When his imagination wasn’t running riot he thought of his visit to The Laurels and his subsequent encounter with Geoff Lucas. Who would have believed that Alison could change so dramatically—and in such a short time? She had turned her back on everything she had known before—her husband, her plans, her friendships—and now embraced what she’d previously regarded as anathema to her—living in the village, the attentions of Ralph Collins. In addition to that she had now declared her intention to write—something in which hitherto she’d shown not the slightest interest.
He thought of her earlier suspicious regard of the village, its inhabitants and the strange pattern of events that had become apparent. ‘All those young people who come to Moorstone for a visit or something and end up staying, making it their home,’ she had said. ‘They all seem to, don’t they?’ And then she had added: ‘But here’s one who won’t. When I leave on Monday with Geoff that will be it.’
But she was staying, and her husband was leaving Moorstone alone. Her suspicions now seemed not to exist. All that talk about Mary Hughes and Miss Larkin, Paul Cassen and Dr Richmond, David Lockyer and Edwin Leclerc; it meant nothing at all to her now.
For now she had become a part of that very same pattern. She was staying on in the village—and Miss Carroll had been taken to Primrose House.
Mary Hughes and Miss Larkin, Paul Cassen and Dr Richmond, David Lockyer and Edwin Leclerc—and now Alison and Edith Carroll. . . .
He took another cigarette from the packet before him. As he did so he saw, over to the west, a small pinpoint of light. Cigarette forgotten he switched off the lamp. Now, in the darkness, he could see better. Other lights were appearing. They were over on the distant hillside, close to the Stone.
26
When Rowan saw Crispin’s House come in view a great feeling of relief swept over her. Although her earlier phone call had got no answer the present confirmation of Hal’s absence was what she had prayed for. So afraid had she been of finding him there, waiting, she had scarcely dared to look. But it was all right; the windows were all dark.
As they approached the corner she said to Lockyer without looking at him, ‘Pull up here, will you?’ As he stopped the car she glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It was after midnight.
‘Will you be all right?’ Lockyer asked.
‘Yes.’ She didn’t look at him. She couldn’t. She just sat there, fingers clasping and unclasping.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked. When she didn’t answer he said: ‘It’s a bit late for regrets, you know.’
‘I know.’
‘It’s done. There’s nothing we can do to change it.’
‘I know that.’
Pressing down the handle she got out. Then, without answering his goodnight she slammed the door behind her and walked away. After a moment the car started up again, drove past her, made a U-turn at the corner of Crispin’s Lane and then sped past her again, moving back towards the village. After it had gone by she stopped, turned and watched as its tail lights disappeared round the curve in the road. Then she turned once more and walked towards the house.
When she reached the gate she stood for a few seconds leaning on it. David Lockyer was right—it was no good spending time regretting what had happened. She would have given anything to undo the events of the past few hours but it was too late; they couldn’t be undone. She could only thank God that Hal was away. At least by the time he returned tomorrow she would, hopefully, have begun to come to terms with it. She would have to, for he must never know.
She pushed open the gate. As she closed it she saw up on the distant hill a cluster of tiny lights, near to where the Stone rose up. Raising her head higher she looked up at the night sky. The stars were sharp and clear. It was a fine night. Hal would be at his club in London, sleeping. Tomorrow morning he would be meeting the film producer, Goldman. In the afternoon he’d be putting in motion those wheels that would eventually see their departure from Moorstone. She thought of David Lockyer again. She was ready to leave now. The sooner the better.
As she went into the house the thought uppermost in her mind was that she must shower. She must do that before she could even begin to think of sleeping. She hurried up the stairs.
She had almost reached the top when Hal stepped from his darkened study and stood before her.
She started so violently that she briefly missed her footing and had to clutch the banister for support. Heart thudding she stared up at him, suddenly cold, the sweat breaking out under her arms. ‘Hal . . .’ she said after too long a moment. She forced a smile that felt stiff on her lips. ‘God, but you—you gave me a shock.’
He stood looking down at her. When he spoke his voice was very quiet. ‘Where have you been?’ he said.
She didn’t answer. After a moment she lowered her eyes and turned her head away.
‘Rowan,’ he said, ‘it’s gone twelve. You’ve been out for hours. I’ve been worried sick.’
She remained silent. Turning to look at him again she saw that he was still staring at her, his brows furrowed.
‘Say something,’ he said. ‘Don’t just stand there.’
‘I—I thought you’d gone to London,’ she said at last.
‘How could I go?’ He paused. ‘What have you been doing all this time? Where have you been?’
She shrugged. ‘Just . . . walking . . .’
‘Walking? All this time?’
She shook her head distractedly. ‘I just—wanted to get away—to think. Please, Hal—all these questions. Stop—cross-examining me. I’m tired. I want to go to bed.’ She moved up the remaining stairs and he stepped back. When she was on the landing, though, he came forward again and stood in her path.
‘I got back here and there was no sign of you,’ he said. ‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere. I went to see Alison . . . I was just about to call the police. Tell me—where have you been?’
