An eager chorus echoed this request, shouts of “Aye, gie us a show!” … “Whar’s a skelpie?” … “Will ye nae dance fer us?”
The minister, a mild gentleman with a soft heart and patient eyes that blinked behind thick spectacles, managed to work his way through the throng. “Och! A Red Indian, is it?” said he admiringly. “Will ye no stand back and give the puir chappie air. They’re accustomed to great spaces, d’ye ken. Are ye lost, me guid mon?” And then, misinterpreting Montelongo’s incredulous stare, he said with careful articulation, “You … come here … for … why?”
The fathomless gaze of the Iroquois drifted up and down the good minister and his black robes; around the circle of faces, variously grinning, mocking, curious, or awed; and returned to the reverend gentleman. “I have come here,” he said in flawless English, “to hire servants for Major Win— Tyndale.”
A new chorus of astonishment arose, a markedly less friendly outcry.
“What manner o’ jiggery-pokery be that?” quoth Mr. Roberts, indignant.
“A iggeramous aping his betters!” the baker sneered.
“Servants, is it?” laughed the butcher. “Tae worrk at Castle Tyndale, eh?”
A sharp-faced matron asked snidely, “Why hae ye come all this way? Could ye no hire at Drumwater, or Kirkaird?”
Ignoring this unfortunate question, Montelongo proclaimed, “Major pay well. We need housekeeper, cook, parlourmaids, a footman. A gardener, perhaps. People come early tomorrow morning.”
“Ye’d best hae the gates wide, big Chief,” chortled the blacksmith, “else they’ll like to be beat down by the rush!”
This witticism sent the crowd into whoops, the following derisive comments causing many to become so hilarious that there was much side holding and moaning that no more mirth could be endured.
And the end of it all was that Montelongo returned to Castle Tyndale, a thunderous scowl upon his face, to inform his employer that everyone in the village of Drumdownie was crazy as a loon, and there were no servants to be had there, either. “Them say,” he imparted with a disgusted glance around the great hall, “castle is bogle-ridden and they’ll not set foot in it!” And taking himself gloomily to the pile of dirty dishes in the kitchens, reflected that he was much in agreement with the locals, loony though they may be.
* * *
“It passes all understanding!” Mrs. Arabella Drummond tilted her parasol against the afternoon sun as she wandered with her niece along the village street. Following, Josie was obliged to adjust her pace to the meanderings of Socrates since that pampered darling paid little heed to tuggings at the red ribbon that served for a leash. “Simply,” Arabella went on in high dudgeon, “because my sweet baby chanced to forget himself in the greengrocer’s shop, one might have thought the world would come to an end! I shall speak to your grandfather about that wretched man, I do assure you! Never have I been so insulted!”
In Yolande’s opinion the shopkeeper had been quite restrained, especially in view of the fact that they had entered his neat establishment in an attempt to gather information, and not as customers. The greengrocer had been able to supply little more than had been garnered from her previous informants. Of the inside servants who might be able to shed new light on the happenings of 1792, few were still in the neighbourhood. There was the Hewitts, he said thoughtfully. “But Mrs. Hewitt was a sickly woman who passed to her reward three years ago, and Mr. Hewitt went for head groom to a gentleman in India. Their daughter stayed, but she was only a wee bairn at the time of the tragedy.”
Reflecting that it all seemed hopeless, Yolande murmured something placating to her aunt. That lady, her feathers still ruffled, remarked that she could not for the life of her see why Yolande must make all these enquiries. “It is downright embarrassing,” she declared. “Had I known you meant to do so, I should not have accompanied you, for to be connected even remotely with such persons as Major Winters, er, Tyndale, is stigma enough, let alone to remind others of it! Were you wise, my love, you would allow him to do his own investigating. Much good will it do him, for the locals are not likely to tell him anything, even was there anything to tell!”
