Silent on the Moor

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  “He fights it,” I told her. “I have watched him struggle against it. He thinks—I don’t know—that it is superstition or something out of a story to frighten children with. He does not see it for the gift it is.”

  “Many do not,” Rosalie pointed out. “Can you imagine what it must be, to know things before they happen, and yet so often be powerless to stop them?”

  “He is not powerless,” I argued. “He could do a great deal of good if he only accepted the visions and acted upon them. Instead he fights them with all of his might, ending up with migraines so ferocious he doses himself with all sorts of monstrous things. I have seen him take absinthe and hashish, and God knows what else, all because he will not admit what he really is.”

  “And what is he?” Rosalie prodded gently.

  “The most extraordinary, maddening man I have ever known,” I said, feeling exhilarated and a little deflated at the same time.

  “And you believe that just because you are willing to accept him for what he is, that others will be as broad-minded?”

  I opened my mouth, then snapped it shut. “Of course not. You are quite right. They would clap him in an asylum the first time he tried to tell anyone what he saw. I am a fool.”

  She shook her head, the golden coins at her ears glinting in the light. “Not a fool. A woman in love, and that is a very near thing.”

  “Am I so very obvious?”

  She was kind enough not to laugh.

  “Thank you for not answering,” I said with a touch of asperity.

  We fell silent a moment and I was struck by how companionable it was. We were from very different worlds, Rosalie Smith and I, but we were kindred spirits.

  “How did you know I was his aunt?” she asked finally.

  I shrugged. “The initials on your knife. RY. I thought it stood for Yolande or some other second name, but then I realised it might well be your maiden name, Young. And then Godwin actually referred to you as Rosalie Young. I did not pay it mind at the time, but I thought of it later.”

  She nodded. “I have known him since boyhood. He used to bring his pets to me to nurse them back to health.”

  I shook my head. “I still cannot imagine that you have lived here so long.”

  “Ever since Mariah died,” she said softly. “John-the-Baptist married me even though he knew I would never travel with him, not so long as Mariah’s boy was out there, lost in the world, with none of his kin to know him.”

  I stared at her, scarcely comprehending what she had just said. “You have been here since Brisbane ran away? He ran away from here?”

  “We were camped out on this very moor, just below Thorn Crag. Sir Alfred hated the Gypsies on his land, but he liked to keep us where he could watch what we did. He thought we would behave better under his thumb,” she told me, her eyes slanting maliciously. “We made more trouble here than any other two places combined. But Nicholas was not happy. He left here, running away, and Mariah went out of her head. There were legal troubles and she died of a broken heart. There was no one left to wait for him. The chemist had died and this cottage was vacant. Sir Alfred agreed to rent it to John-the-Baptist and me, provided we marry in the church. We did, and I told John-the-Baptist to go on. I knew he could never leave the road, and I could not leave this place, not so long as there was a chance that Nicholas would come back and need to find his people.”

  I swallowed hard against the lump in my throat. It was perhaps the most extraordinary tale of sacrifice I had ever heard. I only wondered if Brisbane appreciated it.

  “Did you never see him then? Not until he came to Grimsgrave in January?”

  “Bless you, of course I did. He has come before, a dozen times since he was grown. He found me when he was barely twenty, and he insisted upon paying for the rent on this cottage himself, although if you ask him, he will deny it. He has been good to me.”

  “But if he found you, why didn’t you join John-the-Baptist and the rest of your family on the road? Why do you still live here, in such isolation?”

  Her gaze slanted again, this time with all the Byzantine mystery of her people. “Because my destiny is not yet done here, lady. I am called to stay until the earth itself moves and gives up her dead. That was the last prophecy Mariah ever uttered, and I will remain until it is done.”

  The words chilled me, and although we moved on to speak of other things, pleasant, harmless things, my blood did not warm again until I left her.

  THE TWENTY-FIRST CHAPTER

  When a world of men

  Could not prevail with all their oratory,

  Yet hath a woman’s kindness overruled.

  —William Shakespeare

  Henry VI, Part 1

  When I had taken the turning at the crossroads toward Grimsgrave Hall, I paused to look back across the moor, and just then caught the faint toll of the Grimswater bell.

  Without thinking, I set off across the moor toward the black lake, heedless of the prickly furze and heather, striding over the spongy ground.

  “Julia!” Behind me I heard Brisbane’s voice, carried on the wind. He was only a dozen paces behind me, and before I could reply he was upon me. I waved him to silence, but it was too late. The bell had quieted.

  “Bother!” I muttered, puffing out a sigh of frustration. I turned to Brisbane. “Did you hear it?”

  “Did I hear what?” he asked, his gaze sweeping the empty horizon.

  “The bell,” I told him, my voice edged with impatience. “The one that lies beneath the waves of Grimswater. You must have heard it.”

  Brisbane shrugged. “What bell? Julia, you must have heard the moor wind. It can play tricks upon the ears.”

  “There is a village buried under Grimswater,” I told him. “There is a bell there that tolls when an Allenby is to die. Surely you’ve heard of it,” I finished.

  I turned to set off again toward Grimswater, but Brisbane took my arm and spun me round.

