The man glanced from him to Jim and then back at him, obviously making a similar train of deductions in his mind.
‘Mr Forbes?’ He spoke with an barely perceptible Scots’ burr, the accent almost refined out of existence.
Neil looked from the man to the woman and back and inclined his head. They both seemed uncomfortable in the office, but there was more to it than that. They were agitated about something.
‘I’m Archie Macleod and this is my wife, Antonia.’ The man paused. ‘Clare’s parents.’
After Archie and Antonia had put Sarah on the train to London that morning to spend Christmas with her sister in Richmond, it had taken them two hours to make up their minds to try and find Neil instead of driving straight back to Airdlie. The idea of seeing him was distasteful to both of them but their worry about Clare had in the end prevailed, as had, secretly, their curiosity.
‘We’ve been trying to reach them on the phone at Duncairn for a couple of days,’ Antonia blurted out.
‘The line is down.’ Behind them Jim had switched off the duplicating machine. ‘Can I get you some coffee, Mr and Mrs Macleod?’ He moved across to the kettle.
‘Thank you.’ Antonia smiled faintly. ‘Thank you, that would be nice. We’re so worried, Mr Forbes –’ She turned back to Neil. ‘We wondered if you knew anyone else near the hotel we could ring –’ Her voice trailed away as she looked pleadingly up at his face.
Neil shook his head. ‘I’m sorry. The whole area is cut off. They say it should be back on by tomorrow –’
‘Paul rang us, you see, just before the lines went dead. They set out to meet us in Edinburgh, then they had to turn back because of the snow,’ Antonia rushed on. ‘Thank you, dear.’ She accepted a mug of black coffee from Jim.
‘A bit of a blow for you, her going back to Paul, I dare say.’ Archie had noticed Neil’s expression harden. ‘I’m sorry, old chap, but her place is with her husband, you know. Especially now.’
‘Is that how he persuaded her to go back with him? By blackmailing her with harrowing accounts of appearing in court wifeless?’ Neil’s voice was harsh. ‘I’m sure she hasn’t gone back to him willingly.’
His last hope that Kathleen had been making it all up had plummeted at Archie’s words and he found himself suddenly very angry; angry with everyone, but especially with Clare.
He noticed that Antonia was smiling, and it seemed to him that behind her worry she was quietly triumphant at his discomfort. ‘There was no question of blackmail, Mr Forbes. Clare loves her husband.’ Her voice was soothing. ‘And of course she wants to be with him while all this silly misunderstanding is cleared up, but there is more to it than that. She is going to have a baby, so of course they want to be together.’
For a moment Neil was stunned into silence. Three pairs of eyes were fixed on his face. White to the lips he took a deep breath. ‘I thought Clare couldn’t have children.’
‘So the doctors told them, but apparently it was all a terrible mistake. The baby is due in August,’ Antonia added with just a trace of smugness. With a grimace she put down the mug of coffee, untouched. ‘So you see why we are especially concerned. We were going to meet them in Edinburgh to celebrate, but when we couldn’t contact them we couldn’t help but be worried.’
Neil managed to keep his face impassive. ‘I can understand,’ he said with feeling. ‘But if I were you I should go home, then they will know where to contact you as soon as Duncairn is back on the phone.’
‘Poor Clare,’ Jim commented as the door closed behind them. ‘If I had parents like that, I’d join the Foreign Legion. Are you OK?’
‘She can’t be pregnant!’ Neil spoke through clenched teeth.
‘Doctors make mistakes,’ Jim said softly.
‘But she hadn’t slept with him for months.’ Neil’s voice was torn with anguish.
‘Women have been known to lie, Neil.’
‘Not Clare. Not about that.’ He began to walk in agitation up and down the space between the desk and the window. ‘There is something very wrong. She wouldn’t have lied to me. She wouldn’t –’ He turned suddenly. ‘I’m going up there, Jim.’
Jim shrugged. ‘Are you sure that’s wise? Quite apart from anything else, they’re telling people to keep off the roads –’
‘I’ve got to know! One way or another, I’ve got to know what’s going on.’ Neil frowned angrily. If Clare was a liar, if she had gone back to Paul willingly, then it would confirm everything he had first thought about her and worse; but if she wasn’t … If Paul was forcing her in some way to go back to him as he had forced her before, then she needed help. Not only that: if she had been telling the truth and she had not slept with her husband for months, then the baby, if there was a baby, was his.
