Over Sea, Under Stone

  Disregarding them, Barney set off down a little side turning, with Rufus still loping patiently at his heels. He wandered from one winding lane into another, down narrow passages where the slate roofs almost touched overhead, past neat front doors with their brass knockers gleaming golden in the sun, through the cobbled alleys where front doors opened not on to a pavement but straight on to the street. For a small place, Trewissick seemed to be an extraordinary endless maze of winding little roads. Straining his ears all the time, Barney followed the sound of the music through the maze.

  He made one or two false turns, losing the sound. Then gradually the band grew louder, and with it he began to hear the hum of voices and the rasping shuffle of feet. He snapped his fingers to Rufus, and broke into a trot, swinging from one quiet deserted little alley into the next. And then suddenly the noise burst on him like a storm, and he was out of the muffling narrow street and among the crowds, out in the sunshine filling a broad road where the procession jogged and danced by. “Come on, my white-headed boy,” someone called to him, and the people nearby turned and laughed.

  Barney could not see Simon and Jane amongst the dancers, and there seemed little chance of being able to get to them even if he did. He gazed fascinated round him at the bobbing giant heads, the bodies beneath them fantastic and gay in doublets and red, yellow, blue hose. Everywhere he saw costumed figures: a man dancing stiff as a tree, a solid flapping mass of green leaves; pirates, sailors, a hussar in bright red with a tall cap. Slave-girls, jesters, a man in a long blue silk gown made up as a pantomime dame; a girl all in black, twirling sinuous as a cat, with a cat’s bewhiskered head. Little boys in green as Robin Hood, little girls with long fair hair as Alice; highwaymen, morrismen, flower-sellers, gnomes.

  It was like nothing he had ever seen before. The dancers whirled in and out of the crowd on the edge of the street where he stood; and then suddenly, before Barney knew what was happening, they were dancing round him.

  He felt someone catch at his hand, and he was drawn out into the centre of the dancing crowd, among the ribbons and feathers and bright bobbing heads, so that his feet fell into step with the rest.

  Breathless, grinning, he glanced up. The black-gloved hand holding one of his own belonged to the figure of the cat, twirling in the skin-close black tights with a long black tail swinging out behind, and whiskers bristling long and straight from the head-mask fitting over the cheeks. He saw the eyes glint through the slits, and the teeth flash. For a moment, among the dancing figures all round, he saw close to him one in a great feathered Red Indian head-dress, with a face startlingly like Mrs. Palk’s. But as he opened his mouth to call, the black cat seized both his hands and wheeled him round and round in a dizzy spiral through the ranks of the crowd. People glanced down at him and smiled as he passed, and Barney, giddy with the music and the speed and the twisting black limbs of the cat before his eyes, flung himself laughing round where it swung him. . . .

  . . . Until he came up with a sudden halt against the long white robes of a figure dressed as an Arab sheikh, moving with the rest so that the robes were swung wide and billowing by the breeze. And glancing up through a world swaying with his own giddiness, Barney had time only to glimpse a slim figure and a dark-skinned lean face, before the cat swung him by the hands straight into the out-swung muffling folds of the man’s white robes.

  The robe twisted round him as he staggered, still laughing, in the sudden gloom. And then, so quickly that he had no time even to feel alarmed, the man’s arm came round him like an iron band and lifted him from the ground, and the other hand muffled his mouth in the folds of the cloth, and Barney felt himself being carried away.

  Before he could struggle, he was swung in a scuffling moment through the roaring music and the crowd. Pushing ineffectually against the man’s chest, he felt him run a few steps and heard the noise of the voices and the band suddenly grow fainter. He kicked out blindly and felt his toes hit the man’s shins. But he was only wearing sandals, and could do no great harm: the man gave a muffled curse but did not pause, jolting him along for a few more steps until Barney felt himself swung higher into the air and dropped on to a padded seat that protested with the noise of springs.

  The robe fell loose from his mouth. He yelled, and went on yelling until a hand came back and pressed hard against his face.

  A girl’s voice said urgently: “Quickly! Get him away!”

