The Snow Rose

by Lulu Taylor

  Letty thinks. It is hard to imagine the local people, most of whom she’s known all her life, doing any real harm to the souls here. When they find it’s mostly old ladies, no harem of virgins or public deflowerings to be seen, surely they’ll calm down. But, she realises, it isn’t the lurid rumours that have caused this protest. Those have been circulating for a long time without much more than stretched eyes and prurient outrage to show for it. No. It is the Beloved they want. Perhaps they’ve heard about Emily and the lake. They most certainly have read the report in the paper. It is the blasphemy and hypocrisy they hate. That is what they are here to destroy.

  The sound from beyond the gates is getting louder – the shouts and cries of the mob, working itself up into a righteous anger. They are close now, she guesses.

  Suddenly she hears the booming voice of the Beloved. ‘Come, all ye who have ears! Come and heed the word!’

  ‘It’s him!’ cries Kitty, her eyes shining. ‘He will show them the way!’

  Suddenly it is there: a twisting, rolling mass standing at the gates, shaking them so that the bolts rattle and shriek, yelling and shouting in fury. Torches cast an eerie glow over the mob, illuminating faces twisted with rage, mouths open and shouting. There seem to be hundreds of people whistling, calling, howling, deriding the Beloved with open jeers.

  ‘Come out and tell us all about the word!’ calls one man. ‘We can’t wait to hear it! Come on then!’

  ‘Come and do some of your miracles for us!’

  ‘Yes, let’s see you walk on the lake, shall we?’

  ‘Or let us break your legs, then you’ll see if you can rise up and walk!’

  In the darkness, Kitty clutches at Letty. ‘They’re monsters! They’ll tear us limb from limb!’

  ‘Surely not,’ she says, but she is frightened. She’s never seen a crowd enraged and felt the power of its fury. Some men are trying to climb the gates and Letty sees now that the makeshift barricade is a useful mound to leap for, an easy ladder down on the other side.

  We’re not prepared for all this! We’re only a lot of little old ladies singing! Can’t they see?

  But just at that moment, the most vicious of the Angels digs hard fingers into her arm. ‘Happy now?’ she demands. ‘Now that your friends are here?’

  ‘They’re not my friends.’

  ‘Likely story! You’re the viper in the bosom around here. Our Jonah. You’re bringing this evil on us!’ All their fear and distrust seems to shine out of her angry eyes.

  ‘Now, girls,’ Kitty says in a tremulous voice. ‘We need to stick together. Let the Beloved deal with her, she’s his kin.’

  ‘We ought to do something before they break in and take her,’ says the Angel, hardly listening to Kitty.

  The Beloved stands near the gates – although not near enough for any missiles to hit him – and lifts his hands high, declaiming about the word and the will and the plan in all his familiar language, the rhetoric that usually serves him so well, but it only enrages those who hear him and sets them jeering harder and louder. More boys are trying to shin up the gates; one is bound to succeed, even with the gardener valiantly pushing them back with the rake. There is noise and tumult and confusion and nothing seems likely to break through it until, suddenly, a loud clanging is heard above the commotion with a voice yelling, ‘Stop, stop, I say!’

  There is a sudden sinking of the noise and the tones are heard again, strong and clear.

  ‘Stop this madness!’

  ‘It’s Arthur!’ Letty says with delight. Now she can make him out, standing close against the gates, facing the angry crowd, a dustbin lid in one hand and a hammer in the other which he’s been using to make the din.

  ‘Quiet, I say!’ he commands, and there is a hush. Even the Beloved stops declaiming, and the hymn singing fades away to one or two reedy voices. ‘This has gone too far! You can certainly make known your displeasure, but let’s not go so far as to threaten these people. Most mean no harm. And violence is no answer!’

  There’s an angry murmur but Arthur quietens it down. ‘Please, be calm. The police will soon be here – I’m told the force has been dispatched from Goreham – and you’ll be on the wrong side of them. You are good, law-abiding people! You have made your feelings known. Now, go home.’

  There is a pause, a murmur. Calm seems close to being restored.

  Then, into the relative peace, a voice rips out, fierce, uncompromising.

