The Cornish Widow, page 12
"I want to hear about the hotel," says Dolly. "Are they managing without me?"
"No, it's horrible," I say.
Mrs Ponsonby shoots me a quizzical stare.
"Why?" asks Dolly.
"Your replacement is rather unpleasant," I say.
"My replacement?"
"Roxy Templeton."
"Oh. Roxy's not my replacement. She started last week and is usually in the office. I suppose they put her on reception to cover for my absence."
"In that case, I can't wait for you to come back," I say.
"Don't you like her?"
"It's more that she doesn't like me," I say. "She's so rude."
Dolly smiles. "How odd. She's been charming to me."
"She's pleasant to everyone. Dr Maltravers, Oliver Fox. Everyone except me."
"Oliver Fox?" asks Mrs Ponsonby abruptly, and I inwardly curse my loose tongue. Mrs Ponsonby doesn't like me talking to strangers and going to the library unsupervised is conditional on not bothering the guests.
"He's staying at the hotel," I reply. "I said hello to him once or twice. That's all. He's leaving tomorrow, anyway."
Her eyes narrow, but she doesn't ask any further questions.
"Dr Maltravers was very kind to me," says Dolly.
"He seemed worried," I say.
"And Charlotte visited yesterday," Dolly continues. She brought me this. Dolly picks up a box of stationery from the nightstand. It is a high-quality notelet set, and it takes every ounce of self-control not to roll my eyes at the thought of Charlotte Napier simpering over my friend.
There is so much I want to say to Dolly. I would like to tell her about Mary Newson's visit. If we were alone, I might even talk about Annie Hearn, but I can't speak freely with Mrs Ponsonby listening to every word. We spend a stilted half hour chatting about village and hotel matters, then Mrs Ponsonby stands.
"Time to go," she says. "It's lovely to see you, Dolly, but we mustn't tire you out."
Dolly yawns. "Excuse me," she says, flushing. "I am tired, but you will come again, won't you?"
"Of course," says Mrs Ponsonby.
"Or I could come alone now I know where you are?" I say, hopefully.
Mrs Ponsonby ignores me. "We'll visit in two weeks if you're still here," she replies. "That's if Connie has the energy after her trip to Plymouth."
"You're going away?" Dolly's eyes are wide. She might well look surprised. I never go anywhere.
I nod. "Peter's mother is taking me away for a few days."
Dolly raises an imperceptible eyebrow.
"Isla will be with her," says Mrs Ponsonby. "They're staying with her sister and won't leave the town."
More's the pity, I think. But Mrs Ponsonby is right. We won't be going anywhere other than the court, and I don't care. It is more than enough adventure after a lifetime of restraint and I am eternally grateful that Isla Tremayne is giving me the freedom Mrs Ponsonby denies.
"Come and tell me all about it when you return," says Dolly, and I promise her I will.
We leave the convalescent home, thanking the nice young nurse on our way out. Then Mrs Ponsonby looks at her watch.
"Twenty minutes until the next bus," she says. "Would you like a cup of coffee?"
I shake my head. "There won't be enough time."
"I suppose not. In that case, we'll pop to the ironmongers, if you don't mind. It will save me a job another time."
We walk the short distance into town, and I wait outside while Mrs Ponsonby goes in. Such is her inclination to keep me in close sight that she almost decides against it when I say I don't want to go inside. It's only my heated insistence and the curious stares of passers-by that change her mind. "Stay by the window," she asks. I wait until she's safely out of sight then make my way to the corner of the street for a little freedom.
"Connie," yells a familiar voice, and someone taps me on my shoulder. I turn around. It is Peter, and I am overwhelmed with pleasure at this unexpected and most fortuitous meeting.
"I say, don't you look nice. Have you escaped? You're the last person I expected to see on the way to the fishmongers," he says amiably.
"Never mind that. I need to tell you something, and there isn't much time."
"What's wrong?"
"Does your mother know anything about Mrs Ponsonby's background?" I ask.
"I shouldn't think so," says Peter. "They've known each other for years, but only since you arrived in Cornwall."
"Has she mentioned a husband?" I ask.
"Mrs P? I don't know. She may have. Shall I ask?"