“Which is exactly why I am trying to help,” said Yolande. “They think of—”
“Oh—only look at that darling doggie!” Mrs. Drummond interrupted, rapturously eyeing a china spaniel in the window of the draper’s shop. “How that would brighten my poor little room at Park Parapine! Not that I mean to appear critical of the quarters allotted to me, for I am after all only a poor relation, and your dear mama is more than kind to allow me to serve as her constant stay and support, so I can scarcely expect to be given a chamber suitable for family or guests, can I? Of one thing, Yolande, I am very sure; none can brand me ungrateful. Not a night passes but that I remember your dear mama in my prayers! As indeed I should, for it must be so tiresome for her there, all alone with the children. Save for your father. Sir Martin is not a garrulous man. Often have I remarked how little he contributes to the conversation when I am with your mama, which must make her life just now so very dreary. Though that was not what I had intended to remark, and…” She paused, at a loss to know what she had intended to remark.
Yolande seized the opportunity to remind her aunt of the china dog (which she herself thought quite revolting, for surely no dog had such enormous and soulful eyes, or hair the colour of raw liver). “Should you like to go inside, dear? I can wait out here with Socrates, if you wish.”
Mrs. Drummond did wish. Yolande and Josie remained outside, but it developed that the lady proprietor was both an ardent faunophile and overjoyed by the patronage of one of the ladies from “up tae the hill.” As a result, in a very little while Socrates had to be taken inside to be exclaimed over and, Josie also soon succumbing to the fascinations of the cluttered little shop, Yolande was left to her own devices.
It was a beautiful afternoon, the warm sunlight causing the old sandstone cottages to stand in sharp relief against the blue of the skies, and a light breeze flirting with the trees and swinging the weathervane atop the minister’s cottage next to the quaint old church. The door of the church stood wide and, as Yolande passed a woman came out, head bowed and handkerchief pressed to tearful eyes. Wondering if she could be of some assistance, Yolande hesitated. The woman looked up, and Yolande thought she had never beheld so desolate a countenance. Her kind heart touched, she moved forward, stretching forth one hand and saying, “Mrs. MacFarlane! Oh, my dear ma’am, whatever is wrong? Is there anything I can do for you?”
But the gardener’s wife only shrank away, uttered a gasping, unintelligible remark, and hurried past.
“Puir wee lassie,” said the minister sadly, walking to join Yolande. “She carries a heavy load, Miss Drummond. A crushing load, indeed!”
Yolande nodded. “So I have thought,” she agreed, still looking after that frantic retreat. “I know you cannot betray a confidence, but—is there any way in which I could help her?”
He sighed heavily. “In company wi’ the most of us, ma’am, puir Mrs. MacFarlane’s best help can come frae but one source. Her own self!”
He was probably in the right of it, thought Yolande, and she said no more. Just the same, when she returned to Steep Drummond, she sent a note down to the MacFarlane cottage, in which she reiterated her offer to be of any assistance, and urged that if Mrs. MacFarlane ever felt the need, she not hesitate to come to her.
* * *
“Six days!” Devenish observed wrathfully, following his cousin down the main staircase. “Almost a week in this miserable damned pile, and what have we accomplished? Nothing! Not a word! Not a hint! Not a clue!”
Tyndale frowned. “It is not a ‘miserable damned pile’! In fact, I think the architecture superb for the period. Most edifices of this type are stately and impressive from the outside, and like a rabbit warren inside. Castle Tyndale has large, bright rooms; corridors that are straight and functional; and ample storage facilities.”
“As yo
u should certainly be aware,” grumbled Devenish, “since you’ve paced off and sketched every blasted room we found.”
“I really fail to see why that should so annoy you.”
But it did annoy Devenish, because he judged it to be a bourgeois pride of ownership. His disgust had been so obvious that one day his cousin had met his irked glance, paused in his pacing, and murmured, “You certainly understand why I do this, Dev?” He had replied disdainfully, “Oh, it is quite obvious that you cherish every brick and stone in the place!” To which Tyndale had retaliated, “And, like my father, you do not.” The reminder of his close resemblance to Jonas Tyndale had further infuriated Devenish. His head flinging upward he had snapped, “Very true. I am also becoming more aware of the murderous side of my nature of late. You had best never venture onto the battlements in my company, cousin!” and stamped away, fumingly aware that their relationship was fast deteriorating.
Now, however, knowing he was very tired and overwrought, he turned from an argument, saying merely, “I would think you had better things to do, is all, when we accomplish so little of what we’d hoped for.”
