Witching Hour

For herself, she enjoyed Robert’s company. She liked him, and suspected that given time her feelings could become much warmer. Ever since the funeral, he had been assiduous in his attentions, sending her flowers, and phoning nearly every day. She was grateful for this, and a little relieved too, if she was honest. The Donlevens had always been charming to her, but she had been aware all the time in little ways that they felt Robert could do better for himself than the daughter of a country hotelier. Now that it was public knowledge in the area that, since her father’s death, the long-forgotten entail had come into force and that soon she and her mother would probably be not only penniless but probably homeless as well, she had wondered whether any kind of pressure would be exerted to persuade Robert to let their relationship slide.

If so, it clearly hadn’t worked, or had had the opposite effect, she thought, smiling a little as the image of Robert’s pleasant regular features and clear blue eyes rose in her mind. And of course he was the fair man Elsa had seen in the cards and he was going to propose to her and take her away from all this.

She was grinning to herself as she carried the tray into the drawing room, but the grin faded a little as she encountered the gaze of Miss Meakins, sitting bolt upright on the edge of her usual chair, clutching her knitting bag as a drowning person might clutch a lifebelt. Miss Meakins was elderly, and harmless, and Morgana felt sympathy for anyone whose life was a succession of cheap hotels, but she found Miss Meakins passion for attempting to be unobtrusive a trial. ‘Without wishing to be a nuisance …’ and ‘I wonder if I might …’ preceded even the most normal of requests and she seemed to spend most mealtimes in a state of permanent agitation.

A hotelier’s lot is not a happy one, Morgana thought grimly as she set down the tea tray.

‘Have you any idea where the others are, Miss Meakins?’

‘Major Lawson usually goes for a walk before tea,’ Miss Meakins said primly.

Major Lawson, Morgana thought, wasn’t daft. She and her mother sometimes wondered about him. They usually had two or three permanent guests each winter at Polzion House, but Major Lawson wasn’t in the usual mould at all. When his booking had originally been received, her father had been inclined to pooh-pooh his rank, saying he had probably been a clerk in the stores who had decided to promote himself after discharge. ‘Or a con man,’ he added cynically. But Martin Pentreath had been wrong.

Major Lawson was a tall, quietly spoken man, but there was an indefinable air of command about him. His clothes were not new, but their cut was impeccable, and the suitcases he’d brought them in were leather, and had been expensive. But in many ways he was an enigma. When pressed, he would talk about Army life, but he spoke in generalities with a certain diffidence. And he was a loner. Miss Meakins’ flutterings had not the slightest effect on him. He enjoyed walking, and he spent a good deal of time in his room, working on a small portable typewriter. He was very tidy about his work, whatever it was. They’d only found out about it by chance, through Miss Meakins—‘Not wishing to be any trouble, dear Mrs Pentreath, but the constant tapping … comes so plainly through the wall.’

Her eyes had gleamed with curiosity as she spoke, but it was doomed to be unsatisfied. Major Lawson had never volunteered why he spent several hours each day typing, and none of the Pentreaths were prepared to ask him. In the end Major Lawson was moved to another room, well out of earshot—to Miss Meakins’ secret chagrin, Morgana suspected.

Quite suddenly she knew she had to get out of the house for a while. It was ridiculous, because it was almost dark, and almost certainly raining, but she needed to breathe fresh air and be completely alone for a while. Since her father’s death, she had been rarely alone. Her mother had needed her and there were always things to be done, and at first she had welcomed this because it meant there was less time to think, and to worry and ask herself what she was going to do. But now, when there was so little time left for thinking and planning, she had to get away on her own for a while. It had been building up inside her all day, this need to be alone, to escape. That was why she had felt so restless earlier.

She flashed a brief smile at her mother as she passed her in the doorway. ‘I’m going out for a little while.’

‘Just as you please, dear,’ Mrs Pentreath responded.

Morgana went into the hall and on into the small cloakroom which opened off it. Her old school cape was there, and she swung it round her shoulders, pulling the hood up over her cloud of dark hair. As she re-emerged into the hall, the telephone rang, and she crossed to the reception desk to answer it.

‘Polzion House,’ she said crisply.

