Sing Witch, Sing Death Read online

  Fortunately, the men did join them before Pamela disgraced herself by wandering attention and lost Lady Allenby's obvious good opinion of her. Their presence did not do much to enliven the evening, however, since the gentlemen were not exactly gay themselves. They all looked unpleasantly grim and seemed to find difficulty in concentrating upon the game of whist they sat down to. In fact, they had hardly completed one rubber when Sir Harold twitched the curtains aside from the window, pulled them back sharply, and called for the tea tray.

  "Now, my dear?" Lady Allenby asked in surprise. "But we have barely swallowed our dinner."

  "Yes. Well, we must ride out, and I would like a cup of tea before we go."

  "Ride out!" his wife exclaimed, glancing from her husband's face to her son's and back. "In the dark of the moon? Harold, really—"

  "It is necessary, mother," William Allenby said firmly.

  Meanwhile, Pamela's eyes had flown to St. Just's face and read the answer there. A ready fear, born of her love for him, leaped to life, but still she could have wept with relief. He was not going alone. That George should be of the party was unfortunate. He could, however, do nothing to harm St. Just if Sir Harold and William Allenby were present.

  Pamela longed to be able to go with them, but only because she hated the traditional woman's role of waiting and passivity. She knew Sir Harold and his son were a surer protection than she could be, and made no attempt to propose her accompanying them. Women did not do such things, and the men would consider her damnably in the way.

  Lady Allenby, for all her chatter, was no fool. "Are you going to break up the gathering?" she asked in a rather thin voice.

  Pamela could have kissed her. Once the topic was broached, it could not easily be put aside, and it was the greatest relief to be able to discuss it.

  "I hope not, my dear," Sir Harold replied. "We are going to hold a watching brief. If no more than the usual harvest rites take place, we will not interfere. No harm in that. Makes the people happy."

  Under cover of the protests Lady Allenby was voicing about attachment to a pagan faith and the immorality that the faith spawned, Pamela made her way to St. Just's side.

  "But there will be more than that," she said. "Do they know?"

  "Yes, of course. There is no sense in alarming Lady Allenby. Sir Harold prefers that she know as little as possible about the witches. She is religious, and the whole idea offends her. Don't worry, Pam. We will not meddle if Maud can turn the trick herself. That would be best, because it will discredit the evil practices far better than outside intervention. The matter has become more serious than that one child's life. If there is a power struggle in the coven between black and white witchcraft, and the black should win, there will be a reign of terror in the whole countryside. That sort of thing can spread from coven to coven, too. It cannot be permitted to start."

  "I can see that."

  "I am glad you are not going to fuss and try to come with us. I was afraid you were going to ask. That was why I did not tell you what I planned."

  That was part of it, Pamela thought, but there was something else, some haunted trouble behind St. Just's eyes.

  "I thought you meant to go alone, and I was worried. Of course, I wish I could be with you. I hate being left behind to knit when all the excitement is going on elsewhere, but poor Sir Harold would be so shocked. I shall hold my tongue."

  That won a smile from him. "I cannot imagine you knitting, Pam. If only I were sure Maud would be successful, I would like to take you." His eyes glittered briefly, but some pain or guilt dulled them again. "It is too dangerous. If she and her group are overpowered, we may have to round up the whole coven and prefer some charge against them."

  "I hope it does not come to that."

  "I also. It will make living in these parts very uncomfortable," St. Just responded dryly.

  The tea tray having arrived, silence fell upon the party until the servants left the room. Lady Allenby was pouring. Lady Pamela handing cups, when the butler reappeared in the doorway. His expression was stiff with disapproval as he announced that Lady St. Just's groom wished to speak with the earl.

  "Lady St. Just's groom?" Sir Harold asked disbelievingly.

  St. Just's nostrils spread, his eyes took on a feverish light. "Excuse me, sir," he said more sharply than respectfully, "I think it is important that I see him. Have him up here, Johnson."

