“Not a trace,” she said. “Not a stain. What must it have been? And who—”
“I nominate Rowley Thome,” broke in Thunstone. “Evil is his business, and we two are his targets here.”
“His targets,” Sharon repeated. “What will he do to us?”
“We’ll keep him from doing anything.”
He went to where his suitcase lay open and took out a rectangular case the size of a cigar box. It was of dark leather and had no visible sign of a lid. Thunstone pressed his thumb at the side and the case sprang open, revealing a collection of objects. He took one, an oval that looked to be made of red baked clay, two inches by three. Its edges were bound with streaks of silver. It, too, had to be pressed in a certain way to make it open. From it Thunstone lifted a small silver bell, hardly larger than a thimble. It gave a clear, musical jingle.
“Here,” he said, “I want you to have this. Keep it with you always, day and night.”
Sharon took it from him and studied it. “What is it? I’ve never seen such silverwork.”
“It was carved from a block, it was never cast or hammered out. It was given me once by a highly holy man, because I’d helped him. Look at the letters on it.”
She bent close to look. “Latin,” she said. “Est mea cunctorum terror vox daemoniorum. ”
“My voice is the terror of all demons,” Thunstone translated. “I used it when Rowley Thome called up devils against me, and I sent them back where they came from, and they took him along. Now he’s been prayed back into this world somehow—with prayers to those same devils, perhaps. I won’t mention their names, I doubt if that would be lucky for us. Keep that bell always with you.”
“Won’t you need it yourself?” she asked,
“Take it and keep it,” he said again, and she put the bell down into her bosom. It spoke as she tucked it in. They finished their drinks.
“Now,” said Thunstone, “it’s not yet four o’clock. Would you like to walk out and see the campus, maybe see something of the town?”
He picked up his cane and they went out together, down to the lobby and across the street to the campus. They walked past the auditorium and other buildings on both sides of the street, and came to where they could look to a great green rectangle of lawn with huge old trees here and there. Turning left, they paced along another sidewalk, broad and of worn, rosy brick. Students walked past them, in groups, in pairs, singly, Most of these were contrivedly untidy, in patched jeans and patterned shirts. Others seemed dressed almost primly, as though they were on their way to church. A gaunt girl in a robelike garment of dark green bobbed up in front of them and stopped them.
“Thunstone!” she shrilled. “Mr. Thunstone, who knows everything!”
Thunstone gazed at her. The hood of her cape was flung back from a rumpled mass of dull brown hair. Her mouth quivered and squirmed in her round face, as though she felt pain,
“You walk with a cane, like a blind man,” she said accusingly. “Where’s your tin cup, your dark glasses?”
“ ‘None so blind as those who think they see,’ ” he said gently, quoting Matthew Henry’s worn aphorism.
She blinked at that. Her eyes were gray, pale and dull.
“So,” she said, “you’ve come here to nose things out, things that aren’t any of your business.”
“I came here because I was invited to speak,” said Thunstone. “As for nosing things out, why not? I’ve done a lot of that in my time,”
“I’ll come and listen to you talk tomorrow,” said the girl “If you’re still here.”
“I’ll be here,” promised Thunstone.
“Huh!”
The girl went past them, almost at a run. Sharon watched her go.
“I think she’s been taking drugs,” said Sharon. “Her eyes looked as if she had.”
“Lots of young people take drugs,” said Thunstone as they walked on. “Lots of people of all ages, when it comes to that.”
In the center of the green expanse rose a sort of obelisk. Thunstone wondered what it commemorated. “Let’s go over there,” he said.
They walked to the monument. On its base were carved the words:
IN GRATEFUL MEMORY OF
SAMUEL WHITNEY
(1801-1871)
FOUNDER OF WHITNEY COLLEGE
I KNOW NOT WHITHER
Sharon studied the inscription. “What’s that quotation?” she wondered.
“It’s from the Rubiyat, ” Thunstone told her. “One of the most daunting verses of that poem which teaches us, life is terrible and so is death, so drink and drink and try to forget.”
