The Macbeth Prophecy (25 page)

And with that, sensing Matthew's discomfort, she had to be content.

During the days that followed, Jason worked steadily at the outline of the new play. Some of Fred Hardacre's remarks had given him a lead and his imaginary stone circle became impregnated with superstition and folklore which, characteristically, he intended systematically to demolish. The fact that Matthew Selby had denied writing to him did not surprise him, but Madeleine's appearance with him after their previous conversation had. She'd seemed ill at ease, though whether that was due to his own presence rather than Matthew's he could not be sure. Certainly the precarious friendship founded after his accident seemed to have dissolved and he found himself regretting this.

One evening, purely by chance, he ran into the little chambermaid, Sharon, down on Lake Road. She was more than willing to accompany him to the Pavilion for a coffee, while he plied her with further questions about Patsy Lennard.

To little avail. She appeared to have told him all she knew, and repeated what Mrs Staveley had said: that the police seemed to be coming round to the belief that the crow was the culprit and there was no murderer after all.

Jason received this view with scepticism. He was convinced there'd been human connivance behind the bird's attack, but he'd no grounds on which to base any accusation.

Finally he gave Sharon five pounds and she went happily on her way. Outside the café window, the grassy bank led down to the calm blue waters of the lake. He sat staring at it, his mind sifting through what he had learned and worrying at what he had not. Then, with a sigh of frustration, he pushed back his chair and went out into the darkening evening.

Saturday morning came round again, and with it a letter from Tania asking for a divorce. Jason read it through twice and tossed it into the waste basket. So, Mrs Barlow, your prediction was only a few days previous. His second marriage was about to follow his first down the road to failure. He was still brooding over the matter when Mrs Stavely arrived for her cleaning session, and only then did he remember his promise of the previous week to preside at the prize-giving that evening.

“The social starts at eight, but the prizes won't be presented till nine-thirty,” she told him in reply to his questions. “If you'd like to come along with us –

“It's kind of you, but I have some work to finish first. Will it be all right if I arrive just before nine-thirty?”

She looked disappointed. Obviously, regarding him as her own particular prize, she had hoped to show him off during the evening. “Well, if that's what you prefer –”

“I'll be there on time, I promise,” he assured her, and wondered how soon he would be able to escape again.

A babble of voices met him as he pushed open the door of the hall that evening. The building had been the village school until the new one was built and the scuffed skirting boards and flaking paint told their own story. He walked down the corridor towards the double doors from behind which the sounds of revelry emanated. Mrs Staveley bore down on him with a cry of delight and her husband also came forward to shake his hand. Jason was relieved to find he was not, as he'd feared, the only male present. Among the sea of faces he recognized the vicar and his wife and the Marshalls and in the far corner caught a brief glimpse of Madeleine. No doubt she'd been coerced into attendance by her aunt.

He allowed himself to be led up to the platform and embarked on the speech they seemed to expect from him. One by one the worthy ladies came to receive their book tokens, boxes of chocolates and bath salts from his hand. Then it was over and Geoff Marshall was waiting with a glass of wine to revive him. Jason stood chatting to him for several minutes before moving over to where he had last seen Madeleine. She had disappeared, but a curtain moving in the breeze gave a clue to her whereabouts and lifting it aside, he found an open door leading to the old school playground. It was almost dark with the moon hidden behind banks of cloud, but the cool breeze was welcome after the stifling heat inside the hall. As his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, he could make out a figure on a wooden bench at the far end of the playground. He walked over to join her.

“Had enough?”

“I'm afraid so. I've a vicious headache and the heat and noise in there didn't help at all.”

“Matthew not in attendance?”

“Can you imagine him at the Mothers' Union?” She paused and added heavily, “I know you don't believe me, but I really am trying to phase out seeing him. After three years, it isn't easy.” She glanced sideways at him. “I gather you've decided it was he who wrote that letter?”

“It has to be.”

“And you still won't tell me what it said?”

