“Indeed, Evelyn. Have you been up here long?”
“Oh, no, I have only just got here. I set off late to avoid the worst of the rain.” The lie tripped easily off her tongue. Why shouldn’t it? He had something to hide. His actions and reaction to her made that perfectly clear. “How about you? Did you get caught in the worst of it?”
“Fortunately not. I can have only been moments ahead of you. I am surprised we didn’t see each other walking up here.”
“I expect the mist had something to do with it.”
“I should imagine so.”
He had lied to her. Quite blatantly. He must have been up there longer than he implied. He had already finished using his spade when Evelyn had first spotted him. She looked down at his hands. A little damp earth had stained his fingers. “Gracious, I hope you didn’t fall.” She nodded toward his hands. Now would he admit what he had been up to?
He seemed momentarily taken aback but quickly recovered himself. “It’s nothing. Merely a slight slip. This is the first day I have tried walking any distance without my stick. It had become more of a nuisance than an aid, but I probably shouldn’t have chosen a day when the path was muddy to embark on my first solo voyage.”
Another blatant lie. She wanted to challenge him on it, but he would hardly be likely to confess. For some reason he thought it necessary to deliberately withhold something from her, which could only mean he had something to hide. Maybe something that could affect herself and her sister.
Suddenly Evelyn saw her new friend in a different light, and she didn’t like what she saw. Claire’s doubts rang in her mind. Matthew Dixon had shown himself to be a man of secrets, and she must find out what those secrets were.
Chapter Seven
Lady Mandolyne gazed out of her turret window over the sparkling waters of the Titanium River. Far in the distance lay the fabled land of Arcadia, spoken of in reverent whispers by all who knew of its legend. Cloaked in myth and mystery, it was even argued by some that it couldn’t exist. That a place of such pure perfection could only be the product of verbal tradition – handed down from mother to daughter, father to son, for generations.
But Lady Mandolyne knew it existed. There could be no question. She had seen it.
“Well, what do you think?” Claire’s excitement could not be contained.
Evelyn folded her spectacles and let them fall around her neck on their delicate chain. “So, are you saying Arcadia is a product of her imagination? Because if so I shall have to go back and rewrite some of Sir Dreyfus’s scenes. He arrived there at the head of his army when the residents called on him for help against the marauding hordes of Devoria.”
“No, no. You won’t need to do that. It does exist. But Lady Mandolyne is, by now, so insane she cannot distinguish fact from fiction. She has never been to Arcadia. All she knows of it is contained in the fables she learned as a child. But she believes she has seen it with her own eyes.”
Evelyn thought for a moment. A smile spread across her face. “I like it, Claire. I think it works well.”
“Oh, thank goodness. I thought we were going to have another argument, and I do so hate rowing with you, Ev.”
“Me too. We are both so passionate about Calladocia. I wonder if the Brontës had arguments over Northangerland and Glass Town?”
“I would be most surprised if they didn’t. All siblings argue, don’t they? Each one is convinced they know best.”
Evelyn’s face clouded over. “Claire, you remember what I told you about Matthew being up on the moors yesterday?”
“Yes. Very suspicious.”
“I agree. I want to find out what he was doing up there. Will you come with me?”
“But what if we run into him?”
“He doesn’t walk up there in the evening, and the nights are light enough now that we could go up there at, say, nine or ten o’clock and still be able to see what we were doing.”
“The lighter nights might bring him out too.”
Evelyn thought for a moment. “I shall ask him.”
“What?”
“This afternoon, when I meet him on our walk, I shall ask him how he spends his evenings.”
“Won’t he find that a bit suspicious?”
“Not if I make it casual.”
“Oh, Ev, I don’t know. Please be careful. If he is up to no good, he could be dangerous.”
“Don’t worry, I’m no martyr. I promise I won’t put myself in any danger.”
Claire’s frown told her she didn’t believe her. Too bad. Evelyn had to do this.
