‘What thing?’ Aninka dared to ask.
Taziel lowered his hand and gave her a knowing smile. He seemed very young now. ‘You know what thing. Othman doesn’t have a hold on me, just an unwelcome presence now and again.’
‘You must have been very close for that to happen.’
He nodded. ‘I thought so. But not that close, obviously, otherwise what happened wouldn’t have happened.’
Lahash came back with the champagne and the glasses. He filled each one. ‘A toast,’ he said, distributing them to his companions. He raised his own glass. ‘To our success!’
‘Success!’ Taziel said.
‘Success,’ murmured Aninka. They clinked glasses and drank. Aninka felt uneasy. Just what would their success encompass?
They drank in silence for a while, and then Lahash refilled their glasses, an action which seemed to prompt conversation once more.
‘If Othman has settled somewhere else for a while,’ Aninka said, ‘he’ll probably be making plans to re-enact his gate-opening ritual, won’t he?’
Lahash nodded. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised.’
‘Then we have to get to him soon!’ Aninka cried. ‘Otherwise people will be hurt!’
‘Don’t waste your sentiment,’ Taziel said sourly. ‘If he acts rashly, all to the good. We’ll be able to find him easier.’
The warm feelings that Aninka had begun to extend towards Taziel evaporated. ‘Not caring about what he does to people makes us just like him,’ she said.
‘And you don’t want to be like him?’ Taziel’s expression was knowing. ‘I bet you go hot at the crotch just thinking about being near to him again.’
Aninka refused to get angry. ‘That sounds like displacement to me. Perhaps you should think about your own expectations before you criticise mine.’
Taziel flopped back on the bed, his champagne glass held upright upon his chest. ‘We’re infected, both of us. We are his followers, whatever our conscious minds try to tell us. Our only defence is that we should be aware of that.’
Reflexively, Aninka shivered. She wished Taziel wouldn’t come out with remarks, for they were generally unsettling.
‘Taz is right,’ Lahash said. ‘You must be alert for his influence. As we draw nearer to him, it might become more powerful.’
Aninka laughed coldly. ‘Only if he remembers us or thinks about us! I doubt he does. I believe that once he used us up, he forgot about us. That in my opinion is our best defence!’ In her mind, she tried to silence the whispering voice that murmured, but I want him to remember me, I want to punish him for what he did. She glanced at Taziel and found that he was staring at her through narrowed eyes. Was it jealousy or anxiety in his expression?
‘Of course,’ Taziel said, ‘we have to prepare ourselves for the worst.’
‘The worst?’ Aninka held his eyes.
‘That we’ll fail, be too late, or too weak. That he’ll get away. That we’ll not even catch sight of him. That is the worst, Aninka, isn’t it?’
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Tuesday 27th October: Little Moor
On Tuesday morning, Barbara called Low Mede again. She was now extremely worried about Louis, and had even begun to wonder whether his vile daughter had poisoned him or pushed him downstairs. She resolved to demand to speak to Louis if Verity answered the phone, and would brook no argument. If that failed, she would go round and march right into the house. Louis, however, answered the phone. Barbara was so surprised, she was lost for words for a moment, then recovered herself.
‘Oh Louis! I can’t tell you how relieved I am to hear your voice. I’ve been out of my mind with worry!’
‘Wasn’t feeling too well,’ Louis answered, ‘but I’m fine now.’
‘Thank God! I take it the healing session didn’t do you much good, then?’
There was a pause before he answered her question. ‘Actually, it’s been amazingly successful.’
There was an unfamiliar edge to Louis’ voice which Barbara could not identify. ‘Are you sure? You sound a bit odd.’
‘Well, to be honest, I’m still rather shell-shocked... Barbara, I have to see you.’
‘Of course. I’ll come round later, if that’s all right. I’m going out with Pev shortly to see some paintings.’
‘Oh... Well, whenever you can make it.’
‘This afternoon.’
Barbara put down the phone, a puzzled expression on her face. Barney came into the room and said. ‘Everything all right?’
‘Yes, yes.’ Barbara smiled, pushing misgivings from her mind. ‘I shall be out most of the day, but I’ve left instructions for everybody.’
