Читать книгу Keep Me Forever - Rosemary Laurey - Страница 8

Elizabeth froze, for a moment unable to comprehend what was happening. Antonia reacted faster, straightening her overturned glass and looking the man in the face. “Excuse me,” she began, turning toward the bar to get Alf’s attention. “We need a cloth here.”

“You need to get out of Bringham!” the man snarled in her face, turning his head to give Elizabeth a share of his scowl. “Get out. Go back where you came from, and stop upsetting everyone.”

“Who are you?” Elizabeth managed.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” he snapped back, giving her the full benefit of the alcohol on his breath. “But I know what your lot are doing: causing trouble, bothering people. We don’t need you here!”

“Come along now, John!” Alf appeared at the man’s elbow as a knot of customers gathered at a discreet distance. Elizabeth could almost see their ears flapping. Whatever was going on—and she’d love to know what exactly it was—was much more interesting than darts or snooker. “You leave these ladies alone now.” He met Antonia’s eyes. “Sorry about this.”

“I’m not!” The man called John wrenched his arm free. “Let them leave us in peace. Coming here. Stirring things up.”

“I believe, sir,” Antonia said in her best daughter of a chieftain voice, “you are mistaking us for someone else.”

“I’m bloody well not! I heard you tell Alf you’d bought Orchard House. I know exactly who you are.”

“That’s enough, John Rowan,” Alf took one of his arms and pulled him back. “On your way. You’re not having any more to drink tonight, and you’re not staying here to bother customers.”

“You!” John Rowan, lunged forward and grabbed Elizabeth by the arm. Her blood stirred, and she willed her face and hands not to shift. Now was not the time to turn ghoul.

She didn’t need to worry. As he lunged, Parsnip growled and sank her teeth into his calf.

He screamed, flailing his arms and completely overturning the table. Another man joined Alf, and together they pulled John away while Parsnip’s owner tugged her lead. She wasn’t giving up that readily. Having adopted Elizabeth as friend, she was defending her source of tidbits.

In the midst of another table overturning; a chair going flying; Parsnip’s owner shouting, “Give over, Parsnip! Give over;” and Alf telling John Rowan to settle down, the door opened. A burly, gray-haired policeman came in, followed by a younger, dark-haired one.

“Spot of trouble then?” the older one asked, his quick eyes assessing the situation with a resignation born, no doubt, from experience. “Oh, John Rowan! Not you again.” He stepped forward. “Come along quietly then, and we’ll take you home.”

The appearance of the law calmed things considerably. John stood and scowled but left the rest of the furniture standing. The crowd dispersed, and the snooker semifinals once more became the center of attention. As the door closed behind the policemen and a still mumbling John Rowan, Alf and his helper straightened tables and chairs, and Vickie appeared with a towel and mopped up the mess.

“I’ll get you each another Maldon water,” she said. “On the house.”

“Don’t bother—” Antonia began.

“No, let me. Alf will feel guilty if I don’t. Your first time here and all,” she went on. “Don’t know what got into John Rowan. He gets miserable and moans about everything, but I’ve never seen him go for anyone like that. People here don’t think like him. Honest. Most are glad you’re opening up the house and giving people jobs.”

“Vickie, love. Go get two Maldons.” Alf turned to Antonia and Elizabeth. “How about pudding? On the house. Just to show no hard feelings. So sorry about this; really, I am.”

“A fresh drink would be lovely,” Antonia said, “but nothing more to eat for me.”

“I’ll skip too, thanks,” Elizabeth added. She was about to ask who exactly this John Rowan was when the younger policeman came back and headed straight to their now tidied table. “Everything alright now?” he asked. When assured that yes, it was, he nodded. “No one hurt? Either of you ladies want to press charges?”

Every eye in the bar might be looking at the TV, but Elizabeth sensed every ear flapping for their reply. Even Parsnip had picked up her head. “Of course not,” Antonia replied. “He was drunk. It happens.”