“‘Come to Crowthorpe and watch a Macbeth prophecy coming to pass.' Words to that effect.”

She looked at him in surprise. “A Macbeth prophecy? You discussed that once on TV, didn't you, but I can't remember what it was.”

“One that fulfills itself.”

“And Matthew thinks we have one here?”

“It would seem so.”

She shook her head in bewilderment, then winced and pressed her fingers to her temples.

“Head still bad?”

“It'll be all right. You'd better go back to your admirers.”

“Among whom you obviously don't number yourself! Am I being dismissed?”

“Excused would be a better word.”

“Actually I prefer it out here, even though this bench is somewhat lacking in comfort. Try closing your eyes and leaning against me – it might help.”

“No, really –” But he had already put an arm round her and it seemed wiser not to make an issue of it. Certainly it was a relief to close her eyes. After a moment she said, “Incidentally, when Matthew and I were talking about your accident, he claimed he'd helped to build up that power in the stones.”

Jason's hand moved fractionally against her shoulder. “Having been knocked senseless, I can hardly deny there's some sort of energy there, but if Matthew Selby considers himself responsible for it, I'd say he's more dangerous than the stones. I'm only sorry I can't seem to convince you of the fact.”

“After you'd gone the other day, Mr Hardacre was saying everything would come to a head within a month or so.”

“He's quite a character, that old man. I can't imagine how he's managed to amass so much knowledge on such an erudite subject.”

Madeleine said slowly, “I don't think he ‘amassed' it. I'd say it's something he just knows instinctively.”

Jason snorted. “You're starting to talk like they do! The trouble is that under all this airy-fairy nonsense there's a more concrete danger. Matthew can talk till he's blue in the face about personalized attacks by inanimate objects, but the fact remains that a girl died up there, and it wasn't the stones that killed her.”

She raised her head quickly. “It wasn't Matthew, either!”

“Maybe not, but I'm damn sure he knows who did.”

She stared at him wide-eyed, trying to read his expression through the uncertain light, and he felt a shaft of fear for her. She was so appallingly vulnerable.

He said urgently, “Madeleine, you must stop seeing them – all of them. Don't you realize the danger you're in? If you found out too much, or if they only thought you had –”

“Too much about what?” she whispered.

“Hell, I don't know! Whatever it is they've got going at that infernal Circle. You could get drawn into it before you knew what was happening, and you don't want to be the next one found with her eyes pecked out.”

She gave a little gasp and he said more gently, “I'm sorry, I'm not trying to frighten you. Or rather, I am but for your own good. Don't you see how easily it could happen? Promise me that you'll keep right away from them.”

She said tremulously, “But how can I? They're my friends.”

He caught hold of her shoulders. “Haven't you heard a word I've been saying? They're lethal, the lot of them! Even if they've no power at all, they
think
they have, which is as bad! Why can't you just accept what I say?”

“Because I –” A second before he moved she divined his intention and tried to stand up but it was too late. As his hands tightened on her shoulders she said breathlessly, “No, Jason!”

“I think, yes.”

The kiss which, if he'd thought about it at all, had merely been intended to put an end to her arguing, immediately got out of control. He was totally unprepared for the effect of her closeness and his own overwhelming response to it, and it was some minutes before the frantic beating of her hands against his chest restored some measure of sanity. As he released her she stumbled to her feet and ran unsteadily back across the playground to the lighted hall.

Jason sat immobile, waiting for his breathing to quieten and the tumultuous beating of his heart to subside. The fierce protectiveness, above all the tenderness which had tempered the flare-up of desire, were sensations completely new to him and he did not welcome them. His hands were shaking as he lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. God, what must she be thinking? She didn't even like him.

A burst of applause from the hall made him turn. He'd have to go back inside; there was no way he could avoid it. He took another deep pull on the cigarette and sent it spinning away, a red arc in the darkness. Then with grim determination he started back to the hall.

A sleepless night and a restless day did nothing to settle him, and as Sunday evening approached Jason knew he did not want to see Madeleine with the tray. Obviously he'd have to apologize, but not yet.