  ‘I am the way!’ booms the Beloved. ‘Only by me shall you see salvation! Only the elect shall be saved, and ye chaff and rubbish shall be cast into the fire!’

  It is all it takes. The passion of the mob is reignited, more furious than ever. Men scramble for the gates, Arthur’s shouts lost in the melee. The Beloved cries, ‘Brothers and sisters, to the church!’ and the next moment all of the faithful turn on their heels and run, heading for the safety of the high walls and strong doors of the church. They stream around Letty, as she fights to stand still and not be taken off with them.

  ‘Arthur!’ she shouts. ‘I’m here! Arthur!’

  Her guards have gone. Kitty has disappeared. The gardener cannot hold back the onslaught any longer, and the first intruder drops to the ground inside the gates, then turns to start unbolting them.

  Then an iron grip seizes her arm. ‘Come with me,’ murmurs a steely voice, and Letty looks up into the icy-blue eyes of the Beloved.

  ‘Let me go!’ she cries. ‘Arthur!’

  ‘You’re not going anywhere.’ The Beloved yanks her roughly and drags her after him as he heads in the opposite direction to the church.

  ‘Arthur!’ she screams, but no one can hear her against the noise. She cannot prevent herself being dragged away.

  A moment later, they are skirting the east wing of the house, and the noise level drops at once.

  ‘Let me go,’ Letty pants, her arm painful in the Beloved’s grip.

  ‘I’ve had enough of you and the trouble you make,’ snarls the Beloved, pulling her roughly along. ‘If you think I’m letting you out to ferment and stir against me out there, and spoil all we have here, you are quite, quite wrong. You will have to learn to accept your place. Your spirit will be broken and you will learn to accept your fate.’

  On the last word, he pulls open the door to the old stable, the one used only for storing packing cases and bits of rubbish. Then, with a great shove, he pushes Letty inside. She trips and sprawls on the floor, finding herself in a pile of straw and filth. Before she can speak, he has slammed shut the door and she hears the iron bolt shoot home.

  She looks up helplessly at the door, panting, her arm throbbing where it has been gripped hard. ‘Let me out!’ she shouts, but she knows it’s hopeless. All eyes will be on the gates and on the church, where the mob might already be gathering. She scrambles up and shakes at the door but it’s firmly locked on the outside, so she looks about instead for a window she might crawl through, or perhaps a loose plank in the wall she can prise out, but it is almost entirely dark now, and she cannot make out much at all.

  She yells and shouts for what seems like a long time, but guesses that with the noise and trouble outside, no one will hear her. Then she smells it. Her nose wrinkles and she sniffs. It’s unmistakable.

  Smoke.

  She sniffs again and it is stronger now, getting stronger every second. Then she realises with horror that the stables are on fire.

  Is he burning me? Is that his plan?

  Surely not. Surely the Beloved is not capable of that! But . . . he wants Letty gone. This way, her money will go to Arabella. She will cause no more trouble for him. Her death will be blamed on the mob.

  Panic floods through her. The smoke is growing stronger still, visible now as grey skeins in the gloom. She shakes the door again and shouts. ‘Help! Help! Fire!’

  The blaze must be catching fast, though she cannot see flames. The stable is filling with the thick black smothering smoke. Letty starts to cough, her eyes sting. ‘Help!’ she yells again,
but her voice comes weak and strained from the smoke in her throat. ‘Please!’

  She turns to look for another way out, but now the stable is a mass of dense smoke with a bright heart where, she realises, the far wall is now in flames. It’s too late to leave by any other way. Her eyes are streaming, she’s gasping and choking. Turning back to the door, she bangs again, her fists weak on the wood. She knows now that the smoke will take her long before the flames. The air is almost gone already. She slumps against the door, her eyes screwed shut, gasping. She begins to pray in the way she did so long ago, before the Beloved appeared in their lives. It is all she can think to do.

  Then, just as she hardly knows any longer what is happening, she tastes the sweetest thing she has ever known. Fresh cool air is on her face, in her lungs. The door has opened, she has fallen out onto the path, and a soft hand is on her cheek.

  ‘Come, Letty,’ says a voice, low and urgent. ‘We must go at once. The fire has taken hold.’

