Castle of Secrets (9 page)

‘I have work
to do . . . ’ she said.

She began to
head towards the door, but as she tried to pass him he put his arm out, resting
it on the desk so that he was blocking her path.

‘You call it
belonging,’ he said. ‘I call it being trapped.’

He looked down
at her, and she felt herself being pulled into the strange aura that surrounded
him, a magnetic strength that held her fast.

‘The weight of
the castle oppresses me,’ he said, looking deep into her eyes as though seeking
understanding. ‘At night, the walls close in.’

‘But it is
your home,’ she said, searching his eyes.

‘It is not my
home. It is my tomb.’

All light and
warmth had gone from his voice, and she was once more afraid of him, but the
fear was tempered with intrigue. She clenched and unclenched her hands, then
said: ‘But you can leave the castle if you want to.’

‘Can I?’ he
said with bitterness.

‘You were
returning to it on the day I arrived, so you must have left,’ she said,
striving to remain calm. ‘And you left again yesterday.’

‘Briefly, yes.
But the castle keeps drawing me back. It is not fond of letting its inhabitants
go.’ He looked deep into her eyes once more, and his words sounded like a
warning. ‘One way or another, it finds a way to keep them.’

He fell
silent, and
Helena
stood there, unable to
pass, but unwilling to disturb him. He had become lost in thought, and his eyes
were fixed on the floor. After a minute he roused himself.

‘You must tell
me what you think of the book when you have read it,’ he said, dropping his arm
so that she could pass. ‘We are not unlike the knights of old, you and I. We,
too, have monsters to fight.’

Helena
was unsettled. What
monsters did Lord Torkrow have to fight? Were they real or imagined? And what
of her aunt? How did she fit into all this? Where was she? With a sick sister
Helena
knew nothing about? Or
had something happened to her?

He seemed to
be oblivious of her presence, for he had sunk into his own thoughts, and
Helena
quietly left the room.
She went upstairs, taking her book into her bedroom. As she put it on the
table, she wondered if her aunt had sat at that very table writing her letters.
If only the table could talk, what tales might it tell?

Aunt Hester
, she thought,
why did
you not tell me you were leaving the castle? If you did leave it . . . Did the
castle find a way to keep you, too? Are you being held here against your will?

Aunt
Hester, where are you?

Simon scarcely noticed the door
closing. He was lost in his thoughts, seeing the past, when the castle had
flourished. It had been full of noise and colour when his parents had been
alive, until . . .

Strange how
the sight of the daffodils had taken him back to that time, their bright yellow
and green reminding him that there were colours beyond the stone, oak and metal
of the castle.

How soft they
had seemed, how fragile, as she had been soft and fragile . .

He brought his
thoughts back to the present with difficulty. The sight of the flowers had
taken him aback and he had lowered his guard, but that was not something he
could afford to do, not until he was sure that she really was Mrs Reynolds, and
not even then. She was his housekeeper and nothing more. The secrets of the
castle were not for her.

It was evening. Having dined with Mrs
Beal,
Helena
was sitting by the fire
in her room. The curtains were drawn, shutting out the black night. She was
leafing through
Le Morte d’Arthur
, looking at the illustrations, which
were beautifully done. It was as she looked at a picture of a man with a candle
that a thought struck her. In the absence of a key to the east wing of the
attic, she might be able to find out if anyone was in there by going out into
the grounds and seeing if there was a light in the window. It was still early,
not yet
seven
o’clock
, and
she decided to go before it was too late.

She laid aside
her book, uncurled herself from the chair and put on her cloak and heavy shoes.
She tied her bonnet under her chin, pulled on her gloves then went down the
stairs.

She slipped
out of a side door, and walked across the lawn, which was silvered by the moon.
She walked away from the castle, so that she could see the windows clearly when
she looked back. When she felt she had gone far enough she turned and looked
up, but they were dark. There was not a  glimmer of light anywhere. She had
been hoping to see something, but there was nothing.

She was just
about to go back inside when she caught sight of a lantern bobbing along in the
distance. Her senses were immediately alert. Who would be going out with a
lantern at this time of night? And where were they going? She hesitated. A part
of her wanted to ignore it, but curiosity won over caution, and she began to
cautiously follow.

The light
disappeared briefly and
Helena
realized that whoever had been carrying it had gone through
the archway in the outer wall. She followed quickly, taking care to stay well
back so that she would not be seen.

She passed
through the arch and saw the light again, in the distance. It looked unearthly,
bobbing along, detached from the ground, a ball of glowing yellow in the
darkness. She followed it, but soon she began to grow uneasy as she felt the
gravel give way to coarse grass and found herself walking across the moor.

The wind
whipped round her, stronger than it had been in the courtyard, pulling her
cloak open and knifing her with freezing air. She pulled it around her, holding
it closed with folded arms, and went on.

An owl hooted
as it flew by her on silent wings, making her jump, and she turned and looked
at the castle, nervously wondering if she should turn back. But if she did, she
would learn nothing.

The grass
beneath her feet was tufted with hillocks that made the going uneven, and once
or twice she stumbled as her foot caught in a ditch. Then her shin hit
something hard and she found that she had reached a low wall. She felt along it
with her hands until she found a gap and went through.

The light was
now further away and she hurried forwards, only to trip over a large stone.
When she looked down, she dimly made out the shape of a headstone. It had
fallen onto its side and lay, neglected, on the turf. She stepped back in
alarm, and found the back of her legs were against another tomb. Icy fingers of
fear crawled up her spine. She was in a graveyard. What was someone doing there
after dark? And why had she followed them? Why was she not safely in her own
room, in front of the fire, reading about knights and battles, instead of
following a dancing light through a place of the dead?

