Kingdom of Shadows

  Emma shrugged. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know much about the oil business. I expect Peter knows you.’

  Rex nodded. ‘I’m sure he’d have heard of us.’ He glanced up at her casually. ‘And of course your brother Paul will have. I’ll probably be meeting with him in the next few days. Is he as nice as you?’ He tried to keep the question light; humorous. He must not let her see how every nerve was strained for her answer.

  Emma laughed. ‘He’s not nearly so beautiful as me, of course, but I expect he’s much cleverer, and they tell me he’s very good at his job. I don’t know if anyone would call him nice, though.’

  He was surprised at the sudden bitterness in her voice. ‘Well, I guess I’ll find out soon enough.’ He changed the subject swiftly. There would be plenty of time to ask her about Paul and Clare Royland later. He had the rest of the evening to bring up the subject again.

  ‘I thought we might go on to a night-club,’ he said at last as they finished their coffee. ‘How would you like that?’

  Emma’s eyes sparkled. ‘I’d love to. It’s ages since I went anywhere exciting. Peter hates anything of that sort.’

  They had talked of every subject under the sun except the Roylands, even of his beloved Scotland, and somehow without mentioning Duncairn by name, of his ancestry, of which he was so proud, of the eight-hundred-year link the genealogists had dug up with the country’s past, of his passion for its heritage, and of his secret dream, unknown even by Mary, to own, one day, a piece of Scotland for himself. And she talked about Julia and Peter and her gallery, confiding in him as if she had known him all her life.

  Rex intrigued her. He was a strange mixture. A mature, sophisticated man, slightly exotic, much travelled; the kind of person who assimilates a little of the best of every culture by which he is touched and metabolises it within himself into a stimulating mix of wit and intellect. And yet, at the same time, he had an adventurous, boyish streak, and a monumental enthusiasm which was enormously attractive. She felt herself respond alarmingly to his charm.

  For a moment at the start of the meal she had wondered if he had asked her out just to find out something about Paul. His interest had somehow sharpened when he mentioned her brother’s name; but he hadn’t pursued the questions, and she was reassured.

  She wondered what would happen when they reached the night-club. If he asked her to dance she had a feeling she would enjoy it rather more than she ought.

  He took her to Tramp and ordered them champagne, lifting his hand in greeting as a party of compatriots inched their way between the tables towards the far side of the room.

  Emma stared around her in excitement. ‘I’m not wearing the right clothes for this place,’ she wailed suddenly.

  ‘You look fine to me,’ Rex reassured her. ‘Really beautiful,’ he added with disarming sincerity.

  Emma glanced at him. ‘Thank you.’ Her eyes sparkled. ‘So do you. Let’s dance.’ She stood up, unable to resist it a moment longer and with mock reluctance Rex stood up and allowed himself to be dragged on to the dance floor.

  She was slim and vibrant and exciting in his arms, her dark eyes still darting here and there, excitedly taking in the setting as the crowds pushed them closer together. Scarcely knowing he did it he found his lips seeking hers.

  She drew back abruptly. ‘No.’ Her smile was still friendly, but he could sense the sudden wall behind it. Cursing himself for being an old fool he grimaced. ‘Can’t blame a man for trying.’ He raised his hands in a gesture of helplessness. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I’m married, Rex, and so are you.’ Emma’s gaze was very direct. ‘While your wife is away and Peter is in Singapore we can enjoy ourselves together, but no sex, I’m sorry.’

  ‘You’re a very outspoken young lady.’

  She smiled a little wryly. ‘It’s better that way, don’t you think? It saves you wasting time.’

  ‘I’m not wasting time, Emma. I’m enjoying myself this evening; more than for ages.’ He realised suddenly that he had meant it; and it was only a long time later, after he had dropped her off in Kew and directed the taxi back towards Eaton Square, that he realised he had not asked her about Paul again.

  ‘You knew she was prone to these abstracted states when you married her?’ Geoffrey stared at his brother in disbelief. ‘Why in God’s name did you never mention them before?’

  Paul leaned back in the leather armchair. ‘They never struck me as sinister before.’

  ‘And how long has she been doing it deliberately, using these meditation techniques?’

