The Call of Destiny (The Return of Arthur Book 1)

by Unknown

  ‘What kind of secret?’

  ‘A secret about my step-father. A very important secret.’

  Censure and curiosity battled in his head. Curiosity won. ‘If you like.’

  ‘You wouldn’t use it against him, would you?’ Ferdinand Tozer’s eyes narrowed. ‘Certainly not.’ ‘She’s a prisoner.’

  Tozer leaned forward on his chair. ‘Who is?’

  ‘My sister. The youngest one. We’ve been told not to tell anyone if we don’t want the same thing to happen to us.’ Elaine looked down at her hands and sniffed.

  Tozer looked unimpressed. ‘Your father sent her to her room because she didn’t do her homework. Right?’ He cleared his throat importantly, ending on a high, challenging note.

  ‘Wrong.’

  ‘Then why is she a prisoner?’

  ‘Daddy says she’s mad,’ said Elaine matter-of-factly.

  This time Tozer could not restrain a chuckle that turned into a guffaw that brought on a prolonged fit of coughing. ‘Come now,’ he wheezed, red in the face, ‘I wasn’t born yesterday, my dear.’ Elaine stood up to go. ‘I knew you wouldn’t believe me. No one does.’ She extended her hand with quiet dignity. ‘Goodbye.’

  Ferdinand Tozer prided himself on being a good judge of character. ‘Sit down. Tell me more.’

  Elaine did as she was told. ‘Her name is Bertha Mason. Well, Bertha Mason Pendragon. She’s the baby and dad picks on her. She howls and moans a lot, and she’s a bit, well, simple. But she’s quite harmless really.’

  ‘How long has she been locked up?’ ‘Ever since she was a baby.’ ‘Where?’

  ‘In the attic.’

  ‘In the attic!’ Ferdinand Tozer was shocked. ‘That’s outrageous! What does your mother say about all this?’

  ‘She says this is the twenty-first century and people don’t do things like that any more. Daddy wont listen. He says it would ruin his career if people knew he had a mad daughter.’

  ‘But . . . but . . . ’ Though Tozer was horrified, his brain was feverishly active, calculating how he could turn this extraordinary situation to his advantage. ‘Why doesn’t he put her in a home?’

  Elaine’s voice faltered. ‘He’s afraid someone might sell the story to the press.’

  ‘Why are you telling me all this?’ Tozer was suddenly suspicious again. ‘Me, a complete stranger.’

  ‘It’s only a stranger I can tell. Father’s friends won’t listen

  to me.’

  Tozer nodded. That certainly made sense, considering what he knew about Pendragon and his cronies. ‘But what can I do?’

  ‘You’re rich, so I expect you’re important. You can talk to father, make him set her free. She has a right to lead her own life and be happy.’ Elaine gulped. ‘Or as happy as she can be.’

  ‘Of course she does.’ This was dynamite. What would Uther not give to keep his secret safe? ‘Show me, my dear,’ he said decisively. ‘I want to see her.’

  Elaine seemed a bit surprised. ‘Now?’

  ‘Now,’ insisted Tozer, thrusting out his chest.

  Elaine pondered a moment or two. ‘I’ll need a couple of minutes to make sure the coast is clear.’

  It was considerably more than a couple of minutes before she returned, and as the seconds ticked by, the less believable her story seemed to Ferdinand Tozer.

  Elaine was breathing heavily when she rushed in. ‘Come quickly!’ she hissed, grabbing his hand and pulling Tozer out into the hall and up three flights of stairs. It was the most exercise he had had in years. The top of a fourth flight of much narrower stairs was blocked by a low door. Elaine knocked a special knock. Rat – tat, tat, tat! Rat – tat, tat, tat! Ferdinand Tozer leaned against the wall wheezing and gasping for air. Elaine turned the handle and opened the door cautiously. ‘Come!’ she whispered, beckoning Tozer to follow her.

  As his eyes adapted to the gloom he made out first a network of wooden beams supporting the roof and then a confusion of objects; a pile of suitcases, a few lamps and lampshades, a birdcage, a child’s rocking horse, a baby’s bath. The attic smelled musty. Ferdinand Tozer sneezed loudly, and as he did there came a low moan from the shadows somewhere to their right.