"Yes. But please be careful. Your mother mustn't ask awkward questions that might get back to her."
"Why would she?"
"Because Mrs Ponsonby never married. She's Miss Ponsonby, and I don't know why she implies otherwise."
"Are you sure? She wears a wedding ring."
"I am certain, and I've only just found out. I need to know the truth."
"Nosy," says Peter, with a knowing smile.
"I'm not," I hiss. "It's not gossip. Mrs Ponsonby might be my mother."
He stares at me, open-mouthed. "No," he says." Surely not?"
"I can't be certain, but I intend to find out. I can't go on like this, Peter. Please ask your mother if she knows anything about my background or Mrs Ponsonby's."
"I will," he replies. "But I can't promise Mother will know any more than you. They're friendly and share a lot of mutual respect, but I'm not sure how much further it goes than that."
I am about to reply when the door swings open, and Mrs Ponsonby appears with a brown paper bag in her hand.
"Hello, Peter," she says, striding towards us. "How are you, young man?"
"Running errands for Mother," he says, with a rueful grin.
"Give her my regards," says Mrs Ponsonby. "And tell her I look forward to seeing her on Sunday before you go. We still have a lot to discuss."
"Of course," says Peter. He raises his hand and sets off for the fishmongers, winking as he departs. Thank goodness. At least I got to see him before our impending visit to Plymouth, and he can speak discreetly to his mother ahead of our trip. She might tell him things she wouldn't feel able to discuss in front of me. I am a little more hopeful as we board the omnibus back to Porth Tregoryan.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Dark Magic
I AM EXHAUSTED BY EIGHT o'clock and retire early to my room to devour more of Crawford Newson's novel. It is good reading, but my eyes soon grow heavy, and I fall asleep fully clothed. I wake around ten thirty and sleepily undress, donning my nightdress and slipping back under the covers to resume my slumbers. I stay asleep for another few hours, then wake again and cast a bleary eye at the clock. It's three thirty, and I have slept for so long that I'm no longer tired. I rub my eyes. It's too early and too cold to get up, so I stay in bed.
I consider lighting a lamp to read, but I cannot muster the energy, so I stare at the gently swaying curtains and think about my trip into town. It was good to see Peter, and I am satisfied that he will do his best to ask the right questions safely. Then my thoughts slip tangentially to Oliver Fox, and I bite my lip while thinking of Mrs Ponsonby's reaction to his name. Not that it was in any way personal. She doesn't know him, and I've no reason to suppose she wouldn't like him, but the thought of me interacting with a stranger clearly disturbed her. I wish I hadn't mentioned it. I'd told her Mr Fox was leaving tomorrow, but he is still at the hotel for a few more days, to my great relief. The idea of him not being close enough to confide in while memories of Felix Crossley still swirl through my mind is something I don't like to contemplate. I still feel unsettled, but not enough to stop thinking about Crossley as I relax back into my pillow and sink deeper as sleep takes me. The goose down bolster wraps around me like a giant pair of feathery wings. I fall back further until I suddenly realise that the mattress has not impeded my progress.
I am still falling backwards, gently floating through the bed, the floor, the house. I open my eyes, but I can't see my bedroom ceiling. I am in darkness, sprinkled with stars and effervescent light, lying on my back, head a little lower than my body, entranced but unafraid. Above me, I see the ragged edges of an alternate space. I stare curiously, and then, with a vibration that fizzes through my body, I am thrust upwards and shudder through the greying curtain. I find myself upright outside the front door of a terraced house. I can feel the impression of my heartbeat, rapid but faint, almost as if it is coming from elsewhere. I look down and see a pale and disembodied version of myself, and I know that somehow, I am in a dream state. It came from nowhere and not by choice.