  Every eye in the room turned to him, but St. Just seemed unaware of the attention. His eyes remained fixed on the door until the groom had appeared. The young man stood stolidly, his cap in his hands, his eyes on the floor.

  "Well?" St. Just prompted.

  "I thought you should know, my lord," he started, then flashed pale eyes at the ladies and gentlemen watching him, and fell silent.

  "Know what?" the earl prompted again.

  The pale eyes lifted, slid suggestively around the room, and fell again. "Maybe you would like to hear me in private, my lord."

  "If you have something to say, say it," St. Just snapped. His voice was harsh, as if the words were being forced through a tight throat. "These people are my friends. I am sure I have nothing to hide from them."

  Lady Allenby's mouth fell open. The whole scene was incredible—a groom in the drawing room, and Vyvyan Tremaire justifying his actions to a servant.

  "As you like, my lord," the groom replied sullenly. "Her ladyship is off to the gathering."

  "Impossible!" Lady Allenby cried. "Why, she went up to bed not an hour ago, so tired that she could barely keep her eyes open."

  "I don't know about that," the groom said stolidly, "but I harnessed the mule to the pony cart for her, and she went off in it with Mary Potten, who's a witch like her mother, to show her the way."

  "When?" Sir Harold bellowed.

  "My wife's maid is Potten's daughter?" St. Just roared.

  "How do you know they went to the gathering?" William Allenby cried.

  The groom was frightened by the violent reactions induced by his news. He cowered back toward the door. The only man who had not spoken was George. He had briefly covered his eyes with one hand when the groom made his announcement, but the hand dropped almost immediately, and he stepped forward.

  "It's all right," he said in his soft voice. "Just tell us plainly. No harm will come to you. How do you know they went to the gathering?"

  "Where else would they be going? Mary Potten's a witch, like her mother—like I just said. She has to go. Her ladyship isn't likely to be driving for pleasure or visiting at this time of day."

  "Perhaps they have gone back to Tremaire," Lady Allenby faltered. "Perhaps I offended Lady St. Just. Indeed, I did not mean to do so, but it is possible."

  "I am sure you did not," Pamela soothed, "but it is easy enough to determine. I will run up to Hetty's room. If she does not intend to return, she will have taken at least her toilet articles."

  A single glance showed Pamela that all Hetty's things were intact. Another, when she pulled back the bed curtains, almost convinced her that Hetty was in bed. Certainly there was a humped figure under the bedclothes. A gentle touch indicated an unnatural flaccidity in the figure, and Pamela drew back the blankets with an indrawn breath of fear. Her breath sighed out with relief.

  For a moment she had thought that Hetty was dead, but the limp figure under the bedclothes was composed of bolsters. For a second Pamela wondered whether she should remove the bolsters and remake the bed. It was unlikely that anyone else would enter the room, however, and a new idea made time precious. She dropped the bed curtains, hopping that if anyone did come in they would conceal Hetty's perfidy, and hurried to her own room to tear off her evening dress and throw on her riding clothes.

  "She is gone," Pamela said when she returned to the drawing room, "but all her things are laid ready for the morning. She could not have gone back to Tremaire."

  "And she has been gone nearly an hour, according to the groom," William Allenby said in an exasperated voice. "He could not decide at firs
t, he says, whether it was right to tell tales about his mistress."

  Pamela wet her lips. "I don't think there is anything to worry about," she said. "I believe Hetty was very curious about the doings of the witches. She must have convinced Mary to take her, and I am sure Mary would not have done so unless she was sure Hetty would be safe."

  "Then why are you in riding clothes, my dear?" Sir Harold asked keenly.

  "Because I am also sure that Hetty has overestimated her strength. With all the traveling she has done, and the excitement, I am certain she will be unable to support herself. She will need a woman with her."

  There was a wordless protest from both William and Sir Harold, but Lady Allenby silenced them. "Indeed, Lady Pamela must go if she feels she is able. I would go myself, if I could, but I cannot ride."