It was a relief to hear Robert’s quiet ‘Hello, darling. Just ringing to find out how everything went today. What’s he like?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine. He didn’t show up.’

‘Well, that’s pretty cavalier,’ Robert was plainly taken aback. ‘Hasn’t there even been a message?’

‘Nothing at all. We’ve spent the whole day on tenterhooks, and all to no avail.’

‘I suppose he could have had an accident,’ Robert said slowly.

‘We thought of that.’ Morgana laughed. ‘And at this moment he’s breathing his last at the foot of Polzion cliffs. I wish he was,’ she added hotly.

It was Robert’s turn to laugh. ‘Darling, what a little savage you are! It’s a good job my respected mama can’t hear your fulminations.’

‘Meaning her worst fears would be fully justified?’ Morgana asked coolly, then relented. ‘I’m sorry, Rob. Your mother can’t help the way she is, any more than I can. And I won’t say anything shocking in front of her, I promise. I’m just a little uptight over this whole business, that’s all. And the atmosphere in the house is deadly at the moment—Elsa prophesying doom all over the place, and Mummy’s trying to be optimistic and see a silver lining in everything. I was just going for a walk when you rang.’

‘In the direction of the Home Farm?’ he enquired hopefully.

She sighed. ‘Not really. I do need to be on my own for a time. You understand, don’t you?’

‘I’ll try to anyway,’ he said cheerfully. ‘You know I’m here if you need me. Perhaps I could pick you up later when you’ve walked your blues off, and we could have a drink somewhere.’

‘Now that would be nice,’ she said. ‘See you.’ She was smiling as she put the receiver down. Robert was sweet, she thought, and she’d forgotten to tell him he was the fair man that Elsa had seen in the cards, but it didn’t matter. Gems like that would keep, and she would enjoy telling him later, over their drink.

As she went out of the house, closing the side door carefully against the gusting wind, Morgana wondered why she hadn’t considered going down to the Home Farm, because until Rob had mentioned it, it hadn’t even crossed her mind to do so.

Was she being totally fair to him? she wondered. He wanted to help. The phone calls proved that. He was kind and concerned, and he’d been furious when he heard about the entail, calling it a ‘load of outdated nonsense and prejudice’. And although she agreed with every word, it wasn’t what she wanted to hear right now.

Nor did she really want to hear him ask her to marry him, which she suspected he might do. If and when he proposed, she wanted it to be for the right reasons, and that was quite apart from the fact that deep in her bones she felt they didn’t know each other well enough yet.

Of course, it might be that they would never know each other well enough. She and her mother might have to leave Polzion and go miles away, and eventually, inevitably, the gap that she and Rob had left in each other’s lives would be filled with other people. Journeys led often to lovers’ partings as well as their meetings, she thought with a little grimace. And ‘lover’ was a strong way of describing Rob, although she enjoyed the moments she spent in his arms. He was a normal man with all the needs which that implied, but he was not overly demanding. He preferred to let their relationship proceed steadily rather than sweep her off her feet into a headlong surrender they might both regret later.

But if she went to him now, with all her doubts and her troubles, he might interpret her need for comfort and reassurance rather differently, and that would simply create more problems.

‘And just now I have as many as I can handle,’ she muttered against the moan of the wind.

She buried her hands in the pockets of her cape, her fingers closing round the familiar shape of her small pocket torch, and it was that which decided her where to go for her walk. Her original intention had been to follow the lane round, perhaps even as far as the village, but now she knew she wanted the open spaces of the stretch of moorland behind the house. Even in summertime, it seemed bleak, the few trees bent and stunted under the power of the prevailing westerly gales, but Morgana loved it, in particular the great stone which crowned its crest.

It was an odd-looking stone—a tall thick stem of granite with another slab balanced across its top. In some guide books it was referred to as the Giant’s Table, but locally it was known as the Wishing Stone because it was said that if you put your hand on the upright and made a wish, and then circled the stone three times, the top slab would rock gently if the wish was to be granted. At all other times, of course, it was said to be immovable, but Morgana had always thought that a really desperate wisher could probably give fate a helping hand with a quick nudge at the cross-stone.

