River of Destiny (45 page)

‘It’s a perfect idea. We will find out what’s going on. Come over here and put your finger on the glass and we’ll ask.

‘We know there are people here who want to talk to us,’ she said once Zoë had joined her at the table. ‘And if we can we want to help. Please, tell us if you would like us to continue.’

She waited, her gaze on the tumbler, her finger lightly placed on top next to Zoë’s. Nothing happened.

‘It’s not going to work,’ Zoë said after a full minute had passed.

‘Sssh! Wait.’ Amanda shook her head. ‘Are you there?’ she asked again. ‘We can sense you are restless and unhappy. It may be that we can help.’

Out in the fields Bill Turtill began to turn the tractor as he reached the copse, careful to avoid catching the plough in the tangled wire around it. He was wearing ear protectors and didn’t realise he had snagged a blade round something heavy till he felt the tractor lurch. He turned round with a frown to look at the deep parallel furrows neatly radiating back behind him and then reached forward to cut the engine. In seconds he was down from the high seat in the cab and striding back to see what had happened.

Eric crept through the darkness towards his own cottage, holding his breath. He had returned the sword to its hiding place in the river bank. There was nowhere else to go now but home. The village slept in the moonlight and he could see no signs of life. One of his neighbour’s dogs started up and barked as he crept past and he stopped gesturing to it to keep quiet. It ran to him, tail wagging, then returned to its bed under the eaves of the house and settled again to its watch.

The door of his cottage was closed. There was no light inside, but by now Edith would be in bed. He pushed open the door and listened. There was a total silence indoors which frightened him. He glanced at the hearth and saw that the fire was out. ‘Edith?’ he called anxiously. ‘Edith, are you there?’

There was no reply. The cottage was empty after all. Turning away from the doorway he glanced round at the other cottages. His friend and neighbour, Cerdic the wheelwright, was awake. He could see the light of his fire through the cracks in his door. He could trust him not to betray him so he knocked and begged a firebrand. ‘Where is Edith?’ he asked.

Gudrun peered past her husband. She was wrapped in a shawl against the night air. ‘I’ve not seen her since the night Lord Egbert died,’ she said. ‘We thought she had gone away with you.’

He retraced his steps to his cottage with the light in his hand and this time he went in.

He paused just inside the doorway, and only now could he smell the violence and the blood. His heart thudding with apprehension in the darkness, he piled kindling in the hearth from the basket and thrust in the glowing brand. As the flames took and the light spread round the cottage he turned and surveyed the scene.

Edith was lying on the bed, so still, so slender he had not at first seen her form amongst the rumpled bedclothes. He could see at once she was dead. Her tunic had been torn down the front, and the skirt was pushed up above her hips. He could see the bruises on her wrists where she had struggled, but the blow that killed her was on her forehead, a great bloody dent which must have crushed her skull. Lying on the pillow next to her was the weapon the man had used. It was the figurine of the pregnant goddess, snatched from the basket on the hearth. He could see the blood on it, with strands of Edith’s beautiful hair entangled with it. Eric picked it up and stared at it in the flickering light of the flames, then he turned and hurled it out of the door with a wild oath. The amulet which was supposed to confer life had taken it cruelly and obscenely. The work of his own hands had killed the most precious thing in his life and, with her, her unborn child.

With tears scalding his eyes he turned and ran blindly from the house, aware of Gudrun and her husband standing in the doorway of their own cottage, watching. He ignored them, hurtling down towards the river. Throwing himself down on his knees he fumbled amongst the moss and leaves to find the sword and, drawing it out, he gazed at it for a long moment. He was tempted to throw it into the cold clean water, but that would serve no purpose.

Gudrun’s screams as she went in and found Edith’s body had brought other neighbours to the cottage. The cry had been taken up and passed from house to house until the whole village was gathered there in horror. Eric strode through them without looking left or right, the sword in his hand, and took the path up to the mead hall.

Pushing open the great doors he marched in and looked round. ‘Hrotgar?’ He did not know who had killed his wife but he had a very good idea. It mattered not. Hrotgar was the go-between, the man who had forced him to forge the iron, to carve the runes, to mutter the charms over the gleaming blade. He strode through the hall towards the thegn’s house and pushed back the door. Lady Hilda wasn’t there. Two strangers stood beside the body which was now dressed in chain armour, the head covered by Egbert’s ornate helmet and ready for burial. Eric stared round. ‘Where is Hrotgar?’

‘I am here.’ The man appeared quietly behind him. He looked pale but defiant as he saw the sword and he smiled coldly. ‘I am glad you saw fit to bring it back. We are ready for the burial now. It must be returned to Lord Egbert.’

Eric stared at him unmoving for a moment, then he spoke in a voice which was barely more than a whisper. ‘Did you kill my wife?’ He fixed the other man with a gaze which didn’t waver and saw the uncertainty and fear flash through Hrotgar’s eyes. ‘You lusted after her, don’t deny it, the whole village knew it. While I was away you went to my house, and you raped my pregnant wife and then you killed her.’ He paused.

Hrotgar seemed incapable of speech.

‘I have come to give this sword to the man who commissioned it as is its due, but first, I will blood it as tradition demands.’ He raised the sword, holding it with both hands before him, and before the man could move, thrust it straight into Hrotgar’s chest. The two men sitting on either side of the body leaped to their feet but they were far too late. Hrotgar clutched at the sword with a horrible gurgling noise in his throat, collapsed onto his knees and then sprawled at Eric’s feet.

