Sing Witch, Sing Death

by Roberta Gellis

  Hetty had not done herself any good, Pamela thought, reading the expressions of the guests. Sometimes Hetty seemed to have a quick, sly mind, but she was a fool about people.

  "Oh, Pam," the countess said, a trifle sullenly, "here are Sir Harold and Lady Harold come to pay a call. This is my companion, Lady Pamela Hervey."

  The introduction was not properly made, even the naming was wrong, and Pamela did not miss the touch of spite that had called her "companion" instead of "friend." That did not bother her, because one glance told her that Sir Harold and his lady would judge by what a person was.

  In fact, as annoyed as Pamela had been with Hetty earlier, she was sorry for her now. She made a mental note to drill Hetty in the correct forms of introductions before she left, and came forward smiling to greet the heavyset, grizzled gentleman and plump, cheerful lady of middle years. Civilities were exchanged, and Lady Allenby turned to Pamela with the faintest flicker of relief.

  "It is most shocking to hear of Lady St. Just's experience, but I have been telling her that, in general, our local people make most excellent servants."

  "Indeed, I have found that so," Pamela agreed smoothly.

  The set around Lady Allenby's mouth softened slightly. She recognized that she now had a skillful partner in small talk. "And it may have come about because there has not been a mistress at Tremaire for so long. When was it, my dear," she asked her husband, "that the late Lady St. Just died?"

  "All of seven years ago, Caroline. I thought young Arthur would marry, but…" His wife cast her eyes up at him, and his speech ended in an abrupt "harrumph."

  "You know how it is when there is no lady in the house," Lady Allenby covered swiftly. "The maids take all sorts of advantage. I am sure now that you are here, Lady St. Just, all will be restored to order."

  "I am not very well used to dealing with this type of servant, and I do not think I care to adjust to insolence," Hetty said loftily.

  Pamela bit her lip. There was no way she could excuse what Hetty had said without calling further attention to it. She tried to catch Hetty's eye to warn her, but failed.

  Lady Allenby's lips had tightened again, but her well-bred voice was unchanged when she spoke. "You will learn, my dear. It takes more than a few weeks. I remember when I first came to Cornwall—I am from Kent—that I was appalled at the freedom of the servants. But they are very attached and faithful and, I think, far more honest than the usual run. Oh, I am the most scatterbrained thing," she said, trying once more to change the subject. "I have been meaning to apologize for not calling sooner."

  "We thought it best," her husband put in, "to wait until the first shock wore off. The tragedy, you know—terrible thing, that."

  "But Vyvyan has known about his father's and brothers' deaths for months," Hetty said. "It could scarcely be a shock any longer. Besides, I was very surprised that, even when we first heard, he did not seem to be much distressed by the news."

  A startled glance passed between husband and wife, and Pamela bit her lip again. Hetty should not have said such a thing, whether or not it was true. And, from the very chilly glance Sir Harold was now turning on her as his lady skillfully brought the subject around to servant problems again, Pamela had reason to believe he did not credit the allegation against St. Just. In fact, Hetty had probably made an enemy.

  "I think Lady St. Just phrased what she meant awkwardly and did not quite understand that you meant the shock of revived memories upon coming back to his home," Pamela murmured to him. "Lord St. Just has great command over his feelings and would not wish to distress his wife by displaying them openly. I think Lady St. Just meant to praise his self-control."

  Disconcertingly keen eyes stared at her approvingly, although a twinkle of amusement in them told her that Sir Harold knew as well as she did that if St. Just had learned to control his feelings, it was an entirely new thing.

  "Oh, certainly," Sir Harold replied, but a flashing glance at Hetty showed no softening. "Vyvyan…I mean St. Just of course. Keep thinking of him as a boy. He was quiet when his mother died. Sad thing, that. She was a fine woman, and very young."

  The family has certainly had its share of troubles," Pamela agreed noncommittally.