* * *
“It’s certainly a treat to be able to read without lamplight so late into the evening,” Evelyn said as she and Matthew walked up the pathway.
“Indeed, although I must confess I tend to fall asleep by ten o’clock. I rise early, you see. I’m usually up and around by six.”
“You are an early bird.”
“Always have been. A habit I got into at school and never broke.”
“There are worse habits. I find it difficult to sleep when it’s still light outside, even with my dark curtains.”
“I can’t say it has ever bothered me. I could sleep anywhere.”
They stopped to admire the view. Evelyn inhaled deeply. “Yesterday’s rain has washed everything clean. You can smell the sap in the grass.”
“And the earthy smell of peat,” he laughed.
“You can’t have our moorland without a peaty scent.”
“Indeed.”
They stood in silence. Evelyn’s mind raced. She had managed to get the answer to her question without arousing his suspicions. Tonight, she and Claire would be able to come up to the moor, secure in the knowledge he wouldn’t disturb them. Then they would discover what had required the use of a spade and needed to be hidden. Evelyn prayed she wouldn’t live to regret any discovery they made. A part of her wanted to forget the whole thing. Let the man have his secrets. But a nagging doubt wouldn’t let her. If his secret had something to do with Claire and herself, surely they had a right to know. More than a right. They needed to know.
* * *
“Are you sure we should be doing this, Ev?”
“Not entirely, but we need to know we can trust him. There is probably a perfectly simple explanation for what I saw, but until we know for certain… I have to be sure, Claire. Too much is at stake. What if he is somehow behind the manifestations?”
“How?”
“I have no idea, but you’ve heard of those illusionists? They can make things disappear before your eyes and reappear somewhere entirely different.”
“Those are circus tricks.”
“Maybe. But supposing he’s learned some of them?”
Claire gave her a skeptical look. It did sound far-fetched, but then so was a bed rising, apparently all by itself, and a toy that could become so real it nearly killed Claire.
Evelyn opened the door. “Let’s get this over with.”
“And you’re sure he won’t catch us?”
“It’s after nine now, and he told me he is usually in bed by ten. He still tires quite easily, so I can’t see him returning to the moor after our walk this afternoon.”
Claire took a step outside the door, and Evelyn closed and locked it before she could change her mind.
Up on the moor, the breeze had turned chilly and the sun was sinking, leaving the promise of a fiery sunset.
“I was standing here.” She indicated the rocky outcrop. “It’s well sheltered. He was over there.” She pointed at the rock that had occupied Matthew’s time and energy. “Come on, we don’t have too much time before we lose the light.”
Evelyn strode through the heather, catching her skirt on more than one occasion but failing to tear the strong fabric. A mumbled groan and the sound of a tiny rip told her Claire had not been so fort
unate.
By the rock, the earth looked freshly disturbed, although patted down so in a few days no one would have been able to tell. “Whatever he was up to, he wanted to conceal it. Did you bring the trowel as I asked you to?”
Claire nodded and removed it from the folds of her coat. She handed it to Evelyn, who immediately bent down and started digging, taking care not to stab too hard at the soil. Whatever Matthew had hidden might be delicate, although why he would hide such an item up here defied her comprehension. Her first success proved short-lived. The spade lay half revealed. Evelyn quickly troweled soil over it. She started again, a foot or so away.
Claire watched patiently as Evelyn turned up each trowel-full of empty earth.
“How long did he dig for?”
Evelyn paused. “I don’t really know. The mist made everything too murky at first, and I didn’t see him. He had almost finished by the time it lifted.”
“Try a little further on. The earth seems softer there, and it has definitely been disturbed recently.”
Evelyn nodded. The exertion made her back ache.
“Do you want me to take over?” Claire asked.
“Maybe later. I’m all right at the moment.”
Her trowel hit something, making a deep thud. Maybe a box.
“I’ve got something.”