  A voice almost as light as a girl’s, but masculine, said curtly: “Get in. You’ll have to drive.”

  Barney suddenly lay quite still, all his senses alerted. There was something familiar about the second voice. He felt a coldness at the back of his neck. Then the pressure of the hand over his mouth relaxed a little through the cotton folds, and the voice said softly, close to his ear, “Don’t make a noise, Barnabas, and don’t move, and nobody will be hurt.”

  And suddenly Barney knew the black-masked figure of the cat, and the dark man in sheikh’s robes. He felt the seat shudder slightly as the noise of a powerful car’s engine coughed and then rose in a throbbing howl. Then the note deepened, and he felt a lurch, and knew that he was being driven away.

  Rufus jumped nervously back from the shuffling, dancing feet that had enclosed Barney in the crowd. Tentatively he put his nose forward to follow, once, twice, but always a heel came up in the way with an accidental kick, and he had to dodge away.

  From a safer distance, he barked, loudly. But the sound was lost at once in the booming music and the clamour of the crowd. Alarmed by the shattering noise and bustle suddenly filling his small world, he put his ears back flat against the side of his head: his tail was down between his legs, and he showed the whites of his eyes.

  He retreated further from the noise, waiting hopefully on the corner of the street for Barney to reappear. But there was no sign of him. Rufus moved uneasily.

  Then as the band drew directly opposite, blowing and banging only a few yards away, rocking every comer with the rise and fall of music that to a dog’s ears was a menacing roaring noise, Rufus could suddenly stand it no longer.

  He gave up all hope of Barney, and turning his back on the clamour of the carnival, he padded away down the alley with the tip of his tail sweeping the ground and his nose lowered, sniffing his way home.

  Simon and Jane rejoined one another at the corner of the harbour, quiet again now in the sunny afternoon.

  “Well, I’ve been back to where we said. He isn’t there.”

  “I had a good look in the house. He hasn’t been there either.”

  “D’you think he could have gone off after Mrs. Palk?”

  “I keep telling you, it couldn’t have been Mrs. Palk you saw.”

  “I don’t see why not. If only you hadn’t stopped me I could have grabbed her.”

  “How could we meet Barney here if you—” Simon began.

  “Oh all right, all right. But we haven’t met him.”

  “Well then, he can’t have come down from the headland yet.”

  Jane’s expression changed. “Oh dear. Perhaps he’s got into trouble up there.”

  “No, no, don’t worry when we don’t need to. More likely he’s found Great-Uncle Merry after all and they’re both up there still.”

  “Well, come on then, let’s go and look.”

  The car swayed and growled as if it were alive. Barney lay wrapped up like a parcel in the robe which Mr. Withers had slipped from his own shoulders as he dropped him in the car. He decided that it must be a sheet; the smell of it under his nose was like clean laundry on the beds at home. But he wasn’t at home. He muttered peevishly under his breath, and kicked at the side of the car.

  “Now, now,” said Mr. Withers. He took hold of Barney’s legs and swung him none too gently round into a sitting position, at the same time pulling the sheet clear of his face. “I think perhaps we might let you emerge now, Barnabas.”

  Barney blinked, dazzled by the sudden sunlight. Before he could open his eyes properly to look at the road the
car swung squealing through a gap in a high wall, and slowed down, its wheels crunching on gravel, along a tree-lined drive.

  “Nearly there,” Mr. Withers said placidly.

  Barney twisted his head to glare up at him. He could still barely recognise Mr. Withers’ face through the dark-brown stain that turned him into an Arab; the eyes and teeth glinted unnaturally white, and behind the make-up the man seemed withdrawn and pleased with himself, almost arrogant.

  “Where are we? Where are you taking me?”

  “Don’t you know? Ah no”—the dark head nodded wisely—“of course, you would not. Well, you will know soon, Barnabas.”

  “What do you want?” Barney demanded.

  “Want? Nothing, my dear boy. We’re just taking you for a little ride, to meet a friend of ours. I think you’ll get on very well together.”