  ‘Several months as far as I know. The housekeeper spotted it first. Mrs Collins seems to find the whole thing very frightening.’

  ‘And she is right to. Clare has to be stopped, Paul. I asked you to come over because I went to see her a couple of days ago – did she tell you?’ Geoffrey sat forward, his hands clasped on the desk before him. ‘No. I thought she might not. I spoke to her at some length and I suspect she is dabbling in all kinds of dangerous fields. She didn’t take my questions seriously of course; she mocked me and pretended to be making up things to see if she could shock me –’ He paused, shaking his head. ‘But underneath it all I think she was serious about some of the practices she is engaged in and I think she was afraid.’

  ‘What kind of practices?’ Paul was staring at him.

  ‘Satanic cults? Modern witchcraft?’ Geoffrey shrugged. ‘I’m not sure specifically, but these things are rife. Even so-called simple spiritualism is all round us these days. People play at raising the dead; at summoning spirits; at channelling voices.’ He sighed. ‘There is a terrible gap in the spiritual psyche of the western world at the moment, and the Christian church is not filling it fast enough.’

  Frowning, Paul stared round his brother’s comfortable study. The faded chintz curtains had been drawn against the cold, clear evening and a fire blazed in the grate. Downstairs in the kitchen Chloe was slicing onions for the quiche.

  ‘I had thought of a psychiatrist for Clare,’ he said slowly, ‘but John Stanford doesn’t think it’s necessary. He thinks that she will get used to the idea of being childless. He thinks she will get over the disappointment quite quickly and that if she doesn’t then we should think of adoption.’ He shrugged, surprised how easily he could talk about it now; surprised at how he had convinced even himself that it was Clare who was unable to have a child. ‘In the meantime he has recommended a complete rest.’

  Geoffrey was watching him closely. ‘You know, I don’t think that’s such a good idea at all. She is too much alone, Paul. The last thing she needs is a rest. She needs to be busy. On her own admission she has been thrown on her own resources too often.’

  ‘Well, I’m going to solve the problem by sending her away.’ Paul stood up restlessly. He walked to the fireplace and kicked at the glowing coke. ‘I’m sending her on a cruise.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘Well, I can’t go.’ Paul picked up the poker, his voice defensive. ‘My diary is full for the next six months. Besides, I’m sure she’d rather go without me.’

  ‘Couldn’t you send someone with her?’ Geoffrey said mildly. ‘Emma, perhaps, or your Mrs Collins?’

  ‘Sarah Collins?’ Paul’s voice cracked into a laugh. ‘Do you think I’ve got the money to send my housekeeper on a cruise?’

  Geoffrey stroked his cheek thoughtfully, watching Paul in silence.

  ‘When are you sending her away?’ he asked at last.

  ‘Soon.’

  ‘And does she know about this great treat which lies in store for her?’ Geoffrey narrowed his eyes.

  ‘I’ve told her I have a surprise arranged for her.’

  ‘It’ll certainly be that.’ Geoffrey stood up. Slowly he walked around the desk. ‘What if it doesn’t work, Paul? What if she goes on doing it?’

  Paul closed his eyes. By then the sale of Duncairn would have been arranged, and after that he didn’t care what happened to her. ‘Then she will have to see an expert – a psychiatrist
– a psychotherapist – I don’t know.’ He shrugged evasively.

  Geoffrey shook his head. ‘No, Paul. That’s not what she needs. She needs company; she needs people around her all the time, and she needs spiritual help. For God’s sake, man, don’t you see what is happening to her?’

  ‘She’s obsessed with the past –’

  ‘No. It’s more than that. This woman, Isobel. She is using Clare. She is taking her over, Paul. I’m sure of it.’

  Paul stared at him. ‘You aren’t serious? You mean Clare is possessed?’

  ‘If that’s the way you want to put it, yes. She is possessed. Through her meditation, through these other practices, she has learned to open her mind to the powers of darkness.’ Since talking to Emma, and then to Clare herself, Geoffrey had been reading hard and talking to several of his colleagues. He was extremely worried. ‘You have to take this very seriously, Paul.’

  ‘You mean Isobel is evil?’ Paul stressed the word sarcastically.

  ‘I believe she is a spirit who is not at rest. She is using your wife as a means of communicating with the world.’