Zoë and Amanda stared down at the broken tumbler lying on the floorboards, then looked at each other.

‘I’ll get the dustpan.’ Zoë stood up.

‘No, wait.’ Amanda seized her wrist. ‘He’s pretty angry. Let’s try again while he’s here.’

Zoë stared round. ‘Nobody’s here, Amanda. We were pushing the glass too hard.’

Amanda shook her head. ‘I was hardly touching it. And neither were you. One can tell when people are cheating, and we had no reason to cheat. Get another glass. Please. Let’s try. You do want to know who this poor guy was, don’t you?’

With a sigh Zoë went to fetch the dustpan and swept up the pieces of glass, then she collected another tumbler and set it upside down in the middle of the circle of letters. She resumed her seat. ‘Go on,’ she said. ‘You ask, you’re the psychic one.’ She put her finger on the glass.

Amanda was about to contradict, to point out that it was Zoë who saw the ghosts, but changing her mind she leaned forward instead and put her finger lightly next to Zoë’s. ‘We want to help. If there is something you want us to know, please tell us.’

The glass began to move. Both women watched it carefully.

‘Will you tell us your name?’ Amanda asked.

The glass began to circle the letters in a strangely forceful way. ‘I’m not doing anything,’ Zoë whispered.

‘Nor am I.’ The glass slid round at increasing speed then stopped suddenly.

‘D,’ Amanda whispered.

The glass moved on. ‘A.’ Zoë was breathless now. Her hand was shaking.

‘N,’ Amanda said after a moment.

The glass became still. ‘Dan? Your name is Dan?’

Nothing happened.

‘How can we help you, Dan?’ She glanced at Zoë. ‘Did Zoë see you? Did you hang yourself, Dan?’

The glass was suddenly reanimated. It shot across the table and stopped opposite the card which said,
No
.

‘Did someone murder you, Dan?’ Finally Zoë plucked up the courage to ask the question. ‘Yes,’ she murmured as the glass slid jerkily sideways. ‘Do you want us to know who killed you?’

The glass was off again.

E. M. I. L.Y.

Zoë and Amanda looked at each other. ‘You were murdered by someone called Emily?’ Amanda asked, puzzled.

‘Yes.’ The glass almost fell off the table again.

They both looked up startled as on the far side of the room the door from the kitchen opened.

‘What in the world are you doing?’ Rosemary appeared. In her hand there was a pot of azaleas.

Zoë groaned inwardly. ‘Rosemary, I’m sorry, we didn’t hear you knock.’

It sounded rude, but she was, she realised a bit embarrassed at being caught at such a stupid pastime. Rosemary approached the table. ‘Ouija board. I always thought that was terribly dangerous. Isn’t it supposed to ask in the devil? I’m surprised you would do something like that here.’ She set down the plant. ‘I just came over to say thank you for last night. It was such fun.’ Her eyes hadn’t left the table. ‘Can I be very rude and ask if I can join in?’

Amanda glanced up at Zoë, a query in her gaze. Zoë laughed uncomfortably. ‘I don’t see why not. The more the merrier.’

Rosemary sat down at the end of the table. ‘Is there anyone there?’ she asked. She was addressing Amanda.

Amanda nodded. ‘He’s called Dan, and he was murdered, so he says, by a woman called Emily.’

Rosemary’s eyes rounded. ‘When did he live?’

‘We haven’t asked.’

‘You need some numbers.’ Rosemary jumped up again. ‘Have you a piece of paper, Zoë, I’ll make some.’

With numbers one to ten included in the circle they began again.

‘Can you tell us the date you died, Dan,’ Amanda asked.

One. Eight. The two numbers came swiftly, then the glass was still again.

‘Eighteen,’ Amanda said. ‘Eighteen what?’

There was no answer.

‘Did you live here, Dan?’ she asked at last.

Again, no answer.

‘He’s gone.’ Zoë leaned back and put her hands in her lap. ‘I reckon he’s tired. It probably takes quite an effort to do that, if it was real. Was it real, do you think?’

The two other women sat back as well. ‘It felt it,’ Amanda said at last. ‘How intriguing. How are we going to find out who they were?’

‘We can ask again another time.’ Rosemary stood up. ‘I’m sorry to intrude. I have to go. I just came over to say thank you. Tomorrow I have a large group of friends coming over. We are going to walk the footpath. I don’t suppose either of you would like to join us?’

Zoë shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, no,’ she said firmly.

‘You should, you know. People have to stand up for their rights.’ Rosemary headed for the door.

The other two watched her leave.

‘Weird woman,’ Amanda said as soon as they had watched her cross the grass towards her house.

‘Obsessive and irrational,’ Zoë said with a sigh. She was gazing out of the window now, down towards the river. ‘It’s got very misty down there,’ she said. ‘I hope the chaps are all right.’

‘They can’t get lost. It’s a river!’

Zoë shook her head. ‘It’s not the river I’m worried about.’ She stood up. ‘I’m going to make some coffee.’

Amanda followed her into the kitchen. She had begun to empty the dishwasher while Zoë made the coffee when there was a loud crash from next door. Both women stopped what they were doing and looked towards the doorway. The second tumbler had fallen to the floorboards and smashed. Scattered amongst the slivers of glass were the letters and numbers which they had left lying in a circle on the table and three rusty horseshoe nails.