"He wants you. Master Vyvyan never changes. I haven't spoken to him, but I know from that woman's groom what happened. If Master Vyvyan acts odd for a while, just you be patient."
Pamela was comforted then, but somewhat later, when she went down to join the others, she began to fear that patience would not be enough. St. Just's eyes were blank and cold as glass when he looked at her, and it was George and Sir Harold who set a chair and led her to it. Lady Allenby fussed about her too, showing her concern for the experience to which Pamela had been exposed.
"It was a terrible thing, my dear," she murmured, "terrible. And terrible that you were there."
"Perhaps I deserved it," Pamela replied with stiff lips. She was shocked by the totality of St. Just's rejection.
"No, no, my dear. How can you say such a thing? How could you be at fault?"
"I…" Pamela found she could not say what she had intended, that she had known of Hetty's connections with the witches. "I should have gone to see how she was earlier. Perhaps I could have stopped her. I should have gone…"
A flash from St. Just's eyes froze further words on her lips, and drove what little color she had from her cheeks.
"Don't you go vaporish on us, Pam, it don't suit you," George remarked with lifted brows.
Sir Harold frowned at him repressively. "Indeed, you must not blame yourself. You could not have stopped her. We know that Lady St. Just went to the gathering of her own accord and that she left this house only a few minutes after you parted from her in her room. Her death could not have been prevented by anyone. It was purely an accident."
"An accident?"
Sir Harold hesitated, and it became significant to Pamela that he had not called it an unfortunate accident and that in all Lady Allenby's cluckings not a word of regret for Hetty had passed her lips.
"I saw the whole thing very clearly," Sir Harold continued. "When Vyvyan called out. Lady St. Just stopped and looked behind her. It was apparent that she was frightened at being so near the cliff edge, too frightened to move. Then that young wi…woman, her maid, seized her wrist. Obviously she intended to pull her away from the edge, but the cliff crumbled under the maid's feet. It must have been weakened when that crowd stood on it watching the burning wheel."
Pamela had a brief, vivid memory of the sound of falling rock.
"It is most fortunate it did not collapse then," Sir Harold went on. "That would have been a mass catastrophe. When the maid felt the ground going, she clutched Lady St. Just even tighter, as one does when one fears to fall. Instead of pulling Vyvyan's wife to safety, they both went over. If there can be blame attached to anyone in an unforeseeable accident, I suppose it is really mine. I should have gone to Lady St. Just's assistance myself."
"No!"
"How could you?"
"Not at all."
"Nonsense."
"Blame silly thing to think of."
Everyone spoke at once, and Sir Harold glanced coolly around at their faces.
"It will not disturb my sleep at night," he remarked dryly. "I acted with consideration for what I decided would be best. I thought if I rushed at Lady St. Just, she would be further startled. It seemed wiser to leave it to her maid, whom she trusted. No one could guess the cliff would give way at that particular spot."
"And Potten's wife was demented, of course," William Allenby added with a cynical grimace. "Clearly she committed suicide while of unsound mind."
His father turned on him sharply. "I am a Justice of the Peace, William. If you saw one gesture or heard one word of threat against that woman, change your deposition and I will call up the whole coven and charge them."
"They willed it," William said stubbornly. "I saw Lady St. Just fall, and it was as you said. The maid was trying to help her, and then pulled her over when she fell herself. But the other woman was murdered."
"Old bean," George remarked lightly, "I thought Miss Austell was a Cornish girl. Planning to emigrate? She wouldn't be happy, you know."
William bit his lip. "I do not intend to emigrate, but neither do I think it right for those women to take the law into their own hands."
"Nor do I. Had they done something I could charge them with, I would charge them," Sir Harold repeated. "Do you deny that Potten's wife was of unsound mind?"
"No, she was mad—at least temporarily."
"And so you would have to testify. A fine laughingstock I would be at the assizes if I told the judge that a group of witches willed a madwoman to jump off a cliff."
