Spectred Isle (Green Men #1)(27)
The laughter came again, sweeping around them, filling the air, and at the end of it a last little noise. It was almost a giggle, and it came from right behind Saul’s ear.
“It’s behind me,” Major Peabody rasped, and Mrs. Abchurch gave a low wail. Mr. Abchurch was muttering what sounded like fragments of prayer, brokenly. None of them moved.
Saul would have liked to pray. He couldn’t even remember how it was done, but he knew, urgently, that there must be a way, and the thought brought a sudden vivid image to him: Randolph Glyde on Camlet Moat, wiping the handkerchief over his face like a sacred rite. The vibrant life of the great forest around him, the well water cool in his throat, the green and gold light through the leaves, as dappled as Glyde’s hazel eyes. He shut his own eyes in the darkness, willing the image into his mind, and told himself the wet cold on his face was the clear burn of the well water.
“I’m getting the matches,” he said, and stood.
The howl of wind outside rose to a shriek. Major Peabody gasped, a shrill sound. The giggling turned to a snarl, and Saul’s hands were shaking, his muscles stiff with fear, because his senses were screaming: it’s right behind you. He felt with his hands, shuffling forward until his fingers bumped something, waved them up and down till they hit the mantelpiece.
“Lazenby?” Major Peabody demanded. “Lazenby!”
Saul felt along the mantelpiece, every moment expecting he would touch something wet and draggle-haired from the marsh. His fingers rasped against a dry rough surface and he sucked in a breath to avoid screaming, then realised what he had. He gripped the matchbox, easing it open to be sure it was the right way up, fumbled one out, struck it.
Light flared, blinding in the absolute dark. There was nothing but the flame for a second, and then Saul could see. He leaned over Major Peabody’s shoulder and held the flame to a candle, which spluttered and resisted for too long but finally burst into life.
The match was burning down. Saul took out another with shaking fingers and lit the other candles. His companions at the table were rigid for a few seconds more, then as light filled the room, Mr. Abchurch took a deep breath.
“Thank you, Mr. Lazenby. Good heavens, that was startling.”
“Yes, wasn’t it?” Major Peabody said, and Saul was astonished to see the smile return to the man’s face. “Goodness me. It certainly added a frisson to your storytelling!”
“Didn’t it just,” Mr. Abchurch agreed with a chuckle. “Look, there’s some sort of weed on the fire. It must have been picked up by the wind and fallen down the chimney.”
“Is that likely?” Saul felt compelled to ask. He could see it too, a clump of matted, rotted black-green stuff smothering the coals.
“Oh, well, the winds here,” Mrs. Abchurch said. “I suppose that’s what made the birds sound so extraordinary.”
Saul looked between his companions. He was absolutely sure they had felt the terror too, and he was all too familiar with the stiff upper lip as required response to bowel-loosening fear, but this wasn’t people putting a brave face on things. Mrs. Abchurch was rising now, plucking the matchbox from Saul’s hand. “I must go and check on the kitchen. I dare say Joan will have had a nasty shock too, poor thing. Oh, look, the electricity is back on.” She pulled open the dining room door, admitting the yellow artificial light from the hall. “Jolly good. It’s such a nuisance when we lose it altogether.”
She went out, not a care in the world. Mr. Abchurch beamed at his guests. “Well, since we’ve lost the fire in here and while Hetty takes charge, may I suggest we retire to the drawing room and take a glass of port there?”
“That would be delightful,” Major Peabody agreed, and they trooped out to settle down in front of a still-blazing fire and discuss the Prime Minister’s likely replacement in the event of his resignation.
Nobody mentioned Geoffrey de Mandeville again that night.
CHAPTER SIX
RANDOLPH SAT IN THE PEW, stretched his legs in front of him, crossed his arms, and leaned back to look.
Stone pillars rose around him to a high clerestory, a dark-timbered roof, and elaborate curling carvings framing a rose window in the chancel arch. The clerestory windows were green, as was the huge chancel window, tinting the sunlight that streamed in to turn the church interior to a petrified forest.
It wasn’t, despite that, a beautiful place on the inside. The stone didn’t soar, or sing; the carving was regimented. It wasn’t an inspired church, because inspiration was a luxury. St. Mary’s Burwell was rock solid and nailed to the floor.
Not that most of its builders, let alone those who had paid for it, would have seen it that way. To the lay observer it was simply a fine church in the Perpendicular style, absurdly large for the surrounding village, with a few unusual features.
Randolph wasn’t a lay observer, and nor was the Vicar of St. Mary’s.
“A shocking attack,” that worthy said. “Worse than since the War, far worse. I don’t understand it.”
“Where was it?”
“Outside the village, is all I can say. And it didn’t last long. I was asleep, you see, after dinner.” The Vicar’s face was lined with age and care, his voice tremulous. “By the time I was fully awake it had stopped. It was old, as everything here is old. Old and deep, and it came out roaring. From nothing. I should not have expected it to come from nothing.”