Midnight is a Lonely Place

LXXIV

Under the water the sand swirled restlessly, turning the encroaching sea the colour of the soil it invaded. The fine suspension danced to the rhythm of the waves, erasing, rearranging, sculpting a new landscape beneath the water. The coast was used to this. The sea was its enemy, ever present, ever waiting, encroaching sometimes millimetres at a time, creeping in snail-like in the soft dawn which succeeded each storm, sometimes leaping angrily on its prey and dragging it out, dismembered, to deposit its spoils on another shore.

As the water seeped deep into the clay, probing, sucking, stirring, the final shreds of leathered skin began to dissolve. Nearby, the golden torc settled more deeply into the silt and came to rest at last upon the tooth of a mammoth, a much earlier victim of the mud of the marsh.

Nion was searching now. Lost. Claudia had gone, following the people and the energy they provided. The beach was deserted. He was lonely again. He felt his anger mount. Was he tied to this place after all? Tied for all eternity? Around him the sea had grown gentle; the water had ceased to attack the land; now it caressed, a lover who had made a long-planned conquest. He had seen them: the woman and the men. The two of them loved her. He had seen the crackle of their hostility, felt its power. So, history repeats itself.

Amused, he waited. They had guessed what had happened here. They knew the Roman’s secret. They hated him, but they feared him too. He was powerful, Marcus Severus Secundus. Powerful and clever, for all his craven terror when he had faced at last the moment of his death.

Anne had made soup when they returned. Cold and shaken they sat around the table gratefully: the taxi driver, the policeman, the poet, the painter, the psychologist and the author. On the sofa Paddy slept on. He had woken once and sat up, putting his head in his hands and rubbing his face. ‘Is it true, about Dad? I didn’t dream it?’ He had looked up pleadingly at Anne.

‘I am afraid it is true, Patrick.’ She sat down beside him and put her hand on the boy’s shoulder, comforting him until he fell asleep again.

‘So. What happens next?’ Jon looked at Bob Garth.

Ten minutes before, a message had come on the constable’s mobile phone that a police car was on its way to pick him up. The young man helped himself to a piece of bread from the basket and spread it thickly with butter. ‘As soon as the car comes, I’ll go back and report what we found. I can take you with me, Mr Cutler, if you like – and anyone else who wants to leave.’ He looked from one to the other.

‘You go, Anne.’ Kate said quietly. ‘You can’t afford to be away any longer.’

‘I am not leaving you here.’ Anne met her eye with determination.

‘Don’t worry about Kate. I’m going to look after her. She’s coming back with me,’ Jon said firmly.

Kate shook her head. ‘I’m not coming back to London, Jon. Not yet.’ She was too muddled, too shocked by everything that had happened to make decisions. ‘Or at least, I’ll come to Bill’s funeral, then I thought I would go to our parents’ for a while. I was going there for Christmas anyway.’

‘Kate -’ Jon looked at her in sudden panic. ‘Please – ’

‘Stay here, Kate.’ Greg put in softly. ‘At least until the cottage is dried out. It won’t take long.’

‘She’s not going back there!’ Jon interrupted. ‘After all that’s happened. You must be mad – ’

‘She agreed to take it for six months.’ Greg’s voice was very calm.

‘Things have changed since that agreement,’ Kate shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t stay there, Greg. Not now. Not after Bill – ’

A sudden imperious crackle from Bob Garth’s mobile phone cut through Greg’s growing anger. Unclipping it, Garth raised it to his ear. Glancing from face to face he listened to the message intently, then he grinned. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘That’s good news. The Farnboroughs are going home. Mrs Farnborough has two cracked ribs and young Susie is suffering from exhaustion, but that’s all. Mrs Lindsey is going to stay in hospital with young Alison overnight. They think she is all right, but they are going to do a brain scan just to be sure.’ He stood up. ‘Well, who is coming with me? Have you made up your minds?’ He couldn’t wait to be off.