  ‘What you are saying is that Clare is a medium –’

  ‘No, it is more than that. She needs spiritual help!’

  ‘Well then, give it to her. When she comes back, exorcise her or something. Not that I expect that this Isobel creature will follow her to the Mediterranean …’

  Geoffrey sighed. ‘What will you do if Clare doesn’t want to go to the Mediterranean, Paul?’ He sat down opposite his brother.

  Paul considered. ‘I don’t know. But she will go. I’ll see to it that she does. She always does what I tell her.’

  Geoffrey raised an eyebrow. ‘Unusual lady.’ He hesitated. ‘Don’t be too hard on her, Paul. She has obviously had a great deal of unhappiness over the past years, unhappiness that even you may not have recognised – wanting a baby, seeing the people around her all managing to have children – Gillian constantly pregnant right on her doorstep. The shock of finding out that it can never happen may have affected her far more deeply than any of us have realised.’ He hesitated. ‘We have to be sympathetic, and above all supportive to her at this time. It is understandable that she will want to cling to her visions – they have become a lifebelt for her, Paul. We must be gentle. We must.’

  Chloe straightened from the oven, her hair dishevelled when at last they went downstairs. ‘It’s good to see you, Paul. How is Clare?’ She looked anxious.

  Geoffrey picked up the bottle of sherry from the kitchen table and began to unscrew it thoughtfully. ‘He’s going to send her on a cruise.’

  ‘Oh, how lovely!’ Chloe beamed. ‘Lucky Clare! Will that help, do you think?’

  ‘I’m sure it will.’ Geoffrey didn’t sound too sure at all.

  Chloe looked from one to the other, noting Paul’s grim face. With a sigh she turned back to the sink. ‘I’m afraid Emma can’t come this evening. I asked her because Peter is away again, but she’s having dinner with some American sugar daddy.’ She laughed gaily. ‘I don’t know what’s happening to the Royland ladies! They’re all kicking over the traces at last. At this rate it will be my turn next!’

  Peter came back to England the following evening. Emma was in the kitchen when he walked in and put the airline carrier with duty-free whisky down on the counter.

  ‘Miss me?’ he asked automatically.

  Emma dried her hands on the towel. ‘Of course.’ She felt suddenly rather guilty.

  ‘Do you want the bad news straight away?’ He gave her a weary kiss.

  She tried to smile. ‘This isn’t really you. You are still in Singapore.’

  ‘Almost. I’ve got to go back on 8 November.’

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘Three weeks.’

  ‘But you will be home for Christmas, Peter, won’t you?’

  She clung to him suddenly. ‘Julia would be heartbroken if you missed it.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Em.’ Peter moved away from her, uncomfortable at any show of emotion. ‘Of course I will. I have never missed Christmas yet.’ He yawned. ‘Look love, I think I’ll have a shower and grab a few hours’ kip. It was a hell of a flight and I’ll have to be up at three to ring the Singapore office.’

  ‘Of course. Peter –?’ She called suddenly as he went out of the kitchen. ‘Did you bring her anything?’

  ‘Not this time, Em. Sorry. I didn’t have the time.’

  She sat for a long time after he had gone upstairs, staring into space, then she reached for the whisky bottle he had brought and slowly she began to unscrew it.

  She carried her glass into the living room and flipped on the TV but she couldn’t concentrate. With half an ear she was listening. She heard the shower running upstairs, and then silence. If Peter had really missed her he would call down to her, suggest she come to bed too. But he didn’t. Worn out by a week’s non-stop negotiating and a sixteen-hour flight Peter fell asleep as his head touched the pillow.

  With a sigh Emma switched off the TV and on impulse she reached for the phone.

  Clare was standing in the garden staring up at the sky. It was a brilliant clear night and very cold. She pushed her hands deep into the pockets of her coat and shivered as the first slight flattening appeared at the edge of the radiant full moon. Behind her the kitchen door opened.

  ‘Are you warm enough, Mrs Royland?’ Sarah peered out into the darkness.

  ‘Yes thanks.’ Clare’s eyes hadn’t left the moon. ‘Aren’t you going to come and watch? An eclipse of the full moon is a bit special. It’s full of portent, somehow.’

