Freya's Quest (20 page)

I couldn’t be certain, of course, but I felt very uncomfortable all the same. I persevered however, as I wanted to ask one last question before he left: ‘So the stories about devil worship in the ruins are true, then?’

‘Now, I didn’t say tha’, now did I? Don’t go quotin’ me none. Draw y’own conclusions if yea mus’, but keep me ou’ of it.’

He left me to contemplate his recollections as I observed him crossing the lawn towards the inner courtyard.

THAT NIGHT I let Dylan back into my bed, against my better judgement.

I suppose it started when I became lost in the pages of
Pillar Rock
after Norton had left. Dylan had been up in the tower. I had hours to fill. Soon I was enthralled by the quality of the writing and the story at the heart of the book. It was very accomplished for a first novel. The tension was built around a number of pioneer climbing episodes and the love the central character had for the innkeeper’s daughter. What struck me was the intensity of their love. And how the heroine matched many of the qualities of Seraphina. When I came to the climax – where the hero fell to his death off a cliff whilst the heroine watched – I became convinced he’d been at his most autobiographical in this novel.

I lay on my front on the bed, the book propped up on a pillow. I became absorbed into the small hours before I finished its two hundred pages. Only then, with my head splitting and exhaustion evident, did I realize everything had stopped still. I hadn’t eaten; my bladder was full; and my body ached from lying prone in one position for so long. And Dylan was sat in a chair across the other side of the room.

I let out a cry when I noticed him there in the shadows.

‘I didn’t mean to frighten you. Didn’t want to disturb you, that’s all.’

I climbed off the bed, stretching in pain, and went to the toilet. Then I returned and lay back on the bed in the same position as before, with my back to him. I picked up the book again.

‘Don’t be upset. It was fascinating to watch. I rarely get a chance to see how a reader enjoys one of my books. OK, the critics wrote rave reviews and it was awarded three different prizes. But they pale into insignificance against what I just witnessed.’

He came over and lay down next to me. I didn’t stop him from caressing my naked back and bottom.

‘It was very powerful. It triggered the whole gamut of my emotions at various times. The story was simple, but the characterization magnificent. I was willing Percy to succeed in that final climb, right up to the last moment. With its setting in the late Victorian era, you expect the classic Victorian ending. But you get only tragedy.’

‘I’m glad you said that. That’s precisely what I was trying to evoke.’

‘I love it. I really love it. I’ve only read four of the five, but this is my favourite by far.’

‘It’s my favourite, too. There’s a rawness of emotion, reflected also in that of the landscape. I’ve struggled to recapture its essence ever since.’

His hands had continued to work on my body. From the way I was physically responding to his attentions, I knew I was going to give myself to him again.

Only now, in the morning light, did I have second thoughts. I’d sobered up from the novel’s intoxication and Dylan’s rough lovemaking. All I was left with now was a thudding pain down below and a feeling of dread at my lack of resistance. Lust had ruled over reason and sense. I’d begun to break away from his influence. Now I was even more deeply embroiled and corrupted.

When I went downstairs to the kitchen for breakfast, I found Dylan already at the table, munching on a slice of toast. He poured out some tea as I sat down and he smiled warmly.

‘I thought we could go out somewhere together today.’

‘Oh,’ he said, knotting his brow. ‘You gave me so much inspiration last night. All I want to do now is write.’

I slouched back in my chair.

He could sense my disappointment. ‘I’m sorry. But if you want to be a novelist’s girlfriend, you’re gonna have to get used to me cloistering myself away for long periods.’

‘But I’ve hardly seen you for days!….It’s as if you’re losing interest in me.’

‘Have you forgotten about last night already?’ he retorted, sarcastically.

‘You’re satisfying me physically at night. You know that. But a relationship’s got to be more than that.’

‘Indeed. But the creative process stops for no one. Not even someone as beautiful as you.’ He chuckled, and slurped his tea.

‘Bullshit!’

Dylan was stunned and froze.

‘I think going up in that ivory tower of yours is just a ruse to avoid deeper emotional engagement.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean!’ he said, hurt.

‘It needs no further explanation. I’ve learnt more about yourself from everybody else, than I have done from you!’

Dylan banged the teacup back into its saucer and stood up. ‘I’ll see you later.’ He kicked the chair out of his way and stormed into the hall.

I followed behind him as he strode upstairs. He slammed the door to the tower behind him as I arrived on the landing. I reached for the doorknob, but could hear him locking it from the other side. I listened through the door and could make out his footsteps trailing away up a further set of stairs on the other side.

I pounded with my fists on the door and screamed for him to return, surprised by the strength of my emotion.

Eventually I stopped and walked down the stairs, feeling rejected. I sat on the lowest step and looked up at the portrait of Dylan the writer in Victorian attire. I stuck my finger up at his image and swore. Then I returned to the kitchen.