‘I told you,’ she said sharply, a note of hysteria in her voice, ‘I’ve been walking.’
‘But what else have you been doing? Rowan, I just want to know. It’s obvious to anyone that you couldn’t have been walking all this time.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, stop!’ She was on the verge of tears now. She moved to step around him but he reached out and held her arm. With a quick, violent movement she wrenched herself free but as quickly he took hold of her again, this time with both hands. ‘Why won’t you tell me where you were?’ he said reasonably, ‘and with whom?’
‘—I haven’t been with anyone. I went to see Alison at The Laurels but—’
He broke in: ‘That was much earlier. I know about that. She told me. I’m talking about afterwards.’ Still with his hands on her shoulders he added, ‘What I don’t understand is why you should lie. Why are you lying to me, Rowan?’
‘I’m not lying to you. For God’s sake . . .’ She couldn’t meet his eyes as she spoke.
‘If you’re not lying to me then how was it you came home in David Lockyer’s car?’
She could feel the shock register on her face. ‘Ah, so you were spying on me,’ she said. ‘Sitting up here in the dark, waiting to catch me out.’
She knew the moment she had uttered the words that they were the worst she could have chosen. She knew it and she could see it reflected in his expression.
‘No,’ he said with a little shake of his head, ‘I wasn’t spying on you, Rowan. I was sitting looking at the lights up by the Stone. And then I saw the car pull up just down the road. Just afterwards, when it turned at the corner, I recognized it. Lockyer’s the only one in the village who drives a Jaguar.’ He paused. ‘No, I wasn’t spying on you. Did I have reason to spy on you? To wait to catch you out?’ Another pause. ‘They were your words,’ he added.
She could say nothing. She could feel the treacherous seconds going by, taking her further beyond the point at which some explanation might have saved her. Now, in just a brief time she knew that any words at all were useless.
It seem
ed to her that they stood without moving for a long time. And then she was aware of his hands moving slowly from her shoulders, sinking wearily to his sides. When at last he spoke his voice was little more than a whisper.
‘You’ve been with him. Lockyer . . .’
She didn’t answer. He must have been able to read the guilt in her face as clearly as if it were written there. There was another silence, then he said softly, his words sounding faintly pleading:
‘Rowan . . . tell me that I’m—letting my imagination run away with me. Tell me—please.’
Still unable to answer she closed her eyes, and the tears that had threatened welled up and ran down her cheeks. It was all the answer he could want. When she looked up a few moments later he was turning, moving past her towards the stairs. She stood without moving for some minutes after he had gone and then hurried after him.
She reached the hall in time to see him emerge from the sitting room. They each came to a stop, looking at one another. He held his briefcase in one hand and his overnight case in the other. His raincoat was over his arm.
‘I should have gone to London,’ he said, ‘as you so obviously thought I had.’ He shook his head. ‘Jesus Christ, Rowan, did you have to make such an idiot of me?’ He moved to the door, hesitated for a moment then turned towards her once more.
‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘I’m going up to London now. Exactly when I’ll be back I can’t say.’
‘Let me come with you,’ she said.
‘No. I think I’d prefer to be on my own for a while. Besides, you had your chance earlier. You didn’t want to then.’ He reached out for the door handle.
‘Hal—’ she said, then waited till he was facing her again. ‘Hal, I—I love you . . .’
‘Terrific,’ he said, nodding. ‘And you certainly have a way of showing it.’
The next moment he had opened the door and was stepping out into the dark. Minutes later there came the sound of the car starting up and moving down the drive and onto the road.
27
It was unusual to see the people of Moorstone about at such a late hour. Usually by this time of night the whole place was asleep. Tonight, though, for some reason, things were different. Approaching the bridge he noticed several figures moving before him down Little Street. Far ahead he could make out the shape of the Stone; see the tiny, winking lights moving around its base. Then he was turning away from the sight, moving left into the High Street. And there were people here too, all going in the same direction. As he went by he noticed that many of them paused to stare at the car. Let them stare if they had nothing better to do. Whatever they did was no longer any concern of his. He was not one of them. He never had been and he never would be. When he next set eyes on this place it would merely be for the purpose of selling the house and collecting his belongings. He would never ever come to live in Moorstone again.
But what of Rowan . . . ?
That was a question he couldn’t even begin to answer. After what had happened tonight he was no longer sure of anything where Rowan was concerned.
He had driven about three miles out of the village when, rounding a curve, he suddenly saw the figure of a woman appear in the glare of his headlights. It was like history repeating itself . . . Not quite, though. Unlike Miss Larkin, this woman seemed intent on self-preservation, for in the moment that he turned the wheel to avoid her she became aware of the car’s approach and dodged into the shadow of the hedgerow. He’d had time to recognize her, though. That small, slightly bent figure clad in shawl and long skirts—it could only be Miss Carroll.
But what was she doing out here so late in the night? After some hesitation he pulled over to the side, braked and waited for her to draw level. But she didn’t, and when after some moments there was still no sight of her he switched off the motor, took the torch from the glove compartment and got out of the car.