“He is alright, isn’t he?” Elizabeth asked. “There won’t be trouble over Parsnip? She was just trying to protect me.”

The policeman smiled. “What? Trouble with old Parsnip?” Her ear cocked at hearing her name, and her tail thumped the carpet. “Doesn’t look like a dangerous dog, does she?” He shook his head. “We’ll take John home, see he doesn’t cause any more trouble.” He shrugged and turned to the door.

The sound of the departing car came though the open windows. Everyone deciding the entertainment really was over, the darts game resumed. Alf arrived with two fresh drinks and lingered, repeating his apologies and assuring them that John Rowan did not speak for Bringham.

“Any idea why he feels so anti us?” Antonia asked.

Alf paused as if considering how much to say. “Don’t rightly know exactly, but since you know Dixie, you heard about the trouble here last year?”

They both nodded.

“Dixie mentioned about the arrest and the bombing,” Antonia said. “Rather upset she was as she felt that prevented her selling or letting the house. She was pretty open about it and gave me a very good price. Seems a shame as property in this part of the country usually goes for much more.”

Alf picked up. “You’re right there. Now, I’m not one to gossip, but after what just happened, seems you have a right to know. John Rowan has had brushes with the law over the years, and he and his wife were among a half dozen or so that Sebastian Caughleigh named as accomplices. They got questioned by the police and let go. Nothing in it. Caughleigh was bonkers. Killed my helper Vernon—that much they did prove—and maybe more, but he did confess, and seems he most likely did do in the old ladies, Dixie’s aunts. Mind you, he claimed he killed Dixie too, and she’s still alive and well, right?”

They both nodded. Dixie was well and happy, if not exactly “alive.”

“No doubt your coming wound John up. Half the crowd in here were talking about your plans for Orchard House. Must have touched off a sore spot if you ask me. It’s not like him really—he’s more sneaky than confrontational—and I’ll see it never happens again. You have my word.”

He ambled back to his position behind the bar, and a few minutes later, Antonia asked Elizabeth, “Ready? Perhaps you should leave before you risk ghouling everyone.”

“I’m okay, but yes, let’s go.” Elizabeth paused to pat Parsnip on the head. Her owner nodded and smiled over his beer. “She’s a good dog,” Elizabeth said, half to herself.

“That she is,” he replied. “She knows her friends and the other sort.” He looked up at her with eyes milky with age. “There’s some in this village would rather things were as they were before. Better watch for them, ladies. Good night.”

The evening air was fresh and welcome. “I’m glad we walked,” Antonia said. “I’ll walk back with you, and then I’m going for a run.”

Elizabeth could make an educated guess about exactly where Antonia was going to run. “What do you think that old man meant? Talk about ancient inhabitants uttering cryptic warnings. Like something out of a gothic novel.”

“I think,” Antonia replied as they set off down the lane, “it was an expansion of what Alf told us. The chap had to have heard.”

“You mean that John whatever his name was was one of Sebastian’s bunch?”

“John Rowan was his name, and yes, that’s exactly what I think. Might be worth keeping our ears open for mention of him and his wife Mildred. Never hurts to be careful.”

“Might be worth giving Dixie a call. See if she remembers the name.”

“A little project for you while I hunt.”

“It’s hardly hunting when you already know what you’re after.”

“It’s always hunting, Elizabeth.”

Not entirely. She’d learned that much from firsthand experience. “It’s not always hunting. It can be seduction.”

With Antonia off hunting, Elizabeth stayed in Orchard House, wandering through the echoing rooms, absorbing the voices and spirits. There was evil and unkindness here—that she sensed, even without knowing all Dixie told her—but under that was more: happiness, births, love, tears and loss, all part of the fabric of the house and its inhabitants. In the kitchen, she sensed the most. “Must be five, six hundred years old,” the architect commented on one of his early visits. “They tacked the house onto an old farmhouse, I imagine.”