They returned to the brick walk and came to the edge of the campus. A low wall of rough stones, no higher than a tall man’s knee, bordered the edge of things. On the far side ran Main Street, along which Lee Pitt had driven Thunstone the day before. A row of students, men and women, sat on the wall. From hand to hand they passed a roughly rolled cigarette, undoubtedly of marijuana. One young man, scrubby in his faded denim clothes, picked at a guitar, not very musically. He sang, and others to his right and left joined in. Thunstone and Sharon stopped to hear:
Cummer, go ye before, cummer, go ye;
Gif ye not go before, cummer, let me . . ,
Thunstone led Sharon through a gap in the wall, to where they paused to wait for a traffic light to change.
“That song,” Sharon half whispered. “It sounded strange.”
“It’s a very old one, and it has some significance in witchcraft,” said Thunstone. “We’re told that they sang it at North Berwick Church in Scotland, when they concocted a spell to sink King James’s ship at sea.”
“North Berwick Church,” Sharon repeated. “I remember your telling me about that business. And the chief devil at the ceremonies was named Fian.”
“Fian,” nodded Thunstone. “Yes. And I’m wondering the same thing you’re wondering.”
The light changed and they crossed to the opposite sidewalk. A squat brick post office stood there, a flag at the top of the mast in front. They walked along Main Street, past a restaurant with a sign that said fast break, past what seemed to be a stationery shop, past another that displayed T-shirts with strange labels on them. Then a bank, and out of it came the young man called Exum Layton, who had questioned Thunstone that morning.
“Mr. Thunstone,” he said at once. His limp-mustached face looked drawn and worried. “It’s good to see you, sir.”
“Tell me something, Mr. Layton,” said Thunstone. “Where does Grizel Fian live?”
“Off there.” Layton pointed westward with an unsteady hand. “At the edge of the campus there’s an old cemetery, and her house is on the far side of that, the only one at that point. It’s a big house, it has pillars in front. You walk through the cemetery, and you can’t miss it.”
“There was a woman dwelt by a churchyard,” said Sharon, as though to herself, but Layton glanced at her sharply.
“Shakespeare,” he said. “That’s in Shakespeare somewhere.”
“In The Winter's Tale,” supplied Thunstone. “Little Mamilius starts to tell a story, he promises it will have sprites and goblins in it. But he doesn’t get any farther than the opening sentence, about a man who dwelt by a churchyard.”
“That play has my favorite stage direction,” contributed Sharon. “Exit, pursued by a bear ”
If she meant to make the conversation cheerful, she did not succeed. Layton stood facing Thunstone.
“Look,” he burst out. “I want to talk to you, Mr. Thunstone, something very important.”
“All right, go ahead,” Thunstone bade him. “What’s on your mind?”
“Not here, not here.” Layton’s worried eyes darted this way and that. “It would be better if nobody saw us talking.” “Come with us, back to the Inn.”
“I’ll meet you there.”
“Then come up in a few minutes to Room 312.”
Layton darted away along the walk. Thunstone and Sharon turned to return across the ca
mpus. They had almost reached the Inn before Sharon spoke. “What do you suppose he wants?” she asked.
“I’m anxious to find out. This morning, he got up in the audience to ask me about the Shonokins, were they real or fiction. Maybe that’s what he wants to talk about.”
They parted at Sharon’s door. Thunstone went to his own room and sat down. He waited for perhaps five minutes. Then came a knock outside, so faint that it was like a bird scratching. Thunstone opened the door, and in came Layton.
He still had a pale, pinched look on his face, as though he was dead tired. Father Bundren had looked like that after exorcising the black handprint. The priest, too, had looked tired. Layton sat down limply in a chair, and Thunstone sat on the bed.
“All right,’’ said Thunstone. “What is it?’’
