How effortlessly he'd appeased the local constable, a jackass, really,
fisherman turned petty bureaucrat Without question the man had signed the death certificate and had gratefully accepted Morle/s twenty-pound note, a token of "appreciation from the Eden family."
Thus a murder had been concealed, a victim buried, a murderer gone free. Abruptly Morley closed his eyes. What a farce, the law! And what in God's name was that incessant hammering all about?
He sat up and clamped his hands over his ears, his head pounding in time with the hammer blows. No, he must leave here as soon as possible.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, Morley recalled the second time he'd tried to leave. For days he'd asked to see Lord Eden, to plant the seed in his mind concerning rising taxes, a simple business discussion between a solicitor and his client. And since Lord Eden had not yet put in an appearance in a public room, Morley had bribed a serving maid into escorting him to his lordship's private chambers, where he'd found a most curious sight, two burly watchmen standing guard on the door. When Morley had demanded that they announce him to Lord Eden, how they had laughed, though one had unlatched the door and had drawn it open a crack, and Morley had seen the ruin for himself and smelled it as well, an almost overpowering odor of brandy, as though the chamber were a brewery, and sprawled facedown upon the table he'd seen the collapsed figure of Lord James Eden, the side of his face resting in spilled brandy, his arms hanging limp, legs sprawled, garbed only in a soiled shirtwaist, no sign of trousers or stockings or boots, senselessly drunk, and from the ample assortment of bottles on the sideboard, likely to stay that way.
Morley felt a flush on his cheeks, thinking now what he'd thought then. How tragic, but how convenient. Obviously his lordship was in no condition to go over figures, or leases, or deeds of ownership. Was it possible that Morley Johnson now possessed a power that poor old Sir Claudius Potter had dreamt of all his life—complete control of the Eden estates?
The thought of that possibility brought him to the reason why he had remained this long at Eden Castle. He needed an interview with her ladyship, for he knew all too well that the true power at Eden had never resided in his lordship's weak hands. Oh, to be sure, his signature was required from time to time.
But the true decision-making chambers were on the third floor, her ladyship's apartments, and the various maids and the old house warden, Mrs. Swan, had put him off long enough, claiming "Her ladyship
suffers terrible from female miseries," and "Her ladyship's done harm to herself," and "Her ladyship's nerves is a bit skitterish."
Damn, but his own nerves were a bit skitterish, he thought angrily, hearing that constant hammering.
Then it stopped. He lifted his head, recording the silence. He padded barefoot to the door and opened it a crack. An army of servants, or so it seemed, were running past his door, a look of shock on their faces as they hurried toward the central staircase.
Dear Lord, what now? As soon as the undisciplined parade had passed his door, he closed it and hurled himself into activity. Using stale water left from the night before, he bathed himself and dressed quickly in his traveling clothes. A few moments later he made a final adjustment on his jacket, then stepped out into the corridor. He started up the stairs, hearing the chatter of voices growing louder as he ascended, the turmoil seeming to emanate from the third floor.
As he rounded the landing and glanced toward the end of the passage, he saw chaos, every servant at Eden, or so it seemed, clustered outside her ladyship's apartments, all gathered about a strange focal point, a muscular workman, with sleeves rolled up, a scattering of saws and fragments of metal littering the floor, clearly the scene where the incessant hammering had originated.
Confronting this workman was the mountainous old cook, Mrs. Fletcher. From where Morley stood, it appeared as though these two were on the verge of fisticuffs.
After listening for a moment and finding that he was unable to make sense out of it, he at last stepped forward and raised his voice, ready to take charge.
"EnoughI" he shouted. With relief he saw their plain dull faces fall into an attitude of respect, the old cook turning away first, juggling a serving tray bearing someone's uneaten breakfast in one hand, while the burly workman stepped away, rubbing his hamlike arm with one blackened hand.
As he caught sight of Morley, he swept off his flat shapeless hat and bobbed his head. "Guv," he muttered.