  Letty looks through swollen lids and reddened eyes. It is Arabella.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Caz cleans her house furiously. It’s all she can do to keep her mind off the time ticking away. The trap they laid for Kate hasn’t worked. She hasn’t looked at her phone, or else she’s too clever to fall for the phishing text. Or perhaps Rory is right, and she’s dead.

  As she works through the kitchen cupboards, emptying each one, cleaning and replacing, even scrubbing the grime from the tops, she can’t help picturing ways in which Kate could have died so that no one has found her. Perhaps she jumped from a ferry and has been lost in the waters somewhere, never to be found. There are those presumed dead who’ve left cars by the sea and vanished.

  Then where’s the car?

  But the car is hired, presumably in whatever name she used for her credit card.

  Oh Kate, when you decided to hide, you certainly did it well.

  Then something floats into Caz’s mind. She remembers going through the post yesterday, and in it was a piece of junk mail with a name on it she didn’t recognise. She slung it into the pile for recycling and thought nothing more of it. But now something occurs to her.

  What if Kate’s pseudonym has been passed on to a marketing list somewhere? What if the circular was for her, and came here because she used this address for the credit card? Maybe it somehow slipped through the redirection order.

  She drops the damp cloth and runs to the table in the hall. There’s the pile of free newspapers and supermarket leaflets and unsolicited catalogues and all the rest of the stuff destined for the bin. She rifles through it quickly but can’t find the envelope, so goes back through again more slowly, and then she sees it: the slim bit of cardboard advertising a new kind of credit card. It’s addressed to Ms Rachel Capshaw.

  Caz’s hands start to shake and her stomach twists in anxious excitement. She picks up the phone and dials Rory’s number, which she now knows by heart. His mobile is switched off and goes straight to voicemail, so he must be in the hospital with Ady. ‘It’s me,’ she says. ‘I think I might have a lead on Kate. Call me when you can.’ Then she hurries to the computer and starts an internet search on the name ‘Rachel Capshaw’.

  Rory calls half an hour later.

  ‘What is it, Caz? What’s the lead?’

  ‘Are you at the hospital?’

  ‘In the cafe there now. Just getting a coffee while Ady’s signs are checked and they give him his meds.’

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘Doing well. They’re sure the head injury won’t cause lasting damage. The internal swelling is down.’

  ‘That’s good.’

  ‘So?’ He sounds anxious, eager. ‘Don’t keep me in suspense.’

  ‘It might be nothing. Kate used my address for her credit card application and a piece of junk mail came through addressed to Rachel Capshaw. It suddenly occurred to me that that might be the name she’s using.’

  ‘That’s a great idea!’ Rory says.

  ‘Yeah, that’s what I thought. But there are Rachel Capshaws on Twitter, Facebook, LinkedIn, and all the rest of it, scattered all over the world. I can’t pin any of them down as being Kate. She wouldn’t advertise herself on those places. And of course, the names and addresses in this country would have to be on the electoral roll. She won’t be on that either. So I think it’s a dead end.’ Caz sighs with frustration. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I think we should go back to the police,’ Rory says. ‘They have to listen to us now we’ve got a name. Maybe they could put out a press release, reinvigorate interest in the case, do something . . . If people just hear the name, it might trigger something.’

  Caz takes a deep breath. ‘Yes, I think you’re right. Let’s go to the police and make them listen to us. I’ll tell them everything I know.’ She’s aware that there might be consequences for holding back information earlier, but she’s going to have to face that now, if it means they can find Kate faster.

  At that moment, her telephone pings with an incoming text. She sees it illuminate on the table next to her, but she can’t read it from the angle she’s at.

  ‘But if we don’t find her, or it’s not even her fake name, then you might be in trouble needlessly,’ Rory says.

  ‘I know. But I’m back to work on Monday. The girls are coming home. We haven’t got much more time.’ She reaches out and turns the phone towards her, frowning as she reads it. It’s just five numbers. What can that be? A mis-sent text? She goes to swipe it away, then pauses, her finger hovering over the screen, the delete button glowing red.

  Wait. Oh my God. It’s worked. It must be Kate’s verification code. Lucas has forwarded it without a message.