“I got here without being followed,’’ Layton mumbled. “At least, I didn’t see anybody following me. I came up the stairs, didn’t use the elevator. If they knew I was here, somebody would do something—something bad would happen to me.”
“What are you trying to say?” Thunstone prodded him.
“You asked me where Grizel Fian lives,” said Layton. “You know about her, don’t you? All about her?”
“I don’t know all about anything,” said Thunstone. “I have thoughts about Grizel Fian. Did you come here to help my thoughts along?”
“I came here for help, if you can give me that. I’ve been into some things here at Buford State that aren’t in the catalog of regular courses, and”—he gulped, and his limp mustache stirred—“I want to get out if I can.”
“I’m waiting to hear,” said Thunstone patiently.
“Maybe I’d better start at the beginning—the beginning of this school.” Layton gulped nervously. “Back when there was just a little settlement here, a few houses, there was a set of people who worshipped devils.”
“A coven,” suggested Thunstone. “I’ve heard some talk of that. How they did their spells to cure Samuel Whitney, and how he founded the college here.”
“Samuel Whitney founded more than that.” Again Layton gulped, as though to steady his voice. “He established a special fund—an endowment, you could call it—for those women who prayed his life back into him.”
“Prayed his life back,” repeated Thunstone. “To what god did they pray? To what gods?”
Layton’s face crumpled unhappily. “I know the names they prayed to, but I won’t say them out loud, not here or anywhere. Whitney wanted a sort of study activity here, for those women, and he set aside a big sum of money for it, the income to go to the activity. Well, the trustees of the college wouldn’t hear of anything like that—said it wasn’t a proper study course—so Whitney just left the endowment independently of the college, and assigned its income to those who had helped him. You won’t find anything about this in any history of Buford State, but I know about it.”
“How did he manage his endowment?” asked Thunstone, trying to sit easily, to speak casually.
“The mayor of Buford was named Chunn Emdyke. His wife was one of the group who’d prayed Samuel Whitney back to life. Whitney gave him that money to invest as a trust fund, with the income to go to those witch women.”
“I see,” nodded Thunstone, who was beginning to see. “And the money from this trust, it still goes on.”
“Grizel Fian manages it today,” said Layton unhappily. “By now, that fund is bigger than ever. It’s grown in the bank where it’s kept. Grizel Fian directs it, and directs her followers.”
“I’ve heard that there are at least two covens here in Buford,” Thunstone said.
“More than that,” said Layton. “I’ve belonged, Mr. Thunstone.” He leaned forward in his chair, tense-bodied, his eyes wide and staring. “I still belong, do you see?” “How did you get into it?” Thunstone asked him, still calmly.
“Well, I was brought up in this town, all through grade school and high school. I’d heard rumors and whispers—no more than that. But then my parents were killed in an auto accident, and I was an orphan. Grizel Fian looked me up, talked to me, then paid my tuition here at Buford State. Told me certain courses to take. And she taught me things herself.”
He shuddered to say that.
“She brought you into her organization of witches,” said Thunstone.
“Yes. Yes, she did. I was initiated, and given a coven name—they call me Thief of Heaven. She brought me in so far and so deep that I’m scared.” Layton gestured shakily. “The point is, that now she means killing!” he almost screamed.
“Keep your voice down,” said Thunstone. “Killing whom?”
“You.”
“Me,” said Thunstone. “What about the others who have come here? Father Bundren and Reuben Manco and Professor Shimada?”
“This meeting gave her the notion,” said Layton. “It’s you she’s after. Those others, if she can scare them, make them run, it’ll be a victory. But you—”
“Will I be a sacrifice, perhaps?”
“That’s it, and it will bring her the power to come into the open here—found her own school, call it her own college, make this place a big headquarters for teaching her science!”
“Just like that?” said Thunstone, smiling. “How will she kill me?”
“She can kill and not be caught, she’s done it in the past.” Again Layton’s face squirmed. “But killing you and frightening the others away will dispose of four enemies to what she does and plans. And I don’t want to be mixed up in your killing.”