He went swiftly down the path and across the road to the Greystones Hotel. From the call box in the hall he phoned Rowan House to report he would not be in for a meal. Fortunately it was the child Deidre who answered and no explanations were necessary. He went through to the bar and ordered himself a large whisky.

Deidre, relaying the message to the kitchen of Rowan House, did not notice her cousin's relief. For Madeleine the intervening hours had been equally uncomfortable as her memory circled relentlessly round those moments in the dark playground. That they had meant anything to Jason, she did not for a moment consider. He was no doubt missing his wife and, given his sophisticated background, presumably saw no harm in a few stolen kisses with a little country schoolmistress.

To be fair, he could have no idea of the havoc they had caused, for it was ironic indeed that they should have triggered in her the response she had longed for and not found in Matthew's kisses, and which by now she had resigned herself to never experiencing. Furthermore, far from the delight she'd anticipated from such response, it had left her with a yearning restlessness which she had no hope of gratifying.

“Will you be dining this evening, sir?”

Jason turned to find a waiter hovering with the menu.

“I shall.” He ran a practised eye down the card. Very impressive, he had to admit. It would make a change from Mrs Staveley's appetising but homely fare. He ordered avocado to be followed by lobster, and a bottle of Meursault. He would enjoy this meal, he told himself grimly, if it choked him.

The dining-room was well appointed and a pianist played discreetly in one corner. He could almost imagine himself in some exclusive Mayfair club, and he wished to heaven that he were.

“Everything all right, sir? Would you care for a sweet to follow?”

“Just coffee, thank you.”

“Good evening, Mr Guinn.” Anita Barlow stood on the far side of the candle. He rose to his feet.

“Good evening. Will you join me for coffee?”

“I should be delighted.”

She was wearing a lace blouse in navy-blue, high-necked and long-sleeved, which emphasized the creamy pallor of her skin. An attractive woman, Anita, even if her eyes were a little mad. Altogether more his type than that prickly, wide-eyed little –

He forced his mind back to his companion.

“I hear you paid a visit to our Circle,” she was saying.

“I'm not expecting any sympathy,” Jason said drily. “In fact, the news must have given you some satisfaction – sceptic gets his come-uppance, and so on. Or should I say fall-downance.”

“Perhaps you were lucky to escape with concussion.”

“Perhaps.”

The waiter brought an extra cup and saucer and, at Jason's request, two brandies.

“You've heard from your wife?” Anita's eyes innocently met his over the rim of her cup.

“Damn it,” he said resignedly, “you know I have.”

She smiled and he bit his lip. If he were not careful, he'd find himself accepting more than he was prepared to.

“And how are your enquiries going? Have they produced anything of interest?”

“Very little that I can accept.”

“But you're at least beginning to wonder?”

“That much I'll admit.”

Her eyes moved over his face. “I believe your education is extending in other directions too, and that you're not finding all the lessons palatable. Do you regret coming to Crowthorpe?”

Jason tipped back his head to drain the brandy. “Not at all. My new play is taking shape satisfactorily.”

“Of course. I was forgetting the reason for your visit.” Her eyes mocked him. “What's the play about?”

“A stone circle and the evil influence it seems to exert over local people. In reality, of course, the evil is in their own minds.”

For a moment she looked startled, then she smiled. “
Touché
, Mr Quinn. Your round, I think.”

He met her eyes blandly. “That was a superb meal – my congratulations. Now, if I might have the bill –”

As he came out of the hotel driveway and crossed Fell Lane, Jason's mind was on the exchange with Anita and he did not see the dark figure in the shadow of the wall until he was within a few feet of it. Momentarily its distorted shape brought tales of griffins leaping across the years before resolving itself into the marginally more acceptable outline of an old woman with a bird on her shoulder. The gypsy and her crow. He felt the hair rise on the back of his neck and lashed himself with ridicule. Damn Anita's hints and superstitions: she was infecting him with her own credulity.