Clouds among the Stars

by Clayton, Victoria

  ‘Quite entrancing,’ said Max.

  ‘There’s one born every minute,’ said Rupert, not, I think, meaning the doubting Thomases.

  The colonel was discovered in the library, asleep in an armchair. Several books lay open on the table beside him. As we looked at him his lower jaw dropped and he started to grunt like a pig scenting swill.

  Rupert glanced at the pages of birds. ‘He’s been checking on Vere’s blue-footed falcon,’ he murmured.

  The colonel stirred and smacked his lips together in his sleep. He said something indistinct that sounded like ‘Attagirl, Lulu.’

  ‘But for how long?’ asked Max.

  ‘Look at that.’ Rupert pointed to an ashtray in which lay an inch of ash still attached to the stub of a cigar, now out. ‘Cigars burn slowly when not drawn on. I’d say he’s been asleep a good half-hour. And the fire’s gone out too.’ We looked at the fireplace where a few embers gleamed.

  ‘Could he have been acting?’ asked Max when we were back in the hall.

  ‘I shouldn’t have thought he had the brains to set it up,’ said Rupert.

  ‘Of course he doesn’t,’ I said. ‘He’s the dimmest man I’ve ever met. And, boy, that’s saying something!’

  Rupert laughed. ‘Poor Harriet. If you want rattling chains, fingerprints on throats and flitting white shapes bent on fiendish retaliation, I’m afraid you’ll just have to make it up.’

  ‘What’s worrying,’ said Max ‘is the malice behind it. The theft of the arm was bound to upset Maggie. And it’s enough to make some of the sillier women have nightmares.’

  I was pleased by this indirect tribute. ‘You don’t mention the men who were thrown into a blue funk, I notice.’

  ‘Is this the moment to wage a battle of the sexes?’ Max smiled at me and I stared, fascinated, at the dent in the end of his nose. ‘Besides, I concede. The men were a disgrace. You, Harriet, are an example to us all.’

  Rupert made a sound like ‘Tst’, disdaining to take further notice of our trifling. ‘I wish I knew how to convince Maggie, without evidence, that this is no more than a trick.’

  ‘For some extraordinary reason she seems to set great store by your opinion.’ This sounded ungenerous the moment I had said it. ‘You can reassure her if anyone can.’

  ‘The trouble is,’ said Max, ‘sooner or later it’s going to turn up again, isn’t it? I mean the point wasn’t just to steal it, but to give someone a hell of a fright with a reprise of The Finger of Doom.’

  As he said this I felt a definite shiver of apprehension.

  ‘We’d better look for it in the morning,’ said Rupert. ‘We could search the bedrooms while everyone’s at breakfast. Though in a house this size …’ He shrugged and left the sentence unfinished.

  I had already decided that I would make a thorough search of Cordelia and my room the minute I went upstairs, to ensure a decent night’s sleep.

  ‘Don’t forget to look under the bed as well as in it,’ said Max, who was obviously something of a thought-reader.

  Those who had remained in the drawing room had, apart from Maggie, largely recovered their sang-froid. They had been distracted in our absence by having to search for Miss Tipple’s shoes, unaccountably missing. Mrs Mordaker had accused Annabel of the theft and said such uncomplimentary things about spoiled, naughty children that Annabel had thrown a tantrum and flounced from the room. Eventually the shoes were discovered under a table in the jaws of Dirk, very much the worse for chewing. Mrs Mordaker said, several times, that dogs would be dogs, with which no one could possibly disagree. Regrettable though Dirk’s behaviour was, it was useful in that it took people’s minds off imminent death and disaster.

  Rupert said that everyone was perfectly all right, just as he had expected, and there was nothing to worry about. If it would set Maggie’s mind at rest, we could have an organised hunt for the arm in the morning. Meanwhile he was sure it was a childish jest, to be treated with the contempt it deserved.

  ‘The dead are harmless.’ Miss Tipple was scornful. ‘It’s men of flesh and blood one has to beware of. And I give due warning to whoever has been scratching at my door at dead of night that I intend to place a loaded service revolver – it belonged to my father and I always carry it with me – on my bedside table.’ She glared at Colonel Mordaker, who joined us at that moment.

