by Jane Godman
“But don’t you see? Because of Sandor, we can never be safe while we are together,” I pointed out sadly. “As long as I am alive, Sandor will keep hunting me, and he will always find me. Once he knows I love you, he will kill you.”
“He may not find me an easy prey. But, if we have to, we’ll just go away. We’ll stay one step ahead of him,” he said blithely.
“You would do that for me? Leave England?” I studied his face in wonder.
“I would do anything for you, bouche,” he replied softly. “Never doubt it.”
* * *
Christmas morning dawned bleak and cold. Out of respect for Vicky, there were to be no celebrations. Lucy had agreed that the servants must have their usual feast, but Porter was charged with the task of ensuring it remained low-key. The family would give gifts after the evening meal, but there would be no music, dancing or games.
Cad strolled into the parlour and took a seat opposite mine. “It appears that our friend, the baron, has been called away suddenly in the night, Mama. His business must have been so urgent that it did not allow him sufficient time to take his leave of you. Or, indeed, any of us. But perhaps he thought we had enough to occupy our thoughts.” He returned my gaze with a bland stare that made me wonder if he had somehow persuaded Sandor to leave. I almost laughed aloud at the thought. No one had ever persuaded Sandor to do anything that was not of his choosing.
By noon there was still no sign of Eleanor. Lucy threw a few anxious glances toward the clock, and eventually I offered to go and check on her.
Lucy pressed my hand gratefully. “Thank you, Dita. I expect she has spent a sleepless night and may have only fallen asleep with the dawn. But I don’t think she should be alone, and she may be more inclined to confide her feelings to you than to me.”
I tapped lightly on the door of Eleanor’s bedchamber, but there was no response. The death of a friend was always painful. To have lost Vicky in such horrific circumstances rusted the brutal saw of grief so that it tore chunks of flesh from the heart instead of slicing cleanly. And Eleanor’s oddly immature ways made it harder, perhaps, for her to deal with the storm of her emotions. I hesitated with my hand on the door handle. It seemed clear that Eleanor wanted privacy, but Lucy’s words stayed with me. I opened the door and stepped into the room. It was empty. The bed was neatly made with last night’s nightdress still folded in readiness on her pillow.
Lucy looked up in alarm when I burst back in on her. “She’s not there. Her bed was not slept in last night.” The words tumbled over each other like waves crashing onto the wild coastline below us.
Lucy rose from her seat, her hands tightly gripping the edge of the table. “Dear God, no! Not Eleanor. Please…” Her complexion, always pale, became opaque.
Cad and Eddie came into the room at that moment, and I quickly repeated what I had seen. Cad’s expression darkened instantly. Despite my preoccupation with what may have befallen Eleanor, I could not help noticing that Eddie retained the strange, aloof calm that seemed to have descended upon him lately.
“We must look for her. Now. At once.” Forgetting the need to maintain a distance, I grasped Cad’s lapels and his nearness instantly steadied me.
“Not yet.” He covered my hands with his own briefly. “It cannot be a coincidence that our so-called baron left Tenebris last night. Eleanor was somewhat smitten with him, after all.”
“Rubbish!” Eddie spoke for the first time since he had entered the room. “A mild flirtation, nothing more.”
“Nevertheless,” Cad replied, his eyes fixed on his brother’s face. “Our first task must be to ascertain whether Eleanor has taken any of her clothing. If she packed for a journey, it seems safe to assume she has gone willingly and not been abducted. Or perhaps worse.” He dared to voice the thought we had all, so far, left unspoken. “Mama, will you and Dita check her room while Ed and I apprise Father of this development?”
A cursory glance of her bedroom showed us that Eleanor had indeed packed for a journey. Several dresses were missing from her wardrobe. The contents of her chest of drawers were sufficiently depleted to indicate that items of underwear and toiletries had been removed, and her coat and hat were gone from the peg behind the door where she always hung them. Lucy, a touch of colour returning to her cheeks, pointed out that the large portmanteau Eleanor usually kept on top of her wardrobe was also gone.