I am conscious of a tingling sensation on the back of my head, but I do not feel the pull of return, urgent or otherwise. Instead, I feel drawn towards the black, chipped paintwork of the door ahead, and I lift my hand towards its tarnished knocker. My fingers slip through, and I follow, finding myself inside a long hallway. It was dark when I closed my eyes, but it's dusk here, and I can see the tired decor of a house that was once grander than it is today. Three pairs of shoes sit beneath a dark wooden side table that rests under an ornate mirror. The footwear is askew as is a newspaper, thrust carelessly to one side and upon which is a crystal ashtray still full of cigarette butts. I gaze at the paper, waiting for the familiar smell of stale smoke, but feel nothing. My sense of smell has gone, but not my sight, and I see the words Der Angriff written in bold italics across the top of the newspaper. I don't know what it means, and I experience a rush of adrenalin as I consider the implications of the unfamiliar tongue. It sounds Germanic, which means I am far from home. I raise my hands to my face in fear, feeling a strange prickling as the surfaces collide. I am still learning the natural laws in this alien dream state, and it is comforting to know that I can still feel skin against skin.
There are two doors off the hallway but I instinctively know they won't be of interest. I hover nervously by the stairwell, unsure whether to go upstairs or take the narrower steps towards the basement. I decide upon the former and arrive on a landing with four doors and another set of stairs to an attic room. Unlike the dingy hallway, the last rays of a low evening sun bathe the landing in a gentle glow, and I realise the house is more extensive than it first appeared. One door is open, and I go inside to find a large but untidy bedroom with a doorless wardrobe and clothing heaped on a chair. Despite the language barrier, the front covers of the magazines lying on the bedside table suggest they belong to a lady. The ashtray and pipe on the other side indicate a man. I expect this is the main bedroom of a married couple, but the room is uninteresting, and I'm wasting my time here. As I cross through the wall into a smaller back bedroom, I am distracted by the squeak of floorboards in the attic room above. I am not alone and I suppose it shouldn't come as a surprise. I stop and listen. Someone is either singing or reciting poetry. I can't hear the words, but the pattern is rhythmic – almost like our local vicar preaching a sermon. I decide to investigate, but not before I notice the untidy state of the smaller bedroom. It is undoubtedly the domain of a man who has carelessly abandoned a cut-throat razor and shaving strop on one side of the washstand. The single bed takes up most of the long wall, with just enough room remaining for a desk to fit below the sash window. Papers, files, books, and ephemera lie haphazardly across the desk with a page of handwritten poetry on top. I read a few lines. It is good but not great, and it takes a few moments for me to appreciate that it's written in English, not German. There is a small door opposite the bed, which someone has left closed over the corner of a piece of purple silk. It looks like it might be a bathrobe and seems an odd choice of colour for a man.
I hear another noise from above – an odd guttural sound that ends abruptly in a screech. There is a familiarity to it I can't put my finger on, and I decide that it's time to investigate. But as the thought enters my head, I shudder, and a frisson of dread snakes through my soul. What if someone sees me? Is it possible, and does it matter if they do? And why am I casually drifting around a house in another country as if it were an everyday occurrence? Streams of anxious thoughts flood my mind, and I am suddenly terrified. I haven't considered how I'm going to get back to my body or if I'll have the same problems as last time. But this house is unsettling, and I don't know why I'm here. Could Annie Hearn have made it to the continent? But then I wasn't thinking of Annie Hearn when I fell asleep. Perhaps this has nothing to do with her.
I am standing stock still, paralysed with uncertainty and torn between wondering who is walking around upstairs and how I can get home. If I could feel my body, my heart would be racing, my stomach twisting with nerves. I will go. I will stay. I will seek safety. But I am curious while knowing that curiosity is not my friend. I regret poking around the shed and uncovering secrets that were not mine to understand. If I linger here too long, I will regret meddling again. And as I process the logic of these thoughts, I suddenly remember who I was thinking about when I fell asleep. It was Felix Crossley. No sooner does the thought cross my mind than the bedroom walls dissolve around me. I am on the last step of a narrow staircase, standing by an angled door. The noise is louder up here. It's not singing or poetry, but a rhythmical chanting. A single low voice leads, followed by multiple refrains. I listen hard and pick out the odd word of Latin. The gathering inside is like a church service – but what kind of church meets in the top room of a Berlin townhouse? Perhaps they do things differently on the continent.
I stare at the door. Only two inches of wood separate me from the occupants of the room beyond. What I should do is find a nice dark corner, close my eyes, and concentrate on getting home. But I can't help myself. I push a nervous hand through the door and follow to where a scene of nightmarish proportions greets me.