“No, but I think we have accomplished a good deal.”
“The devil! All we’ve managed to do is alienate the whole damned county! The yokels mistrust you, and now they’ve turned on me because I’m trying to help you.”
“Yes, I know. And I wish you will go back to London. You do not look at all the thing.”
Devenish was silent. That he did not look well was very true. There were dark shadows beneath his eyes and a drawn look to his pale face. His nerves were taut, his temper flaring more frequently these days, his frustration over their lack of success finding expression in an irritability that he was at times unable to contain.
Watching him, Tyndale said, “You have spent too much time in the saddle.”
“And learnt nothing! But they know—damn them! Some of ’em, at least! They know something, but will tell me nought!” He added moodily, “Besides, you have ridden as much as I.”
“I do not have a game leg.” Tyndale saw the immediate drawing together of the slim, dark brows, and went on hastily, “And I sleep. Why you must sit up half the night when you come in worn out, I cannot fathom.”
Again, Devenish returned no answer. The truth of the matter was that these six days had been a nightmare such as he had never before experienced. Despite his carefree demeanour, his life had not been completely free from care. He had endured a good deal of merciless mockery because of his good looks, and although his friends were numerous, he had also made bitter enemies, many of these because some admired lady’s eyes had wandered wistfully in his direction. He had known deep disgrace, and a prolonged siege of physical suffering that had not entirely left him. None of these experiences, however, had served to extinguish his ebullient optimism, or to daunt him for very long. But he was close to being daunted now. Just as, with every day that passed his cousin admired his heritage the more, with each hour that passed his own dread and loathing of it was increased. So long as he was inside Castle Tyndale, whether by day or night, he was tormented by the instinct that he was watched by other-worldly eyes. Often, he’d had the sensation that something stood so close beside him that his skin would creep with the fear of being touched by some cold, invisible hand. Prompted by the conviction that he was followed, his glance flashed constantly over his shoulder. His hesitant attempts to explain his experiences to his cousin had been met with a faintly incredulous simulation of understanding, but the sensitive Devenish had thought to detect amusement beneath Tyndale’s gravity, and pride forbade him any further reference to the matter. If Tyndale thought him either over-imaginative or a poltroon, he would be driven into his grave sooner than add to either suspicion.
His terror of betraying cowardice forced him to retain the same bedchamber despite his first ghastly night in the castle. Each evening he lingered by the book-room fire for as long as he could manœuvre either his cousin or Montelongo to remain with him. When he did seek his bed, it was as much as he could do to open the door, and he avoided looking in the direction of his mother’s portrait until shame forced him to glance at it. Only once, on the third night, had the gruesome transformation been repeated. He had sat up in bed, determined to keep his eyes upon the portrait to see if the change would take place while he watched. But he had dropped off to sleep and awoken, as before, to find his candle extinguished but the room illuminated by that soul-freezing glow emanating from the ghastly portrait. His teeth chattering, his limbs weak as water, he’d somehow driven himself to spring from the bed and rush to the painting, but he had tripped over some unseen object and by the time he’d picked himself up, all was normal again. The second and fourth nights had been entirely free from any manifestations, but he had been unable to sleep, his ears straining for the first sound of his unwelcome visitors. On the fifth night he had slept at last, only to awaken to a man’s voice calling his name repeatedly, this swiftly followed by the sound of a woman’s heart-rending weeping. Sick with fear, he had pulled the covers over his head and slept again from pure exhaustion, to awaken half suffocated when dawn lit the tall windows.
Even the memories were sufficient to make him shiver, and he was horrified to find Tyndale eyeing him curiously. Flushing, he said, “Instead of worrying about my sleep, cousin, you would do better to reflect on our failure to prove what we came here to prove. Dash it all, here we stay, achieving nothing, freezing with cold, victims of Monty’s ‘cooking,’ ghost-ridden, and—”
Nonsense! I have seen no ghosts, and if Monty has good luck in Kilmarnock today, we may soon have some servants to provide you with the comforts without which you evidently cannot exist.”
They had reached the main floor and were starting across the echoing vastness of the Great Hall. Devenish wrenched Tyndale to a halt and expostulated angrily, “I have existed without comforts before this, blast your eyes! But it was in the good clean open air, not cooped up in a clammy, brooding—”
“Well, God knows you have often enough been invited to leave!”