  “I am not interested in local superstition, and I did not trouble myself to walk all this way to chase after imaginary bells,” he said sharply. He paused for breath, and I realised the long walk had tired him. He was still recovering from the poisoning, and I ought to have had a care for his health, I chided myself. I was even generous enough to overlook his pointed reference to “imaginary” bells.

  “Of course. Shall we walk back together? We could take it quite slowly, in stages, if you like?” I offered.

  He shot me a nasty look. “Oh, and then will you tuck me up in bed and feed me rice pudding? I am not an invalid, Julia. I am perfectly fine, only a bit fatigued.”

  I bit off the sharp reply that rose to my lips. I had seen him suffer the effects of ill health often enough to know that he bore infirmity with even less grace than most men.

  “Then let us by all means stand out here on a freezing cold moor and discuss world events,” I said sweetly.

  He glowered a little, but came straight to the point. “I want you to continue to work in the study. You have the catalogue, but it must still be compared to the present collection to see if any pieces are missing. I will require a proper catalogue when I go to sell it.”

  “I do not think I want to help you.” I raised my chin a little, making a point of looking over his shoulder at nothing in particular.

  “Don’t be stubborn. You look quite mulish and that is never an attractive trait in a woman.”

  I resisted the urge to put out my tongue at him, and sighed instead. “Brisbane, why must we always quarrel like children? You are the most impossibly arrogant man I have ever known.”

  He looked genuinely surprised at my remark. “I would not seem arrogant if you occasionally did as you were told,” he said mildly, stroking the dark shadow of a beard at his chin. He had been clean-shaven when he had groomed himself to meet Sister Bridget. I supposed he needed to shave twice a day if he meant to be really tidy.

  “Have I ever given you reason to believe I was the sort of woman who would do as she was told?”


  “You did once,” he told me, his impenetrable black gaze fixed on my face. “When I first met you, you were a quivering little mouse. You did precisely as you were instructed, and I thought you were the dullest woman I had ever met.”

  I laughed and he nodded. “You have changed. Once upon a time you would have flown at me for making that observation.”

  “I am older now,” I said.

  His expression was thoughtful. “No, it isn’t just that. Do you remember when you wanted to embark upon that first investigation and I warned you it would change you forever? You have seen death now and evil, and the ways it can twist a soul into something unrecognisable. There was something childlike about you when our paths first crossed. I feel as though I murdered that girl with my bare hands,” he said finally, a faint edge of bitterness cutting through his words.

  I put a hand to his sleeve. “I did not want to be that girl any longer. I was sleepwalking through my own life, didn’t you know that? I wasn’t happy. I wasn’t unhappy. I scarcely even existed. I did not really care about anything, least of all myself. Now I feel alive every moment. I care for everything, and right now,” I said, warming to my theme, “I care for Ailith and Hilda Allenby.”

  He raised a brow, but I hurried on before he could speak. “I know Hilda has been rude and Ailith is rather vague, and I know your dislike of the Allenbys runs deep, but I am asking you, please, give the collection back to them. They have nothing, they are nothing. Their own mother was taken today for attempting an unspeakable crime, and they will never see her again.”

  I stepped closer still, my hand tightening on his arm. “You showed compassion to Lady Allenby in letting her retire to a convent. I am only asking the same for her daughters.”

  A tiny smile played over his lips as he glanced down at my hand. “Do you mean to win me over with feminine wiles? I must admit it is a more diverting notion than your usual method of screaming at me like a fishwife.”

  I did not rise to the bait. I simply looked at him. “Please.”

  He caught his breath, a slow smile warming his features. “My God, you are trying to seduce me.”

  “I am not,” I said primly. “I am merely trying to get your attention.”

  He bent swiftly and kissed me hard, pulling back so suddenly I nearly toppled over. “I believe I have already made it quite clear that you have my attention.”

  He strode past me then down the path toward Rosalie’s cottage. I was still gaping after him when he turned back, his hands thrust in his pockets like a schoolboy.

  “Oh, and the reason I came to find you was to ask you to finish cataloguing the collection for Ailith and Hilda. They will want the sale completed as quickly as possible. They will need money to furnish the Bear’s Hut.”

  I could not speak. I simply stared, openmouthed as he gave me a wink and went on his way, whistling a bit of Paganini as he went.

  When I returned to Grimsgrave, I hung my cloak upon the peg and went in search of my sister. I found her in the maids’ room, crouched over a panting Florence, very much in Godwin’s way as he crooned to the little dog. They had arranged her in a snug box with a nice warm blanket and placed her near the fire. On the bed, Mr. Pugglesworth was lying on Morag’s pillow, snoring wetly.

  I motioned to Portia to join me in the bedroom, gesturing for her to close the connecting door.

  “Anytime now, Godwin says,” she told me. “We shall be aunties. Or I suppose you will be a grandmother,” she amended, regarding me curiously.

  I narrowed my eyes at her. “So would you,” I told her tartly.

  “Oh, I hadn’t thought of that! I suppose I ought to buy them presents then. Perhaps little collars?” She looked more cheerful than I had seen her since her return, and it occurred to me that it might be a very good notion to keep her too busy to dwell on Jane’s departure.

