Читать книгу The Evil at Monteine - Brian Ball - Страница 8

CHAPTER FOUR

We know—usually long afterwards—that there is a moment when we should have intervened. It passes, and this one passed, quite unrecognized.

After a while, Richard went on:

“I could have followed the boat, wherever it was going. It would have been an easy matter to board her and examine her dead crew.”

“Who says there are no mysteries?” said Fitch, pouring out the sweet, delicious wine for himself, and then for the rest of us.

“You never reported this, did you, Richard?” said Monica Sievel.

“No.”

“And you didn’t board the boat?” asked Jensen.

“No more than I’d open a grave.”

“What a fantastic story,” said Eric Fitch. “What an absolutely incredible story!”

“Neither fantastic nor incredible, Richard,” said Jensen. “Within the bounds of possibility, and entirely believable.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” said Monica Sievel. “But Anne’s getting bored with us—don’t drink the stuff if you don’t want it, dear.”

I swallowed my second glass of the fragrant sweet wine. I was becoming reckless.

“Were you anywhere in the Atlantic when you saw the boat?” I said to Richard, “Not anywhere near New York, darling?”

New York. I wanted them to hear me say it, to know that I had heard what they were talking about. I watched their faces. Jensen, with his white, larded features; Fitch, his bald head shining with sweat; the Sievel woman and her constant smile. There was something about New York, and I had altogether forgotten what it was.

“No, my love,” said Richard. “The New Hebrides belong to another world.”

Richard was still thinking of that remote sea and the salt-streaked hull, and it dismayed me to think that he was so far away from me. I looked around the three faces, the smooth, plastered face of the Sievel woman, with her impenetrable calm and her false smile; at Jensen, sweating and ironical; and at the contemptible Fitch, who was again pressing wine on me. New York, I had said, and not a sign that it meant anything to any of them; there was no response at all. I looked from one face to another, thinking all the while of my cleverness.

Surely they had heard me mention New York? Suddenly I felt cold. I had been reckless, and now, for no reason I could explain to myself, I knew fear.

Before I could begin to think of some way of diverting their attention from my deliberate mention of what I had overheard, Jensen spoke again.

“Richard, forgive me if I ask you this, but have you experienced a similar sense of wonder at any other time in your life?”

Richard gave the question some thought. Finally, he shook his head.

“No,” he said. “I’ve had the kind of half-awake sensations I’ve mentioned, but they can be accounted for in purely physiological terms.” He smiled at me and pressed my hand.

Eric Pitch said into the quietness:

“Have you seen the sea break over the cliffs below, Richard?”

Before he could answer, the Sievel woman went on:

“I wouldn’t like to be caught walking when the tide sweeps in—not nice at all!”

Jensen looked annoyed at the interruption.

“I suppose we sound parochial, Richard—there’s nothing like the kind of conditions you’ve experienced?”

“There aren’t many seas worse than the North Sea,” Richard said. “I know that. A hundred-foot wave hit a rig out in the Brent oilfield a year back. I lost a good friend in that disaster.”

“It’s a strange coast,” said Fitch slowly. “I’ve talked to the locals and they’ll tell you of waves like living things.”

“For God’s sake—” I began, for I hated the way the conversation was now turning.

Eric Fitch handed me my glass before I could continue. His slightly bulbous eyes drilled straight at me.

“You’ve seen the waves break below the cliffs, haven’t you, Anne?” he asked. “Haven’t you?”

“No,” I said. “And I don’t want to.”

“You should,” said Monica Sievel, laughing. “I think there’s nothing more agreeable than being high above the rocks and the cliffs and seeing the dark water swirling below—and all the time one’s safely above it all, and the water and the rocks are there but they can’t harm! Isn’t that the point of it all?”

“And then looking back at the Castle!” Jensen rumbled. “I think nothing can be more reassuring than the sight of the twin towers—you are in the South Tower, aren’t you, Anne?—from the cliffs! Why, it’s so exhilarating I’ve a mind to see it for myself later. Waves like monsters. You know, I can’t help feeling we’re straying into some odd territory.”

This was something new. I felt fear again.

“Then why talk about it?” I heard myself saying.

Jensen looked at me intently. “But why talk about anything?” he asked. “Why not talk about the local legends, since we’re all here, and none of us with any particular acquaintance with the North Yorkshire coast? But of course if you’d rather talk about—”

“Anne’s tired,” Richard said again.

He tried to pat my hand, but I blazed out:

“Don’t fuss, Richard!”

“Go for a walk if you need a breath of fresh air,” said Fitch. “Look at the waves and the sea.”

My head was swimming.

The Sievel woman smiled at Richard. “Yes, go for a walk to the old chapel.”

Richard seemed in the grip of some curiously deadening emotion. I felt he was becoming remote from me as he looked at the Sievel woman.

“What chapel?” he asked quietly.

“Why, it’s only half a mile along the headland.” Jensen put in. “Surely you saw the track down the valley? Didn’t we tell you about the old chapel? Of course, it’s all bricked up now. Weird old place. Odd tales about it too.” He rolled liqueur around his glass. “That is, if you’re prepared to believe the stories of the local half-wits.”

“No, you didn’t tell me anything about it. Not the chapel. Nor any tales,” said Richard.

I began to feel affected by the drink I’d had. It was beginning to drape a blanket on the unpleasant memories and converting my gaffes into triumphs.

“Tell me,” I said. “I like weird places and stories.”

“Certainly not!” Monica Sievel said, smiling confidentially at me. “Why, you have to experience it for yourself—go and catch the mood. There’s moonlight and the cliffs and the darkness below—and the ruined chapel! Go and catch your own ghosts, Anne.”

“A walk would do you both good,” Jensen assured us.

“You can’t miss the track,” Fitch smiled. His wet eyes hypnotized me. “Go right up to the chapel, Anne. Take Richard.”

I looked at Richard. He swayed slightly in his tall-backed chair. I didn’t know what I wanted.

“Superb meal,” he said. “Like to walk in the moonlight, love?”

“If you like.”

“Excuse me,” Richard said, dropping his cigar into a bowl of trifle. He didn’t notice the way it hissed out, but I giggled as I saw the expression on the faces of Jensen, the Sievel woman and Fitch.

I basked in their approval.

“Wait until we’re out of the room before you talk about us,” I said. What an exit line. I felt like a Bogart heroine.

I could hear them chuckling and murmuring appreciatively at my parting joke as we walked through the small bar and out into the entrance hall of Monteine Castle.

With a drunken clarity, I knew the evening was a disaster, but what pained in a dull and bitter way was that I did not know why; I knew, however, with an iron certainty, that whatever the evening brought would affect me immediately and dreadfully, and would go on winding its way into the fabric of my life with Richard, always threatening to destroy us.