ‘I didn’t realise that was in dispute. Is that him outside? Hey, boy.’
The door whose handle she had turned preparatory to her dignified exit was being pushed against her restraining hand with a series of muffled bumps. Now at Scott’s voice there was a thump larger than those previous and Cal’s hairy head appeared.
‘The thick end of the wedge,’ observed Scott. ‘Come here, horse.’
To Emily’s surprise and dismay, Cal forced the rest of his body through the door and trotted quite happily over to Scott. Worse, he then proceeded to offer his injured leg for inspection.
‘That’ll do very nicely,’ said the dark-haired man, ‘though I’d have left the bandage on till tomorrow at least. Stops him being bothered by flies.’
‘Bandage?’ said Emily.
‘Yes,’ he said, looking at her. Then he grinned and ruffled the dog’s neck. ‘Oh, I see. You took it off yourself, did you? I might have known you’d be a lousy patient. Still, a couple of days and you’ll be back on the farm as good as new.’
‘Let’s get this straight,’ said Emily. ‘You dressed his wound?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then it was your cat?’
Scott shrugged. ‘I suppose there’s little chance of convincing you I’d have dressed it no matter what had caused it. But yes, Miranda did it.’
‘Well then!’ said Emily, sounding triumphant, but a bit uncertain inside exactly what she was triumphing over.
‘Well then what?’ he said. ‘Listen, Miss whatever your name is.’
‘Salter,’ she said. ‘Emily Salter.’
‘There was extreme provocation.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Miranda was sleeping and your dog trod on her. That’s right. Trod on her. Fair’s fair, though, she was buried deep in the grass and he was making a rather cautious investigatory approach to my horse which must be one of the few animals larger than himself he’s ever encountered. Anyway, Miranda’s like me; if she’s awoken suddenly by something twenty times her weight landing on her belly, she lashes out. He should look where he’s going. Though he’s blind, isn’t he?’
He moved a finger delicately in front of Cal’s left eye.
‘Yes. He is.’
‘He’s had a nasty knock there, I should say. How did it happen?’
Emily didn’t reply. He looked at her stubbornly unresponsive face and shrugged and glanced down at his book once more.
‘I�
��m sorry,’ said Emily. ‘I didn’t mean to be rude. But I’d rather not talk about it. And I’m sorry about what I said about your… Miranda.’
He shrugged inconsequently and she felt the prick of her old anger.
‘But the rest of what I said still stands.’
Curiously, the return to attack seemed to please him more than the apology, for he now stood up and smiled.
It was the kind of smile 1920 cinema villains used to have, thought Emily. Too cruel to be true. On the screen, anyway.
‘I’m going to have another drink,’ he said, moving over to the hatch. ‘What about you? Or are you joining the nobs next door again?’
You did register me, then, thought Emily.
He tapped a coin on the counter and the barman appeared.
‘Well?’ said Scott. ‘We’ll go dutch if you insist.’
‘I don’t see why, Mr. Scott,’ said Emily, making up her mind. ‘If I force you to act like a gentleman, some of it may stick. I’ll have a gin and tonic.’
That’s good Noel Coward stuff, she laughed to herself. I’m glad there’s no one else here to hear me.
‘What do you do?’ she asked on impulse.
‘Me?’ said Scott. ‘Oh I go around savaging animals, insulting women and spying on young girls. Then I come in here at night to count my blessings and play dominoes.’
‘I rang the college,’ said Emily. ‘You make yourselves very unapproachable up there.’
‘You got through, did you?’ he murmured with slight surprise. ‘My, how insistent a young gal you must be.’
But, despite his lightness, some more serious thought had evidently risen in his mind. The barman put the drinks down behind him and coughed lightly, but Scott ignored him. Emily moved forward firmly to pick up her gin.
‘Ah, Mrs. Follett,’ said a familiar voice.
Standing against the cocktail bar in the next room was Parfrey, and, by his side, Burgess.
‘Good evening, Mr. Parfrey,’ she said, and gave Burgess a smile. He looked at her with a curious mixture of pleasure and diffidence on his face.
‘How is Mrs. Castell?’ she asked.
‘Resting. Resting. There have been no further developments.’
‘Then there can’t be much hope?’
The Castle of the Demon Page 5