Her panic
began to dissipate as she reminded herself that it was only
seven o’clock
. It was early evening,
not the middle of the night. There was probably a down-to-earth explanation,
and she would soon discover it.

The light had
disappeared and she moved forwards cautiously, fearing the lantern had been
hooded. Her footsteps halted. She could see a figure kneeling ahead,
silhouetted against the lantern, which was on the ground. As she stood there
uncertainly, the moon sailed out from behind a cloud, and in the cold light she
saw that the figure was Lord Torkrow. To her shock, he was slumped forwards.
His shoulders were heaving, and she realised he was crying.

Her heart
lurched at the desolate sound, as she found herself privy to a terrible grief.
She was torn between a desire to leave and an impulse to go forward and comfort
him, and caught between the two impulses she remained where she was.

She was
frozen, lost in a timeless expanse, until at last his grief was spent. His
cries subsided and he stood up, reclaiming his lantern.
Helena
shrank back against the
gravestone and he passed by without seeing her, his lantern bobbing away from
her in the dark.

When he had
gained a sufficient lead she followed the light back across the moors, back
through the arch and back to the castle. She slipped round the side to the
small door and let herself in, her fingers trembling as they lifted the latch.

What had she
just witnessed? she asked herself. Was it grief for the loss of  a loved one,
or could there a more sinister explanation? Could it be that his tears had been
produced by guilt?

As she slipped
upstairs, she felt the atmosphere of the castle beginning to oppress her.  Why
did the villagers talk about Lord Torkrow? What did they say about him? Why did
Mrs Beal stop suddenly whenever she began to talk of his past?

She had only
questions and no answers.

She undressed,
glad to be safe in her room, and warmed by the fire. But as she put on her
nightdress and slipped into bed, Lord Torkrow’s desolate cries echoed in her
ears.

Helena
dreamt that she was outside, late at
night, and flying across the moor. Above her was a gibbous moon, with torn
clouds blowing across its face. Ahead of her was a blasted tree, its twigs
spreading like fingers and its joints creaking as it was bent and twisted by
the wind. She sped towards it, then passed through the branches and emerged
untouched on the other side. Before her lay a graveyard, with tombs scattered
across it like bones picked clean by the crows. Beside them was a man, wrapped
in a cloak, with a lantern at his side. As she glided closer, she saw that his
face was ghostly. Black shadows filled the hollows, and a sickly pallor marked
the planes. He was shaking with grief, and his shoulders were heaving as
racking sobs filled the air. She flew closer, around and behind him, until she
was looking over his shoulder into the grave.

Then all of a
sudden she realised his shoulders were shaking, not with grief, but with mirth,
and as she looked past him she saw, to her horror, that the body in the grave
was that of her aunt. She turned and fled, moving rapidly away, carried on the
wind, floating higher and higher as she approached the castle, rising up and
up, until she was on a level with the attic, and she found herself looking
through the windows. There was nothing to be seen, only the ghostly shapes of
furniture cloaked in dust sheets, and a clock ticking, ticking by the wall. And
then a dust sheet moved, and was thrown back, and her aunt’s corpse rose from a
chair.

Helena
awoke with a shock. She
was covered in cold sweat and was trembling all over. It was icy in the room.
She shivered, and her breath formed clouds in front of her. With numb fingers
she reached out for her wrapper and threw it round her shoulders, then climbed
out of bed on shaking legs. She went over to the fire, which had all but gone
out. She raked the ashes, encouraging a small spark, and fed it with small
pieces of paper. She piled on twigs, and when they had caught light she put on
a few pieces of coal. Still shivering, she returned to her bed . . . but she
stopped as she approached it, for there was something under the covers. Her
skin began to crawl. She saw the covers rise and fall. Someone was under there!

Someone, or
some thing.

She reached
out and twitched back the cover, and her aunt sat up in the bed, two weeks dead
and laughing  —

She sat up
with a start.

Am I really
awake this time?
Helena
wondered, her heart
hammering in her chest.
Or am I still dreaming?

She looked
around the room, fearing another nightmare vision, but everything was peaceful.
The fire was burning low in the grate, casting a mellow glow over the
furniture. All was as it should be. Her pulse began to slow, and her breathing
became less shallow. She reached for her wrapper, still not convinced that she
was awake. Warily, she threw it round her shoulders and slipped out of bed. She
went over to the fire and knelt down beside it, warming her hands and taking
comfort from the glowing coals. She lit a candle, then sat on the hearth, loath
to go back to bed. She glanced towards it, but there was no strange shape under
the covers. The blanket was still thrown back, revealing the white sheets
beneath.

She heard the
clock strike in the hall.
Six o’clock
. It would soon be time for her to rise. She was glad of it.
She had no desire to go back to bed. She waited only for Effie to bring her hot
water and relight the fire before slipping out of her nightgown and, once
washed, putting on her dress.

Having
completed her toilette, she left the room. The stone corridor was unwelcoming.
Her candle seemed feeble, a puny attempt to light the space. Walls and ceiling
waited in the shadows. The castle seemed a living thing. Old, monstrous, biding
its time, before it claimed another victim.

She tried to
banish such thoughts, but they would not leave her. She quickened her steps and
the patter of her feet was matched by the patter of her heart.