The Noblest Frailty

by Patricia Veryan

  His cousin’s head tossed upward. “Your own colour was a trifle off. Though I doubt you would be honest enough to admit you were afraid.”

  There was a glint of anger in the blue eyes, and Tyndale made a disarming gesture. “No, seriously, Dev. I was uneasy, I’ll own, but I must confess I am out of charity with such flights of fancy as shades and goblins, witches and warlocks, and their brethren. Childish nonsense; or the promptings of an uneasy, er—” And he checked, dismayed by the bog into which he had blundered.

  “Conscience?” flashed Devenish, partly infuriated by those tactless words, and partly sickened by a terror that, instead of fading, became ever more compelling. “Faith, but you surprise me! Here I had thought your conscience would rest less easy than mine—in this place!”

  Tyndale’s lips tightened and for an instant he experienced a pressing need to apply his fist to that high-held jaw. Then he shrugged and stalked out of the room and towards the main staircase.

  Montelongo was halfway up the first flight, struggling with Tyndale’s heavy trunk.

  “Idiot!” his master scolded affectionately. “Small wonder you howled. Mr. Devenish and I thought for—”

  Propping the trunk, Montelongo leaned on it, panting. “I not howl!” he denied vehemently. “I think you do that!”

  His blood running cold, Devenish grinned and said a forced, “Well, that’s hell’s own jest!”

  “Tell you what,” said Tyndale. “Let us leave the trunk on the landing for the present, and bring the rest of the paraphernalia inside. It seems to have stopped raining—for a minute.”

  He helped Montelongo deposit the heavy trunk on the landing, and they all started down the stairs. Glancing uneasily about him, the Iroquois muttered, “Me no like big wigwam. Me sleep out. Under stars. You too, sir.”

  Sighing as they crossed the great hall, Tyndale remonstrated, “Why must you persist in using that pidgin English?”

  Montelongo responded woodenly, “I shall take my rest à la belle étoile.”

  Devenish halted, staring his astonishment.

  “I engaged a tutor,” Tyndale explained, “to help Monty learn English. It turned out he has a very quick mind. Speaks fluent English, French, and German.”

  With a shout of laughter, Devenish asked, “Then, why in the deuce do you do it, Monty?”

  The Iroquois shrugged. “It is expected of me. You sleep outside, sir?”

  Still chuckling, Devenish said that he might just do so.

  “In that case,” grunted the Iroquois, “me stay in the—er…”

  “Heap big wigwam?” Tyndale offered, helpfully.

  His minion’s dark features broke into a broad and rare grin.

  “Faker!” Tyndale scoffed and, coming to the chaise and the groom who waited on the drivepath, he walked to the rear of the vehicle and began to work at the straps that held the second trunk. “Devenish,” he said softly, “there is no reason for you to remain here. Do you prefer to return to—”

  “What you are saying, I think,” said Devenish, bristling, “is that you take me for a poltroon!”

  Tyndale glanced at him and ventured with caution, “I have heard it said that certain types of men have—er, perhaps more awareness of things that are not quite so—ah—readily apparent to—to others.”

  “And you do not believe one word of it!” His anger flown as swiftly as it had come, Devenish laughed. “Jove! What a windy wallets! My thanks for the offer of a gracious escape, but I shall stay. If you hear a drumming sound in the night, however, it will likely not be your Indian friend here, but my knees.”

  Montelongo, who had carried a large box of bedding from the interior of the chaise and stood watching, grunted his approval, and put down his burden.

  Tyndale said, “Good man, Dev! I’d hoped you would stay. But—tell me, do you really believe the old pile haunted, or were you hoaxing me?”

  Devenish hesitated. With his eyes lowered and stubbing one boot at the uneven drive, he said slowly, “My uncle and Drummond both say I’m the living image of your father. I—begin to fancy I do indeed take after him—in more than looks.”

  “He held the castle to be an evil house.” Craig nodded thoughtfully. “Is that what you mean?”

  “You will think me daft, but…”

  “But—so do you.”

  Devenish looked up in a shy, shamefaced fashion. “I expect it sounds purely crazy but—but there is something here. Something not of—this world.”

