by John Burke
‘Not mine!’ she had flung back at him. ‘It was Judith—or whoever Judith has taken upon herself in that maze.’
‘There’s nothing there to be taken on. The whole tale has provided a useful symbol, nothing more, meaning whatever one wishes it to mean. For old Lady Brobury the legend has been a focus for her religious caprices—her need for some private, personal self-esteem. For Judith the fantasy is that of the husband of whom she has been deprived too long. You were sharing her sexual delirium—and wallowing in it.’
‘But it wasn’t just hers. What about the anchoress, centuries further back? She was real, too.’
‘No.’
‘She was real,’ Bronwen insisted: ‘all those period details, the other people and what they said and did—it couldn’t just have been invented.’
‘Not pure invention, no; but based unconsciously on things Judith could have read and obviously did read in family records, or for that matter in the most ordinary history book. The symbolism of her sensual frustrations is so clear: the young woman’s piety and virginity, the growing lust to surrender that virginity, the breaking open of her physical prison, and the rape that was welcomed because all along she had been seeking a passionate reunion with her own husband.’
‘Her own husband,’ said Bronwen desperately. ‘Just so. Not I—not my imagining.’
‘You as well,’ he raged. ‘How long have you been nursing this secret desire for David, that you could yield so readily? So blissfully, damn it. That was no scientific investigation you were engaged on; it was the fulfilment of some hunger in your own body.’
‘Alex, my love…my own love…what has this dreadful place done to us?’
Bumping to and fro in the trap, he heard again every line of their quarrel and longed to expunge it from memory, from existence altogether. He recognized the logic of Bronwen’s own defence. For the first time his logic refused to match hers. Which was illogical, for how could there be two distinct, contrary strands of logic?
He must—and would—discard all unworthy emotions.
Still he felt she had committed adultery.
The distance between their minds grew wider and more dangerous. If at this moment they had been halfway through a case, achieving that precarious entente which was all-important to the unravelling pf physical from psychical illness, such discord would have thrown their whole quest into confusion. In the delicate mental surgery needed for psychic injuries or the evil cancer of supernatural forces feeding alongside the natural forces and stresses of the worldly body, it had proved essential for them to work in unswerving telepathic harmony. Conflict in their marriage of minds destroyed all their shared abilities.
Even if David Brobury had again asked them to prolong their stay at Ladygrove Manor, there would have been no point now. In their present split state of mind they could have contributed nothing, solved nothing for the Broburys.
Caspian told himself there was nothing to solve for the Broburys. It was all as he had said: a masquerade of personal pretensions and appetites. He would not allow Bronwen to be exposed again to Judith’s lecherous daydreams; nor allow her to succumb, knowingly or only half-knowingly, to an infection she might not be able to shake off. He would not have their marriage polluted by the spectre of David Brobury. The most pernicious incubus was that to which a woman involuntarily opened herself.
Yet every mile distancing them from Ladygrove made more hateful the idea of abandoning friends—even if the friendship had now inexcusably soured; abandoning them, he thought as he tried so hard not to think it, to something which became every moment less glibly explicable and more sinister and far-reaching than he had been prepared to acknowledge.
They clattered at last along the narrow street of Lenhale, past the tavern and ostlery, and up the short approach to the railway station. The groom neatly bunched the reins, hitched them to an awning support, and sprang down to offer Bronwen his hand.
‘You’ll not forget the horse to be collected from the ostler?’ said Caspian.
‘Jenny, that’ll be. No, sir, I got my instructions, thank you.’
He took down the valise and boxes and carried them through to the station platform, stood to one side as Caspian bought tickets from the window, and when he was sure that all was well and the departing guests were adequately equipped for departure, he touched the shiny black rim of his hat and turned away towards the ostlery at the foot of the approach.
Caspian drew the gold half-hunter from his waistcoat pocket and compared its time with that of the station clock. They had a full twenty minutes to wait before the train was due.
With the groom gone, they still had nothing to say.