"And she deserved what she got, William, you must admit that. There are not often deaths within the coven. The witches have other methods of discipline."
It was a relief to hear St. Just's voice. Pamela turned toward him at once, to be met with another icy glare.
Sir Harold harrumphed, came toward Pamela. "My report will close the case. You see, there is no need to blame yourself. You won't think any more about it, will you?"
Pamela smiled wanly. "I cannot promise that, Sir Harold, but I certainly feel somewhat better."
"Well, I wish you would pull yourself together completely, Pam," George said fretfully. "There are a million things to be done, and thus far they have all fallen upon me. Vyvyan's no use."
Lady Allenby cast him a monitory glance. "What will you do now, my dear?" she asked Pamela gently.
"I don't know. I suppose I will go back to London and find another position."
"Not until you have recovered from this shock," Lady Allenby protested.
"And not before you take care of the funeral arrangements and death notices and notes of condolence!" George yelped in a horrified voice.
"I think, if you can bear to exert yourself, Lord St. Just will need help," Lady Allenby urged. "I would offer myself, but I am so hurried with the preparations for William's betrothal that it is impossible."
There was a short silence while Pamela waited for St. Just to indicate whether he approved of these plans. Not a sound came from him, and Pamela was afraid to look at him again.
"I would be very willing to do anything I could to help," she said tentatively, still hoping for a hint of the tack she should take from St. Just. "Indeed, I think it is better to exert oneself in such a situation, but—"
"Good," George interrupted with satisfaction. "Get to work right off. Get a list from Vyvyan of the people in the islands who have to be notified, that is, if you can get him to open his mouth. No help at all in a crisis. Crawls into a hole inside himself." There was petulance in George's voice, and under that, a warning. "Going to the stables to tell them to saddle my horse. Promised to ride into town. See about transportation, coffin, notify the vicar—that sort of thing."
Pamela's lips parted, and George nodded at her.
"Be back for a final word," he added. "Weather getting warm, you know. Sooner underground the better."
"George!" Lady Allenby cried, revolted.
George's fishlike eyes moved around the company. "Sorry to offend, of course, but I ain't sorry about Hetty. Don't need to pretend among ourselves. Liked Hetty when she came, sort of. Sorry for her. Learned different. No need to give details, but she was a bad woman. Better this way all around. What happened…just as well that it did."
He left the room, leaving the air a good deal clearer. Lady Allenby looked at St. Just, and he lifted his head and shrugged his shoulders. Sir Harold walked over and patted his back.
"Heard some things about her ourselves, from our own coven, my boy. We didn't like to believe it, or interfere, but perhaps George is right. Put it behind you."
"Yes, it is true. We were worried sick about you, Vyvyan," Lady Allenby said.
St. Just smiled at her, and she hurried to him and embraced him, whispering something in his ear, at which he shook his head. Then she straightened up and looked at Pamela.
"You have been under too great a strain to take a position soon," she said positively. "You had better stay here with us for several months. You can help me with William's betrothal parties, if yo
u must have some employment. That will be cheerful for you, and it will be very nice for me to have a young woman in the house. I always regretted not having a daughter. Perhaps now—"
"My love," Sir Harold said hastily, having caught the gleam in his wife's eye, and afraid that her matchmaking fervor and her liking for Pamela would take her too far too soon, "your housekeeper has been waiting this half-hour past to know how many we will sit to dinner. And you and I had better see to the horses, William. I think the chestnut hack you used last night is throwing out a splint."
"Nonsense!" William said good-humoredly, but getting to his feet. "You always see faults in that horse because you were not by when I purchased him."
The Allenbys went out together, and Pamela was alone with St. Just. She sat with her eyes on her fingertips, waiting for him to speak, but still he said nothing. Grief swelled her throat, and she swallowed desperately.
"I did not know whether to accept Lady Allenby's invitation or not. Am I to go or stay, Vy?" She used the name he had asked her to call him deliberately, hoping to wake some emotion in him.