Barney gave her a withering look, which she ignored.
Barbara found Peverel Othman sitting out in the beer garden, reading a newspaper. He always scanned the local news; she wondered why he found it so absorbing. ‘Ready?’ she enquired loudly, swinging her truck keys from her fingers.
Othman glanced up, appearing, for a moment, confused. Then his expression cleared. ‘Ah, the private view! I had forgotten.’
In the truck, Barbara vowed not to mention Emma to Othman, then found herself saying, ‘Your friend last night seemed very pleasant.’
‘Yes. She’s a local girl.’
Barbara pursued the topic relentlessly. ‘How do you know her?’
Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed an expression of irritation cross Othman’s face. He found her questions discomforting. ‘The same way I know any of you.’
‘Really? I’ve never seen her before.’
Othman smirked at her, but said nothing. Hedgerows rushed past, brushing the sides of the truck. Seeds fell in through the open windows. ‘Isn’t that the turning you want?’ Othman said.
Barbara had nearly missed it. The old signpost was virtually hidden by brambles. She swung the truck recklessly around the tight bend, so that Othman lurched into her. ‘You’ll roll this thing,’ he said, but didn’t seem particularly concerned.
Barbara wanted to interrogate him further, let him know how much his obliqueness annoyed her, and that it stank of deceit, but realised it could jeopardise her plans. Just what her plans were, she refused to examine too minutely.
Larkington was a picturesque village, nestling in a valley and bisected by a wide, shallow river. Even at this time of year, tourists milled along the narrow main street, looking into the gift shop windows. It was a less functional place than Little Moor, being directed towards heritage theming. Barbara wondered why Little Moor had escaped this late century grooming, which was now so popular everywhere else. After all, Long Eden and Herman’s Wood were surely greater potential tourist attractions than those that other nearby villages boasted. As she drove, she looked out for Leaning Willows, hoping the house would have a prominent name plaque. They reached the other side of the village without finding it. Barbara drove for another mile or so, then backed the truck up a lane to turn round.
‘Do you know where we’re supposed to be going?’ Othman asked.
‘We’ll find it,’ Barbara said sharply. ‘Larkington’s tiny.’ The trip wasn’t turning out to be the convivial, carefree occasion Barbara had planned.
‘Barbara, you did get directions?’
‘Well, no,’ Barbara admitted, ‘but we can ask somebody if necessary.’
Othman shook his head, but he was smiling. She wished there wasn’t this suggestion of barbs between them, a fence of bristles preventing easy conversation. Was it because of Emma being with him last night? Barbara wondered. She was aware of her tendency to be jealous. Now, stop it, she told herself. You have this man to yourself. Make the most of it. She affected a girlish laugh. ‘Actually, I was so excited about locating the paintings, I forgot to ask Godfrey Thormund how to find him! Isn’t that ridiculous?’
‘It’s unlikely we’ll see anything revealing, even if we do track Mr Thormund down.’
‘Oh? What makes you say that?’ Barbara directed a sharp glance at her passenger. His use of the word
‘revealing’ was intriguing. What else did he know?
Othman shrugged. ‘The Murkasters will have kept everything of value, won’t they?’
‘I get the impression you meant more than that! Come on, Pev, spill the beans. What have you found out?’
He grinned widely. ‘The Murkasters weren’t even human.’
Barbara laughed. ‘Oh, is that all! What were they, then? Vampires?’
‘No. They belonged to a race that have been around for a lot longer than humanity, and who were responsible for nudging human evolution along. You could call them scientists, I suppose. They like to experiment with interbreeding.’
Barbara was beginning to feel uneasy. There was no laughter in Othman’s words. ‘You’re scaring me, Pev. You sound so convincing.’
‘Well, as the old saying goes, truth is often stranger than fiction. Turn left here.’
Barbara obliged and then said, ‘Why here?’
‘Leaning Willows will be down this lane.’
She laughed again. ‘You bastard! You knew all along where it was! Have you been here already?’
‘Not at all. Simple deduction. Look.’ He pointed towards a group of enormous willow trees, where a stream hurried towards the main river. ‘Just a guess.’
