Once. Part 28

THE OH-SO-FAMILIAR sensation of overwhelming exhaustion had come over Thom only moments after the coldness and he had staggered from Nell Quick's house, footsteps heavy on the narrow staircase to the ground floor, heart pounding in a ponderous beat, his skin dank with sweat. He had to get away from there, in particular away from that red-and-black painted room that seemed to exude a peculiar degeneracy. Panic had set in with the fatigue and he realized that the thought of Hugo stealing from him to help this woman was its catalyst. He and Hugo had been friends since childhood, and even though they had not seen each other on a regular basis in latter years, Thom had always thought the bond between them remained strong. If he was wrong, if something had happened to change their relations.h.i.+p, what could it have been? Had Hugo discovered that they shared more than a long-term friends.h.i.+p, that they were related by blood, no matter how tenuously? Hugo had only been Jonathan Bleeth's half-brother, but the link

was Sir Russell himself, for the old man was Hugo's father and his, Thom's, grandfather. Yet Thom had been virtually disowned, even though Sir Russell had paid for his tuition and board, so surely Hugo could not be jealous of him. And if Sir Russell was so ashamed of his illegitimate grandson, was it likely that Hugo had even been informed of his half-brother's congress with Bethan, or of the child who was its result? If he had known, surely Hugo would have talked to Thom about it when they were kids.

Confusion, doubt, disbelief - all connived with the exhaustion to send Thom limping through the kitchen and out of the back door.

The fresh but warm air was a relief after the closeness inside Nell's house, reviving him enough to increase his speed. It was not exactly a run, more of a hobbling walk, but he was soon back at the Jeep and yanking open the driver's door. He drove back to Little Bracken erratically, once or twice losing concentration so that he had to jerk the wheel sharply to avoid leaving the road, the Jeep's speed rarely consistent, his foot sometimes too heavy on the accelerator pedal, weariness or lack of attention thecause. As he turned off the main highway into the lane that led to the cottage, he noted that the accident scene had been cleared, both transporter and green Volkswagen gone, only tyre marks on the road and a scarred tree trunk evidence of what had occurred. Brambles and thin branches lashed at the Jeep's paintwork as Thom fought to stay in control, and he was glad when Little Bracken's stunted tower finally came into view. He pulled into the clearing and parked the vehicle haphazardly, tumbling out and almost staggering up the short path to the front door.

Once over the threshold he leaned back against the door-jamb and called Rigwit's name. Response came there none.

He bolted the door top and bottom and ran his hands over his face, then studied the palms as if surprised at their dampness. Something else surprised him. He was hungry. He was so G.o.d-d.a.m.ned hungry. But then of course, he had

eaten nothing all day. Just forgotten to eat, it hadn't been a priority. Now, though, despite the exhaustion, despite the incredible amount of information he'd had to absorb - Christ, that he'd had to accept! - throughout the long day, despite his fear for Katy Budd, his fear of Nell Quick, his body - in particular his grumbling stomach - was crying out for sustenance. He felt unwell, he felt as if the left side of his body was made of lead, yet his belly was demanding to be fed! Good to know there was at least some natural order to things left.

Thom made for the fridge.

It was getting dark outside and Thom left the kitchen table to switch on the overhead light. The plate and cup he'd used for his quick pre-packaged meal lay unwashed in the sink and he still wore the loose sweater over his T-s.h.i.+rt because of the chill that had crept into the evening air. He returned to the table and stared down at the open book.

Then he sat and began turning the pages again.

It was the same book that the faeries had used as a portal into his world, and this was the first time Thom had had a chance to study it properly. Earlier, the first pages he had searched for were those somewhere around the middle, half-expecting the faeries to come streaming through the moment he found them. Disappointingly, there was nothing but symbols and hand-drawn lettering in a language unknown to him. He'd left the book open on the table for several moments, simply regarding it and unconsciously fingering the small scar running from his lower lip as he did so. He'd tried willing the faeries to appear.

Nothing. He'd placed his hands on the vellum pages in the way a spiritualist might place their hands on a seance table, his eyes closed, imagining the faeries pouring forth. Nothing.

Finally, Thom had given up and closed the book so that

he could examine its cover. There were no clues there. It was fas.h.i.+oned from plain, dark leather, its surface now worn and scarred but with no man-designed embellishment - no symbols, no t.i.tle, not even a decorative border of any kind. It might have been some ancient idea of a sc.r.a.pbook. In fact, on his initial perusal earlier, that had been his first impression, for although there were no cuttings inside there were sketches, more symbols, and lots of writing. Some of the latter went on for page after page, with no ill.u.s.trations or adornments to break up the tedium, while other pieces were short, set out in stanzas as ifthey were poems, but again, all in a language Thom had never set eyes on before. There was nothing orderly about most of the writings - they appeared to be ideas or thoughts put down at random - and not all paid tribute to the particular author's penmans.h.i.+p, for there were blotches and scratchings-out, blobs of ink, or paint, or whatever the medium used, spoiling characters and often whole words.

