The Wellington Hotel was situated only a matter of minutes away, along the Parade and into Wellington Square. It had an impressive stone facade with an elegant and comfortable interior. In no time at all, Cassie was allocated a splendid room on the first floor. It had its own bathroom adjacent and featured two large windows which were draped with cool green velvet curtains. The room was immediately overlooking both the church and the square, with its handsome statue of Queen Anne. Outside the people bustled to and fro, all going about their business and occasionally stopping to pass the time of day with each other.
Cassie very carefully hung her clothes in the large wardrobe and folded the smaller items into the drawers of the regency chest. She noted that a number of her outfits would require pressing. Her four pairs of shoes she lined up on the top shelf of the wardrobe. Then, relaxing into a deep floral-covered armchair, she kicked off her blue ankle-strap shoes and stretched out her legs with a sigh. A feeling of contentment washed over her and, for a few precious moments, she laid back her head and closed her eyes. ‘Dinner at six,’ the man had said. Time enough to relax a while before getting ready.
As she drifted into a gentle sleep, Cassie’s thoughts meandered, and always they were agitated by one name, that of the elusive Scarlet Pengally. Was she really as beautiful as Amy had described? ‘Big black eyes’ she had said. ‘You could see that she’d been a real beauty… still was.’ Cassie’s fevered mind would not be stilled, and as she thought again on the cross which was branded as deeply in her own senses as it had been on the wall of the room where both she and Scarlet Pengally had stayed, the inexplicable feeling of dread permeated her dreams until, with a start, she was awake, beads of perspiration already breaking into gentle rivulets which trickled down her temples. Shaking off the morbid and disturbing thoughts which persisted, Cassie went to the bathroom, turned on the taps and began undressing. She felt uneasy, threatened somehow. Yet she convinced herself that it was all her own imaginings, together with the fact that the room had a chill about it, and possibly she might be catching cold. After all, she had travelled many miles since leaving New York, and there was no doubt that she was very tired.
At six p.m., Cassie entered the dining room, a pleasant room overlooking the square, with round tables covered in blue cloths; blue lampshades hung overhead, deep blue carpets lay underfoot and the long casement windows were dressed in soft blue curtains, with cream lace at the windows and large potted plants on the polished window ledges. All around the room close to the ceiling there were long stretches of polished shelving, filled with blue willow-pattern plates from end to end.
‘Good evening.’ The slim fair-haired head waiter smiled at Cassie, at the same time making every effort not to show his appreciation of the very attractive American, who was exquisitely dressed in a dark fitted blouse of silk and small dark neckerchief daintily knotted to the side of the neck. Her rich golden-brown hair was loose to her shoulders and her dark eyes were warm and friendly, yet touched with sadness, he thought, as he ushered her to a table by the window.
Cassie lingered over her meal of cod mornay with creamed potatoes and small fresh carrots. She was surprised to find that she was not very hungry. After a small glass of white wine, she returned to her room, collected her coat and went back down to the lobby, where she sought out the manager. He was a portly and friendly man, seemingly unaffected by his considerable duties and eager to be of every assistance to his overseas guest. ‘I’m told that you intend staying with us for a month, Miss Thornton,’ he smiled, suddenly feeling nervous in her presence. ‘May I ask what brings you to this corner of our country?’
‘I’m enquiring after… a friend, and I’m led to believe that I’ll find her here in Minehead. Do you know the area well, I wonder? Have you any knowledge of a woman by the name of Scarlet Pengally? Or a place called “Greystone House”?’ Cassie was dismayed to see a puzzled expression on his face. He must know! She felt suddenly defeated. ‘Greystone House,’ she repeated, ‘do you know of it?’
He continued to frown a moment longer, before visibly relaxing and, bestowing a nervous smile on her, he said, ‘Of course, miss… there aren’t many people round these parts who don’t know of Greystone House, or its inhabitants. The Pengally place is some two miles away on the outskirts of Dunster village.’
Cassie was greatly relieved. At long last she was near – so very near. ‘Then you know of Scarlet Pengally?… She still lives in the house?’ The questions tumbled out.