‘I can’t believe what you said about the Murkasters.’
‘I’m not asking you to. You asked me a question and I answered it. What you do with that information is your business. Stop here.’
Barbara stopped the vehicle in front of a small gate. There was no sign of a house name, but the garden was full of willows. ‘Do you think this is it?’
Othman opened the passenger door. ‘Well, there’s an old guy at the window twitching his nets.’
Sighing, Barbara turned off the engine. Her day wasn’t going as planned at all.
Godfrey Thormund had obviously been waiting for his visitors, for he opened the door to them before they reached the porch. He was a precise, sedate old gentleman, an example of a dying breed, which Barbara held dear. The dark, polished interior of his cottage, with its slow ticking clocks and smell of lavender reminded her of her childhood, and the afternoons spent at her grandmother’s house. Clematis greened the windows, and an old spaniel lay with its head on its paws before the cold hearth. The atmosphere of Leaning Willows, strangely familiar, made her feel sad. It reminded her of vanished youth and innocence. Already, she could feel a poem brewing in her mind.
Thormund cast wary glances at Othman, but was gallant to Barbara. He had a housekeeper, he said, a woman who ‘came in’ now and again. Coffee and biscuits were ready on a tray in the parlour. For a while, polite conversation ensued, as Thormund asked Barbara questions about The White House and related the experiences of his brother-in-law, who also owned a pub. Barbara didn’t press the point about The White House actually being a hotel, for it seemed impolite. Othman sat quietly, sipping coffee, inspecting the room. Eventually, Barbara thought enough time had elapsed for the subject of their visit to be introduced.
‘So, you’re an art collector, then?’ The walls were covered in old paintings. None of them looked like prints.
Thormund nodded. ‘A hobby,’ he said. ‘I spend a lot of time simply sitting around and my paintings always entertain me. Better than TV.’ He gestured at the walls. ‘Each picture holds a memory, or has a tale to tell.’
‘You must have lived here a long time, then, to have been in the area when the Long Eden auction took place.’
‘My wife was alive then,’ Thormund said. ‘We’d not long moved here when the sale came up. I was working away a lot, civil service job. Mary liked to go to the auctions. It was she who actually purchased the pieces from Long Eden.’
Barbara put down her cup. ‘May we see them?’
Thormund nodded, and rose slowly from his chair. ‘Of course. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? The best piece is in the dining room. Through here.’
They ducked through the low doorway into the hall, which was flagged in cool stone. A Persian rug glowed against the grey slabs, while the panelled walls gleamed with brass ornaments.
‘In here.’ Thormund led the way into the dining room, which was carpeted in red, and had the ambience of a room hardly used. Everything was polished and tidy, but the air lacked life.
The painting dominated the room. Barbara uttered a delighted gasp when she saw it. ‘Oh, that’s beautiful!’ She hurried round the dining table for a closer look.
The woman in the painting posed in front of a dim landscape, but behind her a representation of Long Eden was clearly discernible in the distance. ‘Is she a Murkaster?’ Barbara asked. The woman was dressed in a strange, Oriental fashion, with a head-dress of pendant beads. A peacock crouched at her feet, its radiant tail sweeping the ground. The colours were muted with age, but still seemed to glow and burn. The woman’s face was long, her eyes slightly slanting, but to Barbara, she seemed familiar. Her hair was black, loose around her shoulders, with two plaits falling down at the front, clasped with round golden medallions.
‘The painting is unnamed,’ Thormund said. ‘It’s the best of the bunch, because all the others were a lot smaller, and mostly of horses and dogs. We thought at the time it was unusual, and probably shouldn’t have been in the sale. It was the only piece of its type.’
‘She’s lovely,’ breathed Barbara. ‘Like a heroine from a myth, or a goddess.’ She turned to Othman. ‘A woman who was touched by a god!’
When he’d first looked at the painting, Othman had felt a charge of shock course through his flesh. The woman was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen, and some part of him knew her. Still, he was wary of approaching her. The long, knowing eyes seemed to trace his passage around the room.
