He believed her, she was too sensible to exaggerate, too honest to romanticise. He saw how his aunt must have valued her and, having to leave her, left her something for comfort.
‘She told me another thing. I wrote it down, straight away, so as not to get it wrong. Because I knew one day I would have to tell you, so that you’d know how she knew you, and understood you.’ She opened the notebook, turning the pages neatly and quickly and, finding the place, said first, ‘This means nothing to me, Henry, nothing at all, they are merely words, they are not for me.’ She looked down and read: ‘He saw a clearing where no clearing existed, a white circle rising from a woman’s footsteps; he was between the two worlds and knew, for one instant, the ineffable peace of the soul.’
A tremor went through him: coldness, bitterness, grief. As he sat in silence, the images falling and fading in his mind, he was aware of her closing the book, her small hand reaching out almost to touch him, drawing back.
She said, ‘Goodness, it isn’t the time of year to be sitting in the garden like this, there’s really no warmth to the sun. Wanda’s beginning to shiver, but she won’t go in unless we do. Come along, I’ll make some coffee.’
‘Good idea,’ Henry picked Wanda up and carried her, following Lydia.
While she busied herself with the coffee percolator he sat at the kitchen table, staring out at the garden. She said, ‘You know why I read that to you — so that you won’t distrust anything I might tell you about her.’
‘As if I would.’ He smiled at her.
She looked troubled. ‘Thank you. But you mustn’t trust me — I mean beyond what I say. I can’t, I won’tdo anything. I lead a calm life, I don’t want the disruption of that man, those people, their affairs.’
‘I won’t let that happen.’
She nodded; even in a distracted state she managed to look neat and ladylike. ‘Bertha was the same, there was a great deal she could have told me, but she didn’t. She knew I had no strength to deal with violence, strangeness.’
‘Violence?’
‘There was an implicit violence in that man’s entire life. Even his films — oh, I know he was considered a genius; but people who know will tell you how he used people — their talents, their lives, in the furtherance of his career. Frankly, I think all such men are touched by madness, a madness that comes to the surface as soon as events turn against them.’
‘The loss of his niece?’
‘Yes. This is the irrationality of such things. It was years before he approached Bertha — when, you might say, the trail had gone cold. But with the passing of time, if he has any conception of time, his obsession grew. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to help, it was that she genuinely could not. If he had left her to — take her time, find her own way ... But he began to pester her, then persecute her. It was like — like dark clouds closing down. She was strong, robust one would say — but I could tell she was increasingly distressed. She said to me once — when it all began — ‘Why has he picked on me? I know nothing.’ And I said — I still don’t know why, if I managed to make an intelligent remark about matters utterly foreign to me, it was quite fortuitous — I said, “Perhaps he thinks that if he puts enough pressure on you he can force your mind in the direction he requires.” She looked — oh, very upset, and answered, “That is exactly what he is doing.” Coming from anyone but Bertha I would have dismissed that as absurd; instead, I found it terrifying. When she said nothing further, I was thankful.’
He watched her pour a dash of coffee, a mere colouring, into a saucer of milk which she placed on the floor for Wanda. He said, ‘The death of her dog. That was his doing, wasn’t it?’
Her expression closed. Her hand moved in an involuntary gesture of protection over the little dog before she answered, ‘Yes. We believed so. There was no proof.’
‘It was a warning? A threat?’
She was reluctant, repelled even by the recollection of the violence that had shown itself so long ago. More than that. No, I don’t know. Bertha understood ... it was to do with where it happened, and when ...’
On the hill, amongst the stones. ‘When?’
‘Some years.’
‘Yes. Seven, I think. I mean, what time of year?’
‘About this time, autumn.’ She gave him an uneasy, puzzled look.
