Sing Witch, Sing Death Read online

  "Could you find out where they have taken her, then?" Pamela asked.

  "I've always kept clear of the People, Miss Pam—as much as I could. I know their ways, though. I would not show you their places, even those few I know. It would not be safe."

  "Sarah, a child's life is at stake."

  "There won't be a child for some weeks yet. You stop fretting yourself."

  "But every hour we delay in searching for the girl, they have an hour more to hide her."

  Sarah frowned as one does at a fractious child. "Now, Miss Pam, she cannot be taken far away, and she must be fed and cared for. The longer she is hidden, the easier it will be to trace the trail that leads to her. It would be best if you would let this matter lie."

  Again the suspicion that Sarah would rather sacrifice the child than fight the coven made Pamela stubborn. "I cannot," she said. "You know I cannot. Mrs. Helston has reported the maid's absence to me. If I cannot go and seek her myself, then I must tell St. Just. Do you want him interfering?"

  The threat did not have the effect Pamela expected. She had been sure that Sarah would do anything to protect her nursling. To her surprise, the maid merely looked thoughtful and nodded her head.

  "He must know, of course. If he does not hear it from you, someone else will tell him. Servants' hall is already connecting her with this storm."

  "Oh, lord, I thought we had managed to keep it quiet."

  Sarah looked pityingly at Pamela. "Potten never tried to hide the connection. Potten's wife is known. And then, the maid—a simple chambermaid—is removed to Mrs. Helston's own room. Not that it mattered. There's little enough not known in servants' hall."

  The color rose in Pamela's face. So that was why she was always treated with such deference, was so easily accepted in a tight-knit, parochial household. There was no help for it, and no sense in trying to contradict the story. Soon enough she would be gone, and the truth would be known.

  In any case, what Sarah said was true. She could not have kept the tale of the maid's absence from St. Just. The noise of the storm had diminished a good deal, Pamela suddenly noticed with a sense of satisfaction. She had told Mrs. Helston that such violence could not long endure.

  Then, in spite of her worry over St. Just, she had to smile. The change would undoubtedly be put down to Maud's superior witchcraft instead of to natural causes. So much the better. Maud, no matter how unpleasant, was attached in some way to St. Just. If she was believed the stronger witch, the others would hesitate to attack someone under her protection.

  The remainder of Pamela's clothes went on quickly, and she dismissed Sarah and hurried down to the breakfast room. Her expectation of finding St. Just there alone was not disappointed. He looked tired, as if he had not snatched even the few hours of sleep Pamela had. Outrage at the tale of the maid's abduction soon lent color to his cheeks and sparkle to his eyes, however.

  "They dare come into my house! This is really beyond the line. I have always been rather favorable to the coven, but this is too much to be borne. I see that my father's too-gentle sufferance was a mistake. Power has gone to their heads, and they think to gallop curbless on their own path."

  "St. Just, do not let your temper drive you into foolish actions. You will not begin a sixteenth-century witch hunt in this modern day. You will be a laughingstock."

  "Last night you were the one who was anxious to fight these unpleasant practices. What makes you back down now?"

  "I am not backing down," Pamela replied rather crossly, because the allegation was half-true. She was afraid for St. Just to tangle with the coven. "The maid must be found and her child saved, of course, but there is no need to persecute the witches as a whole."

  "I have no intention of persecuting anyone," he replied coldly, and rose to his feet

  "Where are you going?"

  "To change my clothes. Do you expect me to ride out in pantaloons and hessians in this weather?"

  The sooner the task was undertaken, the sooner it would be done, but Sarah's hint that delay would not be detrimental had made Pamela hope that St. Just would not go out in the storm. It really seemed to be tempting fate. Her eyes went to the window, but the wind was no more than normal now, and the rain seemed very light.

  "Where will you look?"

  It was a foolish question, spoken to gain a few minutes, and it received the answer it deserved in an impatient shrug. He was gone. Pamela lingered at the breakfast table toying with the food and thinking of the day ahead of her.