  Barney saw, through the trees, that they were coming to a house. He looked down at the sheet still twined round him, and wriggled to move his arms free. Mr. Withers turned quickly.

  “Take this stupid thing off me. I feel silly.”

  “Just a little joke of ours,” Mr. Withers said. “Where’s your sense of humour, Barnabas? I thought you were enjoying yourself.”

  He leaned over and began pulling the sheet free as the car drew up outside the peeling front door of a big, deserted looking house. “You’ll have to hop out, if you can. I can’t loosen it properly in here.” He spoke casually, easily, with no trace of menace in his voice, and as Barney glanced up at him suspiciously the white teeth shone briefly again in a smile.

  The girl slipped out of the driving seat, moving like a snake in her black tights, and came round to open the door at Barney’s side. She helped him out, and spun him round to pull the sheet away. Barney staggered, his arms and legs so stiff with cramp that he could hardly move.

  Polly Withers laughed. Her head was still a fantastic sight in the close-fitting black cat’s mask, covering all her face but the eyes and mouth. “I’m sorry, Barney,” she said companionably. “We did overdo it a bit, didn’t we? You danced jolly well, I thought. I was almost sorry to stop. Still, never mind, now we’ll go and have some tea, if it isn’t too early for you.”

  “I haven’t had any lunch,” Barney said irrelevantly, suddenly remembering.

  “Well, in that case we must certainly get you something to eat. Good gracious, no lunch? And it’s all our fault, I expect. Norman, ring the bell, we must feed the poor boy.”

  Mr. Withers, making a concerned clicking noise with his tongue, crossed from the car and pressed the bell next to the big door. He was all in white still, but in shirt-sleeves and white flannels without his Arab robe. His bare arms were stained the same dark brown as his face.

  Barney, following him slowly with the girl’s hand resting lightly on his shoulder, was puzzled by their friendliness. He began to wonder whether he had been seeing everything in the wrong light. Perhaps this was after all only a joke, part of the fun of carnival day. Perhaps the Witherses were perfectly ordinary people after all. . . . They had never actually done anything to prove beyond doubt that they were the enemy . . . perhaps he and Simon and Jane had got things all wrong. . . .

  Then he heard footsteps echoing faintly within the house, clumping gradually nearer, and the door was opened. At first he did not recognize the figure in tight black jeans and a green shirt. Then he saw that it was the boy Bill Hoover, who had chased Simon for the map. And in a moment he remembered the scene on Kemare Head that day, and the greed on Miss Withers’ face when she had looked at the map, and he knew that they had not been wrong after all.

  Bill’s face lit up out of its down-turned sullenness as he saw Barney, and he grinned across at Miss Withers.

  “You got’n, then?” he said.

  Mr. Withers cut in quickly, stepping forward and almost pushing the boy out of the way. “Hallo, Bill,” he said smoothly, “we’ve brought a young friend of ours on a visit. I don’t think anyone will mind. We could all do with something to eat, run and see if you can manage to rustle anything up, will you?”

  “Mind?” the boy said. “I should say not.” He looked at Barney again with the same eager, unpleasant grin, then turned and disappeared down the long corridor, calling something into an open doorway as he passed.

  “Come along in, Barney,” the girl said. She propelled him gently through the door and shut it behind her. Barney looked round him in the long empty passage, at the marks of damp on the fading wallpaper; and he felt very small and lonely. He heard a deep voice call from somewhere inside the house: “Withers? Is that you?”

  Mr. Withers, who had been standing surveying Barney with a slight smile, jumped and put his hand half-consciously up to his collar. “Come,” he said curtly. He took Barney by the hand and led him down the corridor, their footsteps echoing on the uncarpeted wooden floor, to the doorway of a room at the far end.

  It was a big room, dark after the blazing sunlight outside. Long windows stretched from floor to ceiling in one wall, with long shabby velvet curtains half pulled across, and the light that shafted in between them fell on a big, square desk in the centre of the room, its top littered with papers and books. The room seemed empty.

  Then Barney jumped as he saw a tall man move in the shadow beyond the sunlight.