Sometimes she’d wondered if there had once been other stones there, so that the hillside above Polzion had resembled Stonehenge or Avebury, until people had come and taken them for building. Yet it was intriguing that they had left this one, and she had asked herself why often. Maybe it was because they sensed its power, or more prosaically perhaps it was because the cross-stone had proved more difficult to shift than anticipated.

Anyway, there it stood, like a mysterious signpost to a secret in the youth of mankind, surviving the initials which had been carved on it, the picnics which had been eaten in its shadow, and all the attempts of vandals to dislodge it, squat and oddly reassuring in its timelessness.

As she picked her way across the thick clumps of grass and bracken, the wind snatched at her hood, pulling it back from her head, and making her dark hair billow round her like a cloud. She breathed deeply. This was what she had wanted—the freshness of damp undergrowth and sea salt brought to her on the moving air. Rob would think she was mad if he could see her now, she thought, stumbling a little on a tussock of grass, but then he hadn’t been born here as she had. In fact she’d often wondered what had prompted his father to buy the Home Farm in the first place. Perhaps under his rather staid appearance he was really a romantic at heart, remembering the pull of the boyhood holidays he mentioned so often. Certainly Morgana doubted whether his wife’s wishes had much to do with his decision. Mrs Donleven’s roots seemed firmly grounded in the Home Counties.

Morgana was out of breath by the time she reached the wishing stone. The wind had been blowing steadily against her all the way, and by all the natural laws the stone should already have been rocking precariously on its pediment. But it wasn’t, of course. She leaned against the upright, regaining her breath, and looking about her. She could see the lights of Polzion House below her, and away on the right those of the Home Farm. She couldn’t see the village, because it was down in a hollow in the edge of the sea, where the surrounding cliffs provided a safe harbour for the fishing and pleasure boats.

She thought suddenly, ‘This could be the last time—the very last time that I stand here.’ She put her hand on the stone and it felt warm to the touch, but perhaps that was because she herself suddenly felt so cold.

It couldn’t happen, she told herself passionately. This was her place, her land, and she refused to give it up to an uncaring stranger.

She said quietly, but aloud because that was the rule, ‘I wish that he may never come here. I wish that he may renounce his inheritance, and that we may never meet.’ Then she began to walk round the stone, slowly and carefully, the wind whipping her cloak around her legs, her head thrown back slightly, her eyes narrowed against the gloom as she watched for a sign of movement.

She had never really believed in the Wishing Stone, had always dismissed it as an amusing local superstition, but now she desperately wanted the legend to be true, and to work for her.

But when her circuit was completed, the great stone remained where it was implacable, immovable. Her wish hadn’t been granted, and she could have thrown herself on to the ground and wept and drummed her heels like a tired child.

She stared at the stone, and sighed despairingly, ‘Oh, why didn’t you work?’

And from somewhere behind her, but altogether too close for comfort a man’s voice said, ‘Perhaps you used the wrong spell. Or simply asked for the wrong thing.’

Morgana spun round, her hand going to her mouth to stifle an involuntary scream, and found herself caught, transfixed like a butterfly to a cork, in the merciless, all-encompassing beam of a powerful torch.

CHAPTER TWO

HER heart hammering, Morgana stared back, lifting her chin defiantly. She didn’t recognise the voice. Low-pitched and resonant, with a trace of an unfamiliar accent, it struck no chord in her memory. And she couldn’t see him either, although she had the impression that he was tall.

She wondered why she hadn’t heard him approach, but supposed it had been partly because of the noise of the wind, and principally, because she had been so totally absorbed in what she was doing. All of which he had observed, judging by his opening remark. She felt the blood rush into her face with embarrassment, and her temper rising at the same time as she visualised him skulking up through the bracken, deliberately not using his torch, giving her no hint that she was no longer alone until it was too late, and she had made a complete and utter fool of herself.

She demanded sharply, ‘Do you enjoy spying?’

‘Not particularly, although I must confess it can be most instructive,’ he said. ‘And it’s not every day one gets the paces. But isn’t it a little early for this sort of thing? I always understood the witching hour was midnight.’

There was a trace of amusement in his voice which he wasn’t at all concerned to hide, and it stung.

She said stiffly, ‘I am not a witch.’

