Prince of Darkness, page 8
“Oh, I can,” Katharine said sarcastically. “After all, when a man insists on stalking around the village in a long black cape, baring his teeth at everyone…”
“It was a game,” Tiphaine said defensively. “He happened to have two fingers which were precisely the same length. When he found out about the old werewolf stories it amused him to pretend. He even let his eyebrows grow together.”
“What did he do about reflections in a mirror?” Peter asked, with genuine interest.
“He ostentatiously avoided mirrors.” Tiphaine giggled. “It really was funny, Peter, watching him stalk around town swishing that cape. He’d come home and laugh and laugh.”
“Sounds like a fun-loving old gentleman,” Peter agreed politely.
Katharine gave him a quick look.
“I’m sure our family eccentricities don’t interest Mr. Stewart.”
“Oh, but they do. I hadn’t realized that the interest in magic and folklore ran in the family.”
“I suppose it does,” Katharine said. “I remember visiting Stephan when I was a little girl. He had a fantastic library, and I was a compulsive reader. Maybe that started me on my—peculiar career.”
“Library?” Peter saw the opening and dived in, head first. “I say, that must be fascinating. I know it’s presumptuous of me to ask…”
“To use the library? Certainly. Martin said you were going to do a book.” Katharine gave him another of those wide, white smiles. “And you’ll sing me those fabulous new verses to “The Unquiet Grave,” won’t you?”
“Certainly.” Peter put his glass down and rose, without haste. “Next time. I’ve kept you too long as it is. The charm of your hospitality made me forget the time.”
Katharine uncoiled herself and stood up. Once again it struck Peter with a slight shock to see how small she was; in stocking feet she barely reached to his nose.
“It has been fun, hasn’t it?” she said clearly.
When she tipped her head back to look up at him, there was not the slightest hint of coquetry in her manner. Quite the contrary; war had been declared. But in her direct gaze there was something else, considerably more basic. The feeling was mutual. And Peter knew she disliked it as much as he did.
According to the radio, a storm was on its way. After sundown the temperature dropped sharply, and when Peter slid out of his window into the night, the sky was spotted with sly little clouds. He dropped his chin into the high neck of his sweater and walked faster. What a climate! Well, he wouldn’t suffer from the cold tonight. He’d be moving too fast.
His next supernatural appearance was going to be even more dramatic than the first. He had acquired the necessary paraphernalia at a pharmacist’s in the next town, twenty miles away. It fit nicely into the briecase he carried.
He had taken careful mental notes on the arrangement of Volz’s place that afternoon. It ought to be an easy job. The biggest potential fly in the ointment was the problem of the dogs. There hadn’t been any.
Since Volz was Master of the Hunt, it was reasonable to suppose that he had some foxhounds around somewhere. In Peter’s experience, dogs did bark in the night, at friend or foe; he had to know where the general’s hounds were kenneled, if he wanted his nocturnal presence to be unannounced. But he had neither heard nor seen any sign of canine life that afternoon.
Guiding the car with one casual hand, Peter decided that maybe Volz just didn’t like dogs. An infallible sign of character, liking or not liking dogs. From what he knew of the general he wouldn’t expect Volz to like them.
Timmy was another potential problem, but a minor one. Peter assumed that the repulsive young man sometimes slept in the stables; he certainly smelled as if he did. But surely, on a cold night even a half-witted stableboy would be entitled to four walls and a fire. Peter was prepared to deal with Timmy, though, if he had to. He wasn’t expecting any trouble from that quarter.
Volz was remarkably careless about protecting his property. The wall around the stableyard was a flimsy wooden affair, and the gate didn’t even have a padlock. In a spirit of fair-mindedness Peter had to admit that horse thieves were pretty much out of style. He suspected that the house was loaded with bolts and chains and burglar alarms, but that was fine with him. He had no designs on the house.