A horse was being meekly backed between the shafts of a cart in the station yard. Out of sight a man was shovelling coal, the swish of his shovel becoming a screech as every now and then it struck stone flooring. A dog began to bark.
Bronwen said: ‘Pippin—the Broburys’ dog—if it did follow Margaret all the way here, she may have lodged it in the stable as well.’
‘They’ll mention it, then.’
‘We’ve got plenty of time. I’ll walk down and make sure.’
It was an excuse to be away from him, if only for a few minutes. He watched her go: his wife, his incomparable wife, slim and graceful in her carriage, yet with a Welsh sturdiness which added determination to her gentlest movement, rapier steel to her most lilting remark. Had he not the right to be jealous over such beauty? Many a man in history had had to fight to possess such beauty, and fight with sword and savagery to retain it. Faithfulness in thought, word and deed. And for her, the same faithfulness. In thought…?
She was in the doorway at the end of the approach, beckoning. There was no mental alarm, such as he might normally have heard; but the gesture was in itself urgent enough.
He strode down to join her.
She said: ‘The dog isn’t here. No mention of it at all.’
‘If you’re talking about Pippin, ma’am,’ said the groom, deferential but puzzled, ‘he does wander. But only a few hours, and then home again.’
‘He didn’t go home,’ said Bronwen.
Caspian shrugged. ‘The lady said nothing about a dog when she left the mare?’ he asked the ostler.
‘Ah, but it weren’t no lady, sir. This mare, she were brought in by a man.’
Bronwen glanced at Caspian to convey that this was what had disturbed her.
He refused to be disturbed. He had had enough of Ladygrove and its valley and its neighbouring villages and all the tempers and temperaments of the Brobury family. ‘Mrs. Henderson was probably late for her train, and paid someone to take charge of Jenny and bring her in here. The beast’s safely here, anyway, so plainly the fellow was reliable.’
‘Oh, I knew him all right, sir.’ The ostler was obsequiously anxious to please. ‘Brought up in Lenhale, he was, before going into Sir Mortimer’s service.’
‘Oh, one of the Brobury staff?’
‘Ten years and more, sir. Though I’d say he was more used to prodding pigs than handling horses these days.’
‘Pigs?’ exclaimed Bronwen.
‘Oh.’ The groom slapped the mare’s flank as if in commiseration. ‘Evan Morris, eh?’
It was innocent enough, straightforward enough. The swineherd had chanced to be in his home village when Margaret arrived, and had taken charge of Jenny and stabled her according to orders. Caspian could almost hear Margaret rasping out the orders. But he also heard himself asking:
‘You didn’t see the lady at all, then?’
‘No, sir, can’t say I did.’
‘The train would have come in just about then, I suppose.’
‘Well.…’ The ostler scratched his head. ‘Funny, but I don’t recollect hearing it when we was talking. You usually gets a right old earful when it comes in over the crossing, and then when it go out again. But there, I wasn’t paying no special attention. Could have come and gone without me so much as noticing, most likely.’
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nbsp; Caspian took Bronwen’s arm and drew her outside. The groom led Jenny out and took her to the trap, fastening her by a loose rein so that she could trot behind. Slowly he drove back down the approach, touched his hat again as he passed, and set a careful and steady pace back the way along which he had brought them to the station.
Bronwen said: ‘You know there’s something wrong, don’t you?’
‘We’ve finished with Ladygrove and its petty problems.’
‘There’s something wrong, and,’ she insisted, ‘you know it.’
‘Margaret arrived here just in time for the train, saw one of the estate workers she knew, handed over the mare, and caught the train and went on her way. There’s nothing to suggest otherwise.’
Bronwen stood erect and untouchable; yet demanding that he touch her, if only with the fingertips of his mind.
‘Nothing?’ she challenged.
He looked at a path meandering up the hillside above the village and wondered if that was the shortcut to Ladygrove, over the ridge and along the side of the vale and down through the Brobury woods and parkland.
‘If we had kept Jenny,’ he said, ‘one of us could have ridden her back along that route—just to make sure everything was in order.’