  "Hmm, yes. Odd family, the St. Just's. I'm a bit interested in families, you know. Very old family myself. We can trace ourselves back to the Conqueror. The St. Justs are Cornish, though, and very proud of it. Given to marrying locally—the heir, I mean. They were country people who came up under the Stuarts. Very common practice among them for the younger sons to marry well. Now, let me see. Hmmm. Lady Pamela Hervey. That would make you one of Bristol's daughters."

  "No, sir, I do not have that honor."

  Pamela smiled, not in the least offended by the effort to place her. People interested in genealogy were often totally unaware that their searching personal questions might be embarrassing.

  "No? Married one of his younger sons?"

  "No, sir." Pamela smiled more broadly. "I am the daughter of his youngest brother."

  "Can't be. You would be Miss Pamela, then, not Lady Pamela."

  "I am afraid I am teasing you, sir. I am the Baroness Oxted in my own right through my mother. We have not used the title for several generations, however, since we have no property or influence in the area, not even a house. I am afraid my several-times-removed great-grandmother was a creation of the merry monarch's."

  Sir Harold's lips twitched. "Very good king, Charles, for all his odd creations. Only fault was too soft a heart toward that Portuguese wife of his and his silly brother."

  "Yes, indeed. But my mother's family became very proper under Queen Anne, I believe, and since there was no son, the lady who married Lord Hoo and Hastings simply did not use the title. We do, however, continue to call ourselves Lady this or that."

  "Very proper. Shows—Good God, Vyvyan, whatever has happened to you?"

  "How do you do. Sir Harold," St. Just said, coming forward to shake his hand and bow to his wife. "Lady Allenby, how kind of you to call." He glanced around the room. "George, ring for Hayle. Let us have some refreshments up here. I hope you will forgive me, sir, for not coming as soon as my wife's message reached me. I stopped to wash my hands. I have been in the stables."

  "And so your boots show, Vyvyan," Hetty said.

  "Sorry, Hetty. If I had stopped to change those, I might never have got here in time at all."

  "But my dear St. Just, how did you come to be hurt?" Lady Allenby asked, rising and looking more closely at him. "Do sit down, my poor boy; you are quite pale. Let me see your hand and your head, and your poor face too. If I were you. Lady St. Just, I would apply—"

  "I do not know how you can tell I am pale under this sunburn, ma'am," St. Just put in, stemming the tide, but in decidedly affectionate tones, "but Sarah would be furious if poor Hetty tried to interfere with her ministrations. I am sure she has done what was right, too, because I feel quite well. As for how it came about, I was so foolish as to tumble off my horse into a gully."

  "Tumble off your horse!" Sir Harold exclaimed unbelievingly. "You?"

  St. Just laughed. "It happens to the best of us, sir. I was distracted by…by something, and not attending properly. The worse of it is that Sergeant cut his knees."

  "That is too bad. Will they scar, do you think?"

  "Horses!" Hetty exclaimed. "I do declare that if both Vyvyan and the horse had broken a leg, there would be more concern shown for the horse."

  Lady Allenby smiled, and George, who had been shaking hands with Sir Harold, turned toward Hetty. "'Course, m'dear. Wouldn't have to shoot Vyvyan, y'know."

  "Well, it is a very fortunate thing that Vyvyan did fall," Hetty said after the laughter at George's remark died down, "for if he had not, you would not have seen him. He is out from dawn to dinner every day, as an ordinary thing. One would think he had a distaste for…for the house."

  There was a second's silence during which another significant glance was exchanged between the Allenbys. Then
Sir Harold harrumphed again. "Very proper, though a bit hard on you, Lady St. Just. Looking over your lands, eh, St. Just?"

  "Yes, sir. I have been away over five years. I wish," he added with a slight unevenness in his voice, "that you would call me Vyvyan."

  Sir Harold came across to him and took his hand again, saying softly, "Sorry. You know that. Well… Least said, you know…." His voice regained its briskness. "Shouldn't think you would have any trouble. There haven't been many changes. But any help I can extend, my boy, you have only to ask."

  "Thank you, you are very kind. I shall ride over. I had hoped to see William. Will he come and spend a night or two with us? We do not need to stand on ceremony with him. As soon as my wife has her bearings, we shall try to begin entertaining formally at Tremaire, as we used to do, but I hope my friends will not wait for that."