Yet among them were scripts of pure beauty, their calligraphy alone a suggestion of inspired prose, while other examples were almost micrographic, barely legible to the naked eye even if the language had been comprehensible. But it was the ill.u.s.trations that were the most astonis.h.i.+ng.

Some were just rough sketches, and even these were stunningly beautiful, while others were wonderfully detailed, their colours still vibrant (G.o.d knows how they would have sung from the page had not time faded their pigment), and the depictions almost inconceivable had not Thom observed the real things - or at least some of them, for there were beings and ethereal forms represented here that were way beyond anything he had witnessed over the past night and day.

Some spread across the page in flashes of iridescent light, their shape indiscernible among the patterns, only the skill of the artist somehow conveying the invisible presence within (Thom had to blink several times at certain pictures,

for their inner form seemed to be breaking through, the mysterious process hurting his eyes as surely as if someone was s.h.i.+ning a light into them), while still more, smaller ill.u.s.trations perhaps taking up a corner of a page or occupying what should have been a minor position among the script, leapt out at him in hues of green and mauve, violet and red, yellows and golds, often a combination of all these, and it took him only a short time to realize that what was being disclosed or unveiled to the reader of this tome was the recreated yet true vision of spirit creatures, elementals, energy forms that had more to do with the soul than the physical. He wished he could understand the words a.s.signed to many of these miraculous renditions, for they might have explained their exact nature, but something told him that he was not yet ready for such knowledge. But nevertheless, that same instinct seemed to hint that some day...

There were other glorious but simpler and more recognizable depictions of the creatures he had recently been introduced to -- elves, goblins, undines, sprites, various orders of faeries - and others he had not yet met - bogles, boggarts, kelpies, clobbies, et al - all named (their t.i.tles, or most of them, were at least comprehensible among the writings) and apparently with descriptions of their natures. There were many drawings and paintings of plants, flowers, herbs and toadstools, these apparently to ill.u.s.trate long scripts relating to their properties and usages.

There were sections dealing with spells and potions, with component parts and recipes (it was easy to guess their text by their layout), charms, omens, rituals and even auguries. It was peculiar, but the more Thom concentrated on the writings and on the vellum pages, the more he seemed to become familiar with their intent, even though the individual words themselves meant little to him. He remembered how dialogue with Rigwit had become easier the more they talked and wondered if the book's text might work in a similar fas.h.i.+on. Perhaps the 'tuning in' was more complex in this

case, but a basic understanding of the book's contents was coming through to him, the meaning of certain words or fragments of sentences seeming to spring out at him like clear jigsaw pieces, providing precise clues to the whole. Even so, he suspected it would take years of study, maybe decades, to fully appreciate the ma.n.u.script's full text and overall aspiration.

Now that Thom was looking through the book again, he noted once more that many different hands and minds appeared to have contributed, for handwriting and ill.u.s.trative style varied throughout - from fine copperplate or calligraphy, with elegant flourishes and curlicues, to squiggles and clumsy scrawls - and Thom soon realized this was an ongoing project, as Jennet had told him, for when he turned to the back pages he found them empty, devoid of all markings as if waiting to be filled. Leafing backwards, he found there was something familiar about the penmans.h.i.+p and drawn images on the last twenty or so pages. He had seen this style before, although he could not recall ever having taken the leather-bound tome from its place on the highest shelf of the bookcase; oddly he could not remember having noticed the book itself before - it had always been one of many volumes and way out of reach for him as a child. Yet this particular text was familiar because he had witnessed much of its transcription.

His mother was both its author and artist and more than once he had watched as she had carefully penned whatever enchantment or piece of faerefolkis lore she thought might be a valuable and informative contribution to the volume. He now remembered she had explained the meaning of her words to him, the significance of the symbols and emblems, the names and characters of the little faery figures she drew with such devotion. Disappointingly, the telling lacked clarity, the explanations were dim recollections without detail or purport. Their discovery was both wonderful and frustrating at the same time.

Thom scoured these latter pages almost greedily, delighting not only in the knowledge that they were the work of his own mother, but also in their fineness, the beauty of their simple execution, the faithfulness to their cause which was manifestly evident. And then he found himself staring at a small pencil-portrait of a man, someone who bore a pa.s.sing resemblance to the person Sir Russell Bleeth had once been, before the years of grief and his tragic illness had withered him. And which also bore a resemblance to Thom, himself.