‘And then on to Ladygrove, to deliver her home and explain? And how would one explain?’
He laughed shortly. Reluctantly they exchanged the sketch of a smile. There was the faint, uncertain tingle of a rapprochement.
‘If we go at all,’ he said, ‘we’ll have to walk.’
‘If necessary, yes.’
‘Or hire two hacks from the ostler.’
‘But we’re going, aren’t we?’ she said.
‘Yes,’ said Caspian, ‘I’m afraid we have to.’
CHAPTER TEN
The path was easy enough to follow. It began behind the stumpy little market cross and crawled its way over the hill in a long, laborious zigzag which avoided the steeper inclines and occasionally sagged downhill, skirting an outcropping elbow before resuming its slow ascent.
‘You left something behind then, sir, ma’am?’ The ostler had shown deferential amusement, preparing to make some small profit out of the mishap. ‘You’d best let me keep an eye on your luggage for you, and we’ll treat it as a deposit on two horses, like?’
He had hired out to them two leisurely hacks, which sometimes plodded side by side, sometimes fell one behind the other along the narrowing track. Caspian at such times took the lead and quickened the pace. When they came to a spacious ride through the first stretch of woods, he fell back beside Bronwen.
They jogged on, staring ahead, each waiting for the other to speak first.
‘Are we being silly?’ Caspian asked at last. ‘What makes us interfere in a mystery which may be no mystery at all?’
Her lips pursed ruefully. ‘You think I’ve rushed us into it—made another misjudgment?’
‘If you did, we shared it. We both felt something was wrong. But are we both too sensitive to nuances which for other people add up to nothing of importance?’
Crows squawked in swaying treetops high above. A hare emerged from the grass beside the path, rose on his hind legs and raised a patrician nose to savour the air, then lolloped across in front of them and plunged again to earth.
The trees were thinning out, and ceased altogether on the crown of the ridge. Bronwen and Caspian drew rein and looked down into the valley beyond. Mockblane church was just visible three miles away. On a stretch of golden field, tiny figures moved in a swinging dance, and every now and then the sun flashed from a scythe blade. Ladygrove Manor was hidden behind its sheltering spur, inked over on this side by dark clusters and blobs of woodland.
‘Do you hear anything?’ asked Bronwen.
The note of discouragement in her voice asked if they were wasting their time. Caspian was glad that David Brobury knew nothing of this impulse that had driven them inquisitively back alone Margaret’s route. When it all proved a false alarm, they could ride back to Lenhale, return the horses, and pay the ostler to keep his mouth shut.
‘We’ll try another mile or so down into the valley,’ he suggested. ‘Not too close to Ladygrove, or the harvesters, in case David’s out on his rounds.’
The path was lumpy and required some care for the first quarter of a mile. Then the woods began again, and there was another ride, cut well back to either side, a shimmering green swathe descending between palisades of dark tree trunks.
They were well into the long avenue when they got the first intimation, like the faintest shrill of an alien birdcall, quite out of place in this setting. Caspian slowed his mount, automatically alert for Bronwen to think herself into unison with him.
Her green eyes were hazed with sadness, as dull as the underside of a drooping leaf.
‘Let me in.’ He could not be sure whether she had said it aloud or whether she was forcing herself imploringly against his mental barrier. He tried to open to her. In this they must be together: must resonate to the same distant cry.
For there had been a cry, he was sure of it.
They halted, a yard apart. Her horse snuffled and then was still.
There was a faint chink of harness, and through it the fainter discord of a despairing, incoherent mind wailing from the depths of the forest.
Further on.
This time there were no words. They agreed, they were drawing closer together.
They eased the animals forward. Very slowly they went on down the wide, long ride. At one moment the sound grew fainter and they stopped and trotted the horses round in a slow circle until the direction was clear again. They had reached a wooden rail projecting halfway across the avenue and marking for some distance a narrower path striking off at right angles. At the junction of the two ways was a wide patch of trampled earth—a pattern of muddy lumps and holes, which had hardened into deep, convoluted ruts. Guiding the horses around the worst hazards, they edged into the wood. Now Caspian had to lead again, and the cry weakened, but was strong again as they came side by side into a clearing. Beyond this it would be impossible to take the horses.