  "William is too busy!" George laughed, turning from the decanters Hayle had placed on a table. "You don't have pansy-brown eyes, Vyvyan. Lack certain other attractions too."

  St. Just lifted his brows, and Lady Allenby smiled. "Yes, it is not public yet, because Elinor is not out, but I believe we will be able to announce William's betrothal very soon."

  "I am very happy for him, if you mean Miss Elinor Austell. I only remember her as a child, but—"

  "Will see him, though," George interrupted. "Bound to be looking for distraction. Forgot. Measles. That's why I came back. Rode over to visit the Austells, but couldn't trouble them when there was sickness in the house. Daresay William will be home by now."

  "Oh, dear," Lady Allenby cried, "I wonder if perhaps we should drive over. If I could be of help to Mrs. Austell, I would not like to think I had not offered. And we could take the other road, Harold, and come around by Penzance, so if there is anything she has ordered in the town, we could bring it."

  Sir Harold hastily finished the glass of wine George had put into his hand. "Very well, my dear," he said resignedly. Then, with a rather stiff smile at Hetty, who was protesting against endangering oneself by going into a house of sickness, "Illness is to Caroline as a trumpet to an old war horse. You will have to pardon her, Lady St. Just. She will fret herself into a spasm if she cannot recommend remedies and have a look at the invalids."

  Good-byes were murmured and an invitation extended to return the visit. Pamela thought it might have been given more warmly, and was sorry, for Hetty looked hurt. Nonetheless, she had to admit that Hetty had brought it upon herself by her spitefulness. These people had obviously known St. Just since he was a boy and were fond of him. Sir Harold's reminder to St. Just that he had promised to ride over was a good deal more cordial than his invitation to Hetty.

  As they reached the door, the older man paused uneasily. "By the way, Vyvyan, meant to mention, there's something in the wind. You haven't been stirring up the coven, have you? What I mean," he added in a lower voice, "I hope you don't believe they were involved in… Harrumph. Your father and brothers never had any trouble with them, you know. Sorry. It's an awkward thing to say, but there has been an unusual activity since you came home. My people are all uneasy about the meetings."

  "No, sir, at least I haven't stirred them intentionally," St. Just replied, frowning.

  "It's the thing now to laugh at them, but I've seen too much," Sir Harold continued. "Didn't think much of it at first, but you people seem to be having a rash of accidents here, what with your wife falling down the stairs and you being thrown from your horse. Made me wonder."

  Chapter 7

  The next day, St. Just found Pamela in the still room with Sarah, who was explaining to her the use and preparation of a number of herbs and simples she had never come across before. He stood watching them for a few minutes, the gray head and glossy brown bent together.

  A list in Mrs. Helston's writing lay on the dresser. Doubtless Pamela had been checking the stores of preserves. Very likely she had come across his mother's medicinals and had asked Sarah to explain. His throat contracted with pain as the inevitable comparison with Hetty came to mind.

  "Pam."

  She turned smoothly, unstartled, a woman in her rightful place. "Yes, my lord?"

  "I have been speaking to that gardener, and we have a problem. His wife… She's a witch, is she not, Sarah?"

  "Ned Potten's wife? Yes. And nasty with it, too."

  "I thought I saw the signs on her."

  "I don't think the girl knows anything about that," Pamela remarked. "She is simple, and it is most difficult to get a clear tale from her. She knew the man was married, which led me to believe at first that she was not as innocent as she pretended. Later, however, she said the oddest things—that it was most fortunate her baby would be born in June, because that would assure it of fulfilling some high purpose. Yet, when I tried to interest her in arrangements for raising the child, she was completely indifferent. She said that Potten would take it.

  "That woman raise a brat not her own?" St. Just asked incredulously.

  "Unfortunately not, although that was my first reaction. I felt relief, for, indeed, if the man were responsible enough to suggest that expedient, and his wife willing, it seemed to me that the whole might be easily settled. When I continued to question her, however, I…" Pamela hesitated. "I know very little about this man," she then said quickly, "and I do not like to cast suspicion, but I began to have the most dreadful ideas. Does Potten have relatives or connections in some distant place?"