"Idiot," he responded.
Rage replaced Pamela's grief. Her head went up; her eyes blazed. "What right…" she began, and saw that he was smiling at her with besotted fondness.
"Why should I say anything, when everyone else was urging just what I desired? Besides, it is well and good for Sir Harold and his lady, who probably know a great deal more about you than you realize, to decide you would make a proper mistress for Tremaire and that we should make a match of it. They are obviously offering, in a tactful way, to forward our relationship. I imagine George has been doing some heavy groundwork on that score. It would be another thing entirely for them to think there had been an affair begun before Hetty's death." He said that lightly, but then a shadow crossed his face.
"Don't, Vy."
"No, it is purposeless, I did not plan it, Pam, although I knew more about it than you thought. I do not think—I hope—I did not even wish it. Not her death. Only to shame her enough to let me go."
"I am as much at fault as you. You were going to send us away, and I urged you to let us stay. But I never dreamed…"
"No, I am sure you did not. Only, I profit from her death. That is dreadful, and I do not know what to do about it. Hetty would hate me to have her money scot-free."
"It is not scot-free. You will have scars to remind you all your life. I profit too, Vy. And she would hate me to have you. That will not make me give you up."
He laughed wryly. "We are in this neck-deep together. I will ease my conscience by giving a decent independence to George. Hetty would like that. She did plan to marry him, you know. He told me last night. In some ways George is so sophisticated that he is innocent. He could not understand Hetty's utter directness about something she wanted. He is so skilled in polite flirtation and dalliance that he could not believe Hetty was in earnest. She told him right out what she intended, and he thought she was joking…for a while."
"What did she intend, Vy?"
"To poison me, although I don't believe she would have trusted to Potten's wife's concoction. She had a few West Indian tricks up her sleeve, I think. She had heard about my mother, you see."
"Your mother was poisoned?" Pamela's eyes went wide. Did no one in the Tremaire family die a natural death?
"Not really, but Hetty must have heard the story from the witch, and she must have said so."
"How did your mother die? I want to know."
"Why?"
"George was talking about her, praising her, and when I asked what she died of, he was embarrassed and said to ask you. Other people too seem disinclined to mention her death."
"Oh, I see. My mother took her own life, Pam. She had an excruciatingly painful and incurable disease. She asked Maud for…for something. She fell asleep, very peacefully, and never woke. That was why Maud went away. She did not wish to be reminded, or to remind us. Perhaps my mother was a witch. She always said her life was her own, to do with as she pleased, provided she hurt no one else. It was only when she saw that her physical agony hurt my father and me more than her presence could help us that she decided it was time to die. Does it matter?"
"That she was a witch? Not in the least. Sarah was busy explaining about your family and proving you lily white and unspotted by sorcery this morning. I told her I didn't care if you took to capering around fires yourself, so long as you let me caper with you."
He smiled faintly. "No, I meant about her being a suicide. It was hushed up, of course. There was no difficulty about that, because she was so ill. George would prefer not to say anything. He doesn't like to lie, but George is the soul of propriety, and suicide"— St. Just's lips twisted— "is very bad ton."
"The things George worries about!" Pamela exclaimed. Then, seriously, "No, of course I don't care about her suicide, although I'm sorry for its cause. How could I evince indignation when my father blew out his brains for a far more shameful reason?"
"I'm sorry, Pam. I didn't mean to remind you of that. And I have done George an injustice, too. I'm sure that is why he would not tell you. It was consideration, not propriety."
Pamela frowned. "George's propriety takes odd forms. Why did he continue thick as thieves with Hetty, once he knew?"
"I don't think he knew she planned to poison me. He thought she was going to try to get the witches to 'sing' my death. George continued to cosset Hetty so that she would confide in him. As long as she did not threaten me with physical harm, he felt there was no need to inform on her. He just assumed you would become my mistress—if he ever believed that you weren't already. That wouldn't offend George's sense of propriety. To have a mistress is perfectly good ton. He hoped that if I was content in that way we could patch up the marriage on the surface. George is, as I said, scandal-shy."