Heedless of the dirt, Claire knelt down and peered closer. Evelyn kept digging. Within seconds, a small tin box lay in front of them. It was plain and had a lock. Evelyn picked it up, noting its weight. It seemed surprisingly heavy for something so relatively small. She shook it, but nothing rattled. She tried to open it, but the lid wouldn’t budge. “Locked.”
“We could force it open,” Claire suggested.
Tempting, but…
“How would he know it was us?” Claire asked. “Here it is, buried on common ground. Someone’s dog could have dug it up, the owner could have forced the box open and then reburied it. We are going to rebury it, aren’t we, Ev?”
“Of course. I only want to see what’s inside.” Without another thought, she grabbed the trowel and tried to force it between the lid and the box. It held firm.
“Let me try.”
Evelyn handed Claire the tin, and her sister exerted all her effort trying to prize it open.
“It’s no use, Ev. I can’t shift it. We need a screwdriver or something with a sharp point. Or maybe we could pick the lock.” She removed a hair clip and straightened it.
“What on earth do you know about picking locks? And what are you doing?”
“I read about it.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve been reading those penny dreadfuls again. Where do you get them from? You never go out without me.”
“Ah, that’s not strictly true. I do go out. Now and again. I get them in the village. It’s only harmless fun.”
Evelyn screwed her nose up. Nothing would ever induce her to read one of those awful rags. Fleetingly she wondered when Claire did go on these excursions alone. This was the first she had heard of them. Maybe her sister’s chronic shyness was gradually wearing off. This thought should have brought her comfort, but she couldn’t help worrying. Claire could be so naïve.
Claire was now hard at work, poking the lock with her hairpin. She only succeeded in bending the hairpin first this way and then that until the thing had been rendered unusable either for its original purpose or as a tool of petty crime.
“This is getting us nowhere at all,” Evelyn said. “Let’s bury it again and return tomorrow with more suitable implements.”
She held out her hand, and, reluctantly, Claire handed back the box.
Evelyn set it back down in the soil and quickly reburied it, patting the dirt down firmly on top. “There. No one would ever know it had been disturbed.”
Twilight was fast fading into darkness.
“Come on, Claire. Let’s get back while we still have sufficient light to see where we’re going. I don’t want to fall into any potholes.”
The sisters stumbled and hurried back to the cottage. They met no one along the way, for which Evelyn offered a silent prayer of thanks.
Back home, Evelyn stared in dismay at the hem of Claire’s skirt. “You had better change and bring me that dress. It’s torn and so filthy I can no longer tell what color it’s supposed to be.”
Claire nodded and hurried up the stairs.
* * *
The next day, Evelyn went out at the usual time for her afternoon walk. Today, though, Matthew didn’t join her. Maybe he had other engagements. It was really none of her business. They were acquaintances and barely knew each other. Still she missed him and remonstrated with herself while a part of her prayed hard that whatever resided in the box wouldn’t implicate him in some scheme designed to part Claire and her from their inheritance.
She stayed up at the crags rather longer than usual, but when, after an hour, there was still no sign of Matthew, she reluctantly turned back for home.
* * *
A little after nine that evening saw the two sisters back on the deserted moors. A curlew cried overhead.
“It’s a good job that bird can’t speak,” Claire said. “She’d go spilling the beans to Matthew.”
Evelyn forced a smile. Claire was doing her best to lighten the tension, but, armed with as many pointed tools as they could find, Evelyn’s mood was hardly conducive to finding levity in anything.
Once again, she took the trowel from Claire and commenced digging in the same spot as the previous night. Soil mounted up until the area resembled a miniature grave plot.
“I don’t understand it. There’s nothing here.”
“Are you sure you’re digging in exactly the same place? Remember, you couldn’t find it at first last night.”
“That’s why I took such great care to note the exact spot, and that’s where I’ve been digging.” Evelyn unsuccessfully tried to quash the frustration mounting inside her. She threw the trowel down and straightened, wincing at the sharp pain stabbing her lower back. “There’s no point in denying it. Either he or somebody else has been here and dug it up. It’s gone.”