  Sarah shivered. ‘I’ll pop out and see how it’s going when I’ve got the supper on.’ She closed the door firmly.

  Clare smiled ruefully. Another black mark. Another sign that she was on the way to perdition.

  Already the shadow was cutting into the moon’s side – a strange, malignant, growing scar on the cold impervious silver. Pulling her collar up around her neck she stepped down off the terrace and began to wander over the wet grass. The night was completely silent. No owls; no bats that she could see or hear. No rustlings or squeakings from the flowerbeds. Perhaps all the wildlife, too, was standing in silent awe at the devastation going on in the sky. She shivered again. As the eclipse progressed it brought with it a strange sadness; a feeling of empty desolation. The whole thing took about an hour. By the time the moon had disappeared and the sky was black she was shaking violently with the cold, and there were tears in her eyes.

  She had woken herself deliberately after the last trance, cold and cramped after sitting so long cross-legged. The candle had almost burned down. Blowing it out she had stood up. There was still a little light in the sky and she had stood for a moment at the window staring out at the grey garden. Beyond the beech hedge she could see the mist beginning to creep in across the fields. Resolutely she had drawn the curtains, and switched on the light, then she stood staring at herself in the mirror.

  She had thought for a long time about the rapes; the cold-blooded mating of a man with a frightened unwilling woman in order to conceive a child. Had it been so different, Isobel’s ordeal at the hands of the Earl of Buchan, to her own when she and Paul had been trying so hard for a baby?

  Was that it? Was her dramatic vision of the past her mind glamorising and making more frightening her own impersonal ordeal at the hands of the doctors to make the whole experience more bearable? Was she fantasising uncontrollably to compensate for her own inability to have a child? Was her vivid consciousness of Isobel’s pain and hatred and fear merely a psychodrama reflecting her own emotions?

  She found herself thinking completely calmly about Paul. He had not slept with her since the results had come from the doctor. It was as if now that there was no possibility of a child there was no reason for sex. He had lost interest, and for the first time she had realised calmly and rationally that he was not in love with her; perhaps he never had been. Was she still in love with him? Her mind sidestepped the question; if
she was not in love with Paul, why was she still married to him?

  Shivering she had turned away from the mirror, feeling very bleak. In her dream Isobel refused to have a child. Did this mean that she, Clare, was subconsciously trying to pretend that childlessness was her choice? Was she, even in her dreams, fooling herself into the belief that she could get pregnant still, if she wanted?

  So, Geoffrey’s warnings and Zak’s were so much hysterical rubbish. Isobel wasn’t real. She was a product of her own gynaecologically obsessed brain. Walking back to the window she lifted the curtains and stared out again with a rueful smile. Her mother would have said she had a dirty mind.

  She had turned as the door was pushed open and Casta appeared in the room, her tail wagging apologetically, her eyes pleading. The dog pushed her nose into Clare’s hand and whined quietly until Clare squatted beside her and put her arms around her neck. It was strange the way Casta disappeared when she meditated – almost as if she was afraid. Why should she do that? And why, if it were her own dream, had Aunt Margaret had it too? Was Isobel after all a spirit, or a memory, echoing down the years in the genetic memory banks of the family? Was it just a coincidence that she too had been obsessed with childbirth? Or was it perhaps merely that this was the inheritance of women? The burden they all carried through the millennia. The curse of Eve. She had buried her face in the dog’s fur, and suddenly she found that she was crying.

  Almost at once the darkness was over. A faint silver rim was reappearing on the far side of the moon. The eclipse was passing. She walked back slowly towards the house and pushed open the back door. She was pulling off her boots as Sarah went to answer the phone.

  ‘It’s Mrs Cassidy,’ she said as she handed the receiver over. The kitchen was warm and steamy; Clare could smell some kind of casserole in the oven.

  ‘Hi, Emma. How are you?’ She tried to make her voice cheerful.

  ‘I’m pretty fed up actually.’ Emma sounded unusually depressed. ‘I had to ring someone.’

  ‘What is it?’ Clare, the phone in one hand, wriggled free of her coat. She frowned, trying to shake off her own black mood. Behind her Sarah had tactfully left the room.