Morley waited for the residual chatter to cease. Then he stepped forward. "If it wouldn't be too rude of me," he began, "would someone be so kind as to inform me what this is all about?"
Within the moment the voices rose again, old Aggie Fletcher leading off. "Ask the simpleton behind you. He's the one. Ask what he's been up to this night, witless oaf."
"Me duty," the workman cried out. "Just me duty," he repeated.
"I does what I'm told, was brought up that way, a faithful servant."
"A jackass," Aggie cried, topping him. "Look for yourself, sir." With a stabbing gesture she pointed toward the door which led into her ladyship's chambers, a new door, for just then Morley spied the old one resting against the corridor wall.
So? Her ladyship had requested a new door and a workman had obliged. Bewildered, Morley shook his head. "I fail to see—"
"Oh, you bet you do, sir," Aggie broke in, her broad arms again flailing in all directions, the items on the breakfast tray slipping dangerously about. "All you see, sir, is a closed door. But what I have here is her ladyship's breakfast. Now, would you be so kind as to tell me how I am to serve it?"
"Why don't you try knocking?" he snapped.
But she merely smiled. "Oh, I've done that, sir, till me knuckles is raw, bleeding practically. Would you care to try?"
In the awkward silence, Morley turned his attention to the workman. "What's your name?" he began, the ritual of the law courts strong within him.
"Boaz, guv," the man muttered.
"Now, Boaz," Morley went on, "tell me about this," and he gestured toward the new door.
The man shrugged. "What's to tell, guv? I was summoned to this here spot yesterday afternoon by her ladyship. She said that she required a new door, one that would make her feel safe, you know, one she could control, no one entering lest she says so."
With the sense of having answered all questions, Boaz moved back. "If you'll excuse me, guv," he muttered, "I been up the night, I have. Her ladyship said I was due a day of rest. Now, if you don't—"
"You can rest in a moment," Morley said, eyeing the awesome door with new respect. There was something different about it. No knob on the outside, nor hinges, a smooth heavy barrier neatly sealing the entrance to the chamber.
Well, sooner or later he'd have to find out for himself. He stepped forward and lifted his fist and rapped once, a civil sound befitting the station of the gentlewoman on the opposite side.
No response.
He knocked again. "My lady?"
Still no response.
He lifted his fist and knocked loudly three times. "My lady, with your forgiveness. It's Morley Johnson. I beg an audience with you, on a matter of importance."
But there was nothing, not even a hint that there was life behind the door. He turned to face the staring servants and shouted, "Then fetch a battering ram and a crew of your strongest—"
But the carpenter Boaz was merely shaking his head. "Oh, guv," the large man mourned, "ain't a battering ram devised by man capable of knocking that door down. Solid metal it is at the center, with thick English oak on either side, four solid metal hinges I forged myself last night on the inside, and a sliding bolt the length and breadth of a man's arm penetrating solid stone."
As the description trailed off, Morley was aware of increased weeping, the servants seeming to know what had happened, her ladyship sealed behind the impenetrable door.
"Get on with your duties," Morley commanded. "I'm sure you have enough to keep you more than busy."
At last Morley turned to
face the two combatants who still glared at each other. "Go along with you, Boaz," he concluded. "You've earned your rest."
When he too had disappeared around the corner, Morley leaned wearily against the wall, returning the old woman's stare. "What about the windows?" he asked.
"Accessible," the old woman conceded, "if you're a sea gull. If you're a man, you have three stories of sheer wall with no foothold between you and the gravel of the inner courtyard."
He thought he detected a sly pleasure in the old bitch's face. Coldly he suggested, "Why don't you run along with the others. Clearly there's nothing for you to do here."
Then she was gone, leaving him alone in the corridor, his boots scraping on wood shavings, his eyes focused intently on the new door.