Although, unlike Thom's, this man's hair was dark, the nose and chin line closer to Sir Russell's than his own, there was something about the eyes that Thom easily recognized, for they had looked at him all his life, reflected in a mirror. The portrait was from the waist up only, and the man wore a British army uniform. His name was spelt out below the sketch: Jonathan Bleeth.

Thom was dumbstruck. He gazed at the picture in awe and a great surging of love swept through him.

He had never known his father, but he knew he would have loved him. He knew because of the picture and the compa.s.sion it revealed in the face of the man, and he knew because his mother would only have loved someone worthy, someone whose nature was akin to her own. Although still incredibly weary, Thom felt a lifting of his spirit and a lightening of his heart.

He continued to gaze at the picture, wis.h.i.+ng he could properly read the words beneath the name, but not doubting for one moment that eventually - maybe not this night, or even in the days to come, but eventually, when he had absorbed knowledge from the book itself - he would be able to understand.

Jennet would help him.

After a while, his eyelids dropped, his shoulders began to sag, his head felt too heavy for his neck.Soon, his cheek was on the open pages and he was asleep.

BEQUEST.

IN THE gloom of the first-floor landing Hugo's pale face . was a confusion of elation and despair.

Is it...?' Nell asked in an excited whisper, her hands clenched against her chest.

The trunk door of the old longcase clock was open, the single weight and steadily swinging pendulum exposed in the cavity like the living organ of an unsealed body. As ever, the black hands on the engraved dulled bra.s.s dial declared an erroneous hour and minute, but still its wheels and cogs turned and clunked, for Hartgrove insisted on rewinding it well before its thirty-hour cycle - eleven-hour cycle these days - had expired, afraid the inner workings would seize up completely if neglected. Dusty wall lights did not throw out much of a glow along the lengthy corridor, and Hugo had used his cigarette lighter to invade the darkness inside the casing. He had almost squealed when he saw the envelope propped up against the trunk's rear wall and his hands had

been trembling when he drew it out and slid a thumbnail under the sealed flap.

'It's the Will all right/ he said, eyes re-reading the contents as if they were a surprise to him and not a confirmation of what he and Nell already knew.

'I told you the henbane would work.' Nell said, moving round so that she, too, could see the single-sheet doc.u.ment properly. 'I told you he would talk and talk. All that was necessary was the right moment as far as his strength was concerned and the right questions.' Her heart was beating rapidly, spurred by the memory of how the feeble old man had rambled on once her brew had began to work, how Hugo had grimaced with dismay when he had learned just how low he was in his father's esteem, and now the thrill of finding exactly what they had been searching for since Sir Russell had mumbled on about a new Will in his drug-induced sleep. Now, at long last, they had it in their hands.

'So almost everything goes to Kindred,' she said, as if to twist the knife.

Hugo did not respond, but his hands continued to shake.

The house, the estate - everything that rightfully should be yours.' Nell spat out the name. 'Thom Kindred!' And what would he do with it all? Precisely nothing, Hugo. He's a romantic. Even if he followed our advice, we - you, Hugo, you - would not be part of it.'

Hugo was hesitant, troubled. 'Maybe-' 'There's no maybe to it!' she hissed back, immediately dismissing the vacillation she knew would otherwise come. You've been disinherited, cut adrift! Your father thinks nothin' of you, and you've always known it!'

'He has provided some financial arrangement.' Hugo's protest was weak.

'Nothin' like you deserve, you fool. You're his son, after all. And what's Kindred to him? A b.a.s.t.a.r.d grandson who isn't even aware of the fact.'

She s.n.a.t.c.hed the paper from Hugo's hand, leaving him holding the envelope only.

'Here's the evidence and it can easily be destroyed.'

'It's witnessed.'

That can be taken care of too. Everything's goin' to work out, Hugo, trust me.'

'I do trust you, Nell.'

'You have to be strong. I can take care of it, but you have to stand with me.' You have to be part of it, Hugo, she was thinking. Your hands have got to be as dirty as mine, you must be an accomplice. That way you can't turn on me when it's over. And that way I can control you forever. Until it's your turn, of course.

'I'll be okay, Nell, I promise you. It's just that, well...'

Her voice became softer, persuasive, for she knew how to play this weak idiot who depended on her for so much, knew what he liked, what it took to make him bend to her will. 'It isn't easy for you, Hugo, I know that. After all, he is your father, your flesh and blood. But jus' remember how he's treated you all these years. He's been a bully and a tyrant as far as you're concerned, blamed you for things you've had no control over. When has he ever shown you any respect or love?'