  Her heart starts to race. Rory is talking but she’s not listening, instead she stutters out, ‘It’s here, Rory, it’s here . . . the code . . .’

  ‘What?’

  Caz can hear his puzzlement down the line. ‘The verification code! It’s here! We can get into Kate’s email. Get here as soon as you can.’

  She runs to the computer in the study, goes into Kate’s email provider home page and types in the user name and tells it she can’t remember the password. A message pops up saying a verification code has been sent and that Caz should type it in below, or request another. She enters the code with a trembling finger, breathing the numbers as she goes, hoping it’s still valid. She presses return, the screen goes white for a moment and then boom, the inbox appears before her. There are her last four messages, all unopened. And below, the ones she sent that Kate did read. And along with those, and others from the car rental company, the bank and the marketing junk is a name she doesn’t recognise. Alison@ARKHoldingsltd. There are many from her, going back to before Kate’s disappearance.

  Surely this is what we’re looking for.

  Caz goes down to the first message, and starts to read.

  When Rory rings on the doorbell thirty minutes later, breathless and inquisitive, Caz opens the door with a triumphant flourish.

  ‘I think I’ve found her. I think I know where she is. We can leave right now. Do you want to drive, or shall I?’

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Letty coughs and coughs, shaking and clutching on to Arabella as they stumble away from the stables, which are now ablaze, the bright orange flames leaping high into the air and showering sparks as they feast on the old dry wood and the straw and rubbish within. In the distance are the shouts of the crowd, now mostly surrounding the church on the other side of the house.

  ‘Come on,’ Arabella coaxes her, leading her towards the gates. ‘Keep walking, Letty. That’s right.’

  When at last the coughing has eased a little, Letty says, ‘Thank you. Thank you.’

  ‘I couldn’t leave you there,’ she says simply.

  ‘You saw him throw me in there, didn’t you?’ Letty clutches at her and they stop walking. ‘Did the Beloved set light to the stable, to burn me?’

  Arabella looks at her coldly. ‘Of course he didn’t. I don’t kno
w how that started. I’m sure he was keeping you safe from the mob.’

  Letty stares helplessly at her sister. Is Arabella telling the truth? Perhaps it wasn’t the Beloved who set light to the stable. Perhaps it was an accident. Maybe others saw him throw her there. She remembers the hard-faced Angel with the digging nails. ‘But you will come with me, won’t you? Don’t stay here, Arabella. Come with me.’

  Arabella shakes her head. ‘Oh no. My life is here, with him. With everything we’ve built and the child we are going to have.’

  ‘But Arabella!’ Letty is amazed, horrified. ‘You know what he’s like! You don’t believe in him, do you?’

  ‘I believe everything,’ Arabella says simply. ‘And I always will. So don’t waste your breath trying to change my mind. But that doesn’t mean I want you dead. Go off and live with your Arthur. Be happy, and let me be happy. Leave us in peace, that’s all I ask. We won’t do harm, you know that.’

  They start to walk again and soon reach the driveway. Letty sees that the Goreham police have arrived and calm is being restored. The barrier has been removed to let the black police van in. The sound of singing still comes from the church but the crowd is being sent on its way, only a few men and boys hanging about, hoping for more action. Now a new shout goes up. ‘Fire! Fire! The old stable’s alight! All hands to the well!’ and everyone left goes racing off after the new excitement.

  ‘Letty! Is that you? Thank heavens!’

  Someone comes running towards her and the next moment she is engulfed in a strong embrace. She falls gratefully into Arthur’s arms, suddenly exhausted.

  ‘What happened?’ he asks, concerned. ‘I’ve been looking for you.’

  ‘She was trapped in the stables when the fire broke out,’ Arabella says calmly. ‘Will you take her away, please, Arthur? See that a doctor looks at her.’ She smiles at Letty. ‘I’ll send your bags on. Go now. Go on.’

  ‘Please, Arabella?’ Letty asks.

  Her sister shakes her head. ‘No. I’m staying here. That’s how it has to be.’

  ‘Come on,’ Arthur says gently, putting his arm around her. ‘It’s time to leave, Letty. Let’s go.’ They turn and begin to walk through the gates.