‘I know only that there was talk of her coming back,’ he said quietly, ‘That she was ill… and since her return she has become somewhat of a recluse.’ His manner was suddenly less friendly and it struck Cassie that he seemed very reluctant to continue the conversation. When she further questioned him, he murmured, ‘I’ll arrange for a taxi-cab to collect you. The driver will know the house.’ He made a stiff little movement, and abruptly turned from her. In only a matter of minutes, the taxi-cab drew up at the hotel entrance. ‘Dunster, is it?’ asked the driver as she approached. He got out and held the rear door open for her. ‘Whereabouts in Dunster, miss?’
Cassie clambered in. ‘Greystone House, please,’ she smiled, but her smile was not returned. Instead, the driver hesitated a moment before slamming the door shut. Then, returning to his own seat, he put the car in motion and headed out towards Dunster, his face quietly serious and his gaze constantly flitting to the mirror, where it surveyed Cassie with great curiosity.
As the car drove along the main road from Minehead to Dunster, Cassie’s thoughts were in a turmoil. Now that she was so close, all manner of doubts and anxieties began to gnaw at her. What would she say to this woman who claimed to be her mother? Would she be forgiven for arriving so long after the letter had been sent to New York? And what of the fear contained in the letter… was it real, or imaginary? And, most of all, would they even like each other, she and Scarlet Pengally?
By the time the car had turned from the main road and was nosing into the narrow Dunster High Street, Cassie had almost convinced herself that she ought to instruct the driver to turn around. Her every instinct warned her to flee from there, to pack her bags and return to New York at once. But, if her instincts pulled her one way, her curiosity and sense of purpose insisted that she must see it all through to the very end.
‘This is as far as I can go, miss… the road narrows further on, and I’d never be able to turn round.’ The driver took off his cap as he waited for Cassie to climb out, before closing the door behind her. ‘Would you like me to wait here for you, miss?’ He took the fare which she handed him, and thought it was more than generous. ‘It’ll be dark in less than an hour,’ he told her.
‘No… don’t wait for me.’ Cassie had no way of knowing how long she was likely to be. Suddenly it occurred to her that, if she had any difficulty, or if after all she was not made welcome by Scarlet Pengally, it might not be so easy to locate a cab. ‘How far is the house?’ she asked.
The driver pointed down the narrow lane to where it became a footpath veering off to the right. ‘Follow that path to the Packhorse Bridge. You’ll see the house well enough. You can’t miss it.’ He shivered. ‘Great ghost of a place it is… left to rot these many years.’
Cassie thrust two silver coins into his hand. ‘Will this be enough to keep you here for ten minutes?’ she wanted to know.
‘Yes, miss… that it will.’ He dropped the coins in his waistcoat pocket and slid back into his seat. ‘Ten minutes, you say?’
Cassie nodded. ‘If I’m not back by then, you can go.’
‘Right, miss… do like I said, follow the path round to the right, and Packhorse Bridge is a short way further on.’
Following his instructions, Cassie came to a delightful old cottage with thatched roof and tiny leaded windows. The garden was just awakening from a long winter. Here and there patches of early flowering heather whispered of colour, and dormant plants twisted and climbed along the walls.
Unable, in the gathering
twilight, to see either a bridge or what might be Greystone House, Cassie paused and looked about, wondering whether she should go back or knock on the cottage door to ask for directions.
‘Lost are you, missie?’ The voice was that of an old man, peering over the hedge and looking amused at her predicament. ‘There ain’t many folk as come this way… ’cepting them as live here. You shouldn’t wander off the beaten track, girlie… it’s so easy to find yourself on the moors an’ hopelessly lost.’ He nodded his head in the direction from which Cassie had just come. ‘Go along that way, an’ you’ll come out on West Street. Anybody’ll show you the way to the High Street from there.’ He grinned warmly, before disappearing behind the hedge once more.
‘Excuse me.’ Cassie went over to the small wooden gate, leaning over it in order to see him clearly. ‘I’m not looking for the High Street.’