An idea moved in his mind, the faintest quiver that blurred and vanished as she went on:
‘It was after that she went to see him. The only time she was ever face to face with him — if she was then. I’m not sure, he — conceals himself from people. It was so brave of her, going to that house all alone, but ... it achieved nothing, he would still give her no peace. He sent — visitors to her, messages. And he had ways of communicating with her that were — not tangible.’ Her distress was apparent, yet she looked at him with momentary firmness. ‘That is possible. If you condition someone, by external means, eventually the mind becomes enmeshed —’
‘Tuned in.’
She nodded, finding no comfort in the idea, but oddly persistent that he should acknowledge it. ‘It can happen.’
‘What you’re telling me is this: although they had no direct physical contact, there was an area where their minds met — overlapped. There would have to be something common to both of them, something that made her vulnerable ... The child?’
She hesitated some time before answering, slowly stirring her coffee, an unseeing look on her face. ‘Yes. Eventually. When her mind became — as you said — tuned in. That last film he made, the one that was never finished, it concerned the stones of Mark Hill. I don’t know the story and don’t care to speculate; perhaps you know.’
‘I don’t.’ He was aware, too late, that his tone betrayed a momentary impatience with what appeared to be a digression. Her glance reproached him. ‘Am I being dense? My aunt was, if not an authority, very knowledgeable about mark points in relation to the old trackways ... Beyond that, I can’t see the relevance.’
‘Neither can I. But she did ... Some association, some link between that film and the child. I think that when it came to her what it was, she did become completely vulnerable. Also, perhaps ...’ She paused. When he tried to prompt her, she shook her head. ‘No, there are subtleties, convolutions beyond me. I’m afraid, Henry, I was never equal to facing this business, when I force myself to think of it the thoughts — dissolve. Now, I only have this left to tell you. Towards the end, she destroyed every evidence of her — calling. Documents, charts, effects —things—’ She stumbled for words, waving her small hand helplessly. ‘Whatever there was. There might indeed have been aBook of Shadows, as you said; but if so, she destroyed it with everything else. “Everything’s gone,” she told me. “It’s no good anyone looking, they’ll find nothing.” And you know, Henry, that there’s nothing there.’
He nodded. ‘Was this when she knew she was ill?’ Lydia gave a wry smile. ‘It was before her illness was medically diagnosed, which is not the same thing, is it? Oh, she knew that she would die, and when. And she seemed exhausted, as if she had used up the last of her energy; but she was at peace. Yes, truly, I’m not just saying that to comfort you, or myself. I knew her, and I could tell. It was at this time — shortly before she went into hospital — when she told me she had destroyed everything, that she said, “I’m free now. I’ve done what I can about the child. If anything happens, Henry will understand.’” He stared at her. She stared back, lost, shrugging with diffident apology. ‘That’s all. Just that.’
‘But I don’t,’ he said blankly.
‘No ... Perhaps, if you think about it.’
‘I’m not sure I want to,’ he murmured. Yet he knew he would; he knew, in some strange way, that he must.
*
He recognised his response to this compulsion when, having driven into town for his shopping, he called in at the local library and looked through the books in the film section. He had a chance of finding what he wanted at his favourite bookshop, but as their method of classification
was eccentric beyond belief it would have taken him half a day, and in the need to order his mind there was some obscure pressure, as of time accelerating. He foundThe British Film as Entertainment, and when he saw that Alfred Allen, Cass’s father, had had a hand in its compilation, he knew it must be what he wanted.
When Lydia called in towards lunchtime he was in his favourite chair, absorbed in the book. She was wearing her party-going blue linen and looked at him in some dismay. ‘Henry, it’s the captain’s birthday, he invited us in for drinks — had you forgotten?’
He had, completely, and could only apologise, realising she must have been waiting for him to call and take her. ‘I’m sorry, will you go on. I must tidy myself up, I’ll be there in five minutes.’
‘You look very smart, but then, you always do,’ she said kindly. ‘I thought something must be wrong, you’re never unpunctual. I’ll dash on, he’ll be so disappointed if we’re both late, you know he does everything by so many bells or whatever the nautical chronology is. Goodness, that must be an interesting book to make you forget ...’ She was in too much haste to see what it was.
