CHAPTER
17
I was, unfortunately, destined for disappointment. Harry was, in a word, delightful. He flattered Mary, complimenting the dinner as well as the elegance of the table although both were entirely due to the efforts of the sterling Mrs. Desmond. He asked thoughtful questions of Charles about sheep and insightful questions of Stoker about advances in the taxidermical arts. He attended Lady Hathaway with a closeness that would have been called fawning under other circumstances. He even, I was nauseated to see, indulged his erstwhile nephew and nieces when they appeared, washed and brushed and dressed in starched nightgowns to present their scrubbed cheeks for kisses before they retired for the night. He permitted little Ada to search his pockets for sweets while urging young Geoffrey to display the gruesome little cage and its new inhabitant (an unlucky mouse). Even Effie came under his spell as he expressed interest in viewing the rising moon through her decrepit telescope before it began to wane.
He flattered, he cajoled, he entertained—in short, he had them nibbling from his palm. And the occasional glance he darted my way, a blandly innocent look delivered from under his demurely lowered lashes, showed that he knew exactly what he was doing. He even forestalled my plan to speak with Stoker by challenging him to another game of billiards.
Stoker hesitated, looking at me, but Harry went on, smiling. “You must allow me the chance to win back the money you took from me last night,” he said, laughing. “It is only sporting.”
If there is one thing against which an Englishman is powerless, it is being thought unsporting. Stoker gave me a shrug and followed Harry into the billiards room whilst I took myself upstairs for a sulk. I was determined to wait up as long as it might take to speak privately with Stoker, although I knew Harry would do everything in his power to prevent it.
So I took up a book, the latest Arcadia Brown adventure, filched from Stoker’s carpetbag, and resumed my post in the window seat, fully dressed. The moon was high, peeking out from behind the scudding clouds and shedding a silvery glow upon the gardens below. My book proved rather less interesting than I had anticipated—no fault of the intrepid Arcadia, who was on the hunt for a villainous wretch who had abducted her sidekick and loyal companion, Garvin—and I found myself watching instead the shifting shadows. As I peered into the darkness, one of the shadows seemed to detach from the stone wall, moving into the moonlight, gliding over the dew-spangled grass. I watched as it drifted in the direction of the summerhouse at the end of the gardens. From my perch, I could see the edge of the moor beyond, a vast, inky emptiness. It was uncanny enough in the daylight, but at that hour, it seemed not entirely impossible that it might play host to all manner of spectral things.
As if conjured by my very thoughts, at that moment, a tiny ball of light appeared on the moor. It proceeded towards the summerhouse, growing larger as it came closer, bouncing erratically, as if propelled by some supernatural movement. Light upon the moor could well be a shepherd searching for a lost lamb, but a lantern would have shed warm, yellow light. This illumination was fed by cold fire, a chill and lifeless blue light that glowed with an unnatural fury.
I threw down my book and took to my heels, blessing the instinct that had caused me to remain dressed. I had no weapon, for what weapons may one employ against the spectral? I had no light, and as I pounded down the stairs to the garden door, I realized I needed none. The clerestory windows permitted enough illumination to guide my way, and I found the garden door unlocked and standing slightly ajar.
I burst through, putting on as much speed as my evening frock and thin slippers would permit. I had gathered the skirts into one hand, lifting them free of my feet, but I tripped nonetheless just as I emerged into the garden and fell heavily. I swore loudly and looked ahead to where the dark, cloaked figure was just opening the summerhouse door. It turned and seemed to stare directly at me from across the green sward, its face shrouded in the shadows from its hood.
“Hold there!” I ordered. The figure in black seemed to hesitate upon the threshold of the summerhouse, indecision writ in every line of its posture.
“There is a spectral ball of light upon the moor!” I cried, forcing myself to my feet.
Even as I spoke, the blue light approached the summerhouse door that led out to the moor. The figure in black turned and seemed to shrink away from the light as it came near.
“Go away!” called a feminine voice. “You are not wanted here!”
I rushed ahead to where Anjali—for I recognized from the voice it was she in the black cloak—trembled upon the threshold of the summerhouse. As I ran, I heard a dull rattle and wondered if the phantom was attempting to enter the summerhouse.
Gathering my skirts well above my knees, I hurtled past Anjali and into the summerhouse, giving an imitation of a Viking berserker cry. (I have upon occasion had recourse to employ the battle cries of the Maori, the Celt, and several of the indigenous peoples of the Americas. I have found them all equally effective.)
In this instance, the orb of blue light seemed to float then vanish before my very eyes. I would have given chase, but behind me, Anjali emitted a shriek and fell heavily into a swoon.
“Anjali!” I cried, gathering her into my arms. She was entirely unconscious but seemed otherwise unharmed. Just then, Stoker and Jonathan burst into the garden through the door from the billiards room.
“Veronica!” Stoker exclaimed, dropping to his knees beside me. “Are you all right?”
“I am fine, but we must pursue the apparition! It was a ball of blue light,” I insisted, pointing in the direction it had vanished. Stoker leapt into action while I thrust Anjali into Jonathan’s arms and commanded him to look after her. “Mind you do not let her take cold,” I added as I pushed myself to my feet and followed hard upon Stoker’s heels.
He had stopped just beyond the summerhouse, peering into the bleak emptiness of the moor. I shoved past him, feeling the stone-strewn grasses beneath my slippers. This was where the landscaped order of the gardens gave way to the empty wildness of the moors beyond. They stretched like some sort of alien world, the menhirs silvery white against the ceaselessly moving darkness of the terrain. Of the phantom orb there was no sign. I peered into the night, straining my eyes for any sign of the spectral presence. “Perhaps behind one of the stones,” I said, starting towards the nearest.
Stoker grasped my arm. “Don’t be a fool. You cannot possibly venture onto the moors at night. It would be suicide.” I made to wriggle free, but he held my arm fast.
“Drat and damnation,” I muttered. But, of course, he was correct. I recalled my own unfortunate experience with a bit of mire earlier that day. Only experience and a steady nerve had seen me out of it safely. Rushing in the dark would be unspeakably foolish and unnecessarily dangerous.
With bad grace, I returned with Stoker to the gardens, where Jonathan had carried the still-senseless Anjali. He looked up with anxious eyes. “What is wrong with her?”