‘I think that’s just as well.’ The laughter was open now. ‘I don’t think you’d be very good at it. That stone’s supposed to rock, isn’t it?’

‘How did you know that?’

‘From a book I bought in the village. I hope you didn’t think it was a closely guarded secret.’

‘No, no, of course not.’ The fright he had given her, and her own anger, had knocked her slightly off balance, and she hated the way he kept her trapped in the damned beam of light, so that he could see her, but she could know nothing about him, except that impression of height.

Her voice sharpened. ‘Did your book also tell you that this is private land?’

It was only a technicality, and no one at Polzion House had ever dreamed of debarring any of the interested tourists from visiting the stone, but there was something about this man that flicked her on the raw, that made her want to put him down—to make him feel small in his turn. It was abominable the way he had stood there in the darkness and watched her, and listened, and then added insult to injury by laughing at her.

He said slowly, ‘Is it now? And do you think the owner would mind?’

‘We don’t like trespassers round here—intruders.’

‘I was always told the Cornish were very hospitable. And as for intruding, actually I was here before you. I was standing back so I could look at the stone from a distance when you appeared out of nowhere and began your incantations.’

‘I had every reason to believe I would be alone,’ she said coldly. ‘And do you think you could switch off that spotlight of yours—always supposing you have seen all that you want,’ she added with icy sarcasm.

The torch remained on. He said, ‘Tell me something—are you always so prickly? Even in that weird cloak with your hair all over your face, you’re an attractive girl. You must have had men look at you before this.’

‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘But I’ve always been able to look at them too. The present situation is a little too one-sided for my taste.’

He said, ‘But easily remedied.’ The torch beam swung up and away from her and she saw him properly for the first time. He was tall, his face thin, with prominent cheekbones, a high-bridged nose and firm mouth and chin. And his hair was fair, lighter altogether than Rob’s, and longer too, reaching almost to the collar of the black leather coat he was wearing.

Morgana thought, ‘A fair man—but it can’t be … it couldn’t be! I don’t believe it.’

As if he could read her thoughts, he began to smile, deep laugh lines appearing beside his mouth.

‘You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’

She wanted to ask, ‘Who are you?’ but the words wouldn’t come. Then the torch snapped off, and there was only the darkness and the howl of the wind, and the tall dimly seen figure who said quietly, ‘And perhaps you have, at that.’

He was coming towards her, and she recoiled involuntarily, her hands flying up in front of her to keep him away. Then she stumbled against a clump of grass and went flying.

‘Dear God!’ The torch flicked on again, as she lay there, winded and humiliated, and he bent towards her pulling her up, his voice abrupt as he asked, ‘Have you hurt yourself? Are you all right?’

‘I’m fine.’ She’d twisted her ankle slightly and it hurt enough to make her wince when she put her weight on it, but she wasn’t going admit it. She didn’t want him to touch her again. He’d put his hands under her arms and lifted her as if she was a child, and she’d hated it.

He said harshly, ‘When I said you’d seen a ghost, I wasn’t trying to frighten you. There was no need for you to leap away like that. What I meant was that I thought I possibly reminded you of someone.’

Morgana could have said quite truthfully, ‘You remind me of a number of people. You remind me of at least half the portraits hanging in the long gallery at home, except that they’re all dark, and you’re fair.’ But she remained silent because there was still an outside chance it might all be a coincidence, and she could be wrong. Under her breath, she prayed that she was wrong.

He said sharply, ‘Well?’

She shrugged. ‘I don’t spend my life looking for chance resemblances to people I know in local tourists. We have too many of them.’

‘I wasn’t talking about chance, and I think you know it.’ His hand gripped her arm, bruising her flesh, and she said with ice in her voice, ‘Would you let go of me, please?’

‘When you’ve answered a few simple questions. For starters, what’s your name?’

‘If this is a new version of the pick-up, then I’m not impressed,’ she shot at him.

‘I’m tempted to make a very different impression on you.’ His voice slowed to a drawl, but now he didn’t sound amused at all. The torchlight was on her face again, and his hand moved from her arm to grip her chin. She wanted to pull away, but she wasn’t sure she could evade his grasp, and it would be another humiliation to struggle and lose. So she remained very still, making her eyes blank, enduring his scrutiny.