  The servants would be in a state and would make the smallest accident into a crisis. Hetty would no doubt whine or wish to discuss endlessly the fright she had had. George would be his usual self, but Pamela could no longer take comfort in George's easy manners.

  Pamela was frightened. Not of anything she could see or hear, not even of the witchcraft, which, in the light of day, had gone back into perspective. She was certain St. Just had done nothing to incense the coven; therefore, someone had convinced them to act against him. Only Hetty and George had any motive for doing that, and Hetty had neither contact nor influence with the witches. Fear makes some run and some hide; it lashed Pamela into a desire for action.

  She returned quickly to her bedchamber and changed into her riding dress, then went again to the breakfast room and sat down to wait for George with what patience she could muster. If George was involved, he would want to know what St. Just intended to do. Pamela was even prepared to prod him into action. She was prepared to do anything, except sit still and wait.

  Chapter 11

  When George strolled into the breakfast parlor, Pamela's heart sank. She had not realized before how fond she had become of him. Now, looking at his face, where sleeplessness and strain marked his fair complexion and marred the cultivated vacuity of the expression—a combination that surely should have proved him guilty to her suspicious mind—she found she could not believe it of him.

  "Up early, ain't you?" The voice was flat. George's attempt at his usual lightness was a failure.

  "Oh, we have had another upset. I begin to think that Cornwall is as queer as you said it was."

  George helped himself to sausages, fried fish, a slice of beef, and some frittered eggs. "Has queer effects on some people, too. Mistake to make people come to Cornwall. Some fall in love with it. Some…don't."

  A clear warning that she did not belong here? Pamela lifted her head defiantly. "I have fallen in love with it. For all the queer happenings, I deeply regret that I will not be able to live here always."

  "Don't know that you won't." George flicked a glance at her and dropped his eyes to his food again. "One way or another, you're the kind that does get her own way, Lady Pam." He began to consume his breakfast in a leisurely manner. "Never told me what happened that's made you think us queer," he said after a pause.

  So he did wish to know. Pamela's heart was like a lump of lead in her breast, and its throbbing sent painful cramps up her throat. "One of the maids has been kidnapped. The girl was about to bear a love child, and Mrs. Helston was keeping a close watch on her."

  How she got the last words out and what her voice sounded like, Pamela did not know. What little color the fatigue had left in George's face drained out of it, and his blank stare slid past Pamela's. Something had dawned behind those fishy eyes, but its passage was too swift for Pamela to identify the emotion.

  "Seems rather like locking the door after the silver's been stolen to keep a watch on the girl now. Damage done. Pregnant already," George stated languidly.

  Laughter rose to mingle with the tears in Pamela's throat, and for a moment she thought she would choke. It was horrible that George should continue to make disastrously funny statements of the obvious under the present circumstances. She could not command her voice to reply, and George sighed.

  "Suppose Vyvyan's rushing about trying to retrieve the poor girl. So energetic. Don't it occur to you, m'dear, that the best reason for her to go was that she wanted to?"

  "She may have
gone willingly, but someone else had to suggest it to her." Numb with pain, Pamela no longer found difficulty in speaking. "She is simple-minded."

  George scooped up the last of his frittered egg, but it seemed to Pamela that he was having difficulty swallowing it. "So's Vyvyan, so far as I can tell," George commented with disgust. "Why don't he leave things alone? Cursed restless nature he's got."

  "He does not interfere for the sake of being a busybody," Pamela retorted heatedly. "Mrs. Helston is sure that the witches have taken the girl because they mean to make use of her love child on Midsummer Eve. Do you suggest he leave that matter alone?"

  A convulsive movement spilled coffee from George's cup onto the spotless doth. "Didn't know. Wish you hadn't told me." He met her eyes squarely, and he breathed sickly. "Oh, God!"