The age of everything was hard to conceive. The “new” part was “only” a couple of hundred years old or so. Life in the older part seemed to reach back forever: the air full of mysteries, sorrow and happiness, and comings and goings.

And Antonia and she were about to add another layer.

Brushing aside her reverie, Elizabeth dug into her pocket book for her phone and speed dialed Dixie. She wouldn’t talk long given the absurd rates for transatlantic mobile calls. She got Dixie’s voice mail at home before she remembered the five-hour time difference. At the shop, Dixie answered with her still unmistakable southern accent. “Vampire Emporium.”

“It’s Elizabeth. Can you talk?”

“Elizabeth? You bet. Hang on.”

A clink of the phone being put down, a pause, and…“Okay now. Just locked the door and turned the sign to ‘Closed.’ We can talk now.”

“Didn’t mean you to close the shop!”

“It was empty, and besides, I could do with a chat. Christopher is off on a buying trip for a few days. When he gets back, there will be a bunch of new stock arriving, so here goes. How are things in Bringham?”

How were they? At the price this was per minute, better get to the point. “Fine, busy but looks good so far. Antonia’s already recruiting craftspeople, but I really called because…Did you ever, over here, come across a John Rowan or his wife, Mildred.”

“No.” She sounded pretty sure. “Did they say they knew me?”

“Not exactly.” She gave Dixie an abbreviated version of what had happened.

“Odd.” In the ensuing quiet, Elizabeth almost heard Dixie thinking. She certainly pictured the crease between her eyebrows. “When you meet Ida Collins, ask her.”

Another explanation needed. “Brush-off is a polite word for her reaction.”

“I tell you, Elizabeth, I don’t know, but I’d be leery. Sounds as though either that coven has disbanded, or they don’t want a soul to know they haven’t. You could try talking to Emily, but I always found Ida more willing to chat.” She was quiet for a moment. “Was he really threatening?”

“He meant to be, but really, how much can one mortal threaten a ghoul and a vampire?”

“Don’t underestimate that lot. They almost finished off Christopher. Even if Sebastian is out of the way, there’s the rest of them. I’d be careful. Where’s Antonia?”

“Out alley catting with a potter she fancies.”

“Oh Lordy, do tell.”

Elizabeth told. Chatting was good, and after hanging up much later than she’d intended, she called Tom to reassure him that she was fine but omitted mention of John Rowan. His threats might not gel with Tom’s definition of fine, and she promised that yes, she would get the train back on Friday for the weekend.

It was only after she hung up that she remembered what she’d intended to do once Antonia was out of the way.

She rummaged through her bags until she found a dark blue silk pouch. Unrolling it, she took out a beeswax candle and from another bag, a small bottle of scented oil. She’d prepared it herself a few days earlier, dropping cinnamon, patchouli, frankincense, and juniper into grapeseed oil. Taking bottle, candle, and a box of matches, she walked out to the garden.

Old outbuildings and roofless stables were hardly the setting she sought. She walked round the back of the house, pausing where the lights from the kitchen windows threw irregular rectangles on the newly mown grass.

Sitting cross-legged, she anointed the sides of the candle with the oil; scraped out a small hollow to help the candle stand upright in the grass; and striking a match, lit the wick. It sputtered and flickered in the night breeze but soon burned steadily. As Elizabeth focused on the light beam in the dark garden, she prayed for success of their venture, and as she sat there at peace in the quiet, she added a prayer for Tom’s safety.

After a few minutes of calm, the flame sputtered out in a sudden breeze. Gathering everything together, Elizabeth stood up. And realized she wasn’t alone. Eight, ten feet away was a dark shape. A large dog. A very large dog. For a second, she thought of wolves but reminded herself this was the Home Counties, not the wilds, and hadn’t wolves been extinct in the British Isles since the Middle Ages?

Was it a dog? It moved as she did, turned away, moving soundlessly like a cat, until with a leap, it bounded over the low hedge that separated the lawns from the rose gardens and disappeared into the night.