Barbara leaned closer to look at the depiction of the house. ‘Long Eden doesn’t look that different,’ she said. ‘Although the gardens are neater. Good Lord, what’s that?’ She pointed to something in the gardens, a tiny figure, almost hidden among some trees.
Othman followed the line of her finger, and nearly gagged when he saw what she was pointing out. He saw the image of a man hanging upside-down by one foot from the bough of a tree. One of his eyes was open, the other closed. Shemyaza: the archetypal image. Othman’s eyes flicked from the beautiful face of the woman to the distorted figure of the hanged man. He felt sick, but wasn’t sure why. The image of the hanged one seemed grotesque to him, certainly out of place in what seemed to be a portrait of the woman.
‘Well, who do you think that is?’ Barbara said gleefully.
‘Probably one of her lovers,’ Othman said. His voice was rather sour, Barbara thought.
‘Yes, it is a bit odd,’ Thormund said. ‘Mary called him the Hanged Man. Apparently, it’s an image from a tarot card. She was into that kind of thing. Always trotting off to clairvoyants and such like.’
‘But what is it doing in this painting? Do you suppose it related to a real event?’
‘Who can tell?’ Thormund said. ‘Mary thought it was probably symbolic, a spiritual symbol. She had the idea the Murkasters were into the occult. Bit too Dennis Wheatley for me, I’m afraid! Haven’t got the same imagination.’
Barbara turned to Othman. ‘Do you know, this woman looks very familiar to me. Now, who does she remind me of?’
Othman’s expression was veiled. Barbara thought the painting had upset him in some way. He was not his usual, sardonic self. ‘You tell me,’ he said.
Barbara took a step back, narrowed her eyes at the picture. ‘Lily,’ she said. ‘It’s Lily Winter. Now I think of it, the likeness is uncanny.’ She smiled at Thormund. ‘Lily’s a girl who lives in our village.’
‘By-blow?’ enquired Thormund delicately.
‘I beg your pardon?’ Barbara was unsure for a moment what he meant, then realisation dawned. ‘Oh no, I hardly think so. They only came to the village a few years ago.’ She frowned. ‘Still, I think their mother once lived in Little Moor. Is that possible, Pev? Do you think the Winter twins are Mu
rkaster bastards?’ She made a few calculations before Othman could answer. ‘Hang on, the twins would have been conceived round about the time the Murkasters left Little Moor. It is possible.’
‘Well, the landed gentry were always renowned for being friendly with village women and servants,’ Thormund said. It was clear he enjoyed a little intrigue and scandal himself.
The rest of the paintings were disappointing in comparison with the first. Barbara scanned them swiftly. Thormund told her she could come back and see his pictures again if she wanted to. Barbara thanked him warmly. ‘I envy you that portrait,’ she said. ‘It is beautiful. There’s only one thing I’d like to ask you. I hope you don’t think I’m being too personal.’
‘Ask away!’
‘Why is it hanging in a room you clearly use only rarely? If I had that picture, I’d want to look at it all the time.’
Thormund smiled. ‘Well, there’s a tale to tell about that. When Mary bought it, it hung at the top of the stairs on the landing. But it spooked her. She didn’t like having to walk past it every night on the way to bed. I told you she was an imaginative sort. She loved that picture, but occasionally it scared her. All she’d say was she didn’t like the way the woman looked at her sometimes. So, it was moved in here. Mary said it was a day time picture that needed light. In darkness, it brooded too much.’
Barbara smiled. ‘I think I would have liked your wife! She sounds just my type.’
On the way back to Little Moor, Barbara chatted on about the picture, while Othman sat in silence beside her. Eventually Barbara commented on his mood. ‘What is the matter with you today? You’re not usually this subdued. It was as if you weren’t even there at Leaning Willows. In fact, it seemed to me that the painting upset you in some way.’
‘If it was a portrait,’ Othman said in a flat voice, ‘then it was a Murkaster posing for the illustration of a legend. The woman was Ishtahar.’
‘Who?’ Barbara took her foot off the accelerator.
‘Ishtahar. A Mesopotamian woman who seduced an angel.’
‘How do you know?’
‘It’s my field. I know, that’s all.’