“But why? I don’t understand. I can’t imagine who would want to dig up Matthew’s box in the first place. Apart from us, of course.”
“Precisely. That leaves only one possible conclusion. Matthew is up to no good here, and he has realized someone is on to him. Maybe I didn’t pat the soil down correctly. I don’t know. I was as careful as I could.”
“I know you were. I watched you. Oh, Ev, what shall we do now? We can’t trust him, can we?”
Evelyn shook her head. “Whatever happens, both you and I must treat Matthew exactly as before. He cannot know, or even suspect, we were the ones who disinterred his precious box.”
“This is like one of the stories I read.”
“This is real life, Claire. It’s much more sinister.”
Concealing the tools they had brought within their coats, they scrambled back over the moor and onto the pathway. Once in the lane, they met Mr. Skelton coming in the opposite direction, returning from the public house, no doubt. He tipped his hat to them, and a faint smell of whisky wafted toward them as he passed. “Good evening, Miss Wainwright,” he said to Evelyn.
“Good evening, Mr. Skelton,” she replied, and they carried on walking in their respective directions.
Once out of earshot, Claire whispered to her sister. “How incredibly rude of him. Did you see the way he simply ignored me?”
“Oh, I’m sure he didn’t, Claire. He probably meant to say ‘Miss Wainwright’ to you too, but he had obviously had a drink or two.”
“Even so, that’s no excuse for being impolite.”
“Don’t let it worry you, Claire.”
Claire muttered something Evelyn couldn’t hear. She didn’t bother to ask her to repeat it.
* * *
Evelyn couldn’t sleep. Her mind wouldn’t let her. Thoughts of Matthew. Fears for his honesty. What did he keep in the box? Did Pandora feel like this before she opened hers and let out all the evils of the world? More crazy thoughts and questions. Her brain kept on feeding her information, ideas, suggestions, until she crawled out of bed, clutching her head.
The breeze had died down, leaving a sultry night, its humidity penetrating the thick stone walls of the cottage. Evelyn knew she had lost the battle for sleep. She tied her dressing gown around her and padded down the stairs in bare feet, grateful for the cool stone floor of the kitchen.
She poured milk into a small saucepan and placed it on the range. Hot milk. Her mother’s remedy for almost everything when she had been a child.
While she waited for the milk to heat up, Evelyn wandered over to the window. Here, at the back of the house, a small yard led to a flight of stone steps – a shortcut to the moors, but one Evelyn had decided to ignore. The stones were worn and uneven and the steps narrow and steep.
The moon shone bright and full. Silvery-white light illuminated the yard and the steps. Evelyn could even clearly see the path that ran along the top.
And the man standing there.
Evelyn jumped back. Had he seen her? Cautiously, she bent low and peered up. A puff of smoke curled up from whatever he was smoking. He was also turned away from her.
She glanced back at the clock. Two fifteen. Who would be standing there at this time of night? She focused on his hat. A stylish bowler. His hair appeared to be a reddish brown, but it was difficult to tell from the little she could see of it.
A sudden noise behind her, a sizzling splash and the acrid smell of burned milk assailed her. She dashed to the range and, grabbing a cloth, dragged the saucepan onto the draining board. She wiped up the spillage before half filling her mug with the remainder of the milk.
By the time she could return to the window, the man had gone.
* * *
Evelyn left Claire asleep, quietly closing the door behind her. Outside, the morning air tasted fresh and dewy. She made her way up the lane, but instead of continuing onto the path leading up to the crags, she doubled back on herself in order to take the track running at the back of their cottage. When she stood directly opposite, looking down at the back door, she glanced around. Sure enough, there on the ground where the man had been standing, a fresh-looking stubbed-out cigarette butt lay on the flattened grass. But who had he been? This mysterious man wandering around in the dead of night, who happened to stop above their home? Evelyn carried on past the row of cottages and into open country. The area was mostly coarse grassland with gorse, the small yellow flowers adding color and brightness.
The Garden of Bewitchment Page 8
