Chapter Seven
“I will be leaving.”
He did not turn to face her.
She had come downstairs to find the house empty. He was outside, sitting on the top step and staring out across the meadow. The Scar stood out livid and dark against a sky of pale gray velvet. The morning was cool and calm, with a smell of dampness in the air and the dew was lingering on the grass.
When he made no answer or motion, she spoke again. “Did you hear me? I said I will be leaving today.”
“I heard you.” Still he did not turn to her. She gazed at his back, hunched beneath the dark material of his shirt, his hair hanging lankly to curl slightly about the collar, and she did not want him to face her. She did not want to look upon his face that was more of a mask. The memory of the previous night lay heavily between them, separating them as surely as would something solid and tangible.
“It may be too late for you to leave.” He sounded as if he was musing, rather than stating an opinion.
“For you, perhaps, but it isn't too late for me.” she said firmly. “I have no part in any of this, neither do I want one.”
“You were involved before I arrived. It is certainly too late to think that I am the cause of your troubles.”
He was only half correct in his assumption. She did not blame him. But he was involved, she was convinced of that. He was the focal point of her fears.
“I don't know. I don't understand what is happening. I won't pretend that I do, and I'm not hanging around to find out. You can play your little games without my help. I've had enough.”
“So have I.” He turned to her and his face was tired, he looked drawn and weary. For the illusions he had created in the night had taken their toll, had left him drained of nervous energy. But his eyes still held their dark fire. “I, too, hope that you can leave. But first I must see that Agatha is safe. You will come to Bellbury with me.”
“Will I?” She shook her head determinedly. “No, I don't think I will.”
“It will be to your own benefit. We may even discover what this is all about. You may find that you have no significant part to play, then you will be free to leave.”
“I am free to leave now," she insisted.
“You may leave, but that does not necessarily guarantee freedom.” He stood upright with that curious fluid movement that seemed not to involve any effort whatsoever. “I should like you to go with me,” he said quietly. “And you shall. I should prefer you to accompany me voluntarily.”
She did not answer him, but his barely veiled threat had been received. “
I'm sorry that it has to come to this,” he said, and his words seemed genuine. even if his expression left her guessing. He went into the house.
She hesitated before following him. The trip to Bellbury would involve no more than two or three hours of her time, then she would be free. She could leave this district to continue its mad, gruesome pantomime without her. It seemed a small price to pay, so she followed him indoors and waited for him.
The shop was dilapidated and seemed deserted. The few items of cheap, semi- antique furniture displayed in the grimy window had a thick covering of dust. There was no sign, no name above the window, no paint on woodwork bleached and cracked by weather. It stood in one of Bellbury's narrow side streets that were more like alleyways than streets. Opposite the shop was the blank wall of the rear of a large warehouse.
Philip pushed open the door to the shop, and Lucy, before entering, looked back up the narrow passageway to where the noise and bustle of the main street seemed far away and detached from where she stood. She could see the jeweler's and the hands of the clock above the door stood at ten thirty. She checked the time against her own watch as she reluctantly followed the man into the gloomy interior.
He threaded his way through and past the dark varnished furniture, the dulled and grubby vases and crockery of faded, sad colors; the forlorn bric-a-brac of forgotten lives lay scattered haphazardly, the shop half empty of goods to trade, yet filled completely by memories of a thousand yesterdays. He walked past the bare, wooden counter and pulled back a dusty curtain to reveal a doorway. He stood aside to allow her to enter.
The woman was tiny and frail, almost hidden in the depths of a huge covered armchair. She wore a gray shawl draped around a dress of shining green satin, with black lines forming a simple pattern. Her hair tumbled around her in a confusion of gleaming curls, black as raven wings, twisting luxuriously to below her waist. Her face was serene, thin featured but not sharp, her lovely expression radiating peace and serenity.
She turned to inspect her visitors and there was no curiosity on her face. Lucy stopped short a pace inside the room and she was filled with confusion. When she entered, she had thought to meet a young girl; the face, complexion, the beautiful hair, all were girlish. But oh, her eyes, dark and deep as twin wells sunk unto the secrets of the world; their depths seemed to shift and move fluidly, like the shadows in the velvet darkness of a nursery night. The woman could be aged twenty or two hundred years, Lucy just did not know.
And the room, in sharp contrast to the shop outside, was spotless. A coal fire burned in the old fashioned black grate, the iron surrounds polished to a mirror finish; the ebony surfaces reflected the soft glow of brassware, the hard glitter of crystal. The room and all its contents, even the woman's clothes, Lucy noted, seemed of the Victorian or Edwardian period. It was like stepping back in time, standing in that tiny, cluttered room, and breathing the faint, fragile aroma of lavender.
Philip moved past Lucy into the room and a smile lit up the woman's face. For an instance, her time-filled eyes lost their hollowness. The sound she made was like a deep sigh o