The large, low-ceilinged room stretches the length of the house. Dark wooden beams run from wall to ceiling, each fitted at two-foot intervals with a sconce in which torch-like lamp's glow balefully. A dozen or more people occupy the room, and I shrink back against the far wall, hiding my wraith-like body beside a wooden cabinet in case they see me. The light is low, but not so much that I cannot make out their outfits. They are wearing purple silken gowns, long-sleeved and hooded and with a unicursal hexagram on the back. I remember Fox's words. It is the symbol of Calicem Aureum, and the people worshipping in front of me are not the harmless fools I had imagined.
Felix Crossley is standing at the farthest end of the room. Full bellied with quivering jowls, he holds a bowl towards the throng, and they stare in rapt wonder as he chants. Crossley speaks, and they repeat the last sentence of his proclamation while kneeling yet moving in small circles. They gyrate as if hypnotised by this large lump of a man, his voice mellow, controlled and commanding. Men and women prostrate themselves before him. Some are tearing their clothes, others reach out to their closest neighbour. I close my eyes and open them again, willing the sight away. But the scene hasn't changed.
A woman in the middle of the room has pulled her gown over her shoulders, her sagging breasts heaving as she rocks backwards and forwards. And when I think it cannot get any worse, Crossley bellows "Silentium", and the room falls deathly quiet. I crouch and try to hold my breath, but in my ethereal state, it doesn't work that way, and I can't take comfort in normal bodily functions. As much as I want to look away, I can't. Crossley points to a dark-haired man on all fours at the front of the room, crooks his finger and beckons him over. A thin, cruel half-smile settles over the man's face as he stands and approaches Crossley, who clicks his fingers and points down. The man kneels, face tipped upwards until he is looking straight into Crossley's eyes. Crossley turns and raises the metal bowl towards a painting behind him, and it's too far away to make out the detail. He waits as if expecting an acknowledgement, but there is only silence. Then he spins around and, with one fluid motion, pours the contents of the bowl into a goblet which he thrusts towards the waiting man. “In nomine asmodeus”, he says.
The man lowers his head and mutters, "I will serve only you" then downs the contents in one gulp, wiping his hand over moist lips. He stands and strides towards a crimson covered sideboard that looks like an altar. Then the man upends the goblet on the white runner in the middle and delivers it to Crossley. He takes the cup and glances at the red ring, satisfied. One by one, Crossley calls the worshippers over, and they each drink a crimson substance from the goblet that I can only hope contains red wine. I want to leave, but I am too frightened to move. And in a moment, Crossley will have reached his final supplicant, and I don't know what will happen then. They are still kneeling silently before him, but their eyes are rolling, and they appear half drugged. I close my eyes, knowing I must go now. Whether my thoughts take me downstairs or back home doesn't matter, as long as I get out of this room. I put my head in my hands to initiate my return. But the crowd starts chanting again, and the noise is too distracting to concentrate. I try to imagine returning to my body, to the safety of sleep in my warm and welcoming bed. Nothing happens. I am still in this strange attic room, and now one of them has started to disrobe. If I cannot leave by astral travel, then at the very least, I will walk. I stand and flatten myself against the cupboard, but now that I am no longer crouching, I can see further into the room. Crossley has placed the bowl by the side of the altar next to a feathery mass. I squint, hoping for a clearer view, and when my brain finally catches up with my eyes, I gratefully feel a tug on the back of my head. I am pulled backwards and down, down, down until my head touches the pillow.
I wake with a start. I am back in my bed, and my temples are damp with sweat. I am panting so hard that I raise my fingers to my neck and check my racing pulse. I bite my lip and choke down a scream. I cannot believe what I have seen, and yet I am not altogether surprised. Crossley is real. He is present and evil, and somehow our worlds have collided. Those ignorant men and women who ought to know better were not drinking wine, and Crossley was not conducting a religious service. I wish I could erase the last sight I saw before terror whipped me home. But the broken bodies of the black cockerel and white hen, lifeless and exsanguinated, will haunt me forever.