  ‘Stuff and nonsense!’ he roared when the disappearance of the arm was explained to him. ‘If some ruddy perisher thinks he’s going to get the better of H. R. G. Mordaker, MC, DSO, he’s mistaken his man. Rhoda, where’s m’ duck gun?’

  ‘In the car, Hereward, but is it wise –’

  ‘Don’t argue, woman! Now, listen to me, men.’ I saw us bivouacking on a hillside somewhere near Anzio. ‘I’m going to take the first shift, from twelve till two, positioning myself at the head of the stairs, and taking a recce every five minutes to check those rooms not on the main landing. Who’ll do from two till four?’

  ‘Nothing would persuade me, Colonel dear,’ said Archie into the silence that had fallen. ‘My hands would tremble so much I’d never be able to pull the trigger. Besides, think of Sir Oswald’s plasterwork. It would be an act of vandalism to blast it full of holes.’

  ‘Are there any men willing to share the watch with me or must I do it all myself?’ The colonel’s fierce little eyes fell on Max.

  ‘I think the police might have something to say if we shot one of Sir Oswald’s guests.’ Max shrugged. ‘Frankly I don’t plan to spend the rest of my life in gaol because someone fancies a brandy and soda in the night.’

  Then he looked at me and discreetly pressed his lips together to mime contrition. I grinned to show it was all right, though inevitably I had thought of my father and felt a stab of pain.

  ‘No, no, no, no,’ said Emilio as he caught the Colonel’s eye. ‘My leg ees so bad.’ He took a step and staggered heavily. See, I am no useful. I regret but …’ he spread his hands.

  The colonel muttered something unflattering about dagoes that luckily Emilio had no chance of understanding. ‘Well?’ he demanded of Rupert. ‘It’s down to you, Wolvespurges. Or Gilderoy.’

  Rupert smiled and shook his head. ‘I’m an appallingly bad shot. And Vere, I happen to know, is a pacifist. It’s against his principles to take up arms against his fellow man.’

  ‘Damn it all, I’m not asking for crack marksmen. The gun’s supposed to inspire respect, that’s all.’ When no one said anything, Colonel Mordaker said, ‘Very well. I shall do the lot myself. A worse bunch of lily-livered weaklings I’ve never come across.’

  ‘Oh, Hereward, I don’t think it’s a good idea,’ protested his wife. ‘Think of your heart. You’d better take a pill straightaway. You’re looking flushed.’

  The colonel bared his teeth at her and went out. We heard the front door slam moments later.

  Maggie looked anxious. ‘I must warn Janet to be careful when she takes up the morning tea.’

  ‘You don’t think it might really be Old Gally who’s taken the arm?’ asked Cordelia as we searched our bedroom later that night.

  ‘Absolutely not,’ I said with great firmness. I went to check in the closet, just in case. ‘That’s all hokum made up by someone to attract more visitors to the house.’

  ‘But Annabel believes it.’ Cordelia followed me in and together we sifted through piles of our clothes. ‘She says Old Gally pointed his finger at her grandfather and he lost both legs in the war. He died a year later. And her great-great-grandfather was pointed at and he lost all his money and threw himself under a train. And one of her ancestors found the arm in his saddlebag. He was turned out of the house for drunkenness and debt and became a highwayman and was hung.’

  ‘Hanged. But these things happen in every family. It has nothing to do with ghosts.’

  ‘Annabel says there are lots more ghosts besides Old Gally. There’s the Lady of the Moat. She lived here ages ago, and her husband threw her into the moat because she got smallpox and was hideousl
y scarred and he didn’t want to look at her any more.’

  ‘How unkind and – wait a minute, there isn’t a moat at Pye Place.’

  ‘So there isn’t. Perhaps it got filled in. Anyway, Annabel says she walks the house at dead of night, with her poor face hidden under a hat, leaving puddles of water everywhere.’

  ‘You really mustn’t believe everything –’

  I was interrupted by a scream from Cordelia. ‘I’ve found it! It’s here! Under this blanket! Feel!’

  Beneath several layers I felt something hard and knobbly, about two feet long with a bulge at one end. A moth fluttered up into my face and I screamed too.