Tynan and his sons were in the study when we descended the stairs, and we shared our findings with them.
“It is very bad,” Lucy said, “but my first thought was that he—that this vile killer—must have taken her. At least it is not as bad as all that.”
Tynan regarded me steadily, and I nodded. It was time to tell the truth. “Of course, it is not as bad as if she had fallen into his hands,” I agreed, “but you should all know that the baron is not who he appears to be.” In a few brief sentences, I told them everything about Sandor and about myself. I was aware of Lucy’s eyes fixed on my face, but I kept my gaze lowered. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “Sandor warned me. He told me he would take something I valued from me.” I closed my eyes briefly. “But I thought he meant—something else. This is all my fault.”
“If this is indeed intended to be a message to you, Dita, then I expect we will hear from him very soon. But if we are to apportion blame, my dear, then this is entirely Karol’s fault,” Tynan said. He turned to Lucy. “Dita informed me of his identity at the outset, and I could have done something to rid us of this man, had I chosen to act. She warned me that he was dangerous, so I cannot be held blameless for this situation, either,” he said grimly. “And, since it appears she has indeed gone with him of her own accord, then Eleanor herself cannot be exonerated.”
“Don’t speak of her that way! You know how innocent she is, how biddable—” Eddie’s voice rang out like the crack of a whip, and we all turned to him in surprise. His face was pale and I thought again that he looked like a man who was slowly dying from within. With a muttered exclamation, he flung away to stare out the window, his hands dug deep into his pockets and his shoulders hunched. I went to him, sliding my arm through his. He stiffened and I felt him begin to pull away. Then he turned his head and stared down at me. A great, shuddering sigh escaped him and he slid his arms around me, burying his face in my neck.
“We are all worried about her,” I whispered, reaching up to stroke his face. When I withdrew my hand it was wet with his tears.
“You don’t understand,” he whispered. “None of you can possibly understand. It is this place…”
* * *
The next morning was bitterly cold, and I gave some thought to the difference between the warmth of my bed and the external temperature for a long time before finally emerging from the cocoon of my blankets. I washed and dressed hurriedly. One of the gifts Lucy had given me on that strange subdued Christmas evening was a beautiful silk scarf. It was in my favourite violet colour with tiny pansies embroidered all over it. I wound it once around my neck and tucked the ends into the bodice of my dress to cover my décolletage. Dressing fashionably, I decided, regretfully eying my reflection in the mirror, was for the warm.
A light knock on my door disturbed my toilette. When I opened it, Cad, dressed in riding gear, was leaning against the jamb. The smile in his eyes as he stepped inside did a better job of warming me than any scarf.
“I have to go to Wadebridge yet again this morning,” he said as I nestled into his arms, “but I wanted to kiss you before I left.” He bent his head toward me, and then drew back slightly, his fingers reaching for my oddly arranged scarf. “What on earth is going on here?”
“I am fighting back against the English climate. Now are you going to kiss me or just criticise my dress sense?”
It was some time later when, all thought of scarves forgotten, he finally raised his head and asked suspiciously, “Dita, are you just using me as a way of keeping warm?” When I nodded and snuggled closer, he laughed. Reluctantly, he let me go. “I will be ba
ck in time for lunch,” he promised, and, scooping up his high-crowned hat and his cane with its chunky onyx handle, left me alone but feeling considerably less cold.
I made my way down to breakfast, pausing on the stairs as a metallic gleam caught my eye. Stooping, I picked up a small key that lay against one of the stair risers. It was a serviceable item, the sort that belonged in a padlock or cash box. It was clearly also quite new. I tucked it into my pocket, intending to hand it over to Porter when I saw him.
I breakfasted alone, my thoughts turning relentlessly toward Sandor. I had expected to hear from him by now, offering me an exchange. Eleanor’s return for my capitulation. The fact that he had not yet contacted me made me wonder if I might be wrong. Could he have genuinely wanted Eleanor, after all? Was I finally free of him? I could not allow myself to hope it was true.