“D’ye take me for a flat? I’m well aware of how eagerly you would gloat and sneer and spread about that ‘poor old Devenish’s nerve has gone!’ Well, it has not! I can last as long as can you—and longer!”
His own nerves somewhat the worse for wear, Tyndale grated, “Devil take you! I would do no such thing!”
They stood in the middle of the big room, glaring at one another, and were both shocked when a discreet cough warned that they were not alone.
Mr. Hennessey, an Irishman who owned a small farm nearby, stood just inside the front doors, hat in hand, and an embarrassed expression on his ruddy face. “Sure and ’tis sorry Oi am did Oi disturb yez, gentlemen,” he said in his soft brogue. “Oi’ve fetched the eggs your haythen—Oi mean, your man ordered. And some bacon and pork and chickens, besides. Oi’ll bring ’em insoide if ’tis convenient and will not disturb yez at your brawling.”
The tension eased. Devenish laughed, and explained, “This was one of our quieter discussions, Hennessey. By all means, bring in the provender.”
“Well, Oi tried, y’r honour, so Oi did. But ’tis beyond me poor powers to get the kitchen door open. If you could be so kind as to unlock it, Oi’ll be fetching the stuff.”
The cousins at once proceeding to the kitchen found the outer door not only unlocked, but standing open, a fact that caused Mr. Hennessey’s dark eyes to become very round and his mouth very solemn. He carried in the supplies with marked rapidity, so eager to be away that he all but drove off without the flimsies Tyndale offered.
“So much for your ‘large, bright rooms’!” grunted Devenish as they loaded the food into the stone pantry. “Do you decide to live here, you are not like to be pestered to death by company!”
“Gammon! Hennessey said he’d been trying to get the door open. Likely he had got it almost free by the time he came for aid, and the wind did the rest. As for living here, I may very well do so. There mu
st be some rational folks hereabouts who do not shiver and shake and fancy every sound the work of shades and goblins!”
Devenish flared, “You refer, perhaps, to me, sir?”
“Good God!” groaned Tyndale, swinging shut the door of the pantry. “He’s off again!” He turned, half laughing, but was given pause by the stark fury in Devenish’s blue eyes. His own eyes narrowed. After a silent moment, he said thoughtfully, “We have been here almost a week. Time we looked at the battlements—if that would not cause you to be overset.”
Why he would choose this of all moments, Devenish could not comprehend, but he was damned if he would show alarm, and so followed his cousin into the hall.
In stern, unsmiling silence, they went side by side to the stairs and up until they came to the winding side steps that led to the northwest tower. It was too narrow here to walk abreast, and Tyndale took the lead, Devenish following until they reached a certain narrow window, where he paused. He had fought against looking out, but now his Uncle Alastair’s sombre voice echoed again in his ears.… “I saw a darkness flash past the window. I heard this … this terrible scream.…” He stood immobile, gazing at the narrow aperture. How terrible a thing to have seen what Alastair Tyndale had seen. How frightful to see someone of whom you are fond, plunge—
“Well? Are you coming, or not?”
A look of irritation on his face, Tyndale waited at the next landing. “Insensitive clod!” thought Devenish. “He should be plagued by guilt and remorse!” Yet it was very obvious that if Tyndale felt anything at all, it was merely impatience. Cursing under his breath, Devenish resumed his climb. They must, he was sure, have negotiated literally thousands of steps when the stair at last ended before a diminutive landing and a Gothic arched door. Tyndale hesitated briefly, then raised the heavy iron latch and the door creaked open.
They stepped out on to the battlements and into a brisk, clear afternoon with the wind coming straight off the sea and full of the damp, clean smell of it. On their first day here they had found two flags in the basement, one the Union Jack, and the other a banner bearing the arms of the House of Tyndale. Montelongo had decided that these must be flown, and they were now whipping merrily at the flagpole. A line of clouds was building in the northeast; westward, the wind raised little whitecaps on the waves and sent surf crashing against the guarding rocks, and, far off, the islands in the Firth of Clyde were clearly visible.
The Noblest Frailty Page 24