But the longer he stood in the quiet corridor, the more aware he became of a will stronger than his own, and finally he pushed away from the wall in resignation, feeling a peculiar mix of disquiet and relief, and simultaneously thinking that he must hurry now, leave this place of madness and move back into the real world.
As his thoughts gained momentum, so did his steps, and he took the third-floor landing running, thinking ahead to the brief journey to Exeter, his conference with the estate agent, and ultimately to London, a humbly requested hearing with a sympathetic magistrate who would understand the plight of a hardworking solicitor with his hands tied, and who, after having been informed of the shambles that was now Eden Castle, would grant him full power of attorney.
And with that awesome weapon in his hand . . . The thought almost hurt. Midway down the steps, he stopped and grasped the banister as though for support, and stared blankly ahead into space, a radiant smile on his face, as though he were glimpsing the shores of heaven.
On the Road to London, June 1852
According to the last road sign, he was a mile and a half southwest of Salisbury, near a place called Harrington Hall.
What matter to him? His feet were blistered, the back of his neck was baked red by the June sun, and it made no difference whether he tried to think on where he had been or where he was going. There was no hope in either direction.
Since he had been in no rush to reach London—what was there in London for him besides good Elizabeth and her honest poverty?— John had sold the horse in Barnstaple and with the extra pounds in his pocket had started off on foot.
The climate was that of a warm June, the countryside ripe and kind, and he desperately needed an interval alone.
He knew he couldn't wander directionless forever. And he wouldn't allow himself to become a burden to Elizabeth. Perhaps after a brief stay in London it would be best if he fulfilled that childhood dream of escaping to India. There were ships embarking weekly from the London docks. He was young and able, could read and write. It would be a simple matter to sign on with one of the crews.
Indial The name alone was capable of evoking dreams of riches, adventure, a landscape free of memories. Perhaps in that hot, dusty clime, Eden and all it stood for would relinquish its hold on him. According to the recent books he'd read, a man, any man, could make or find his fortune in India. For a moment he recalled certain exotic place names: Bombay, Delhi, Agra, Meerut. . .
He closed his eyes and saw himself in fantasy, his skin darkened, a
turban on his head, moving easily among dark-skinned men. He would think on it seriously. It could provide him with an escape route, and he desperately needed one.
Abruptly he halted his pace, feeling a sudden compulsion to leave the road. He wandered into the inviting shade of an apple orchard, and using his satchel as a back rest, he sprawled beneath a tree and closed his eyes, his sense of his father, of betrayal, still strong within him. Why had he deceived him? How would it have hurt to have told John the truth? But what was the truth? And the battle was on again. How many times he had explored all aspects of it, his confusion mounting.
Suddenly he leaned over, his forehead pressed against his knee. How he missed Harriet, would always miss her.
"Hello."
The voice was near. Sharply he looked up, his head swiveling in all directions. But his eyes, blurred with grief and sun, could find nothing. Had he imagined it? On his knees, he looked again down the long row of apple trees and saw nothing save the skittering of sun and shadow.
Then he heard a laugh. "Up here."
On his feet, ready to spring as though under attack, he lifted his head and saw only a thick leafy foliage.
"To your left," the voice instructed. "See the crook in the trunk?"
Then at last he saw her, or more accurately saw a single soft kid slipper, then the hem of a green dress, a mottled pattern resembling the profusion of leaves. No wonder he'd failed to see her. Perched on an uppermost branch, she blended perfectly with the tree.
Still unable to see any more than slippers and the hem of a gown, he shaded his eyes and moved rapidly around the tree. "You have a clear advantage," he called up, spying now a slim waist and a cascade of hair the color of the sun.
He heard the laugh again and the voice, just barely concealing its merriment. "That doesn't very often happen to me. I like it, though," she said.
"But it does make conversation difficult." He smiled, still encircling the tree, seeing more each turn, a white hand grasping a limb, the angle of a jaw where the sun struck it.
His neck began to ache from its rigid angle. He felt ridiculous conversing with the tree. "Won't you come down?" he asked.