The wind whistled through the trees and tugged irritably at his hair as he approched the back of the house, moving silently but with no attempt at concealment. One set of windows in an upper floor was alight. Presumably Volz was about to retire to his bachelor bed. Peter wondered idly how he spent his evenings. The man couldn’t read. Watching television, probably.
He checked the tack room and the stalls and found them, if not empty, at least empty of Timmy. So the man did sleep indoors. That made life somewhat simpler. He found Sultan’s stall and stopped the incipient snort with a handful of sugar. While Sultan was munching, he got to work. He was crouched on the floor, tying the second of the cloths around Sultan’s near fore, when the roof fell in on him.
It was instinct that saved him, the reflexive spasm of a hunted creature who has learned he must fight for the privilege of breathing. He twisted himself out from under the falling bulk just before it mashed him flat, and swung his clasped hands down on the back of the other man’s neck. The next movement brought him to his feet, headed out. Timmy was one thing, and dogs were another thing. This lad was something else.
But Sultan’s massive posterior blocked the exit, and Sultan’s sudden cupboard love was his undoing. The big head butted him in the chest and snuffled down the front of his sweater looking for more sugar. It caught Peter off balance for a moment, and while he was trying to wriggle past Sultan’s tail a hand wrapped around his ankle. His feet went out from under him and he landed flat on his back with a thud that knocked the breath out of his lungs. Before he could get it back, the other man was on top of him.
Jackson was no judo expert; he didn’t need to be. His wrists pinned by two big hands, wheezing for breath, Peter looked up at the handsome black face staring down at him, and sighed. He blew up out of the corner of his mouth, trying to get the hair out of his eyes, and said mildly, “Would you mind shifting weight just a bit? You’re sitting on my diaphragm.”
To his surprise Jackson obeyed, leaning forward so that most of his weight rested on his knees. It was a naive move; he was now in an extremely vulnerable position, and Peter rapidly reviewed three different dirty tricks by which he could free himself. But the very innocence of the gesture disarmed him—that, and the fact that Jackson had a head like cast iron and a reach like a python’s. He produced his most disarming smile.
“What happens now?” he asked. “Do you march me up to the house and deliver me to the boss man?”
Jackson’s lower lip went out and his brow furrowed. He wasn’t stupid; he was just confused. Peter could see his difficulty. When you hate everybody, it’s hard to decide whom to fight.
Peter waited patiently, practicing breathing. His wrists hurt. He had a feeling that the circulation was being cut off. But he didn’t mention it. Jackson was capable of seeing the subtler points. Most kids his age wouldn’t be; he was not only smarter than most kids his age, he had had more experience—all bad, probably.
“Okay,” Jackson said finally. He released Peter’s wrists and leaned back.
Peter tried to keep his face straight; he wasn’t entirely successful. Jackson caught the flicker of expression in the dim light from the door, and a grudging half-smile touched his mouth.
“You think I’m pretty stupid, don’t you?” he said.
“Just trusting,” Peter said. He pantomimed the move, in slow motion, so Jackson wouldn’t take offense. “Not that you’ll ever need tricks like that,” he added, as he rolled himself out from under Jackson’s body. “You scare the hell out of most people just standing there. If I’d known you were the watchman, I’d never have tried this.”
“I need all the tricks I can get,” Jackson said.
“Maybe you do,” Peter agreed. He sat down, with his back up against the wall, and reached in his pocket. “Cigarette?”
“Not in here.”
“Where?” Peter shoved at the equine head which was bruising his chest. Sultan had misinterpreted his gesture toward his pocket. “Damn this animal. I’d like to talk to you.”
“And I want to talk to you,” Jackson said grimly.
They found a sheltered spot in the pasture, behind a rock that gave some protection against the chilly wind. Jackson was in shirt sleeves, but he didn’t seem to notice the cold. He squatted, his back against the rock, and fixed his eyes intently on Peter.
“Whatchu up to in there, man?”
“Spare me the dialect,” Peter said, cupping his hands around a match, and extending it toward Jackson’s cigarette.