  The men glanced at each other, and at Pamela. Their knowledge that this would be more than an ordinary Midsummer Eve gathering was a two-edged sword. It made it more dangerous for Pamela to be there, but it also made it more likely that Hetty would need a woman's attentions. George broke the deadlock.

  "Very sensible," he said. "Needn't worry about Lady Pam. Equal to any exertion. Very steady, high courage. She'll do. Hetty will need someone discreet. The maid can't drive the pony cart—even if she isn't too busy witching. Go down to the stable. See about getting the horses saddled."

  When the men had changed their clothes and the party was mounted, they rode back in the direction of Tremaire. Of necessity they moved slowly, for there was no moon, but after a time their eyes did become accustomed, and the faint starshine of a clear night permitted them to increase their pace.

  About two-thirds of the way back, St. Just went into the lead and moved off the road. Once again the horses were held to a cautious walk, for rabbit holes and low out-croppings of bare rock laid invisible traps for the unwary. Soon the increasing sound of the surf told Pamela that they were approaching the cliffs above the sea. In another ten minutes they were among a group of scattered boulders and bare teeth of rock vaguely similar to those near which Pamela had been trapped by the witches. The familiarity was discomforting. Pamela began to regret faintly the mixture of curiosity and desire to action that had induced her to force her company upon the men.

  A darker shadow in the blackness, St. Just stopped, and the others halted behind him. Wordlessly, he dismounted, wound his reins in some scraggy bushes that grew in the shelter of the rocks, and weighted them with a large stone as quietly as possible. One by one the other shadows who made up the group followed suit. St. Just came to lift Pamela from her mare and fasten the beast similarly.

  Close against him, Pamela parted her lips to ask a question, but she was quickly silenced by St. Just's hand upon her mouth. They walked now, still silent, and in irregular bursts of movement and stillness. It seemed a very long way to Pamela, who stumbled repeatedly and was steadied by St. Just's arm around her waist, but at last he stopped, staring forward and listening intently.

  Slowly Pamela became aware of a murmur that rose above the sound of the surf, but yet seemed to come from the sea. Simultaneously she was aware of a strange glow, a barely shimmering veil of rosiness. The murmur rose and swelled, became distinguishably women's voices raised in a chant. The witches were singing strength into the crops, freedom from blight, the fulfillment of a bountiful harvest.

  Chapter 15

  It was obvious to all that this was not the first Midsummer Eve gathering St. Just had attended. Silent, unhesitating, he led them through the dark at those moments when the witches' voices were raised highest and would cover their footsteps. He found places of concealment on a narrow ledge that overhung the path that led still farther down in a sharp curve forming a rough U. The other leg of the U was another ledge, much larger, and so deeply undercut into the cliffs as to form an enormous cave mouth.

  On the lip of this mouth, a huge bonfire burned. It was that which had reflected out into the thin sea mist and had produced the rosy glow, Pamela told herself. She was clinging desperately to one single piece of normality in a scene in which everything else seemed abnormal. The fire itself was not natural. The loudest sound that came from it was a continual hissing, as if the grandfather of all serpents lay coiled in its heart. Occasionally it spat like a malevolent, giant cat, and once it exploded so violently that the figures that danced around it scattered backward for shelter.

  The very flames of that fire were not right. Sometimes they were yellow, with little tongues of orange and red, like a proper fire, but mostly they were contaminated with sickly streaks of blue and glaring flashes of green. After the explosion, a veritable river of queer, unfirelike sparks had shot to the summit of the flames and cascaded down again, lighting the faces of the witches and their male companions with a weird, multicolor glow.

  The witches. Pamela fought to repress the feeling that discovery was imminent, that they were far too close. Actually, the distance between them and the fire was not great, but they were at least five feet above it, and separated by the interior of the U, which presented a drop into the sea below. For the witches to reach them, it would be necessary to travel around on the path and then climb to the overhanging ledge. On the other hand, her own party had only to scramble across a steep strip of barren ground to reach the path still higher up. They were safe, she knew, but to be so close as to be able to make out the expressions on the faces and hear individual voices of those partaking in the gathering made her nervous.