  Finger to her lips Elaine whispered, ‘She’s very timid.’ In a low voice she called, ‘Bertha!’ At first there was no response, and then came a faint scraping sound as of a chain being dragged across the floor. The sight that met Ferdinand Tozer’s eyes was one he would never forget; a small figure crouched on the filthy attic floor, wrapped in a torn shawl, trembling arms outstretched, begging for who knew what? Food or drink, or simply love and understanding? The little mite’s tired eyes were rimmed with what looked like blue and red welts; they were the frightened eyes of some tortured spirit that had never known peace of mind.

  ‘Poor girl! Poor little girl!’ Ferdinand Tozer’s eyes moistened. It was a long time since he had been moved to tears. He held out his hand but the pathetic creature shrank back into a dark corner, eyes full of terror, fingers scrabbling at her mouth. It was then he saw the padlock on her tiny ankle and the chain that shackled her to one of the rafters.

  ‘Good God in heaven! This is inhuman! This is . . . ’ Words failed him.

  ‘She tried to set the attic on fire,’ explained Elaine. ‘It was just to attract someone’s attention, but father said she was a danger to herself and everyone else and chained her up.’

  ‘Monster! Cruel Monster!’ said Tozer in a hoarse whisper.

  As they descended the attic steps Ferdinand Tozer heard a sound that made the hairs rise on the back of his neck and all the way down his spine – peal after peal of demoniacal laughter that must surely have come not from a little child but from a tormented soul in hell. He had intended to threaten Uther Pendragon with exposure and offer to keep silent in exchange for whatever promise of honours he could extract from him. His conscience now demanded that he abandon that cynical scheme, and do everything in his power to ensure that Pendragon – brutal, degenerate beast – was punished for his crime. Life imprisonment would surely not be too much for him. Never had Ferdinand Tozer felt so good about himself, so righteous was his indignation, so just his cause.

  When finally he confronted the wicked perpetrator of the sickening crime, the amusement with which Uther greeted Tozer’s angry denounciation was as unexpected as it was shocking. Convinced that this monster was the son of Satan, Tozer responded with bitter insults and solemn threats. Yet in the middle of his righteous tirade, Uther abruptly left the library and reappeared holding Morgan, his youngest daughter, by the ear. The sight of Morgan clutching a filthy old shawl, the telltale smudged red and blue cosmetic circles round her eyes, and several of her front teeth blacked out, was one that branded itself like a hot iron on Ferdinand Tozer’s memory.

  He was not the first to be taken in by Elaine, though that was no consolation to him at all. Having gulped down the best part of a bottle of Uther’s finest twenty year old Malt Whisky, Tozer’s driver helped him, still shaking his head in bemusement, into his Bentley.

  Uther’s embarrassment was tinged with secret amusement, for whilst he had little time for his step-daughters, whom he considered spoilt, wilful and absurdly privileged, they were at least entertaining. ‘Naughty but funny, eh, duchess?’

  Igraine was not so sure. ‘Why Bertha Mason?’ she asked her husband.

  Uther found that an odd comment coming from Igraine, an intelligent and well-read lady. ‘Quite appropriate, I thought. A demented female imprisoned in the attic and all that.’ He grinned. ‘Serve Tozer right. If he had read Jane Eyre, he would have known it was a practical joke.’

  ‘It wasn’t Elaine’s idea, you know. It was Margot’s.’

  Uther handed his wife a gin and tonic. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘She told me. Seemed rather proud of it.’ Uther opened a can of tomato juice. ‘So?’ ‘You don’t find that strange?’

  ‘Should I?’

  ‘Elaine is the passionate one. She’s the one who ad
ores wildly romantic novels, not Margot.’

  Uther spiced his Bloody Mary with a few drops of Tabasco. ‘I’m not with you, duchess.’

  ‘Think about it. Margot is the most calculating of the three girls. She never acts on impulse, and she never does anything without a reason.’

  Uther sipped his drink thoughtfully. ‘You think she’s telling us something?’

  ‘A guilty secret. An abandoned child. Parents afraid the world might discover the truth. Isn’t it all a little too close too home?’

  A sharp pain stabbed Uther’s chest. Just for a moment he felt breathless, and then the feeling passed. ‘You’re not suggesting she knows anything?’

  ‘Bit too much of a coincidence, isn’t it?’ ‘But how could she?’

  Igraine shrugged. ‘She might have overheard us talking. Margot’s smart. She’s quite capable of putting two and two together.’

  ‘Should I talk to her?’