  ‘I don’t want to die.’ Cordelia spoke with conviction. ‘I’m going to stand over here so that it can’t point at me.’ She moved to the doorway and stared with scared eyes. ‘Unless it swivels round – ugh! Leave the horrible thing alone, Hat! I don’t want it to point at you!’

  ‘Nonsense!’ Though my heart was turning backward flips I took a deep breath and threw back the blanket to expose Cordelia’s Christmas stocking, which I had brought with me from London. I had hidden it there myself when I had unpacked and then forgotten all about it.

  ‘Can I have it now? It’s only fifteen minutes from being Christmas Day.’

  ‘I’d completely forgotten that it’s Christmas tomorrow.’

  ‘Can I?’

  ‘No. Get into bed.’ I put the stocking back into the closet.

  ‘How mean you are, and horribly bossy. Ophelia and Portia would have let me have it.’

  ‘Possibly. But they aren’t here.’

  ‘I think being in love with Max has gone to your head. You may be in for a nasty surprise there.’

  ‘In that case I’d better get some sleep to prepare myself.’

  ‘It’s awful having a big sister! Serves you right if it turns out he’s in love with someone else.’

  ‘Have you cleaned your teeth?’

  ‘As it happens I have, though I don’t see what business it is of yours.’

  ‘Turn out the light, then.’

  ‘You think he’s been coming up here every day to look at you.’

  ‘I think he’s very kindly put himself out to entertain a bored and fractious child.’

  ‘Child! We shall see.’

  ‘Good night.’

  ‘Huh!’

  A few minutes later I heard the sound of a clock striking midnight. It seemed a pity to be quarrelling at such a moment. ‘Happy Christmas, darling, anyway.’ I murmured. ‘Sweet dreams.’

  Silence.

  ‘Hat?’

  ‘Mm?’

  ‘Happy Christmas.’

  ‘Mm. Thanks.’

  ‘Hat?’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I think he ought to be in love with you but you know what men are.’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Oh dear. No one would think you were ten years older than me.’

  Silence.

  ‘Hat?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It was kind of you to do me a stocking. I know Ophelia and Portia wouldn’t have bothered. Sorry I was mean.’

  ‘S’ll right. Now go – to – sleep.’

  Sound of a sob. ‘I shall never – forgive myself – if he dumps you.’

  ‘O-o-n urr-e.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Go – sle-ep.’

  ‘Promise you’ll forgive me? I can’t bear the thought of our being estranged for ever.’

  I meant to reassure her that if ten thousand men cruelly scorned me for Cordelia I should remain a faithful and loving sister but sleep rolled over me and extinguished my powers of speech.

  TWENTY-SIX

  ‘Hat! Everything’s lovely! The necklace is bliss! Oh, don’t go back to sleep! I want you to see me wearing it!’ I peeled open an eye and nodded approval. ‘How can you possibly be tired? It’s seven in the morning. Maggie’s already been in and lit the fire. I’ve never opened my stocking so late. What do you think of the hat worn like this?’ I got a vague impression of a white wool cap low over Cordelia’s forehead.

  ‘Terrific.’

  ‘Or should it be further back?’

  ‘Uh-hah.’

  ‘I think I’ll give Annabel my old navy one as a Christmas present. Poor kid, I bet she hasn’t got a decent hat. Honestly, I’d rather go into dinner starkers than wear that awful green thing she had on last night. Do you think you might lend her something? Hat?’

  ‘Mm?’

  ‘Where did you get these lovely sparkly tights? They’re incredibly sexy. Could we afford some for Annabel? Hat! Wake up!’

  ‘Harrods, I think.’

  I attempted to piece together fragments of recent memory. My first coherent thought was relief that Cordelia, instead of despising her, had decided to take Annabel under her wing. I hoped she would not resent Cordelia’s patronage. Then I remembered why I felt as though my eyelids had been steeped in starch.

  Most unwillingly I had surfaced into consciousness some hours earlier just as the stable clock struck two. The ache from my shin suggested a kick from Cordelia as the instrument of my awakening. She turned her head, pressed her nose into my arm, and at once resumed the slow breathing of sleep. I had tucked the bedclothes around her shoulders and closed my eyes, hoping to fall back into oblivion.