“And you spare me the stalling.” Jackson took a drag and blew out smoke. The vapor was torn to tatters by the wind. “What were you doing in the stables? I’ve got a good imagination, but I can’t think of any legal reason.”
“How about illegal?”
“Quite a few. But none of them seem to apply.”
“I felt like a midnight ride,” Peter said.
Jackson’s fist shot out toward Peter’s throat, and then dropped as if it had been amputated. Still sprawled comfortably on the grass, Peter lowered his hand and said mildly, “Don’t shove, Jackson. I don’t like it any more than you do.”
The boy rubbed his forearm.
“Where did you learn that one?”
“I watch a lot of television.”
“No, come on. Show me.”
Peter started to remonstrate, and then reminded himself of several not so extraneous factors. He glanced at his watch. The luminous dial showed eleven forty. He had time.
“All right,” he said, rising to his feet with a groan. “Do that again, slowly, and I’ll show you.”
The next ten minutes were strenuous. Peter ended the demonstration by letting Jackson hook his feet out from under him, and gave a realistic grunt as he fell. From a prone and slightly theatrical position he smiled affably up at the boy’s grinning face.
“Now do I get that horse?”
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
Jackson sat down beside him and pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. After a slight hesitation he extended it to Peter.
“You’re crazy,” he muttered, his head bent over the match. “I never spent such a crazy night. I catch you trying to steal a horse, and ten minutes later you’re teaching me judo, or whatever the hell it is. Crazy.”
“I impress some people that way,” Peter agreed, still prone. The ground was cold, but not quite as cold as the upper air.
Jackson scowled at the glowing end of his cigarette. He didn’t find conversation easy, probably because there were so many ideas burgeoning in that well-endowed head of his, and too few people to whom he could express them. Peter wriggled into a more comfortable position, hands clasped under his head, and pensively contemplated the firmament. He had plenty of time. It was beginning to look as if the evening’s performance would be called off.
Finally Jackson mashed his cigarette out.
“Who are you, anyhow?”
“Just a peaceful tourist.”
“Peaceful like a bomb. But you know what you remind me of? You remind me of old Daniel in the lions’ den. The lions stand ’round, smiling and showing all those pretty white teeth. But those teeth bite, friend. And Daniel knew they were lions.”
Peter turned his head. This wasn’t what he had expected.
“You speak in parables, my son. Was that a warning?”
“Forget it. I said more than I should have. Don’t expect any help from me. I don’t stick my neck out for anybody.”
“Especially for Whitey?”
The boy glanced at him. Peter thought he had never seen a look so devoid of emotion. It was not hostile, merely set in an intensity of purpose which negated feeling.
“Some of the boys get their kicks out of name calling. Me, I’m not that stupid.”
“That must make you unpopular in certain quarters,” Peter said.
“It makes me unpopular in all quarters.” Jackson gave him a sudden ferocious grin. “That’s why I collect all the dirty tricks I can find.”
“Thanks for the warning.” Peter stood up. “Well. No more tricks, dirty or otherwise, from me. I’ve got to have something in reserve for the next time you jump me.”
“Don’t try it.”
“Another warning?” Peter braced himself; Jackson had risen, and was looming.
“What you’re up to is none of my business, Stewart. If you can pull something on that bastard up at the house, I’ll cheer you on. But from the sidelines, mister—from way out on the sidelines. And if I can make a buck by acting like a big faithful watchdog, I’ll make it. At your expense.”
Peter shrugged.
“Fair enough. Can I collect my belongings? I left them in the stall.”
They walked back in silence through the windy night. Still in silence Jackson watched Peter stuff his possessions into his bag. After the third item he couldn’t stand it any longer.
“I would sort of like to know what you were going to do.”
“I’ll bet you would.”
“Luminous paint; that stuff around Sultan’s feet—black cloth—”
“It’ll give you something to think about during the long nights.” Peter straightened, bag in hand. “No dice, Jackson. I’m going home in a huff. You won’t let me steal your horse, I won’t let you play. You’re better off not being involved, really.”