At Airdlie Paul put down the phone. He had tried a dozen times to reach Rex but there was no answer from his flat. He wanted to give the man the chance to change his mind – just in case Sigma backed off. Supposing they had become suspicious about the signatures after all? There had been too long a silence from their legal people and he was getting twitchy. He had not been able to get in touch with Doug Warner for two days and the Sigma offices were still empty.
Upstairs in her bedroom, warmed now in anticipation of Geoff and Chloe’s arrival by an electric fire and covered by a thick blanket, Clare lay completely still. She had not eaten for twenty-four hours. Twice Paul had lifted her head and put a glass to her lips. Both times she had sipped a little, but she did not speak or acknowledge him. She seemed to have slipped away into a world of her own.
He had taken the piece of paper she had signed and put it, still folded, into an envelope, sealed it and locked it in his briefcase. Now that he had finally got it he was almost ashamed.
A day without using it, a day to contemplate his actions, the Sabbath day, the day of rest. Everything would be all right if he didn’t rush it. That would make it seem better; make the whole transaction appear completely legitimate. He slammed down the phone and looked at his watch. Geoffrey should arrive within an hour if the roads were still open. It was already growing dark.
The trouble was that if the roads were open would Antonia and Archie return as well? His mind raced on. Not that it mattered now. He had what he wanted and Clare’s state would merely reinforce everything he had been saying all along. He shivered. In fact, he would be quite glad if they did come back. He no longer wanted to be in the house with her alone.
It was after six and pitch dark when the taxi from the airport deposited Geoffrey and Chloe at the end of the snow-covered drive and turned at once into the blizzard, making for home. Cases in hand they trudged up the long winding drive, exhausted.
Paul had left the light on in the porch. ‘Thank God you’re here!’ He almost dragged them in. ‘Where’s the cab?’
‘He went straight back.’ Geoffrey let his bags fall on the hall carpet and shook himself like a dog. He shed his heavy coat then helped his wife off with hers.
‘How is she, Paul?’ Chloe was shaking with cold.
‘Come and see.’ He led them past the empty drawing room where a huge fire was blazing temptingly up the chimney, up the stairs to her bedroom and pushed open the door. He had left it unlocked only the last time he had gone up there. Clare lay as she had before without moving. Geoffrey walked over and put his hand on her forehead. She didn’t seem to notice him. ‘What finally pushed her over?’ he asked in a whisper.
‘Don’t ask me.’ Paul shrugged elaborately. ‘It happened when I got her back from Duncairn. She’s in some sort of trance –’ He would tell them about Casta later. That would explain everything. They would understand how an accident like that could have tipped the balance.
‘Clare? Clare my dear, can you hear me?’ Geoffrey bent over her. His hands were cold, his face glowing from the walk up the drive through the snow. Some drops of melted ice fell from his dark hair on to her face. She blinked, but she didn’t look at him.
He took her hands and chafed them ge
ntly. ‘Clare? I want you to look at me.’ He glanced up at Paul. ‘Has she said anything at all?’
Paul shook his head. Behind him Chloe was standing by the door. ‘Speak to Isobel. See if she is there –’ she whispered.
Geoffrey shook his head. ‘Not now. Not like this, unprepared. I must have time to pray. We don’t know what kind of a spirit this Isobel is; if she’s evil, unhappy, just a lost soul, or one bent on destruction.’ He frowned. ‘We must all pray, then I shall contact the minister here. We must get her to the church.’
‘You mean you can’t do it here?’ Paul was appalled. ‘She can’t go out like this, man! For God’s sake, you’ve got to do it now. I need her in London! An insane zombie is not going to help my case at all.’ Now that he was no longer alone, his fear had evaporated and his anger had returned.
‘Paul, for heaven’s sake –!’
He ignored Chloe’s shocked remonstrance. ‘I thought you said your bishop had given you permission to sort her out, Geoff. Surely he’s told you what to do?’