So much for local fauna. Odd. Had to be a trick of the light, magnifying an ordinary household cat into an extraordinarily graceful creature the size of a Labrador. She hesitated a moment or two, the July night tempting her to explore the gardens further. She still hadn’t seen the magic garden, but the night was dark and the light from the house only penetrated so far. Too bad she hadn’t brought a flashlight.

Might as well go down to the hotel, take a shower, and curl up in bed with a book. She had the latest Anita Burgh sitting in her suitcase.

Antonia ran through the night, down the lane and toward the common. Fast as she ran, she’d be just a blur to mortal eyes, if anyone happened to be peering out their windows or wandering home from the Barley Mow. Knowing the way, she kept up speed as the lane narrowed, heading onward, driven by hunger and a deep, burning need to see Michael Langton again. Nutty really, that. She was far too old to view a mortal as more than a pleasant source of sustenance and intimacy, but there was something about his dark eyes and that little twisted smile.

Maybe she’d make him smile in his sleep.

If he was asleep.

If he wasn’t, she’d be patient. Something told her Michael Langton’s dreams would be worth waiting for.

As she approached the last curve in the lane and the footbridge over the stream, she slowed to almost mortal speed. His van was still parked under the trees, and every light was out in both house and workshop. He was the hardworking early to bed and early to rise sort.

She jumped the river just for the heck of it and covered the last few meters in seconds. At the door she hesitated, listening, then slowly walked around the house, senses alert. By the time she returned to the front door, she was frowning, trying to ignore the deep and heart-stinging disappointment. He was not in. No doubt about it. There was no heartbeat.

Hardly likely he’d died since she last was here. He’d been far too healthy and hale for that. Foul play? No sign of anything untoward, but she still needed feeding. Kit had managed for years on local livestock while he lived here. Might as well follow his example.

A half mile across country brought her to a riding school. Twelve nicely groomed horses and ponies slumbered behind neat stable doors. Antonia went for the first one, calming the white mare with her voice and stroking the strong neck gently as she felt for a vein with her other hand. Not quite what she’d hoped for, but the mare’s blood was rich and abundant. Taking just enough to restore her, Antonia eased away, licking the wound closed. The mare seemed contented enough, even nuzzling Antonia’s shoulder and whinnying as she left. “Don’t worry,” Antonia whispered as the mare picked up her ears. “I might well be back some other night.” Closing the door behind her, she noticed the name Madam stenciled over the doorway.

Who knew, she and Madam might get to be close acquaintances.

The night was too fine to go home. Energy and strength renewed, Antonia ran back toward the common at an easy lope. She debated taking a short cut through the grounds of a large house to her right but instead veered left across open fields. She’d gone a couple of hundred meters when she saw the animal ahead. It was the size of a large dog, but it moved with the sinuous grace of a cat. She slowed, wanting to keep her distance and not scare it. Unlikely it would hear her, but if it caught her scent…

It appeared not to, or perhaps the wind was in her favor. She drew closer, fascinated by the strength in the animal’s shoulders and the smooth grace of its pace. Running diagonally to put distance between them, she drew level, but it seemed the creature sped up. Not that she had any trouble keeping up. It leapt a hedge; she followed easily, barely breaking her stride.

It was then the creature turned and looked her way. She froze, watching, waiting to gauge its reaction. If it attacked, she could easily outrun it, or attack back, if need be. Seemed aggression was not on the animal’s mind. He just stared, watching. Mutual risk assessment, Antonia thought to herself and smiled.

What the heck was it? She’d seen wolves in her youth and foxes and wildcats more recently, but this was far too large for either, and Abel help her, it was watching her. Even met her eyes. No wild creature did that voluntarily. Why? How? She wasn’t exerting any power other than the ability to stay stock-still.

Turning its head both ways as if to catch the wind or her scent, the creature set off across the field at a racing pace.

Curiosity overtaking caution, Antonia followed.