  “Ah,” said the deep voice, “I see you have brought the youngest of them. The white-haired child. I am most interested to make his acquaintance. How do you do, Barnabas?”

  He held out his hand, and Barney, bemused, took it. The voice was not unpleasant, and rather kind.

  “How do you do?” he said faintly.

  He looked up at the tall man, but in the half-light he had only a vague impression of deep-shadowed eyes under dark, heavy brows, and a clean-shaven face. The smooth edge of a silk jacket brushed his hand.

  “I was about to have a cool drink, Barnabas,” the man said, as courteously as if he were talking to someone older than himself. “Will you join me?” He waved his hand towards the shadows, and Barney saw the glint of silver and a white cloth on a low table beside the desk.

  “The boy has had nothing to eat, sir,” Miss Withers said behind Barney, in a peculiarly hushed, reverent voice. “We thought perhaps Bill could fetch something. . . .” Her voice died away. The man looked at her, and grunted.

  “Very well, very well. Polly, for goodness’ sake go and change into some normal clothes. You look ridiculous. The necessity for fancy dress is over, you are not at the carnival now.” He spoke sharply, and Barney was astonished at the meekness with which Miss Withers answered him.

  “Yes, sir, of course. . . .” She slipped away into the passage, sleek and inhuman in the black cat’s skin.

  “Come in, my boy, and sit down.” He spoke softly again, and Barney came slowly forward into the room and sat down in an arm-chair. It creaked with the crackling rustle of wicker-work, and he suddenly felt for an instant that he had been in the room before. He glanced round, his eyes growing accustomed to the dim light, at the dark walls and the shelves of books rising to the ceiling. There was something . . . but he could not place it. Perhaps it was just that the room reminded him a little of the Grey House.

  As if he read his thoughts, the man said: “I hear you are on holiday in the Grey House, above the harbour.”

  Barney said, surprised at his own daring, “It must be a very interesting house. That seems to be the only thing anyone ever says to us.”

  The man leant forward, resting his hand on the edge of the desk. “Oh?” The deep voice rose a little with eagerness. “Who else has asked you about it?”

  “Oh, no one important,” Barney said hastily. “After all, it’s a nice house. Do you live here, Mr.—?”

  “My name is Hastings,” the big man said, and at the sound of the name Barney again felt the flicker of familiarity, vanishing as soon as it came. “Yes, I do. This is my house. Do you like it, Barnabas?”

  “It’s rather like the Grey House, as a matter of fact,” Barney said.

/>   The man turned back towards him again. “Indeed? Now what makes you say that?”

  “Well—” Barney began; but then the door opened again and the boy Bill came in carrying an enormous tray with a big jug of milk and some bottles of lager, glasses, and a plate piled with sandwiches. He crossed the room to where the tall man stood and put the tray down on the desk; nervously, just within reach, as if he were frightened to come too near. “Mis’ Withers said for someth’n to eat, sir,” he said, gruffly, already backing towards the door. The man waved him away without speaking.

  The sight of the sandwiches made Barney realize how long it was since breakfast, and he felt more cheerful. He sat back in the creaking chair and glanced round him. It could have been worse, he thought. The mysterious Mr. Hastings seemed to mean him no harm, and he was beginning to enjoy the sight of all their enemies cringing in terror before someone else. He took a sandwich from the plate held out to him and bit into it cheerfully. The bread was soft and new, with plenty of butter, and in the middle there was some delicious kind of potted meat. He began to feel better still.

  Mr. Withers moved silently across to the desk and poured him out a glass of milk, then began opening the bottles of lager. The big man called Hastings sat down in the chair behind the desk and swung gently from side to side, regarding Barney thoughtfully from beneath his heavy brows. He said softly, conversationally, “Is it buried under the Grey House, Barnabas, or one of the standing stones?”

  Half-way through a gulp of milk, Barney suddenly choked. He groped for the desk and put his glass down with a bang, and leaned forward, coughing and spluttering. Mr. Withers, soft-footed, crossed to pat him on the back. “Dear me, Barnabas,” he murmured, “has something gone down the wrong way?”