Midnight is a Lonely Place (16 page)

‘What?’ The girl’s voice was puzzled.

‘Do all this? For God’s sake!’ Her case, the case with the torc was still locked, she could see that from the doorway.

Alison ran up behind her and looked round. ‘What a mess.’

‘All these boxes and things. I left them tidy.’

‘Oh.’ Alison avoided her eye. ‘Well, it wasn’t me. How could it have been? I haven’t been upstairs at all.’

Kate found her heart was hammering rather too loudly in her chest. There had to be an explanation. This child or her brother must have done it. Perhaps while she was on the beach Greg or the unknown computer wizard had sneaked in and messed up the place. Turning, she flung open her bedroom door. Nothing in there appeared to have been touched. Everything was as she had left it.

Seeing her white face Alison frowned. She too suspected that it must have been Greg. Last time she had seen him, he had still been planning to try to scare Kate out of the cottage. He was keen on her idea of making Kate think it was haunted. Could he have done all this? Had he already taken things this far? Staring round she felt herself shiver. If it was him, then it was working. She narrowed her eyes for a moment. Was it Greg down on the beach as well? Was he behind what had happened yesterday?

Suddenly she was furious. She turned and running down the stairs she opened the front door. ‘Come on. I need to get home,’ she called. ‘There’s nothing wrong. Let’s go.’

If it was Greg she would get even, if it was the last thing she ever did. The bastard! The unmitigated, double dealing, swindling bastard! He had really scared her. And he owed her a new radio cassette player.

XIX 

‘You shouldn’t have come.’ Nion took her hands. ‘You take too many
risks. What if you were seen?’

She broke free and ran a few steps in front of him to the edge of the
water, skipping like a child. ‘Who is there to see? He’s out all day. The
slaves are too busy to care. The child and his nurse think I am visiting
my sister.’ She pirouetted, laughing. ‘I’ve never been so happy. I can’t
believe this is happening. Me, a staid Roman matron, and you –’ she
stood in front of him, staring into his face and rested her hands for a
moment on the folds of his cloak, ‘– you, a prince of the Trinovantes.’

Nion laughed, throwing back his head, his strong teeth white in his
tanned face, the laugh lines at eyes and mouth carving deep into the
square features.

Around them the dunes stretched for miles; sand, spun and blown by
the wind into hollows and ridges, the shingle thick and clean as the tide
drew back. Nearby, her mule waited patiently beside the horse, which
stood between the shafts of his chariot, grazing listlessly on the salt sand
flowers and grasses. They were alone. Quite alone. He caught her against
him, burying his face in her hair.

‘I want you to come away with me. One of my brothers is in the west.
We could go to him there. Your husband would never find you.’

She tensed, raising her face slowly to his and he read the conflicting
emotions in her eyes. Desire. Hope. Excitement. All three blazed in their
sea-grey depths, but there was doubt there too. Doubt and fear. ‘I can’t
leave the boy.’

‘Then we’ll take him with us.’

‘No.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘No. He would never allow his son
to go. Me –’ she hesitated. ‘I don’t know if he would come after me, but
he would search the whole earth for his son.’ Her eyes brimmed with
tears. ‘And I could not ask you to leave this – your home.’ His land, his
woods, his pastures, his fields, his water, the salt pans which made him
rich, all worked by the men of his people.

She shivered as she looked up again and raised her lips towards his.
His gods were powerful, cruel, demanding. Sometimes she wondered if
they had given their blessing to their servant’s union with a daughter of
Rome, or if they were jealous, biding their time, waiting to punish her
for her presumption.

Behind them the sun glittered on the sea, turning it the colour of jade. As his hands moved down to release her girdle she forgot her fear; she forgot everything, drowning in the pleasure of his touch
.

‘We’ll have to give you a season ticket at this rate!’ The man in the ticket office at the museum greeted Kate with a cheery smile.

She smiled back. ‘I think you might. Or a job!’ She was still wondering why she was here. Was it the thought of the next book, bubbling uncontrollably in her subconscious, or was it just the fascination of that strange, half-excavated pit on the beach beside her cottage? She refused to admit that she felt a slight reluctance to stay in the cottage alone. She could not allow that. But perhaps it was a little of all three. She was feeling guilty. She shouldn’t be here. She should be working with George Byron and his irritating, hysterical mother.

Retracing her steps upstairs she went to stand once more in front of the statue of Marcus Severus, gazing into his face as if somewhere there in the cold, dead eyes she would find the answer to her riddle. For he had something to do with that grave on the shore, she was sure of it. Marcus Severus Secundus and Augusta, his wife. Thoughtfully, she turned to the display case where his bones lay exposed to view. There was no answer there. Nothing but the gentle hum of the lights and in the distance, the muffled and unreal shouts and screams of the video replay of Boudicca’s massacre.

As she parked the car in the barn later she glanced at Redall Farmhouse with a certain amount of longing. They were there this time; she could see smoke coming from the chimney and there were lights on in the kitchen. They were expecting her to supper; supposing she knocked and went in now? Perhaps she could help prepare it, or sit out of the way by the fire sipping tea or better still whisky, until the appropriate time. But she couldn’t, of course she couldn’t. She glanced at her watch. It was barely three o’clock. She had another five hours to wait before she could knock on their door.

Shouldering her bag she turned up the track into the woods. The early sunshine had gone. The sky was growing increasingly wintry and as the wind rose a quick light shower of sleet raced through the trees. She shivered. At least the fire was ready to light at home.

Home. She hadn’t thought of the cottage as home before, but for now that’s what it was. She could draw the curtains against the coming darkness, have tea and a hot bath and do a couple of hours work before setting out on the walk back through the dark.