I was just preparing to leave the room, when Tynan entered. Snowflakes were turning to droplets in his hair and he shrugged out of his wet greatcoat. I had half risen from my seat, but one look at his face made me sink back down again. With a feeling of dread, I waited for him to speak.
“I have been with Inspector Miller down in Athal Cove. Prepare yourself for a shock, my dear,” Tynan said gently. Would there ever dawn a day at Tenebris when those words were not spoken? “Karol did not leave here as we believed. His body was washed up in the cove early this morning.”
“Dear Lord.” My hand shook as I mechanically reached for my empty teacup. “All this time we have been thinking he eloped with Eleanor, but in reality he drowned?”
“No, he didn’t drown,” Tynan told me slowly. A dark, impenetrable cloud of anxiety drifted over his fine features. “His throat had been cut.” I would do anything for you, bouche. Never doubt it. Why was I hearing Cad’s words ringing in my ears?
I gazed at Tynan in growing horror. The idea that was forming in my mind was too awful to be considered. “But if Sandor never left here…” I put a hand to my throat, sickened at the images that were crowding in on me.
Tynan finished the question for me. “Where is Eleanor?” We both swung round as a stifled exclamation from Eddie, who had just stepped into the room, drew our attention to his ashen face. I thought for an instant that he was about to pass out, and I hurried over to him. He leaned gratefully against me and I guided him to a chair.
“Miller is already trying to discover the answer to that question.” Tynan said. His own eyes were haunted by the unspoken fear we all shared. “Where is Cad?”
“He set off early for Wadebridge,” I answered. “I saw him as he left,” I added quickly, and then bit my lip at my own foolishness. Nobody cared how I knew where he was. Nothing mattered now but Eleanor.
“I must go to Lucy,” Tynan said. He lowered his voice to add quietly to me, “Take care of Eddie, please, Dita. And if you should see Cad on his return, ask him to come straight to me. I can’t believe he had anything to do with these murders, but it is clear he suspects more than he has so far been prepared to tell.”
I sat back at the table and took Eddie’s hands in mine. He returned my clasp and made a pathetic attempt to smile at me. It went wrong in the middle and became a twisted, tearful grimace. “When we were children, she loved to enact the stories of old Cornish legends. Her favourite character was Guinevere, because of her beauty and goodness. Cad found that unutterably dull, because, according to legend, Cador was Guinevere’s guardian and protector. He would rather act out battle scenes and fights. So Eleanor would make me into Lancelot and I had to perform heroic deeds to prove my undying love for her—King Arthur’s lovely queen. Lancelot was her lover and her champion. In our games, I rescued her from every imaginable danger. But I can’t rescue her from this, Dita.”
“It is too soon to give up hope,” I said.
“Not if you have never had any,” he replied sadly.
We sat together in silence, but gradually Eddie’s distant mood seemed to change to one of distraction. His attention span was never good, and I supposed that there were no rules laid down for how to behave in circumstances such as these. Lines of worry furrowed his brow, and his eyes darted wildly around the room as though searching for something he could not see.
“Are you feeling quite well?” I flinched at the inanity of the words even as I uttered them.
“Hmm?” He patted his pockets. Patiently, I repeated my question. “Yes, sorry,” he said, with an attempt at a reassuring smile. Storm clouds darkened the blue of his eyes.
“Have you lost something?”
He laughed ruefully. “Nothing important,” he assured me. “I’m sure I’ve left it in my room.”
“Do you want me to help you look for it?” I rose from the table, but he shook his head.
“No, really, Dita,” he said, holding up a hand to prevent me from following. “It’s a trifling matter, nothing to trouble yourself over.” Thoughtfully, I watched him go. Now, with this new uncertainty surrounding Eleanor’s disappearance, was not the time for the conversation we needed to have. Nevertheless, there was a lot to be said, and most of it would have to come from me.
Porter came into the room then to supervise clearing the table, and I remembered the key in my pocket. My lips parted to tell him about it, but a thought—sudden, horrible and insidious—forestalled me. I closed my mouth with a decisive snap and instead hurried to my room to fetch my cloak.