‘It is not as simple as that, Paul,’ Geoffrey said patiently. ‘Clare needs time and understanding and prayer. I shall pray with her tonight, but if we need to take her to church we will have to wait for tomorrow – we can hardly take her there at night.’
‘Tomorrow?’ Paul was shocked. ‘You’re going to leave her like this for another night?’
‘I’m not going to leave her, Paul, I told you. I shall stay with her and pray. Where are her parents, and Mrs Collins? Perhaps they can help us –’
‘They are not here. They went to Edinburgh.’
‘What?’ Geoffrey looked up, startled. ‘You mean there is no one else here?’
Paul shook his head. ‘No one. It’s up to you, Geoff.’
His brother frowned, with a strange feeling of unease. He glanced at Chloe, wondering if she had felt it too. Something here was not quite right, something quite apart from Clare and her shuttered, unhappy face. Paul was too bland, too innocent. He shrugged unhappily. Whatever it was there was nothing he could do about it now.
Wearily he sat down on the edge of the bed. He felt in his pocket and after a moment brought out a silver cross on a chain. ‘Clare? Clare, I want you to wear this, my dear. Can you see it?’ He held it out before her and for a brief moment he thought he saw her eyes focus on the silver, glinting softly in the lamplight as it swung. He undid the small clasp on the chain, his fingers still clumsy with cold, and slipped it gently round her neck, bracing himself for some reaction. If Satan and witchcraft were at work here, the chances were that she would scream or struggle and throw off the cross before it touched her, but she ignored it. He redid the clasp carefully, settling it beneath her hair, then he placed her hands gently over the cross on her breast. She made no move to avoid it though for a moment he thought he saw the flicker of a smile on her face.
The minister had been called away to a remote farm just before the snow started, to the bedside of a dying man. His wife did not think he would be back today – even if the roads were ploughed – and the farm was not on the phone.
Geoffrey was angry. ‘I told you to speak to him before we got here, Paul!’
‘It was none of his business.’ Paul looked away, embarrassed.
Geoffrey, heavy-eyed after his night’s vigil, was still sitting beside Clare’s bed. She had barely moved in the night. One hand had fallen from the cross and hung dangling over the edge of the bed. He had not replaced it.
‘You’ll have to do it by yourself. Do it here,’ Paul whispered angrily.
‘I don’t want to do it here.’ Geoffrey shook his head. He had prayed again and again and there had been no response. ‘There is too much here; too much of her past; too much atmosphere.’
‘Too many ghosts, you mean.’ Paul was sarcastic. ‘Aren’t you a match for them, then?’
Geoffrey frowned. In the night he had felt a cold which was not a physical cold and sensed a presence in the room besides him and Clare. Afraid, he had knelt and prayed harder than he had ever prayed before. The prayers had comforted him, they had surrounded him and safeguarded him, but they had not touched Clare.
He got up wearily from his chair and walked across to the window. ‘Do you know what day it is, Paul?’ The river was black between the snowy banks beneath the trees.
‘Monday.’ Paul was short-tempered. He had rung Rex again and still there was no reply. And the Sigma offices were still closed, at nearly 8.20.
‘It is the ancient feast of Yule,’ Geoffrey said thoughtfully. ‘A day of power.’
‘Good. Well, use it.’ Paul turned back to the door.
‘Their power,’ Geoffrey went on. ‘The men and women who worshipped the old gods. Women like Isobel.’
Paul stopped. He felt a sudden prickle of fear run across his shoulders.
‘I have to take Clare to hallowed ground, Paul, to defeat her.’ Geoffrey wasn’t looking at him. He frowned, still staring through the window. He was watching a fox running across the snow-covered lawn in the distance. It vanished between the trees.
Paul had raised an eyebrow. ‘Where better than Dunkeld then? The cathedral is pretty old, isn’t it?’
‘There has been a church here for more than a thousand years.’ Geoffrey had been reading up about Dunkeld. ‘But I have to have permission from the minister; I don’t know his views –’
‘I’ll ring him again.’ Suddenly Paul wanted to be out of the room. It still felt unnaturally cold, in spite of the radiator and the electric fire. He glanced at the fireplace. Normally he would have lit a fire there, but his wife’s abstract expression, with her eyes open blinking naturally from time to time and moving slowly across the ceiling, was getting to him. He shuddered. Chloe could do it later.
