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 illustrations that were the most astonishing.
Some were just rough sketches, and even these were stunningly beautiful, while others were wonderfully detailed, their colours still vibrant (God 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 shining a light into them), while still more, smaller illustrations 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 assigned 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 titles, 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 illustrate 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 fashion. 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 manuscript’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 illustrative 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 penmanship 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 passing 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 compassion 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, wishing 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.
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 brass 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 document 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 est
eem, 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 bastard grandson who isn’t even aware of the fact.’
She snatched 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. God, 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 passion 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 anticipation, ‘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 bastard 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 turnin’ 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 assent.
‘Besides,’ she said coldly. ‘He should have died four months ago.’
Hugo shivered 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 glass. She had felt it the moment she returned home.
Nell whirled and rushed down the short corridor to a room opposite. The door was open and Nell never left the door to her secret room open because to do so would be to allow some of its power to escape. Whoever had snooped around up here had obviously been worried enough to leave in a hurry, forgetting to leave the door the way
they had found it.
She looked around quickly, taking everything in, her chest heaving in her anger. What had they touched?
She looked across the painted room towards the altar, at the blue chalice that stood among the other implements of her craft. She went to it.
And gasped when she saw that its contents were gone.
Thom Kindred had taken them with him.
Nell let out a screech of rage and lashed the air with clawed fists.
How dare he! How dare he invade her private place and steal from her! She knew it was Kindred who had entered her home when she was away, knew it the moment after she’d realized someone had been there, and that was the very moment she’d walked through the front door, for she sensed these things, she was aware of all intrusion and any negative thoughts directed her way.
She calmed herself, forced herself to breathe slowly and evenly; but her mind remained a ferment of rage.
So he thought he could play games with her, did he? He imagined he could get the better of Nell Quick, did he? Well, pity he wasn’t aware that she enjoyed such happy diversions, especially when they could only end in horror for her opponent.
And before this night was through, Thom Kindred would know such horror.
SOMETHING ROUSED Thom from his slumber. Arms still spread across the kitchen table, he lifted his head a few inches from the open book.
Holding his breath, he listened.
A gentle tap on the front door.
He lifted his head higher, his shoulders slowly straightening.
Another knock on the door.
He sat upright in the chair, watching the front door as if he might divine what was on the other side.
‘Jennet?’ he called quietly, optimistically. Wouldn’t she have used the bell?
A great thump on the door, so that the wood seemed to strain against its hinges.
He jumped at the sound, fully alert now, the dregs of sleep startled away.