“Sure, sure,” Jackson muttered.
Peter left without a formal good-night. As he turned the corner of the stable, he heard something rustle, and he whirled, dropping his bag and raising his hands. There was nothing to be seen. Not at first. His back flat up against the rough wooden planks, he saw a slim dark shadow scuttle across a patch of moonlight and disappear as the moon hid behind a cloud.
Chapter
5
THE PERFORMANCE PETER HAD PLANNED WAS USEless without Sultan. He went back to the car, wondering about alternatives; so long as he was out, it seemed a pity to waste the evening. The night was perfect; scudding clouds, flickering moonlight, a wind keening high in the trees. Still cogitating, he drove the few miles to the other house, parked in his former spot, and climbed the wall as before.
As soon as he got through the belt of trees he realized that something was going on. The house was a blaze of light.
By now it was well past midnight. Knowing Katharine’s habits, he would not have expected her to be entertaining. The absence of cars in the driveway confirmed the assumption. He wondered what had happened.
He investigated the downstairs rooms first, and found lights shining in rooms which were uninhabited, except for the kitchen. The two elderly servants were there; both had on night attire, with robes over pajamas. The cook’s graying hair was done up in pink curlers. Something was boiling on the stove, and the cook was preparing a tray. She looked sleepy and disgruntled. Her husband sat at the table, elbows propped, blinking groggily into a cup of coffee. Peter watched them for a few minutes, and then decided there was nothing to be gained by waiting. With the windows shut he wouldn’t be able to hear anything even if they spoke.
The upstairs window he selected had two things to recommend it. Its frontal location, above the room in which the séance had been held, suggested that it might be the master bedroom, and an old oak tree provided a convenient ladder to the small balcony. He swarmed up the tree with only one broken branch to mark his progress; the snap was lost in the general uproar of the wind. At least he hoped it was. When he stood on the balcony, outside the French doors which were the counterparts of the doors below, he saw that he had struck pay dirt.
It was Katharine’s room. He would have recognized it from its air of austerity, plain furniture, and walls lined with bookcases, even if the woman herself had not been sprawled face down across the bed. Tiphaine was bending over her, one hand on her cousin’s shoulder. Every light in the room was on—the overhead chandelier, the desk and dressing-table lamps, two bed lamps. Tiphaine’s molten hair threw the light back like a polished bronze mirror, and swung down, half hiding her face. She wore plain white silk tailored pajamas and looked good enough to eat.
As Peter moved in closer for a better look, some slight sound must have reached the older woman’s ears, for she sat bolt upright, both hands going out in a spasmodic gesture.
“What was that?”
“The wind. Only the wind. Kate, it’s all right; try to relax.”
Katharine nodded. She looked like hell, Peter thought clinically. Her eyes were sunken and a muscle at the corner of her mouth beat frantically, like a tiny pulse. He was sardonically amused to note that the woman who dressed in tailored slacks and shirt during the day had a less Spartan taste in nightwear. Her gown was pale green; the full skirt spread out across the bed in agitated ripples the color and opacity of seawater. One slender strap had slipped down off her shoulder. She was definitely too thin. Still, the general effect would have been arresting, if it had not been for the face—a study in sheer terror, unmasked…
“There’s someone out there,” she insisted.
Peter took one noiseless step backward and stood poised at the rim of the balcony. But Tiphaine shook her head and did not stir.
“Kate, I looked. When I first came up. There never was anyone there. It must have been a dream.”
“It was his voice. Saying…saying…”
“Saying what?” Tiphaine sat down on the edge of the bed.
“Saying he wanted…that I should…” Kate shivered.
Tiphaine put her arms around her cousin, and Kate caught at her with frantic hands.
“Don’t go away,” she muttered. “Don’t leave me alone…”
A soft knock sounded at the door, and she started violently.
“It’s only Mrs. Schmidt,” Tiphaine said soothingly. She called, “Come in.”