Later, feeling that all his digestive processes had been forcibly gummed together by the captain’s abominably sweet wine and birthday cake, he returned home; ignoring the jobs he had planned to do, he picked up the book again.
The writer, Max Holme, had obviously been a man with a passion for the cinema, enchanted from childhood by its glamour; but it was not until maturity that he found his way into the film industry by financing independent productions, eventually becoming, by an interesting coincidence (here Henry’s brain quivered momentarily on coincidence: was there ever any such thing?) a business associate of Wynter himself. Reading through, Henry skipped and selected until he came to the part that concentrated on Wynter’s films. These were dealt with in exhaustive detail, except the last,The Marching Stones, when after naming the cast and noting that shooting had begun on location, Holme continued:
Both the content and appeal of Wynter’s films have been described as timeless; with what would seem to be artistic audacity he placed this film before time. The story tells of a world that was chaos, presided over by forces of evil and destruction. In its painful and terrified beginnings, humanity, striving for survival, stumbled upon a dangerous sorcery which empowered them to gather the forces — elementals — together and lure them to a certain place where a crack in the earth opened out beyond the earth. The elementals, induced to travel through the crack, crossed the threshold to infinity; when the last one was through the crack would be sealed and in the boundlessness of time and space they would seek, unavailingly, to return and revenge themselves. But before this great thaumaturgic act was completed, they began to break free of the power that was driving them and an appalling struggle began, half in the world, half in eternity. The sorcerers, not daring to turn and flee, were killed, devoured, dragged into the void. The few who were left, in a final convulsion of strength, turned the power of their own magic against themselves, becoming stones, mighty stones whose weight and power pressed down on the earth and drove it together, sealing the crack. Their terrible sacrifice, like the doom they brought to the elementals, continues forever, for they must remain imprisoned in the stones till the end of time, watching, guarding the threshold.
Henry read this through twice, recognising in it fragments of legends of creation; the struggle between good and evil; the eternal vulnerability of mankind, always no more than one step from the brink of chaos. As such, it seemed to him a ramshackle composition, heavily indebted to H.P. Lovecraft and having no recognisable relationship to the traditional myths which, in all their various forms, surrounded standing stones.
The highly charged atmosphere of all Wynter’s films is not the result of professionalism alone; dealing as they do with the inexplicable and macabre they reflect his inner concentration on such matters and the force that drives him reaches out to touch all who are connected with him, never more so than in this unfinished and ill-fated work. Some members of the cast admitted that while it was in progress they were aware of a growing sense of dread; they were afraid to be anywhere alone in the great house which Wynter had leased (and subsequently bought) for the interior shots, and the air of menace that hung over the avenue of stones was so pervasive no one would go there if they could find an excuse to stay away. It seemed to many that Wynter, blindly pursuing his art beyond the point where it lost contact with reality, was gradually releasing the destructive force of the mysteries that obsessed him. One technician said, It wasn’t just an unlucky place, it was a terrible, dangerous place, and no one could say why. All we knew was that as long as Wynter kept control we were safe. Then Jessica Rayle died, and whatever it was — that force — it was loose and rushing towards us...
Henry put the book aside with dissatisfaction. There was an unfinished feel to it, accounted for, he supposed, by the information on the jacket that Holme had been killed immediately after writing the first draft and the book had been completed by Alfred Allen — Cass’s father. Who, judging by the publication date, had taken his time; and as a drunk, Henry reflected, wasn’t going to be too meticulous. And he was dead. Like Holme, and Jessica Rayle. And how many others?
But it was such a long while ago; time progressed and people died, that was the natural order of things, not some curse reaching out to claim people because they were involved in certain events. And it didn’t tell him anything, anything at all that threw light on Lydia’s odd statement that there was some connection between the film and the disappearance of Wynter’s niece.