  Anguish mingled oddly with relief. George was condemning himself with each utterance, but somehow it made a difference that, however evil his purposes, he was not depraved enough to sacrifice a helpless unborn child. Puzzlement added to the already chaotic mixture of emotions in Pamela, when George's expression changed suddenly to one of frowning disapproval.

  "No, really," he said, "you cannot be planning to ride out in this weather."

  "I cannot sit still in the face of this abomination," Pamela replied. "Besides, the storm is almost over. You can see that the wind has abated and the rain is almost gone. I daresay it will clear completely soon."

  "No. No, it won't. Don't know Cornwall as I do. Only a lull. Be worse than ever in a little while. Good God, has that fool Vyvyan rode out?"

  Pamela's breath checked, but it was useless to lie. George had only to go to the stables or ask the servants to find out. "He has indeed," she said as steadily as she could, "and since he knows the weather well, I presume he too expects it to clear."

  An expression of revulsion, as at something indelicate, spread over George's features. "No, he didn't," he contradicted flatly. "Don't care about getting wet, either. Ruin his clothes, mess his hair. No sense, that's what Vyvyan's got."

  That George was truly disgusted at the notion of presenting a disheveled appearance, Pamela did not doubt. She saw, however, that George was laboring under some other strong emotion. His vague, staring eyes focused on her clearly then, and his jaw set in a remarkably firm and determined manner.

  "You are not to ride out, Lady Pamela," he continued, the lack of his usual affectations of speech lending authority to his words. "Truly, it would be very dangerous for you to do so. For Vyvyan it is merely foolish. He knows the country and will know where and when to seek shelter. I assure you he will be quite safe, if he does not take cold from the wet. If you went out, however, it is ten to one you would be blown off a cliff or into a gully."

  "But surely I should have time to find shelter too."

  "You might, and you might not. Do you not remember how suddenly the storm broke? The process may repeat itself—several times, I should think, from the look of the sky—before it blows over."

  "Very well," Pamela agreed reluctantly. "I shall not ride out now."

  "Better go up to Hetty," George advised, his voice returning to normal. "Need you after what happened last night."

  "I suppose I should."

  Pamela rose, wondering if her docility was too great and would make George suspicious. She felt, however, that he was immersed in his own thoughts and would not concern himself much with the finer shades of behavior that might be uncharacteristic. It was probable also he would accept the fact that a woman would be obedient to a specific order, and also that she would not wish to be drenched in a downpour.

  In fact, Pamela had no intention of riding out then, or of riding out at all, unless George did. If he were involved in the kidnapping of the maid, or if he intended harm to St. Just, he would have to go. She went upstairs, thanking God that the floors were uncarpeted. George could not doubt that she had followed his instructions that far.

  Making no effort to conceal her movements, she opened the door to Hetty's suite softly. As she expected, the countess's bedchamber was dark, her bed curtains still closed. A small sigh of relief passed Pamela's lips. She would have freed herself from Hetty somehow, but it was much better that her drugged sleep still held her. Still openly, Pamela returned to her own room and closed the door firmly but without a slam. Then she turned the handle with great care so that it would not click, and permitted the door to open a bare crack.

  There was not long to wait this time. George's hessians could be heard clearly coming up, walking down the hall to his own bedchamber. Probably, if the door had been closed—the doors at Tremaire fitted well—and she had been seated beside the fire, she would not have heard him. Either he counted on that or on the fact that she would assume he wanted something from his room.

  After an interval of a few minutes, in which George had had a chance to begin changing his clothes, Pamela slipped down the stairs as silently as possible. She made her way to the billiards room, the windows of which commanded the paths to the stables from any part of the house. Here she waited, so eager for action she was able to forget that it was George she was spying upon and that the success of her venture would result—at the least—in a life of poverty and degradation for him.

  A stab of regret made her hesitate when, clothed in rougher garments than she had ever seen, George strode toward the stables. The regrets could not hold her. Although St. Just might suspect George, he was too fond of him to take any action on a mere suspicion. Pamela knew she could not leave Tremaire until the man who wanted St. Just's name, and perhaps St. Just's wife, could do no further harm.