Making his way towards the gate, wheezing hard and regarding Cassie with impudent eyes, he exclaimed, ‘I’m blowed if you ain’t American!’ He laughed out loud. ‘Well… you’ve come a bloody long way to get yourself lost, and no mistake!’ He ambled towards her. ‘Come in!… Come in an’ set yourself down a minute.’ He gestured for Cassie to follow him. ‘The kettle’s on the boil, I daresay you’d welcome a nice hot drink, eh?’ When Cassie smiled gratefully, but preparing to decline his offer as she was impatient to find the house, he took her smile to be one of acceptance. ‘Come on in,’ he beckoned, scraping the mud from his boots and afterwards going into the tiny kitchen, where he put out two sizeable cups, and replacing the kettle onto the fire, he began the serious business of brewing a pot of fresh tea. ‘Sit down, then,’ he urged Cassie, who had been lingering by the door, not really sure whether or not she ought to take him up on his kind invitation. He was lonely, that was obvious, but she really ought to be getting on, she thought. She glanced around and her eyes alighted on the photograph of a young man. She could not tear her gaze away. Something in his warm, smiling eyes, and in the shock of earth-coloured hair, stirred dormant memories deep within her; and a strange sense of happiness, tinged with sorrow.
‘That’s my son, Trent.’ The old man beckoned her to a chair. ‘He’s all I have left.’ He seemed to sense her urgency to depart. ‘We don’t get many visitors these days…’ Suddenly his eyes were sad, and Cassie was ashamed when he murmured, ‘Not since my Ada passed on.’
A few minutes later both the old man and Cassie were seated round the small circular table by the back window. ‘Now then, my dear.’ He wrapped his gnarled old hands round the girth of his cup and began to slurp noisily from it. ‘If you ain’t looking for the High Street, and you ain’t really lost as you say… then where are you headed?’ he chuckled.
Cassie sipped the tea, hating it. ‘I’m looking for Greystone House… for Scarlet Pengally.’
For a long awkward moment the old man gave no answer, other than to set down his cup, grab the cap from his head and to carefully fold it on the table, where it sprang open and fell to the floor. He made no effort to retrieve it. Instead he continued to look at Cassie in a particular fashion, at the same time rummaging about in his waistcoat pocket and withdrawing from it a short stubby pipe. After ramming it full with strings of tobacco from his pouch, he set a match to it and began puffing. ‘What’s your business with Scarlet Pengally?’ His sharp blue eyes watched her with unnerving directness.
‘She’s… a friend.’ Something inside her advised Cassie to be cautious.
‘A friend, eh?’ The words echoed suspicion, as he continued to puff on his pipe and consequently to be enveloped in great clouds of grey smoke. His round blue eyes were narrowed and stung by the burning vapour, but his inquisitive gaze never lifted from Cassie’s face. ‘You ain’t her “friend”,’ he said suddenly, seeming relieved as the beginnings of a smile creased his face. ‘You’re curious, ain’t you? You’re a stranger to these parts, and somebody at Luttrell Inn has told you about Greystone House… and Scarlet Pengally. That’s right, ain’t it? You’ve heard enough to make you curious, and you’ve come a-looking? Well, you happened on the right fella when you came to old John Blackwood’s door, and that’s a fact!’ He became quiet and thoughtful, and Cassie considered it best not to reveal her true purpose, becoming suddenly conscious that her enquiries had opened a door to the past that this old man, this ‘John Blackwood’, would prefer to keep closed. When he began talking again, with pain in his expression and, something akin to horror, she let him go on. ‘Y’see… I worked at Greystone House for more years than I care to remember… man and boy! I know everything that went on there… that still goes on there.’
Suddenly, he pointed out of the window, to where the trees rose up at the fringe of the moors. ‘Look there,’ he told Cassie, ‘beyond the trees. Look there… at the house itself.’
At first glance Cassie could not distinguish the tall gabled house from the trees which seemed to stand as timeless sentries all about it. But then it rose in her vision… the grey formidable shape looming sinister in the gloom, the yard overgrown and littered with old machinery and tumbledown buildings. It was a grim sight that sent a chill through her heart.