“Neither do I,” said Thunstone easily. “I don’t plan to be killed.”
“I’m scared, I say,” Layton fairly squealed. “I want out.”
“Good for you. You seem to think I can help.”
“Maybe we can help each other,” Layton half babbled. “Fve warned you, anyway. They’re fixing to do something to you, because you’re a danger to them. They want to eliminate the danger.”
“Eliminate me, in other words,” said Thunstone. “That’s been tried before.”
“But—Rowley Thome—”
“I’ve known Rowley Thome for some years, and he and I have had our contests,” said Thunstone. “I don’t remember that he ever had the better of any of them.”
“To have seen what they did to bring him back to the world, to here in Buford!” Layton cried. “I was there. Grizel Fian and her helpers, those girls who live at her house and others, they talked and sang and danced, and then there he was! Came out of nothing, like Mephistopheles in Faust I’d had enough of that, just watching. I’ve come to you for help.” He gulped. “First thing, I want to be baptized.”
“If you’ve been baptized once, it’s for all time,” said Thunstone.
“But I was never baptized,” chattered Layton. “Only by the witches, not by the church. I want baptism.”
Thunstone shook his head. “I can’t do that for you, I’m not a minister. You’d better talk to Father Mark Bundren.”
“Would he do it for me?”
“I’d think he’d be glad to.”
“If I made a confession to him—”
“He’d hear your confession, I’m sure, and advise you. It happens to be his business.”
Layton said no more. He sank back in his chair and bowed his head on his breast. Thunstone took up the telephone and dialed the number of Father Bundren’s room.
“This is Thunstone again,” he said when the priest answered. “I’ve troubled you once already today and now I’m troubling you again.”
“No trouble, no trouble at all,” came the reply. “What can I do for you?”
“I have a young man with me, his name is Exum Layton. He seems to be in great need of spiritual help. Will you talk to him?”
“Of course I will, send him along.”
“Thanks.” Thunstone hung up and gave Layton the number of Father Layton’s room, “He says he’ll see you,” Thunstone told Layton.
Layton hesitated. “Will he think this absurd?” he asked.
&
nbsp; “Not for a moment.”
“And the things I’ll tell him—will he tell anybody else?”
“A priest never betrays a confession. Go on and talk to him.”
Layton went out, his shoulders hunched nervously, Thunstone loaded a pipe with his mixture of tobacco and herbs and lighted it. He smoked and thought, and now and then he made notes on his pad. Time passed. At last he telephoned Sharon, met her at her door, and went down with her to the lobby.
They had not long to wait before Lee Pitt came to greet them. He wore his brown suit and smiled his creased smile.
“We’re all ready for you at home,” he said. “Ruth—that’s my wife—is eager to meet you and talk to you.”
They followed him out to his car. He drove them along a broad street, then along a narrower one, and finally stopped in front of a house of white=painted brick with a broad porch. He ushered them into a hallway and then into a comfortable living room with a sofa and stuffed chairs and bookshelves up to the ceiling. At an inner door appeared a woman with streaks of gray in her dark brown hair and a welcoming smile, Two alert teenage boys stood with her. From beyond them appeared a fluffy black cat, which sat down and studied Thunstone and Sharon with intent yellow eyes.
'‘Ruth, this is Countess Monteseco.” Pitt made the introductions. “And Mr, Thunstone, the man I’ve been telling you about, Ruth is my wife, and these are my sons, Sam and Dennis.”
Dennis Pitt took a step into the living room. “Countess Monteseco,” he said with awe in his voice, But Sharon went to him, took his hand, and said that she was glad to be there. The cat turned and walked into the room behind with a smooth, prowling stride.
“Shall I offer you a drink?” asked Pitt.
“Not for me, thank you,” said Sharon.
“Nor for me,” said Thunstone. “I drank earlier today.”
“Then shall we go in and have dinner?” invited Ruth Pitt. “It’s simple, but we hope you’ll like it.”
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