  The shutters had been left open and the moon was full. A beam like an interrogation tool bored through my clenched lids. Tiresomely my thoughts took shape and gathered pace. Would the charms of Fleur Kirkpatrick be sufficient consolation for my father, in prison on this day of all days when he was accustomed to rejoice in the bosom of his family? I thought of Maria-Alba, disturbed and frightened, warring with the nuns. I visualised poor darling Mark Antony pacing the empty house, wondering why he had been cruelly abandoned. Outside the wind tore at the trees as though trying to pluck them out of the ground. The imp of misery was making a feast of my stomach lining. How could I make sure Cordelia was happy, her first Christmas away from home? It does not matter how sternly you tell yourself that the crippling paranoia of the small hours of the night is due solely to body chemistry. You still feel absolutely miserable.

  Then I remembered that Cordelia’s stocking was still in the closet. Though she had not believed in Father Christmas for years, the ritual had to be observed. I tiptoed across the icy, boards, past Dirk, who lay bathed in moonlight by the long-dead fire, and opened the door. My own face with wildly disarranged hair made me start. The mirror, hanging at the back of the closet, always took me by surprise. I lugged the stocking over to the bed and laid it like a bolster down the centre. Shivering I got back into bed and tried to relax my mind and limbs and compose myself for sleep.

  Half an hour later I was energetically reorganising my entire life, starting with a complete overhaul of face, figure and personality. It was a relief to allow my thoughts to wander into shameful reveries about Max, regardless of poor unhappy Caroline. I turned my pillow and pressed my cheek against its smooth coldness, telling myself that everything would look better in the morning. Just as my thoughts were beginning to blur I became aware of a need to go to the lavatory. I waited for ten minutes, hoping it would go away but of course it didn’t.

  Lights were burning dimly at intervals the length of the Long Gallery. I saw Colonel Mordaker sitting in a chair at the head of the stairs, with his back to me. I crept in the opposite direction towards the bathroom, wincing at every squeak of the boards, terrified of being blasted prematurely into the next world. In the bathroom I had a brief fantasy that my bottom had frozen to the seat and I would have to remain there until morning when an electric fire could be brought to thaw me out. But a minute later I was on my way back to bed.

  I must have been about twenty feet from our bedroom door when I saw someone walking ahead of me. She was wearing a long robe and an old-fashioned headdress, a sort of a mob cap, pulled low over her brow. Something glistened on the floorboards in front of me. A wet footprint. I thought immediately of Ann
abel’s story of the sadly disfigured Lady of the Moat.

  I tiptoed behind her, conscious of an unreasonable dread of being discovered. Probably Mrs Mordaker, Maggie or perhaps Mrs Whale had woken up and fancied a bath. What though it was two o’clock in the morning? Having one bathroom between at least eight people meant there was always an undignified race to bag it. The day before, Mrs Mordaker had actually broken into a run, dressing-gown flapping, sponge bag swinging wildly on her arm, when she saw me approaching with the same object in view.

  But I had just been in the bathroom and apart from me it had been empty. When the robed figure faltered and let out a small shriek, I very nearly followed suit. I hesitated, clinging to the darkness between the lights, telling myself not to be a coward. To very few people had such an opportunity been given. I owed it to science, to philosophy, to the Brixton Mercury to investigate further. But before I could muster my courage she had moved on, gliding swiftly and silently. When I came to the spot where she had paused I found a puddle of water.

  The Lady of the Moat – I was almost convinced it was she – was speeding up as she approached the colonel. I dared not call out in case he was startled into emptying both barrels, with a complete disregard for plaster or flesh. Relief was quickly supplanted by fear as she passed the colonel’s chair, almost brushing his arm, and disappeared down the stairs. He did not even turn his head.

  I dashed into my bedroom, closed the door and with shaking fingers turned the key. I crept into bed with feet like fillets of frozen fish, angry with myself for being a deplorable coward. I had several times declared that I longed to see a ghost. Ah, but not in the middle of the night! A ghost in the bright light of day I was prepared for but darkness made everything frightful. The wind rose to a particularly loud hoo-hooing sound as it fought to bring down the chimneypots. I practised deep breathing and read myself a lecture.