Now there could no longer be any doubt. As they dismounted and walked on they knew it had not been a matter of wayward imagination, they had not been mistaken in setting out. Haltingly, still not entirely at ease with each other but striving to overcome the mistrust, they clutched at thoughts that had no words, an emotion which was more anger than fear.
It was rising to a shout. Ahead was another clearing. Crossing it their feet sank into a soft beech mast. On its far side, like a broad sawn-off trunk, was something too square and even to be other than man-made. It was a hut about five feet high, and of roughly the same depth and width. A stake had been driven into the ground a few feet from the door, with something clamped on top, which might have been a wad of sacking or some discarded twist of ragged leather. When Bronwen and Caspian reached it they saw that it was neither.
From the top of the stake Pippin’s head leered at them—jaws open to reveal grinning teeth, blind eyes staring balefully. Dried blood from the torn throat had congealed on the stake.
Bronwen put her knuckles into her mouth and bit on them. She desperately wanted to be sick. But she rallied. The sound of their feet crunching and rustling towards the hut had drawn a sound from it that was no longer in their heads but real and clamorous.
‘Who’s there? Who is it?’
There was no window, but the door of the hut hung slightly askew to create a narrow gap at the top. Fingertips groped over the rough woodwork and tried to shake it.
‘It’s all right, Mrs. Henderson. We’ll have you out of there in a moment.’
No lock secured the door, but a thick branch had been knocked through the hasp to wedge it on to the staple. Caspian had to search through the undergrowth for another stub of wood with which to hammer and prise it free. He tugged the door open. Margaret reeled out. They caught her between them and guided her away from the fetid darkness of the hut.
; Margaret’s nails were broken where she had tried to batter or wrench her way free. Her hair was lank, her face and dress smeared by a dozen different stains. She let out one strangled sob, then pushed herself away from them to stand resolutely on her own two feet.
‘I’m obliged to you, Dr. Caspian. Mrs. Caspian. And now there’ll be a reckoning.’ Her voice was hoarse but determined. ‘I swear when I get my hands on that ruffian, that lunatic.…’
She saw the dog’s head on the stake. Tottering round it, she stared into the dead, distorted face. Their arms were ready for her as she slumped into a faint.
* * * *
‘I never heard anything so ridiculous in my life.’ It was at least fifth or sixth time that Lady Brobury had loftily, indignantly said it.
They were sitting by the fireside; she, Judith, Bronwen, and Caspian. The room was warm but the atmosphere far from cosy. Sitting upright on her chair as on a throne, Lady Brobury made no attempt to hide her displeasure at the reappearance of the Caspians or at the story, which, she as good as implied, they had extravagantly invented.
‘Morris quite properly and sensibly found the mare straying near Lenhale and lodged it at the ostler’s until he could report to us. What could he possibly have had to do with Margaret’s silly escapade?’
‘Being imprisoned in a swineherd’s hut and left to die is hardly an escapade, Lady Brobury,’ said Caspian respectfully; ‘and hardly due to her own silliness, one would think.’
‘Imprisoned? The girl must have been having the vapours. Just because she was foolish enough to shut herself in—’
‘I was not having the vapours,’ Bronwen contributed, ‘and I clearly saw the door had been deliberately jammed from outside with a branch.’
‘Ridiculous,’ said Lady Brobury yet again. ‘We shall soon see what Morns has to say to these outrageous accusations.’
Margaret was upstairs sleeping off the exhaustion of her ordeal, David had gone off in a fury to get his hands on the swineherd, announcing that he would bring him back here at whatever hour of the night it might be. Until then, and until Margaret was recovered enough to give a coherent account of her misadventures, they had little to go on. Little as it was, Lady Brobury had already made up her mind: indifferent to her daughter’s well-being, she was regally determined to protect her cherished swineherd from whatever calumnies might be devised.