  Having permitted enough time for George's horse to be saddled, Pamela made her own way to the stable. A cautious survey showed George's handsome bay hack well along the path to the cliffs, and Pamela called to the grooms to saddle Blue Lady. Velvet was too skittish to be taken out when there was the possibility of thunder.

  This concession to safety, however, was not enough to pacify the head groom, who argued against riding out at all and reproved her ladyship's foolhardiness for quite ten minutes. Pamela half-convinced him by saying, most untruthfully, that her errand was short, and insisting, somewhat more untruthfully, that it was necessary.

  A sharp order eliminated the remaining resistance. She was furious at the delay, but she could not blame the man, whose interest seemed almost paternal toward a lady who understood horses so well. The little time could not matter, Pamela told herself, as she rode off hastily in the direction George had taken. The country was so open on the sea side of the house that it would be virtually impossible to find concealment.

  That would work both ways, she realized suddenly, heartily annoyed with herself. If George could not hide from her, he would also see her. Her nicely thought-out plan was worthless; in fact, her common sense had been betrayed by her desperate need for action.

  Nonetheless, she rode on doggedly, still driven by that need and by the thought that seeing where George rode before he noticed her might give a hint of where the maid was hidden. Her presence would also serve as a safeguard for St. Just; once George saw her, he would probably turn back and find some innocent excuse for his excursion.

  The trouble was, Pamela had to admit after keeping Blue Lady at a spanking pace for a time, that George had disappeared. Vision was somewhat obscured by the rain, which seemed a trifle heavier now, but it was clear that George was nowhere on the cliffs. Either he had changed his direction and gone inland—which meant that he expected or feared being followed—or he had gone down into the town. Pamela turned Blue Lady abruptly, thoroughly disgusted with herself. She was a fool not to have thought of the town directly. What better place to conceal a person than a well-populated area?

  In her hurry and irritation, Pamela almost rode down a little knot of women apparently coming from the cliff edge. She reined Blue Lady back on her haunches, and seeing that several of them were supporting and concealing someone in the center of the group, she dismounted hurriedly. With the reins looped over h
er arm, her eyes flashing dangerously, and her riding crop held threateningly, Pamela advanced.

  The women, she could see now, were all old, bedraggled by the rain, and appeared unutterably weary. Nonetheless, they closed grimly around the person they were shielding, and their eyes, glazed, red-rimmed, and rheumy though they were, glared defiantly. One lifted a hand.

  "Let her be," an exhausted voice croaked.

  "Maud!" Pamela exclaimed.

  "What do you here?" the old woman grated irritably. "Get you home before you make more evil than the good you have done."

  "I am looking for a maidservant who has been abducted from Tremaire. Have you seen her or heard of her?"

  "Fool," Maud muttered under her breath. "Does no one outside the coven see with the eyes or hear with the ears God-given?" She swayed on her feet, her fat face gray and sagging. "Seek if you will," she said in a louder voice, "but after the storm. I have held it back these few hours so that the men could come safe to harbor, but others are singing it awake again. Death wind and death weather it was meant to be. If it fails of its purpose, I have won another point. If it succeeds, you will have given a great weapon of fear into the hands of your enemy. Go home."

  As always in Maud's presence, Pamela's certainty about the basic impossibility of witchcraft faltered. She came closer to Maud, and the other women, as if they knew without words Maud's willingness, fell back.

  "St. Just is out, and George Tremaire also," she said in a low voice.

  Maud's dull eyes stared, then dropped. "Do not trouble yourself for Master Vyvyan. He is only a man, but the right blood flows in his veins. George Tremaire" —she shrugged— "knows the country. He must chance what chances. But you are the one who touched the Saturn pentacle, and all know that. It was not meant for you, but such things are not certain in their workings, and if it takes you, you have given a strength where you meant to make a weakness. Go home. Quickly."