  Montelongo folded his arms and, having privately made up his mind to stay as close to Tyndale as was possible, rumbled, “You speak of Evil Spirits! Me very sure me sleep out!”

  “Well, before you do, you Friday-faced fraud, pick up your box!” said Tyndale. “I can manage this trunk. Dev, can you bring the greatcoats and dressing cases?”

  Laden, they started back to the castle, Tyndale calling to the groom to take the chaise around to the stableyard which he supposed to be further along the drive, beyond a stand of elm trees. It began to rain again as they were climbing the steps, and the wind blew up gustier and colder.

  “First thing—” Montelongo shivered—“me build one fine campfire.”

  “Hey!” shouted Devenish, stumbling forward with his load.

  He was much too late. The door slammed shut before he reached the top step.

  “Oh—damn!” he groaned. “Hurry and fish out the key, Tyndale!”

  Craig set down his trunk and began to grope in his waistcoat pocket.

  Montelongo offered a disgruntled, “Me lay twenty pounds you no find it! This place bad magic!”

  “Nonsense! I’m sure … I put it— No! By Jove! I left it in the lock!”

  Montelongo uttered a triumphant exclamation. Tyndale said indignantly, “I didn’t take your bet! Put down that box and help find the thing, you pagan mushroom!”

  Amused by this appellation, Montelongo put the box down and began to prowl about, keen eyes searching. Fearing the worst, Devenish dumped the greatcoats atop the bedding and made his way to a window. Shielding his eyes with both hands, he peered inside. “Never mind the key,” he called. “It’s lying on the floor just inside the door. Craig, you dolt, you must have dropped it!” He tried the window. “Locked, blast it! Well, we’ll have to try the others.”

  Up to a point, the idea was a good one. A few windows could be reached from the wide front steps; the rest, however, proved to be set too high to be investigated. At some time in the recent past the castle had been fitted with comparatively modern windows, but the three that were accessible were also securely locked. Montelongo was dispatched to the stables in search of a ladder, while Devenish and Tyndale roamed the building, looking for a likely means of entrance. By the time Montelongo reappeared, carrying a serviceable ladder, they were all soaked, but no closer to entering Tyndale’s new home. It was, in fact, another half-hour before they were able to do so, having been obliged to break one of the panes so as to reach the lock.

  “An inauspicious beginning,” grumbled Devenish, peering around the dimness of a cold, shrouded saloon.

  “It will be more inauspicious did someone see us creeping in and fancy us to be burglars,” Tyndale pointed out, crossing to the door.

  Montelongo hurried to unlock the main door and carry the boxes inside. He and Tyndale then took up the large trunk and prepared to haul it upstairs. Devenish, his arms full, kicked the door closed and followed them to the stairs. “I hope there’s some food about,” he remarked. “Ain’t too hungry now, but by—”

  “Look out!” shouted Tyndale. He and Montelongo dropped their burden and leaped aside. The trunk they had earlier deposited on the first landing had apparently not been securely settled. It had gradually yielded to the pull of gravity and now came hurtling down the stairs to fetch up with a crash against its fellow, missing Devenish by a hair. It was a sturdy trunk, metal-bound and heavy, and he whistled his relief that it had missed him.

  “Are you all right?” Tyndale asked. “Why in the deu
ce didn’t you jump for it?”

  “I was behind you, if you recall. Did not see the blasted thing coming. What the devil made it shoot down like that?”

  Tyndale glanced up to the landing. “I suppose we must have failed to anchor it securely. We were in such haste to bring the things in out of the rain.”

  “Almost,” grunted Montelongo, “Mr. Devenish got brain box broken.”

  “Yes.” Tyndale scanned his cousin frowningly. “And I wonder what people would have said of that!”

  “Oh, pshaw! You would scarce murder me with a trunk, coz! Besides, Monty was here—he could swear it was purely accidental.”

  “You think folks believe word of ignorant savage?” Montelongo uttered a scornful, “Hah!”

  “And if my pagan was Caucasian as you or I,” said Tyndale grimly, “this little island is largely populated by people who consider those dwelling in the next county to be ‘foreigners’ and as such, quite untrustworthy. Can you not imagine how much confidence they would repose in the word of a Canadian? A man in my service, known to be very loyal to me?”