'Perhaps when I was a boy 'P'raps nothing! He's always treated you badly. And now he favours someone born on the wrong side of the blanket. What has Thom Kindred ever done to deserve your father's respect? He's jus' bein' used, your father's jus' gettin' back at you because he hates you so much. An' Kindred knows it. He's laughin'

at you behind your back, Hugo.'

'I don't think Thom is even aware of the new Will.'

'Oh, don't you?'

Well, I...'

'Get wise, Hugo. They're both in it together, Kindred and the old manservant, Hartgrove, the witness to the Will. Who else d'you think hid it in this place? Sir Russell couldn't have left his bed to stash it here. No, old Bones is in league with Kindred. Together they're tryin' to do you out of what's rightfully yours, don't you see?' Anger had returned to her voice, but it was an anger on Hugo's behalf not against him, used to stir up resentment towards his father and Kindred. And it seemed to be working. As it always did.

*You're perfectly right, Nell. I've already been too trusting. I've always liked to see the best in people.'

She gave a short laugh. What a fool, what a self-deceiving idiot. Everything Sir Russell had thought about his son was true. He was a lazy, self-serving ninny who had always been too stupid and too gullible to hold down a proper job. And then there had been the other things - the gambling and boozing, the drugs, the cheap hired women. The deceit. No wonder his father despised him!

She moved closer to Hugo, slid an arm around his ample waist. Her voice was low, conspiratorial.

'Listen to me. After tomorrow everything will be fine. I've got preparations to make that will take some time, but I'll be ready by tomorrow night. We'll be ready.'

Hugo grinned nervously. G.o.d, he needed this woman, and not just for her body, not just for the things she did to him. She was his rock. Without her he would never have the courage, nor even the will, to take what belonged to him. He sniffed her aroma, that faintly musky smell that excited him so much. He stared into those deep, dark eyes and felt himself drawn into her. The plan for Bracken had been his, but she was the driving force behind its execution. He remembered how aroused she'd become when he'd first mentioned the grand idea, how a fire had burned in those eyes. Her pa.s.sion that night had left him depleted and bruised, but yearning for more.

"You'll see things you never thought possible.' she was saying, her voice breathy with antic.i.p.ation, 'things that will make your father's heart freeze. But there won't be a mark on him, nothing that can be blamed on us. Now we have

this ...' she held the paper aloft'... there's no need to keep him alive. Ironic isn't it, how he would have been dead months ago if not for my medicines and care. No doctors would have saved him. But we don't need him any more, Hugo, his time has come.'

'I don't want him to suffer too much, Nell.'

'Ha! And what d'you think he's been goin' through this past year? It would've been kinder if I'd allowed him to die sooner, but that wasn't possible, not until we knew for sure. And you let him suffer, Hugo, you let it go on, so don't start weepin' for him now.'

She pressed her hips against him, a distraction that never failed. The thought of having her always prevented Hugo from thinking too deeply, not that his imagination could ever stretch very far anyway.

For instance, the thought that one day - years to come, of course, when she, herself, was his partner both in marriage and in business - he might suffer a similar fate to his father would never occur to him. Poor, dumb Hugo ...

He mistook her smile for affection, her tightened grip on his waist for desire. We should get rid of it,' he said.

Nell pulled her head back a little. What?'

We should burn it. The Will. We should destroy it now.'

Her smile broadened to an unpleasant grin. 'Oh no,' she said softly. 'Oh no, I want the old b.a.s.t.a.r.d to see us do that. I think he should know that his rotten scheme to disinherit you will come to nothing. I want him to know that when his eyes shut forever.'

Hugo was silent, breathing in her smell, intoxicated by it; and excited, too, by the prospect of finally owning Castle Bracken and all its lands, to do with it as he pleased. If only the old boy didn't have to die in the way Nell planned (whatever that might be), if only he would just fade away naturally...

'Hugo.'

His attention snapped back to her.

There's no turain' back now/ she told him. 'Once Sir Russell is out the way and the Will destroyed, Kindred won't have a leg to stand on. And whatever happens tomorrow night will be his fault. He shouldn't have tried to do this to you, Hugo. D'you understand?'

Hugo mumbled something unintelligible, which Nell took as a.s.sent.

'Besides,' she said coldly. 'He should have died four months ago.'

Hugo s.h.i.+vered inwardly and, not for the first time, felt very afraid of this woman. But then, that was part of her allure.

She tore upstairs. How far had he gone? What had he seen?

Her bedroom first. She stood in the doorway, looking around wildly. Nothing appeared to have been touched, nothing moved. Yet the after-presence was as palpable as a lingering smell, a footprint in the sand, a fingerprint on a gla.s.s. She had felt it the moment she returned home.