"Why should I?" the voice inquired, a tutored voice, calm, gen-
teel. "You might be a highwayman or a murderer. You're unhappy, I can tell that much."
For a moment he gaped up at the talking branches. 'To the first charge, I plead innocent. To the second and third, guilty."
He looked up to see what reaction, if any, would be forthcoming. He heard a soft "I thought so."
"The man deserved to die," John added, confessing to the tree.
"Many men do," the voice replied, then added curiously, "you'll probably kill again before you die yourself."
He lowered his head. "I. . . hope not."
"Where do you come from?" the voice asked.
John started to reply, then changed his mind. "From . . . that way," he said, and vaguely pointed back down the road.
"I know that much," the voice scolded lightly. "I've been watching you for ever so long, since you first appeared over the last down. I'm the one who made you leave the road." There was a pause. "I have magic powers, you know."
Again John gaped upward, recalling his strange compulsion to abandon the road. "Are you a witch?" he asked, smiling, keeping his eye trained on that one small slipper.
Abruptly she laughed. "I've been called one before."
"By whom?"
"By people who have reason to fear me."
"Do I have reason to fear you?"
The laugh died. Her voice changed, seemed to soften until it was little more than a part of the gentle breeze blowing through the tops of the trees. "I would hope not."
Weary of encircling the tree and craning his neck upward, yet enjoying the distraction from his grief, John at last settled against the trunk of a near tree. "I would never harm a witch," he said, entering effortlessly into the pleasant madness.
"I know that," the voice replied. "Still, there are impulses within you. I've known about them for ever so long."
As the voice trailed off with the wind, John sat erect, cross-legged upon the ground. "Known about them?" he questioned. "You've never seen me before."
Again the breeze seemed to break into a peal of laughter. "My goodness," she exclaimed, "I saw you only this morning, in my chambers. I asked Wolf if you were the one, and he said yes, and I argued with him. But he won out. He always does."
Beginning to feel uneasy, John asked tentatively, "Who is . . . Wolf?*
"My cat. He'll be so pleased when I tell him how right he was."
"I'm . . . glad," he murmured, thinking that perhaps he should leave. The wind seemed to have turn
ed suddenly chill.
Although he had yet to move, she said, "You don't have to go yet. You'll spend the night in Salisbury, at the Red Lion, and it's an easy walk from here."
He looked up, beginning to feel annoyance at the invisible presence. "I've not been sleeping in public houses," he said. "I'm afraid I have a limited purse."
"Oh, it won't always be so, I promise you that," she soothed. "I have it on good authority that one day you will be one of the richest men in England."
He laughed openly at the preposterous suggestion. "On whose authority? Wolf's?"
"Who else?"
Still the wind was increasing, the clouds overhead growing thick. Well, he'd rested enough. It had been at best an interesting diversion, a fanciful, other-world quality about it. But unfortunately he was still of this world. As he rose to his feet, he glanced upward again. "I thank you for talking with me," he said, bowing to the tree. "If I should ever pass this way again . . ."
"Oh, you'll pass this way many times," the voice said, "so often that you will cut a new road between London and North Devon. And if I'm not here, look for me in that large house which sits just over the north down. Harrington Hall, it's called. And my name is lila."
Again his eyes began to blur from searching the upper branches. Once he thought he saw the gleam of an eye looking down on him. "Lila," he repeated.
"And your name is . . ."
"John." Sharply he looked up. Had she said the name with him, or had he just imagined it? Then "John" she repeated, and he thought he detected sadness in her voice. "Please don't wait too long before you come again," she added. "Of course I'll be here, regardless when you come. But don't let too much time pass."
The rising wind lifted the hem of the green dress and blew it to one side, revealing a white lace petticoat. Apparitions did not wear lace petticoats. Though certain that he had fallen into a kind of madness, still he asked, "Won't you come down before I leave? You
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