  The cousins looked at one another.

  Devenish said rather uncertainly, “Well—nothing happened.”

  “No. But do you know, I begin to think your presence is a decided hazard. To me! Are you quite convinced you’d not prefer to return to your gentle Sussex?”

  “Perfectly sure. All you have to do, coz, is make very sure nothing happens to me.”

  “That may well prove to be a two-edged sword,” Tyndale warned, his eyes sombre.

  “Fustian!” Never one to remain glum above a minute, Devenish scoffed, “We shall likely go on comfortably enough.”

  The evening that followed was, however, somewhat less than comfortable. As a result of their perfunctory tour of inspection, the book room was selected as the initial headquarters. The dining room was warmer, but the long table was rather daunting, and Devenish had taken an aversion to the tapestry that hung above the long oak credenza against one wall. This monumental work depicted a boar hunt undertaken by a number of individuals caught in unlikely poses, their flat, pale faces and gory pursuits causing him to express the conviction that never had he seen such a set of rum touches, and that to spend an entire evening with them staring at him was more than he could endure. The book room, despite a pervasive odour of mildew, was a large chamber made considerably less forbidding by the addition of a modern pegged-oak floor and, when some fine Sheraton chairs were unearthed from dusty Holland covers, was pronounced more the thing.

  While Devenish and Tyndale embarked on a search for candles, Montelongo descended into the lower regions in the hope of finding firewood. He returned in a great hurry, clutching a scuttle full of logs and shavings, and with his bronzed features markedly pale. He insisted that he had been “watched” throughout his foragings, and advised Tyndale that much as he appreciated his situation, if the Major decided to dwell permanently at Castle Tyndale, he would be obliged to find himself a new valet! Tyndale laughed at him, and said his megrims were the result of the roast pork they had enjoyed at dinner last evening, but he noted that the Iroquois was even less loquacious than usual, and that often during the balance of the evening, his dark gaze would flash uneasily to the dimmer corners of the large room.

  As soon as the fire was established, the box of bedding provided by the housekeeper at Steep Drummond was brought in to be set by the hearth. By that time, the pangs of hunger were at work and a small table was also borne over to the fireside to serve their dining needs. Thanks to the friendship Montelongo had struck up with General Drummond’s irascible French chef, they were enabled to eat quite well. The chef had provided a basket containing slices of a fine ham, some excellent cheeses, two fresh loaves with an ample wedge of butter, a cold roast chicken, some grapes from Sir Andrew’s succession houses, and two bottles of a fair Burgundy. The inroads made on this fare by three healthy young men served to impress upon them the need for Montelongo to journey into the village next morning. A discussion as to the supplies needed resulted in the compilation of a list, at the head of which were a cook, housekeeper, footman, and two maids, these prospective employees to repair to the castle immediately.

  The food, wine, and warmth produced a pleasant feeling that all was not as black as had at first appeared. Evening deepened into night, and they chatted drowsily, but always at the edges of two minds nibbled the sly demons of unease. Devenish, his easy grin and cheerful commonplaces giving no least sign of his inner apprehension, could not dismiss the grievous cry they had heard that afternoon, and Montelongo alternately pondered the rapid and unexplained descent of the heavy trunk and his persistent sense of being under constant but invisible surveillance.

  The candles were burning low before Tyndale stood, stretched, and said he was going up to bed.

  “Up where?” asked Devenish, staring at him.

  “I think I’ll take the large bedchamber on the west front. It has apparently been prepared for me, and I fancy it must have been the master suite.”

  “But—it will be freezing up there! Why not bed down here tonight, and—”

  “I will be damned,” said Tyndale, “if I’ll allow myself to be scared into bivouacking in my own house!”

  “Who said anything about being scared?” Devenish demanded, jumping up and snatching up blankets and sheets. “It just seems stupid to leave such a fine fire.”

  With a broad grin, Tyndale shrugged. “Then by all means, stay down here.”

  Devenish glared at him and stalked from the room.