  "Not that I know of. Do you know, Sarah, whether his wife might have a connection through the coven? She is a local woman. I seem to remember my father was not best pleased when Ned married her, and said something about her grandmother. Good Lord! She could not have been the woman my grandfather hanged, could she?"

  "I wouldn't know that, Master Vyvyan. Once Maud took the coven, that trouble was ended."

  "I shall have to look through my grandfather's papers. I hope she is not, because it will complicate getting rid of Potten, which I would like to do. I would not like anyone to think I dismissed him because of an old prejudice. Well, there is no use in worrying about a crossing until I come to it. Why did you ask about Potten's relations, Pam?"

  "Because the girl said something about the child being transported to a far-distant land to serve a great purpose. I could not believe…I hoped that another village or county might seem to her…" Pamela's voice faded.

  Sarah had sat down suddenly, her face gray with shock, and St. Just stood staring at Pamela, his green eyes wide with horror.

  "Oh, heavens, then he did mean to kill the poor little thing," Pamela whispered.

  "Oh, God," St. Just muttered. "Oh, God, no! Not here!"

  It was immediately apparent that there was more behind the violent distress Sarah and St. Just felt than simple revulsion at the intention of child murder. That, once known, could be prevented. The idea might cause anger or disgust, but not this almost despairing horror. Pamela glanced from one face to the other and found no comfort in either.

  "My lord," she said sharply, "you are frightening me. Tell me what is wrong."

  "There are some things it is better not to know."

  "Tell her, Master Vyvyan," Sarah said. "You need not hide evil from this one. She will not be tainted, and she will fight."

  St. Just veiled his eyes, hiding what was in them. "I remember saying to you that witchcraft was mostly harmless, but there are old, ugly things in it which I did not mention. Sacrifice—black cocks, black goats—one turns one's eyes away. There can be worse."

  He wiped his hand across his mouth as if there were filth on it, and Pamela swallowed sickly. She knew the old tales about the witches' sabbat. Sacrifice…a newborn baby…a great purpose… What purpose? She asked that aloud, her rich voice turned thin.

  "What purpose?"

  "Death," Sarah said flatly. "One would not use such strong magic for any other purpose than a death-singing. Midsummer eve falls in the dark of the moon."

  "Would they desecrate a rite of fruition with such foulness?" St. Just grab
bed at a thin hope with the flung question.

  "When once the mind becomes twisted in that path, it is not thought to be a desecration." Sarah did not cling to forlorn hopes.

  "Then that will be the time," he muttered. "But who?"

  "The moon will be dark on Sunday," Sarah replied. "Before that week is out, we will know surely…or never know."

  "No!" Pamela cried, and both pairs of eyes turned to her. She could feel her cheeks flush with rage. "I will not stand here and listen to you speak as if this is inevitable. You must do something. You cannot permit this to happen. Turn your eyes away from a black cock if you will, but not from a baby."

  "Of course not," St. Just soothed. "We will do everything we possibly can."

  Pamela fought an impulse to burst into tears. Instead of being comforted, she had been further frightened by the defeated tone in which he spoke.

  "I will take care of the baby myself," she cried.

  "No! You will not meddle in what you do not understand. I am not condoning this," he added angrily in answer to her expression, "but I will not permit you to involve yourself in what will certainly be dangerous."

  "Master Vyvyan is right," Sarah put in. "You might do more harm than good, not knowing their ways. Just watch and be ready to help if we need you."

  "Just watch!" She looked wildly from one to the other, but Sarah's face was closed, and St. Just had again veiled his eyes. "In God's name, my lord, at least send the girl away."

  "Where to? You said she was simple, and convinced Potten would do well by her. Would she be willing to go?"

  Then send Potten and his wife away."

  "Pamela, don't talk like a fool or begin to think like Hetty. I could drive them off my land, yes, but I do not own the county. What is to prevent them from taking shelter with friends or staying in the village? I am better off, if what we suspect is true, with them under my eye."