  Igraine shook her head. ‘Absolutely not. It wouldn’t achieve anything, and it might make matters a lot worse.’

  ‘That girl is going to give us trouble,’ said Uther, not for the first time.

  Not only was Margot smart, she was also the most beautiful of the three sisters. With her black hair, big brown eyes and creamy complexion she seemed as pure and innocent as a Madonna. The reality, as Uther knew, was very different. Margot combined innocence with sensuality in a way that many visitors to Brackett Hall found remarkable, not to say disturbing. When she was around, wives and girl-friends watched their partners closely. Perched on a man’s lap, she would entertain him with childish chatter, tossing her hair from time to time so that its soft waves brushed his face. Giggling girlishly, she would bury her head coyly in his neck and whisper secrets in his ear. She would hold his hand, (she was obsessed with hands), caressing it affectionately, or touch his cheeks with pouting lips, all the time confronting the other guests with her eyes as if to say, ‘What’s wrong? Nothing. Nothing but your nasty mind.’

  When Martin, the head gardener, died, his successor was Tom Beddows, a young man in his early twenties, good-looking, cheerful and uncomplicated. Margot took a fancy to him and would trail him round the gardens, chattering incessantly, leaving him now and then to chase a squirrel or turn a cartwheel on the lawn. At first Tom found Margot’s constant attentions a distraction, yet to his surprise he missed his young friend when she went away to boarding school. Distraction or not, he had grown accustomed to having her around.

  With the holidays Margot returned, as if no time had passed at all. In those few short months, though, Tom noticed the change in her. Whereas she used to skip behind him turning cartwheels, now she walked demurely by his side, tossing her black hair, slipping him an occasional sidelong glance. Before, she had shown artlessly, as a child does, that she liked him; now he could no longer read what was in her mind.

  The day before her school summer term began, Tom was eating his lunch on the Victorian ironwork bench by the big lawn, and she was sitting next to him. He liked that; it was the first time she had shown her friendship for him in such a companionable way. For a while she watched him eating, and for some reason this made him nervous. Pushing aside his last sandwich only half eaten, he wolfed an apple in four bites, slopped a mug of tea from his thermos flask and gulped it down.

  ‘I’m going back to school tomorrow. Will you miss me?’ she asked.

  Had he answered immediately, he would have said yes, and that would have been the end of it; but uncertain how to respond, he hesitated. Avoiding her eyes he busied himself clearing up the debris of his lunch. By chance, it seemed, their hands touched. The unexpected physical contact made him recoil so violently that flask and mug, apple core and remains of sandwich were tossed on the grass. Confused, all he could do was sit there looking at the mess. Seeing how agitated he was, Margot burst out laughing. Tom was hurt. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said contritely, ‘I didn’t mean to laugh. But you look so miserable.’

  For a few moments they sat staring at the lawn, Tom sullen, Margot wondering how she had offended him. ‘Are you angry?’

  ‘Why should I be?’ he muttered.

  ‘Why won’t you talk to me then?’ She turned to face him, her eyes willing him to speak.

  For a few moments he was silent. Then he looked away, mumbling ungraciously, ‘I’ve no time to sit around talking to children.’

  ‘I’m fifteen,’ she said indignantly. Most days she practised telling lies in front of the mirror in her bedroom.

  He picked up the mug and the thermos flask. ‘Do you think I’m pretty?’ she asked him softly.

  Pretending not to hear, he scooped up the scraps of bread and the apple core and stuffed them in his plastic lunch box.

  ‘Do you, Tom?’

  He clicked the lid shut. ‘I wish you wouldn’t talk like that, miss.’

  ‘Why not? It’s a simple question.’ She put her head on one side and eyed him seductively. ‘Do you?’

  He said something under his breath. ‘I didn’t hear you.’

  ‘I said yes, didn’t I?’

  For a while they sat without speaking, then, without warning, she took his hand in hers; when he tried to draw it away, she tightened her grip. For a young girl she was surprisingly strong. ‘How big your hand is,’ she murmured, caressing it gently. ‘I love big hands.’ Neither the smile nor the coquettish look that accompanied the words were hard to read. Flushing bright red, Tom snatched his hand away.

  In an instant her mood had changed. She jumped up, graceful as a ballet dancer, and spun round and round on the tips of her toes. Tiring of that, she turned two perfectly controlled cartwheels, revealing in the process slim legs and a pair of white knickers. Tom looked guiltily away. Such thoughts; what was the matter with him? Look at her, skipping round the lawn, a carefree, innocent child. ‘Good-day, miss,’ he said gruffly, and rushed off in the direction of the lake.