9
That evening Cass arrived late. He knew she would come, her appearances were erratic but something always told him when he would see her. Once he had been tempted to give her a key, an impulse dismissed by his possessiveness about his house and his uncertainty of her; and he recognised, at the back of his mind, the sadly awkward business of asking for it back one day in the future when their affair was over. Instead, there was a stone near the front door where he left messages for her when he went out, telling her where to find him, or what time he would be back — just as there was a stone in the back garden for Wanda’s ball. ‘You’re so organised,’ Cass said. ‘One day the world will go mad and wreck your plans. You’ll come home and find me rushing round the garden with a ball in my mouth and Wanda reading your notes.’
That night she arrived with a fugitive air. As soon as she stepped into the hall he knew she was trying to conceal some uneasiness from him; perhaps regretting that she had come and yet not able to help herself, needing his affection, the physical reassurance he gave her.
She wore a long cinnamon-coloured dress that rustled with her movements and a shawl that exquisitely mingled shades of bronze and chestnut and fawn. She made him think of chrysanthemums, of the burning gold of the dying year, of all the autumn, when once she had been the summer. ‘There was a woman in ancient times who was fashioned out of flowers,’ he said, remembering a tale from theMabinogion about the damsel Bloddeuwedd who was so fair, and so untrustworthy.
Cass looked at him wordlessly, silent, guarded. On her skin, as he kissed her, he felt the chill touch of the night. He took her hand and led her into the sitting room where the lamps were on and the curtains drawn. On the floor, in front of the log fire, he had laid out the tarot cards, the twenty-two vivid and enigmatic cards of the major arcana.
It was a dramatic gesture, deliberate on his part, and he felt in the tremor of her hand and saw in the imperceptibly altered poise of her body how she responded to it. She moved away from him, cautious, intent, looking down. ‘Aren’t they strange, Henry? Here — in this quiet room. Like interlopers. Were they hers?’
‘Yes. I found them in the attic.’
‘Do you understand them?’
‘Can I read them? No. But I understand what they’re supposed to be: a symbolic commentary on man’s journey through life — his earthly journey and his psychic potentialities. This is only half a pack, the other half is
made up of four suits — like playing cards. Both packs are used together for fortune telling.’
‘They’re exciting, odd ... a bit creepy. That man hanging upside down.’
‘He’s truth, because invariably it’s the reverse of what one expects, or what is apparent.’
‘Ah ...’ She knelt down, looking more closely. ‘A pregnant lady ... It saysThe Empress.’
‘She’s fertility, abundance. See ... the cornucopia. Like all the figures she represents more than the obvious: the conjunction of the sexes, two becoming three in her fruitfulness.’
Cass paused with her hand outstretched to touch the cards. ‘I thought you couldn’t read them. Henry, you can...’ A superstitious fascination showed on her face, her arrested gesture momentarily betraying the tension of wariness.
‘No,’ he said truthfully. ‘I can’t. You see, although each card has a meaning on its own, that meaning is interpreted in several different ways, depending on its position in relation to the other cards. Only someone with a special sort of mind can make sense of them, someone like my aunt.’
‘I see,’ she said, reassured. While he went to pour her a drink she settled down over the cards, murmuring to them, touching them, asking him questions.
‘My aunt wouldn’t have allowed them to be handled indiscriminately; she’d have kept them to herself, establishing a rapport over the years. They would become so charged with meaning for her that when she spread them out it would have been like —’
‘Like hearing them speak,’ Cass supplied. The cynicism she often expressed was a surface defence; it did not take much — a stage setting, a hint of the extraordinary — to engage her imagination.
They sat with their drinks over the cards, studying them, speculating about them. The fantastic images, drawing the gaze on, lost their sharpness of detail, seeming to move in the flicker of the firelight until the world of each painted surface wavered on the glimpse of another, spellbound world.
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