At last he said slowly, ‘I’m Lyall Pentreath. And unless I miss my guess, you’re my cousin Morgana.’

‘Brilliantly deduced,’ she said huskily. ‘And what are we supposed to do now—shake hands?’

‘I think it’s a little late for that.’ His voice was dry.

‘We expected you this morning.’

‘I was held up.’ He let her go and stepped back, and her breath escaped with a little gasp of relief.

‘More business, I suppose.’ She made no attempt to hide the bitterness in her voice.

‘Of a sort.’

‘I suppose it didn’t occur that my mother and I would be waiting for you—would be worried?’

‘Frankly it didn’t.’ A match flared as he lit a cheroot, his hands sheltering the flame against the snatching wind, and she saw his mouth twist cynically. ‘I hardly imagined I would be the most welcome visitor the Polzion House Hotel had ever had.’

She’d heard the edge in his voice when he mentioned the word hotel, and she made her own tone blank and a little wondering. ‘You resent the fact that the family home is now a commercial enterprise? I’d have thought as a business man yourself, you’d have been delighted.’

‘But then,’ he said coolly, ‘I would hardly describe that particular venture as a commercial enterprise.’

Morgana was silent for a moment, her brain working madly. Far from lacking interest in his inheritance, it now seemed he was only too well informed. But where had he gleaned his information? she wondered. Was that where he’d been since this morning? Going round Polzion, asking questions? She flinched inwardly as she thought of some of the answers he might have been given. On the other hand, it was far more likely that he’d found out all he wanted to know through correspondence between his solicitors and Mr Trevick, who would have been been bound to be frank.

She decided to proceed cautiously. ‘I admit we’re not the Hilton, but we make out.’

‘Do you really? You seem to be alone in that opinion. From what I’ve learned, the hotel seems to owe quite a lot of money to a number of people.’

She was mortified, but she made herself reply quietly. ‘Yes—we do, unfortunately. But it’s been a bad year.’

‘It must have been a succession of bad years if all I’ve been told is true.’

‘If you want to put it that way,’ Morgana agreed, numbly hating him.

‘I don’t, believe me.’ His tone was dry. ‘After all—a hotel in surroundings like these. It’s hard to see how it could fail.’

‘In the course of your snooping, you may also have noticed that Polzion isn’t exactly Newquay,’ she said sharply. ‘I’m sorry if we haven’t come up to your expectations, but no doubt you’ll be able to figure out the reasons why at your leisure.’

‘Unfortunately, I don’t have that much leisure to waste.’ He sounded abrupt again. ‘I’m going to walk down to the house now, and meet your mother. Are you going to come with me, or have you got more spells to cast?’

‘No,’ she snapped. ‘I’ll come down with you.’ She felt chilled to the bone, and cold and sick inside.

‘Good. I didn’t relish the prospect of being turned into a frog as soon as I turned my back.’

‘I think in the circumstances,’ she said tightly, ‘a rat would be more appropriate.’

‘If we’re playing at animal similes, I can think of one or two that would fit you quite well too,’ he returned equably, and Morgana flushed in the darkness. After a moment’s pause he turned away and moved off down the hill, without waiting to see if she was following or not. Morgana gritted her teeth and went after him, fumbling in her cape pocket for her own torch. It couldn’t compete with the powerful beam that his flashlight was sending out, but at least it gave her an illusion of independence.

He said over his shoulder, ‘Be careful you don’t fall.’

‘Thanks for the advice,’ she snapped, ‘but I do happen to know every inch of these moors.’ And remembered too late that he’d had to haul her up from the ground only a few minutes before.

‘Then perhaps you’d like to go first. My own acquaintanceship is only just beginning,’ he said silkily.

‘That,’ she snapped, as she went past him, her chin in the air, ‘is entirely your own fault.’

She walked ahead of him as fast as she could go, determined not to stumble again or make a fool of herself in any other way, although every instinct was screaming at her to run and never stop until she reached Polzion House and safety. When she reached the road she made no attempt to wait for him to catch up with her, but simply marched along as if he had ceased to exist for her. Nor did he try and draw level, so he obviously had as little desire for her company as she had for his, she thought defiantly.