  ‘Good-bye, Tom!’ she cried after him, watching him disappear from view. Lifting her skirts, she whirled round and round until she was so dizzy that the lawn reared up and tumbled her. For a while she lay on her back, eyes closed, waiting for the earth to stop moving. When finally it came to rest, she sat up and giggled. ‘Dear Tom,’ she murmured wistfully.

  As the days passed, Tom convinced himself that he had been imagining things. What had seemed at times deliberately seductive behaviour was nothing more than the natural way of a girl at the confusing age of puberty. All the same, he wished she hadn’t taken his hand in hers. The thought of physical contact between them disturbed him. Perhaps he was being foolish, but for him the touch of her hand had tainted something wonderful between them, something precious and innocent. For some reason he felt ashamed, as though he had committed a sin. It was not as if he had done anything to feel guilty about, but it was enough that he felt guilty. That night he went home and proposed to his steady girl friend. A few weeks later they were married.

  It was the following year before he saw Margot again, and he was startled by the change in her. She was no longer a child, she was taller, her slim hips swayed as she walked, her long dark hair fell loosely about her shoulders. With her head carried high, she moved with a natural, unselfconscious grace and an indefinable air that told the world, “I am beautiful, and I know it.” His heart beating fast, he went to greet her, wiping earth from his hands and bobbing his head deferentially.

  She held out her hand. ‘Hello, Tom.’

  ‘You don’t want to shake my dirty hand,’ he said churlishly. As if she hadn’t heard him, she took his hand in both of hers and held it for a long moment. Gently, he eased it away. ‘I’m off to get some more bulbs.’

  ‘I’ll come with you.’ Quickly she fell in step beside him. For a few moments they walked together without speaking a word. ‘I got married,’ he blurted out.

  ‘I know.’ She pouted. ‘Beast!’

  ‘Known her a long time.’ Why, he was thinking, did it sound like an apology?

  ‘Oh, Tom,’ she cried happi
ly, dismissing all talk of so mundane a subject, ‘it’s brilliant seeing you again! It’s been so long! I’m sixteen already. Think of it. Sixteen!’ Catching the meaningful sidelong glance, his face burned bright red.

  ‘Sit down and talk to me.’ She pulled him to her on the lawn.

  ‘I don’t have time to talk, miss,’ he protested.

  ‘Oh you!’ she scoffed. Her eyes softened and before he could stop her, her arms were round his neck and her mouth close to his. He knew his only hope was to push her away but his body refused. Once, twice, three times, she touched his lips with hers, tantalising him, her brown eyes smiling a mocking smile. ‘Kiss me, Tom,’ she whispered. ‘You know you want to.’

  The blood surged in his veins, his head swam, and he almost fainted. Grabbing hold of her, he kissed her roughly, pulling her harder and harder to him, limbs shaking uncontrollably in a frenzy of torment and desire. As his whole body stiffened, he threw back his head with a cry, not of joy, but of despair and pain, like a wounded animal. When he looked at her again, she was studying him with serious eyes. ‘It’s no use pretending anymore. Is it, Tom?’

  And that was just exactly it. He thought of handing in his notice but he had a wife to support and a child on the way. He knew what he ought to do – turn round and leave this place for ever. But he could not; the truth was, he yearned for Margot, every nerve and sinew in his body crying out its need.

  All the time she watched him with those big brown eyes, and then, as if she knew what he was thinking, she nodded. Without a word, she walked towards the big potting shed behind the greenhouses; as in a spell, he followed her. Inside, she stood facing him, boldly meeting his gaze.

  ‘For God’s sake, Margot, this is wrong,’ he pleaded.

  ‘Dear Tom,’ she said, holding up her arms to be undressed, the way a child does.

  Gently he removed her clothes. When she was naked, he knelt at her feet. ‘If you’re not the most beautiful thing I ever did see.’ He ran his hands over her small, hard breasts, her swelling stomach, her thighs. Kneeling there, he was torn between desire and shame, desperate to make love to her and praying for a miracle to save him from this mortal sin. Margot looked down at him and raised an eyebrow. ‘Have you brought me here to worship me, Tom?’ she asked mockingly. Kneeling beside him, she began to undo his trousers.