  “That would be lovely, I am sure. But what is Godwin doing here? It is wildly inappropriate, you know.”

  She rolled her eyes at me. “Honestly, Julia. Have you no sense of occasion? I do not know the first thing about whelping pups, do you?”

  “No,” I admitted. “But all of our dogs pupped in the stables. I imagine the grooms took care of matters.”

  “And so Godwin will for us,” she promised. “He is extremely knowledgeable about animals, you know. He is a trifle worried that Florence might be too small to deliver them safely. Puggy is rather plump.”

  I was astonished. It was the first critical word I had ever heard out of Portia regarding Mr. Pugglesworth.

  I heard a little yip then and I cringed. “I cannot look. Go and help him if he needs anything. And, Portia,” I called after her, “tell him to do what he can for her. I have grown rather fond of the little horror.”

  She nodded, her expression serious as she slipped into the adjoining room. There were various scufflings and moist noises and in the end I could not bear the suspense. I fled the room, determined to be useful elsewhere.

  I had no desire to see Morag—I dreaded telling her about her pillow to begin with—so I went to the study instead. I thumbed through the official catalogue, the one Brisbane had kept hidden beneath his bed. It was a comprehensive document. It described each of Redwall’s purchases, the entries inscribed in his own hand in excruciating detail. Everything was there, date of purchase, dealer’s name, the date and condition of arrival. It made for surprisingly fascinating reading. I recognised many of the entries straight off, greeting them as old friends. There was a statue of Thoth, the ibis-headed god and judge of the dead. Then a pair of vases, alabaster and gracefully curved as a maiden’s hip.

  I thumbed a few more pages, idly perusing the entries. The bulk of them dated to the years between 1866 and 1885 when he had been travelling, mostly in Egypt it seemed, although he had apparently been willing to travel quite far afield to secure a purchase. His journeys were carefully noted, some to Paris, others to Morocco, even one to America. Anywhere his beloved antiquities were likely to turn up, Redwall Allenby had been there.

  “Little wonder he frittered away a fortune,” I murmured. Granted he had travelled to many inexpensive destinations; one could live far more cheaply in Paris than in London, for instance, and it was customary for gentlemen in need of retrenchment to go abroad to live. But many of his destinations had been so remote, it must have cost him the earth to get there, to say nothing of the expense of shipping his purchases home.

  And all the while, there was the upkeep of Grimsgrave to be settled as well, although it was apparent he had neglected that particular duty shamefully. If even a quarter of his expenses as a collector had been put into the house, it might even now be able to pay its way, and need never have been sold, I reflected.

  Or was that what Redwall Allenby had wanted all the while? It was a horrible but intriguing thought. He had spent freely, profligately even, and no man in his right mind could have mistaken the rapid, inevitable shift from one column to the other in the ledgers. His estate had been decimated, and since it was not entailed, he must have realised it was his to do with as he pleased. The sale of it, even as a ruin, would have brought him thousands of pounds of capital. Had that been his scheme all along? To spend his liquid assets, and then begin on the estate itself? I wondered how long the proceeds of the estate would have lasted him if he meant to live on them. And what was the point in assembling such a massive and comprehensive collection without the house to display it?

  I rubbed at the spot between my brows, feeling a headache gathering behind my eyes. I had been squinting at Redwall’s handwriting for too long in uncertain light. There were delicious smells wafting from the kitchen, and my stomach gave an indelicate rumble. I made to close the ledger, but as I did, an entry I had not noticed caught my eye on account of its brevity. It was early on in the ledger, under the heading for 1886, shortly after Redwall returned to England.

  17 February: Two caskets of natron have arrived from source.

  That was all. No mention of who the sourc
e might be, nor from whence the natron came. I thought quickly, remembering from one of the volumes I had perused that natron was a natural salt, found in the Wadi Natrum in Egypt. Its only use was mummification.

  I sat back in the chair, clasping the ledger to my chest. It was unthinkable, and yet I was thinking it. The mummified babies in the priest’s hole. It was possible, I thought, with a sudden sick twist in my gut.

  I had to find the natron, I decided. That was the first, logical step. If the natron was still here, both barrels full, I must be wrong, and I would thank God on my knees for it.

  Just as I rose Brisbane entered, his hair windblown from coming across the moor, dark crescents shadowing his eyes. He took one look at my stricken face and came straight to the point.

  “What is the trouble?”

  I put out my hand with the ledger. “Natron. He ordered two barrels of it from an unnamed source two years ago.”

  I said nothing more; I did not need to. Brisbane scrutinised the ledger, then drew in a deep, shuddering breath.

  “We must search for the natron,” he said finally. “If it is intact—”

  “Then Redwall Allenby did not make a habit of mummifying babies,” I finished. He gave me a grudging nod.

  “Precisely. We will search after supper if you are up for it,” he said, his tone lightly mocking.

  “I am perfectly well, thank you,” I told him, although in truth I was feeling rather wilted and longed for my bed. A good plate of supper and a few strong cups of tea would restore me, I promised myself. And a stiff whisky.