‘Go, Anne.’ Kate said after a moment’s pause. ‘I will wait to collect my stuff as soon as they will let me in the cottage, then I’m going to Herefordshire. Allie’s gone. The grave’s gone. There’s no more danger. I’ll be all right.’ She shook her head ruefully. ‘I know you’re worried about work – and besides, there’s C.J. You go. Only don’t get lost this time.’ She gave a wan smile.

Anne grimaced. ‘If we can be dropped off at the end of the track, Pete has suggested that he drive in front of me, at least on these lanes, to check I don’t get lost!’ She glanced at the taxi driver mockingly.

‘That’s right.’ He bowed. ‘And I’m going to buy her a slap up meal in Colch to send her on her way thinking a bit better about this part of the world! So don’t you worry about us, folks. Just you look after yourselves.’

‘I hate to leave you here.’ Anne pushed back her chair. She put her hands on Kate’s shoulders and hugged her. ‘What are you going to do about Greg and Jon?’ she asked softly. She could hardly have missed the conflict between them.

Jon did not give Kate the chance to reply. ‘She’ll be all right, Anne,’ he said. ‘I’ll make sure of it.’

Anne looked him in the eye. For a minute she was silent, then she smiled. ‘Make sure you do.’

When the car finally arrived, Patrick went too. He had not argued when Greg suggested that he go to Diana at the hospital and keep her company.

Kate glanced at Jon and Greg as the police vehicle disappeared up the track. Greg had turned away to throw more logs on the fire. Outside, the garden lay very still beneath the thawing snow. She bit her lip. The silence in the house had become suddenly threatening.

Greg straightened. His face was pale and strained. ‘You’ll have to stay for Dad’s funeral, Kate. He would have wanted you to.’

They all glanced towards the door. Someone was coming later to pick up Roger’s body and take it to the mortuary.

‘I don’t know, Greg.’ Kate bit her lip. ‘Please, give me time to think. Perhaps I can come back just for the day.’

‘Just for the day.’ Greg’s voice was heavy with irony. ‘How jolly.’ He stiffened suddenly and stared round. The temperature in the room was falling swiftly. ‘He’s come back,’ he said. ‘Can you feel him?’

‘Marcus?’ Jon moved across to put his arm around Kate.

‘Marcus,’ Greg confirmed. He sounded almost pleased.

Kate shuddered. She looked round. ‘Where is he?’

‘Here.’ Greg could feel the anger; the hatred. But this time the mood was different. It had changed. This time it was accompanied by fear. That was strange. Why should Marcus be afraid? Greg felt himself shiver.

For a moment no one moved, then almost defiantly Greg picked up a candle and limped to the door.

The study was very quiet and cold. His father’s body lay on the bed, covered by a clean white sheet. He stood, looking down at it. Was it Roger Marcus feared? Or something – someone – else?

He turned away and picked up his last painting of the woman in blue. Claudia. It had haunted him for so many months, this beautiful enigmatic face. He stared down at the huge oval eyes. They radiated hatred. He could feel it, directed straight at him. He frowned, touching the paint with his little finger then he walked back into the living room, taking the picture with him.

‘Well, what do you think?’ He propped it on the chair so Jon could see it.

Jon squatted down on his haunches so that he was level with the face. ‘Powerful stuff.’ He frowned. It was the first time he had smelt it: jasmine. Very strongly, coming from the canvas. He sniffed cautiously. It was heady, overpowering, sexy.

Greg was watching his face. ‘At last. He understands.’ His voice was very soft.

Kate crouched beside Jon. ‘It’s a very fine painting, Jon?’ She stared at him. ‘Are you all right?’

‘What?’ He looked at her vaguely and then he focussed his gaze once more on the picture.

‘The earth is cover’d thick with other clay,

Which her own clay shall cover, heap’d and pent,

Rider and horse, – friend, foe – in one red burial blent’

he quoted softly.

‘Jon – ’

‘Leave him.’ Greg’s voice was a sneer. ‘Poor Kate. You have a rival. You see what she can do? The whore. Her power is infinite.’

‘Shut up, Greg!’ She rounded on him furiously. ‘Jon! Jon, what’s the matter?’

Jon looked at her. His eyes looked straight past her; through her. He did not see her.