‘I knew that house, but the devil knew it better,’ the old man went on. Cassie could sense his fear, and it was just as real to her as they continued to stare at the house, his eyes misted by memories, and his voice barely above a whisper. ‘If any room in that house could tell a tale, it would be the attic where, oh so many times, Scarlet was cruelly imprisoned; or the dark damp cellar… where her mammy gave birth to her all those years ago, with only Vincent Pengally to see his daughter into the world. Then there’s a small frightened boy… who may or may not have done the terrible thing he was accused of.’ He paused, then drawing his gaze from the house, he said, ‘It’s dead now! The house is dead… but not the evil. Not that!’ He shuddered and sank deeper into his chair. ‘I saw it all… everything! But it ain’t finished yet… not yet! And, God help us all, there can be no happy ending to it. Some say it won’t end in this life… I say it won’t end in the next either!’
‘Please go on.’ Cassie sensed that he had paused in order to gauge her reaction. She knew also that he was sending out a warning. It did not deter her. How would it, when she herself was involved? Scarlet Pengally was her mother! And this old man, this ‘John Blackwood’, was probably the only key to her past. There was no going back now. She must know the whole truth, whatever the consequences!
Part 2
England
1905
The Deed
To know my deed, ’twere best not know myself.
Shakespeare, Macbeth
3
‘You won’t kill the child, will you?’ she pleaded. ‘Promise me you’ll take care of him. He’s your own flesh and blood after all… you can’t deny that!’ When the man hesitated to reassure her, she raised her head from the pillow, her vivid violet eyes belying the fact that she was close to death. Her voice was menacing as she warned, ‘If you kill him, or harm him in any way… ever… I swear I’ll come back and haunt you!’
The man reluctantly reached out and took her frail trembling hand in his in an effort to appease her. ‘Haunt me?’ he said softly, ‘You would do that? Yes… you would! Do you know, Evelyn, my dear… I do believe you have the heart of a witch!’ he smiled, and the smile froze on his face as he went on in a low chilling voice, ‘Why should I want to kill the boy? As you say… he is my son, is he not?’ There was antipathy in his expression, and doubt in his voice.
She looked at him, gently laughing, her abundant golden hair spilling like sunbeams over the pillow, and her pale beauty surprised him in the way it had done when he first saw her on a glorious summer’s day some four years ago. She had journeyed from Taunton into the Somerset village of Dunster, near Minehead; apparently her husband was buying a pony for their four-year-old child. The attraction between them was instant. Within that year, her husband had discovered their torrid affair and had issued her with an ultimatum: she must choose
her illicit lover… himself a married man… or her husband and infant. When she confessed that she was with child, the scene that followed was ugly and violent, with the consequence being that she was thrown out onto the street. Her lover had then secretly installed her in a moorland cottage not far from his home. His frequent visits were both discreet and demanding. Lately she had come to regret her shame and would have pleaded with her husband for forgiveness, but he had long moved away, and both he and the child were lost to her for ever. Now she was wasting away and she sought no help or solace from anyone; no one would regret her passing, for there were those who claimed she was a witch. Her only wish was that her son should come to no harm at the hands of Vincent Pengally, for he was both a man and a monster, with little conscience and no compassion.
She gazed deep and searchingly into his grey expressionless eyes, then, giving a long, withering sigh, she shivered, gripped his hand in terror, and was gone, leaving him cursing her. As though the touch of her hand might burn his skin, he quickly withdrew it from her grasp. Reluctantly, he drew his gaze towards the open doorway, and there was the boy, Silas, small and dark-haired, with eyes as deeply violet as his mother’s and possessed of the same virulent passion. His gaze fell briefly onto his mother’s lifeless form and lingered there. Yet he showed no emotion and remained by the door, quiet and still. When he looked again on the man, he was not afraid, nor did he flinch when he was told, ‘You are not my son. You never could be.’ Yet when the man swept past him and out into the sunlight, the boy followed, keeping close like a shadow, determined that he would belong.
4
‘Thank God you found me, Vincent.’ Hannah Pengally was lying at the foot of the cellar steps, one leg bent at a peculiar angle, her pretty face contorted with pain and her blue eyes moist with tears. ‘I was on my way down to fill the coal bucket… the baby! You must hurry… get me to my bed. The baby’s coming!’
Scarlet Page 3