She was in the kitchen frying bacon. A jug of coffee was warming on the Aga.
‘We have to try to get her to eat, Paul.’ Chloe had tied her hair back in a blue flowered head scarf. The colour did not suit her; it accentuated her pale tiredness.
‘She won’t. I’ve tried.’
Chloe suppressed the comment she was about to make. ‘Even so, let me have a go. And anyway the rest of us could do with a good breakfast. Poor Geoff sat up with her all night.’
‘As I did, the night before.’ Paul took her remark as a reproach. It wasn’t true. Afraid of the strange hostile chill in the room he had turned the key in the lock and left her alone.
This time there was a reply from the cathedral manse. The minister would definitely be away until the following afternoon, and no, sorry, he could not be contacted; if it was an emergency, could they suggest a neighbouring minister …
Paul put down the phone angrily. What now? He glanced towards the door. The house was eerily silent.
He dialled Rex’s number again. Still no reply, but he managed at last to reach Doug Warner’s secretary. She was sorry but Mr Warner had flown to the States and would not be back until the New Year. Paul cursed silently then as an afterthought he asked her about Rex. She didn’t know where he was, but she did know that he would be in Scotland for the whole of the Christmas holiday. Sigma Aberdeen was sending a helicopter to meet him at Dyce Airport.
Paul tensed. ‘Dyce? Are you sure? When?’
There was a pause. ‘If you’ll hold the line, Mr Royland. I’ll check for you.’
The American voice the other end of the line was distracted by another phone in the distance and Paul heard her asking someone else to hold, then at last she was back.
‘The helicopter is to fly Mr Cummin and his guests to the Duncairn Hotel, Mr Royland. I have the number here –’
‘Don’t bother.’ Paul smiled grimly. ‘I know it.’
He slammed down the receiver. So, the bastard was still interested enough to spend Christmas there! And what a Christmas present he could give himself, if he chose, if Sigma dropped out. Paul smiled. He sat for a moment staring at his briefcase as it lay on the table in front of him. Suddenly he was filled with confidence.
The
y had propped Clare up in a sitting position and Chloe had gently sponged her face. Ignoring Paul she poured out the coffee. ‘Come on, Clare, you must have something.’
Her firm tone seemed to reach Clare and slowly she focussed on Chloe’s face. ‘The cage –’
‘There is no cage.’ Chloe’s voice was bracing. ‘You’ve been dreaming. Come on, have a sip of coffee.’ She closed Clare’s hands around the mug.
Obediently Clare drank but as the hot spicy coffee flowed through her veins, her hands began to shake violently. ‘Casta? Where is Casta?’
Chloe glanced at Geoffrey. Geoffrey grimaced. ‘She’s dead, Clare,’ he said gently. ‘She can’t have suffered, my dear. It was just the most dreadful accident. But life must go on. You have to eat. Look. Chloe’s made you some breakfast.’
They watched her as she lay back against the pillows, her eyes closed, struggling against the tears as the memories flooded back. It was a long time before she could compose herself enough to sit up again and drink some more coffee. She pushed the bacon away in distaste, but eventually she managed to nibble some toast. She hadn’t looked at Paul.
Geoffrey had a plate of bacon and eggs on his knee, still seated beside the bed. He was watching her closely. The atmosphere had lightened, he was sure of it; Isobel had loosened her hold. He glanced at the cross around Clare’s neck. It lay on the soft blue wool of her sweater, glinting in the lamplight. She seemed completely unconscious of it. He nodded, relieved. She had not at any time recoiled from it; nor torn it off. It was a start.
His food was almost cold but he finished it without tasting it, not wanting to offend Chloe, then purposefully he stood up. ‘Why don’t Paul and I leave you girls for a bit? A good hot bath would make you feel better, Clare, I’m sure.’
She looked at him. He noted again the strangely quizzical expression which crossed her face for a fraction of a second before it was gone, and she nodded.
Chloe had to help her out of bed. Her legs refused to function as she tried to walk across the bedroom, and she felt her head spin. Slowly Chloe helped her down the passage to the bathroom and bent to turn on the taps.