A cold wind had sprung up. He stood still for a few moments and then began to walk back along the road, moving the light in a sweeping arc. There was no sign of her at all. He continued on. And then he saw her there—cowering against the hedgerow. As the torch beam fell on her face she gave a whimpering little cry, raised her arm across her eyes and pressed herself deeper into the shadows.
‘Miss Carroll . . . ?’
She didn’t move. He lowered the torch so that its glare fell on the grass at her feet. The moonlight was enough. ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘It’s all right.’
Now at his words he watched her tense, and then lower her shielding arm. ‘Who is that?’ she said. ‘You blinded me with that light.’
‘I’m sorry.’ He was about to give his name when she cut in, saying: ‘It’s Hal, isn’t it? Hal Graham.’
‘You recognized my voice.’
‘Of course.’ Then she added, ‘And I can see you now.’
As he moved closer to her she stepped out of the shadow and stood before him. The wind was moving her hair and blowing her shawl against her body. She looked very small and frail.
‘You shouldn’t be out here,’ he said. ‘You’ll get cold . . .’
She paused and then shrugged. ‘I have to get away from that place.’
‘The village?’
‘Yes.’
‘Look,’ he said after a moment, ‘why don’t you come and sit in the car . . . ?’
She drew away from him. ‘You want to take me back, don’t you?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘You mean that?’
‘Of course.’
She moved towards him again. ‘Where are you going?’ she asked.
‘To London.’
‘Now? You’re going there now?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good.’ She gave a nod of satisfaction. ‘And you must never come back. Never.’
Seeing her before him now he remembered his last sight of her—only a few hours earlier—when she’d stood at the upper window of The Laurels. She didn’t look nearly so wild now. He could make out no hint of madness in her eyes. He saw there only a kind of bewildered despair; a look that made him think once more of Miss Larkin—as she had stood on the edge of the chalkpit.
As if she’d been able to read some of his thoughts the woman said, ‘I’m not mad, you know. Oh, I know they’d tell you I am, but I’m not.’ She paused. ‘Though what they’ve done would be enough to drive the strongest person insane.’
‘What is that? What have they done?’
She stared at him for a moment as if deliberating, then slowly she shook her head. ‘If I told you that, at this moment, you’d believe they were right.’ She shivered and pulled the shawl more closely about her shoulders. The wind was growing stronger now and scudding clouds intermittently shut out the light from the moon. ‘Primrose House,’ she said. ‘They took me to Primrose House.’
He nodded. ‘I know.’
‘Not for long, though. I got out again. I don’t think they could have cared that much. Now, if I died of exposure or something—they’d be relieved. That would be one less to bother about.’ She frowned. ‘I got out quite easily. There was hardly anyone about.’
‘I’m not surprised. They’re all off somewhere for some purpose or other. The whole village.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t know. There’s something going on. Some kind of stupidity, I suppose. They’re all heading towards the Stone, it looked like. Everyone’s out on the streets.’
‘Now? Tonight?’
‘Yes. I saw them all as I came by. And there are lights up by the Stone.’
‘Oh, Christ.’ She stared at him for a moment then, stepping forward, pushed at him with one small hand. ‘You must go,’ she said. ‘Go. Now. Don’t just stand around here.’
‘What for?’
‘Just go.’
He didn’t understand her. ‘What about you?’ he said.
‘Would you—take me with you?’
‘To London?’
She nodded.
‘Yes,’ he sai
d, ‘of course.’
Reaching out to him again she said, ‘Then we must go quickly.’ She took his arm and together they went to the car. As he opened the rear door for her she straightened and said, ‘You’re alone?’
‘Yes . . .’
‘But—where’s Rowan?’
‘She—she’s at the house.’
Frantically she shook her head. ‘You mustn’t leave without her. You must get her.’
As she finished speaking she climbed into the car. He closed the door after her and got into the driver’s seat. She leaned towards him. ‘Turn it around,’ she said, ‘and hurry!’
He still didn’t understand. But whether she was mad or not he couldn’t ignore the urgency in her voice. He got the car moving and drove down the road looking for a suitable place in which to turn. Eventually he found a spot at the entrance to a field. As he reversed into the opening he was suddenly aware of the old woman leaning forward and taking his cigarettes from the seat beside him. He stopped the car and turned to face her.
‘I need this,’ she said.
He watched as she struck a match. When the flame had gone her face was all in shadow again. But he could feel her old eyes watching him above the glowing end of the cigarette. He stared at her as she sighed and blew out the smoke.
‘What are you waiting for?’ she said. ‘We must hurry.’
He ignored her words. He should have realized earlier that there was something different about her. There had been so many signs.
‘Miss—Miss Carroll . . . ?’ he said.
He could make out the slow shake of her head.
‘No, Hal,’ she said. Her voice sounded resigned and utterly weary now. She put the matches into the seat pocket before her and leaned back. ‘No, not Miss Carroll,’ she said. ‘Not really Miss Carroll.’
The Moorstone Sickness Page 18