  The bedchamber he had selected was next to Tyndale’s. The large canopied bed was free of Holland covers but not made up. Grumbling to himself, Devenish began to spread his blankets atop the mattress. Montelongo stalked in, stared from the blankets to Devenish, and with one sweep of his long arm cleared the offending articles away. Devenish meekly assisted him in the business of sheets and blankets and eiderdown, each in its correct order of business, until a very tidy arrangement had been completed. The Iroquois departed while Devenish was disrobing, and came back a few minutes later, carrying a warming pan which he tucked between the sheets while eyeing the young man appraisingly. “You,” he imparted, “peel good. For small white man.”

  Devenish stiffened and prepared to devastate him with some well-chosen words. There was a twinkle in the unfathomable dark eyes, however, and it was dashed difficult to devastate anyone while one’s teeth chattered so. Clambering hastily between the sheets, his feet encountered the comfort of the warming pan and he forgot indignation. “You,” he shivered, “are—are a j-jewel! If ever you l-leave my cousin, come to me. My own man stayed with the m-military when I—er—left it, and now that I’m to be sh-sh-shackled, I’ll have to find myself a valet.”

  Montelongo thanked him gravely and went off to the adjoining room, where he advised Tyndale he meant to stay by him all night, just in case an uninvited guest should put in an appearance. Tyndale chuckled and enquired as to who was protecting whom, but he was disturbed, nonetheless. He had never before seen the proud Indian show fear.

  Devenish had set his candle on the table beside his bed and had instructed Montelongo to leave it burning. The room was so large, however, as to make the circle of light pathetically small. He found himself straining his eyes into the surrounding darkness, whereupon he closed them and tried to go to sleep. It had been a long, tiring day, and downstairs he had almost dropped off several times, but now that he wooed slumber his brain became fiendishly wide awake, his thoughts whirling helter-skelter fashion from one worry to the next. The shadows of past events weighed heavily on his mind until he felt crushed by sympathy for the mother he had never known, and for his father’s sad death.

  Outside, the night seemed full of movement and noise; the rain pattered, the wind sighed in the chimney and set the windows to rattling. Normal noises, of course. Certainly nothing to cause alarm. He concentrated on his beloved Yolande … her sweet face, and those heavenly eyes that could be so tender,
or … sometimes, so vexed with him.…

  He could not have said what woke him, but he started up suddenly, his heart thundering. The candle was out, the room oppressively dark with only the lighter squares of the windows relieving the gloom. The storm was still blustering. Perhaps a branch had come down, or a gate had slammed somewhere. He pulled the eiderdown closer around his ears and settled down again.

  “Alain … Alain…!”

  His breath congealed in his throat. His eyes shot open and he lay tensely unmoving. Tyndale never called him by his Christian name. Monty certainly would not. And besides—it had been the voice of—a woman! How stupid! He must have dreamed—

  “Alain … oh—Alain … my son…”

  His mind reeled. He thought dazedly, “My God! My God!” And leaping out of bed, grabbed for his tinderbox, only to pause, frozen with new terror.

  A faint glow shone from the mantel. By that unearthly light, he could see his mother’s portrait distinctly. His own infant likeness and the rose arbour wherein they had posed was gone, and there was only her face, transformed into a nightmare countenance like some hideous caricature of the beauty that once had been. The eyes stared from great, hollow sockets. The cheeks were sunken, the mouth gapingly down-trending as if in a despairing scream. Only the hair was as lovely as before, of itself seeming to render the other features even more ghastly.

  Devenish wet dry lips and battled a sick weakness. “M-m-mama…?” he croaked.

  “Avenge me…” came the poignant moan. “Alain … avenge us…!”

  The outer door crashed open. Tyndale, holding up a branch of candles, and with Montelongo’s dark face peering apprehensively over his shoulder, said, “Dev? Are you all right?”

  The familiar faces seemed to ripple before Devenish’s eyes, like reflections on the disturbed surface of a pool. “The—the portrait…” he managed, gesturing towards it.

  Tyndale walked closer, holding his candelabra higher. Devenish saw the puzzled expression on the strong face and, dreading to look again, turned his own gaze to the mantel.