"Anything George is, is all right with me," Pamela asserted in answer to the faintly apologetic note in St. Just's voice. "I saw him save your life twice. I'm just dreadfully ashamed of suspecting him, and I keep trying to find excuses for doing so. I couldn't forget that accident in the gully, and you seemed to have thought it was deliberate yourself."
"Only while my brains were rattled loose, and perhaps for a few days after that too. I was finally convinced he was innocent that night before the storm. Do you remember how distressed he was when he knew I had called Maud back? Until then he had not believed that Hetty could get the witches to act against me. He knew nothing about the power struggle or what Potten's wife planned, because he deplores witchcraft and avoids them like the plague. I should have known better than to suspect him anyway. I have known George for nearly thirty years."
"He must have been furious with me."
"Not at all. He never blamed you for thinking he was trying to grab the succession. Thought you were funny and rather touching, in fact. Hen with one chick, he called you, and said it was time for you to have children."
"It is most forgiving of him, especially since I never voiced my suspicions of Hetty, and I did have some. I knew her maid was a witch. Oh, Vy, that was how the pentacle got into your room. Mary must have put it there."
St. Just nodded. "I knew Hetty must have had something to do with it after that screaming act and the face-at-the-window bit. She could not have seen anyone. You thought I was frightened by the pentacle. I wasn't, although I was startled by it and rather disgusted. You see, I was so sure Maud would head the trouble off before it went that far. I still think she could have. She and Sarah hated Hetty with a violence I cannot understand. I think now she wanted—" he paused and swallowed— "she wanted Hetty to die. That was why she let Potten's wife sing the pentacle and deliver it. If I had only known, then…"
That was a painful and useless line of thought, and if Maud's and Sarah's reason for hating Hetty was true, she had received only her just deserts.
"What was the pentacle made of?" Pamela asked quickly, to divert Vy. "It felt like skin, and smelled like it too, when it burned."
"It
probably was—no, don't shudder, love—just lamb or chicken or kid. You know, Pam, Hetty was the oddest mixture, stupid and shrewd at the same time. She never could understand loyalty, and thought that if she gave the estate people presents, they would abandon me and look to her. Of course, they told me at once she was in contact with the witches. Incidentally, that groom was spying on Hetty, not on me. His mother was one of Maud's cohorts. That was why he took so long to tell us Hetty was gone. Maud wanted to be sure we would not interfere with her getting to the gathering. Poor Hetty, she could never have accomplished anything."
"The stupidest thing of all," Pamela said hastily, "was to think you were the type the witches could frighten to death."
"You know, Hetty never thought that. The only reason she dragged the witches in was to frighten people like Sarah and Hayle and Mrs. Helston, the people who might give evidence that we were not a loving couple, or that I was not the type to take my own life—in other words, people who could mess up her cover story. How she thought she would fool Sir Harold, who is the local justice, I cannot even guess."
"And what about George and me?"
"George was going to marry her and get all that money. He would never tell and spoil his chances. You were going to be sent back to London, either just before my untimely demise or before the investigation started. Perhaps she would have tried to accuse you of it—scorned love. To her mind, you were nothing but a hired girl."
"I suppose she threw herself down the stairs to gain sympathy. She almost convinced me that you had tried to kill her. How could you be so inconsiderate as to wear boots instead of slippers as an invalid should?" Pamela laughed, then sobered at once. "Was she mad, Vy?"
He looked haunted. "In a way. It all started with my stupidity, of course. I hated being sold like a parcel of land, and I showed it by acting superior. That bruised Hetty's pride; she had plenty of that. At first she reacted sensibly enough. She loathed me, and showed it—which was what I wanted, I suppose."
Sing Witch, Sing Death Page 20