* * *
I heaved a sigh of relief. The lock had not been fixed and the door swung open easily. The cottage that Eddie used as his studio was quiet. I looked around cautiously. There was no sign that anyone had been here recently. Eddie’s easel still held the landscape on which he had been working when we first arrived. And yet…I sensed, somewhere deep and primeval inside my gut, that I was not alone in this house. The cellar door drew my eye. A new padlock, heavy and bright, rested like a jewel against its scarred panels. Why would anyone want, or need, to lock the cellar?
A series of thoughts, disjointed and apparently unconnected, played insistently through my mind. Eleanor’s words about Cad’s short visit when I was laid up with flu. On his arrival, he had said something to infuriate Eddie, who had flung out of the house in temper. Mere minutes before that scene, Cad had left Amy Winton struggling with her basket and bonnet on the cliff top. The day Nellie Smith disappeared, and Eddie’s reluctance to hug me until he had bathed. His greatcoat buttoned to the neck. His refusal to hand his bag to Porter. Sad little Vicky seeking solace in the arms of a lover—any lover, even one who loathed and despised her for being a woman—on Montol Eve. A boy who was Eleanor’s illegitimate son; a boy who looked just like Eddie. Sandor smiling down at Eleanor. Sandor with his throat cut. A forbidden love affair brought to an abrupt end by Lucy. A murderer who, like me, had travelled from Paris to Cornwall. Whose victims all looked like Lucy. A man who, in his twisted mind, hated his mother so much… No! I was wrong. I must be. Even as I told myself that, I heard Cad say, “You know I didn’t do it, Ed,” and saw the angry flush suffuse Eddie’s face.
I removed the key from my pocket and turned it thoughtfully over in my hand. Perhaps I should go straight to Cad, or even Tynan, with my fears? But what were they? I couldn’t express myself coherently in my own thoughts, let alone speak the awful words aloud to another. Decisively, I slid the key into the padlock and, with a nervous glance over my shoulder, turned it. The lock snapped open easily in my hand. That should have been my cue to run. Until that moment, I might still have been wrong.
The door swung inward, and the dark sweep of the stairs dared me to descend. I hesitated. A slight sound—was it a groan? Or the old house settling?—from the gloomy depths, reached my ears.
“Eleanor?” I called her name and another groan, louder this time, shocked me into action. As I set my foot onto the top stair, a hand—shoved hard into the small of my back—sent me tumbling into the dungeon-dark nothingness beyond the stairs. I hit the stone floor hard and the breath left my body with a loud hiss. Searing pain shot up from my wrist to my shoulder.
Looking up, I saw a man’s tall silhouette framed briefly in the light of the open doorway before the door slammed and the padlock clicked shut again with awful finality. Darkness as black and silent as a crypt enveloped me.
Chapter Thirteen
Grinning, gibbering insanity claws and rakes at him with the poisoned nails and glistening fangs of his murderous, long-dead ancestors. Fiends of hatred snarl and bite, their savage jaws drawing the blood that surges behind his eyes in tides of dark crimson.
The sour wine of age-old evil has hardened his heart to stone. He is at home only in this night of fathomless blackness. Pleasure exists only in that perfect instant when he paints the cobbles red with his hideous signature. When another girl, another damaged rose, withers and dies.
With the tongue of madness he has come to love, his master speaks. “It is her turn now. It is time to write ‘the end’ at the bottom of the page.”
* * *
A soft croaking noise from across the room roused me from my shock. My eyes began to adjust to the gloom somewhat. The only sources of light were a narrow rectangular strip under the door and a similar, wider strip at one side, at roughly the height of the low ceiling. A coal chute, perhaps? Motes of dust danced in the narrow beam of light. Testing my limbs cautiously, I found my legs shaky but uninjured, and I stood up. My left wrist was on fire and every movement sent shards of pain shooting through to my shoulder. I cradled it against my chest and, with my other hand outstretched in case of obstacles, moved toward the sound of Eleanor’s muted cries.