  Yet the expressions themselves were not evil. They were rapt and exultant, marking a deep belief in a rite that would bring plenty to their fields and flocks. The older women, grouped around Maud's gross figure, swayed and chanted. The younger women and men danced around the fire, which was plainly smaller than it had been. There were no old men present. Occasionally a man or woman, more daring than the others, would leap directly through and across the flames, casting something into them. The hour was now approaching midnight, Pamela guessed. The fire sank steadily, and as it died, the dancers grew more frenzied, more and more of them leaping across, crying out either with pleasure in their success or pain from being singed. The chanting rose in volume, rose to a near shriek, and suddenly stopped.

  In the startling silence, Maud stepped forward, holding before her an odd-shaped bundle of sticks or possibly a rag-wrapped club. Simultaneously, from the other side of the fire, the side closer to the cave's blackness, Potten's wife also advanced, holding a similar instrument. There was a rush of low sound. A mass whisper? A mass moan? And overriding it, a cackle of laughter that held no mirth. Had either woman faltered? Pamela could not tell. Both were moving steadily, although very slowly now. On the sea side of the ledge, a strange form was being lifted into the light, a wheel, but knobbed and misshapen by things that were tied to it. Pamela stared in horror, but a glance at her companions showed that their attention was all on the witches. Whatever was tied to the wheel could not be important.

  Both women had reached the fire, which was scarcely more than bright embers now. Both paused and stared at each other, and the cackle of laughter, which Pamela now saw came from Maud, broke the silence again. Both together, as if it had been planned and practiced, thrust their instruments into the embers. There was a roar and a flash as both burst into flame. Potten's wife held a red-and-orange inferno that belched a black pall of smoke, but through it—clear, brilliant, incredible—burned Maud's torch, a hissing, spitting, glittering green.

  There was a gasp, an incredulous cry, from the watching people, and before anyone had recovered from the surprise, Maud walked calmly across the fire and thrust her green-flaming torch into the center of the wheel.

  There was a hiss, a flicker. Maud began to chant again in words totally unintelligible to Pamela and to gesture over the wheel with her free hand. Within seconds another cry arose, and other voices picked up the chant. Flame had run along the spokes of the wheel to the rim, and there…it burned green! Those who had held the wheel upright released it when the rim began to flare
, and with an action too quick for Pamela to perceive clearly, Maud twisted it and set it rolling toward the cliff edge.

  Pamela pressed both hands to her lips to repress the exclamation of wonder she could feel rising in her throat as the wheel, wrapped in glaring green flame, struck a stone, bounded upward, and arched out into the night.

  The entire gathering rushed toward the cliff edge to watch it fall into the sea, and then a cry of joy, almost a paean of exultation, rose. Caught on a rock, the wheel still burned. The green was gone now, and the warm yellow flames lit the swirling waters of the incoming tide.

  "A bountiful harvest on land and from the sea is promised us. Let us be fruitful, earth and water, beast and man."

  Possibly it was Maud who spoke, although the voice was full and rich, like that of a younger woman. She alone had not moved from the side of the dying fire, and now, as if in response to her voice, it flared up again. A slight restless movement from St. Just caught Pamela's eye. He was peering intently, not at the people, but at the cliff itself, and Pamela heard rocks falling into the water below.

  "They shouldn't stand there so long," he muttered. "They'll have the whole cliff down."

  By the time Pamela turned from him to look fearfully at the people on the ledge, they were gone. Indeed, most of the participants in the ceremony had disappeared. They had melted so suddenly into the shadows of the path that for an instant Pamela doubted her eyes, terrified that the cliff had collapsed and precipitated them into the sea.

  The fear was gone as soon as it came; such a catastrophe could not have taken place in silence. And in the next instant the sounds her ears had been recording brought meaning to her brain. She heard the people making their way upward on the path, and stiffened with a new apprehension that their party would be discovered. That too did not last long.