Opening the door she dumped her bag on the floor and glanced round, unconsciously bracing herself against signs that anyone had been inside. There were none. The cottage was as she had left it. The kitchen was spotless, the doors and windows closed and the air smelt faintly of burned apple wood. Relieved, she unpacked her shopping and went to light the woodburner, then slowly she went upstairs.

Pulling open her cupboard she looked through the clothes she had brought with her. Since she had arrived in north Essex she had worn trousers and thick sweaters, but she wanted to change into something a little more formal tonight. More formal, but still practical, bearing in mind that she had a long walk through the muddy woods. She pulled out a woollen skirt and a full sleeved blouse and threw them on the bed.

It was then that she remembered her promise to Alison to photograph the grave. She glanced at the window. It would soon be getting dark and the sky was already heavy with cloud. Perhaps she could leave it until tomorrow. But she wanted to keep her promise. She needed to win the girl’s trust, for the sake of what was left of the site. She hesitated for a moment longer, then reluctantly she went to find her camera. She loaded a new roll of film and with a wistful glance at the fire she grabbed her anorak and set out into the cold.

The beach was very bleak. Turning up her collar, she put her head down into the wind and walked as swiftly as she could back towards Alison’s dig, firmly resisting the urge to glance over her shoulder at the coming darkness. The wind had blown the sand into soft ridges, rounding the sharp corners, drying the surface of the soil so the different strata were harder to see. Squinting against her hair which whipped free of its clip into her eyes she raised the camera and peered through the viewfinder. She doubted if anything would come out even with the flash, but at least she would have tried. She took the entire roll, shooting the dig from every angle, and trying, rather vainly, to get a few close-ups of the sand face itself. She did not see the dark, withered stumps which had been a man’s fingers; nor the black protrusion which was his femur, broken and splintered and already crumbling back into the sand.

Safely back inside the cottage she locked the door with a sigh of relief and, taking the film out of the camera, put it into its plastic case and tucked it into her shoulder bag. She was damp and thoroughly chilled. Slotting a tape of Vaughan Williams’ Fifth Symphony into her cassette player and turning it up loudly, she climbed the stairs and went back into her bedroom, pulling off her scarf and shaking out her wet hair as she began slowly to undress. Putting on her dressing gown she paused, listening, as the music downstairs grew quiet. She could hear a strange buzzing from the spare room. She frowned. For a moment she hesitated, biting her lip. What was it about this damn house which made her so jumpy? It was a fly, that was all, awoken by the morning sunshine. Taking a deep breath she flung open the door and switched on the light. The room was deserted. A quick glance showed that her cases and boxes were undisturbed; Greg’s pictures stood where she had left them, face to the wall behind the door, and she was right, a couple of bluebottles were crawling across the window. As the light flicked on they buzzed angrily against the glass. Shaking her head she backed out and closed the door. Tomorrow she would deal with them.

The bathroom was very cold. With a shiver she pulled the cord to switch on the wall heater and, putting the plug in the bath, she turned on the hot tap. As the windows steamed over she closed the curtains then she tipped some foaming bath oil into the steaming jet of water and stood back, twisting her hair into a knot on the top of her head as she watched the bath fill with fragrant froth. Lying back in the warmth was ecstasy. With a groan of pleasure she submerged all but her head and closed her eyes.

She hadn’t noticed the bluebottle in the corner of the window frame. As the light and warmth woke it up it crawled from beneath the curtain and buzzed angrily towards the strip light over the basin. She opened her eyes and watched it, irritated. The discordant buzzing spoiled her mood. After dashing itself several times against the mirror it took off and made a low swift circuit of the bathroom. Involuntarily she ducked as it swooped over her head. ‘Damn and blast!’ She flicked foam at it. She would not let it spoil her bath.

As the water began to cool she turned on the hot tap hopefully, knowing before she did it that the tank would not yet have heated up again. As she expected it was cold. Heaving herself to her feet she stepped out onto the bath mat and wrapped a towel around herself. Wiping the steam from the mirror she peered at her face. Out of the corner of her eye she could see the bluebottle on the frame of the mirror. She flipped at it with her hand and it took off, swooping up to the light. It was then the phone rang. Wrapped in the towel she picked it up in the kitchen.

‘Kate, I was worried. Are you OK?’

‘Jon?’ Her heart leaped as she sat down, shivering. ‘God, I wish you were here.’

‘I thought so. Something is wrong isn’t it? I could hear it in your voice yesterday.’

She could have bitten out her tongue. Why had she said it? It was over between them. Anyway, what was the use of worrying him when he was so far away? ‘Nothing is wrong,’ she said hastily. ‘I just meant you’d like it here. The big skies, the sea, the silence. They would appeal to you.’

‘Perhaps I’ll come and see you when I get back.’ There was an echo on the line this time – a pause between each sentence; it made them both sound awkward and they didn’t talk for long. After she put the phone down she sat looking at it thoughtfully for several seconds. If it was all over between them, why did he keep ringing?

At a quarter to eight she switched off her computer and the desk lamp and standing up, she stretched. As she worked she had been conscious of the wind rising outside the cottage. It rattled the windows and from time to time she heard the spatter of rain against the glass.

Carefully she built up the fire and shut the doors as tightly as she could, closing the dampers right down so the stove would be snug and still alight when she came home later, then reluctantly she began to pull on her jacket and boots. With one glance behind her into the living room where she had left the single lamp on the side table burning to welcome her home, she stepped out into the night and pulling the front door shut behind her, she turned the key in the lock. For the last hour, she realised, she had been hoping that the phone would ring and Roger would suggest he came to fetch her. It would only take him ten minutes in the Land Rover. She sighed. Clutching her torch firmly she switched it on and directed the beam up the muddy track into the trees.