As I was finishing breakfast, I was disturbed by the entrance buzzer. I went over to see who was at the outer gates, thinking Paul Norton must be returning to complete the garden repairs. However, it was Rupert’s Bentley pictured on the video link. I let him in and walked out to the courtyard to meet him.

He arrived and climbed out of the car, giving his over-exaggerated welcome. He looked to be in an excitable mood. I was about to tell him Dylan was not available, when I realized he appeared to have come to see me.

‘How did it go with Lady Jennifer?’

‘Oh, good. Very good. Much more marriageable material than Janis. Although Lady Veronica was cross when I said this to her earlier…. Anyway, enough of that. I’ve got some news on the medallion….Can I see it?’

I led him inside and told him that Dylan had thrown it into the millpond.

‘Oh,’ he replied, looking disappointed. ‘Well, that might explain why Lady Veronica’s hired a frogman. Found him diving into the millpond earlier, but she wouldn’t tell me why.’ He sat himself down in a lounge armchair and unwrapped and lit up a cigar.

‘I drew a copy of it, though.’

I was about to run to the library and retrieve the drawing when he brought out a photograph from his jacket pocket. ‘No need. I took this before I left for Scotland.’

He passed it to me and I viewed the medallion again.

‘There is no doubt it has a satanic purpose.’

I drew in a deep breath. ‘How can you be so certain?’

‘Well, the Viscount, Lady Jennifer’s father, is quite an authority, apparently. He studied this photo in detail and realized straight away. The goat’s head is an old pagan fertility god. The Catholic Church demonized this competing religious symbol by portraying the Devil as having horns. Later satanic cults then subsumed the emblem for their own use, along with some of these other symbols from ancient Hebrew, Greek and Egyptian origin.’ He pointed to smaller engravings around the outside of the gold disc. ‘He reckons the medallion itself is late eighteenth century in date….Of German or Austrian origin probably.’

‘That would fit with the facts I’ve learnt.’

He took on a curious countenance, as if disappointed that his news wasn’t as revelatory as he might have imagined, but eager to find out more about my own discoveries.

I told him about the ruined chapel and the folly, the local satanic legends and my researches in Dylan’s library, and finished with Norton’s colourful reflexions.

‘Well, my word! Who’d’ve believed all that.’ He scratched his balding head. ‘And the old Baron was a German, you don’t say….Now that would fit.’

‘Perhaps the medallion was his.’

‘I doubt it. The Viscount’s sure it was meant to be worn by a woman.’

‘How so?’

‘See this larger symbol around the gold disc, surrounding the goat’s head.’ He traced its outline with his finger on the photograph. ‘The pentogram. A motif known in many ancient religions and perhaps the best known symbol in satanic cults. Nothing too out of the ordinary in this context, you might think. But this is where it gets more esoteric. The pentogram originally signified the passage of the planet Venus across the sky. Hence it came to represent the goddess Venus. The Viscount believes the underlying meaning for those in the know was that the medallion was meant to be wore by a woman for an ancient rite – her union with the goat or devil.’

I gasped.

Rupert seemed pleased now to have imparted some important fact not previously known to me.

I was equally intrigued. I couldn’t help remembering the image on the fresco in the folly.

Rupert stayed for tea and cake and we talked some more about the possible darker side of Grimshaw Lodge’s history, amidst clouds of cigar smoke. He encouraged me to research further into the mystery.

Then he took on a more concerned demeanour. ‘The Viscount warned me too, you know. There are plenty of stories about aristos in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries forming weird clubs as an excuse to prance naked around their country estates and have sexual orgies. (Sir Francis Dashwood and his “Hellfire Club” is perhaps the most infamous of these.) But a small percentage really did dabble in the black arts and were more sinister. It’s difficult to know which category the old Baron fitted into!’ He started to laugh, but the sound choked in his mouth.

We sat in an uncomfortable silence for some time.

Eventually, he took his fob watch out of his waistcoat. ‘Gosh! Is that the time. I must dash off, I’m afraid.’ He took out a bundle of papers from his briefcase. ‘Some financial details Dylan asked me to look over. He needs to sign and return them to me at my London office.’

‘Don’t you want to see him yourself?’

‘No,’ he said, chuckling. He stubbed out his latest cigar in the ashtray and took a swig from a hip flask. ‘I’ve learnt the hard way over the years not to disturb him when he’s writing!’

We bid our farewells and soon he was cruising off down the driveway.

I stayed outside for a while in pensive mood.

When I returned I made sure Dylan was still in the tower before calling John again. He seemed agitated when he answered, but listened carefully to all my revelations about Satanism in times past at the Lodge.

‘This is all very well, Freya, and it’s all relevant, no doubt. But what of his late wife?’

‘Her sister, Janis, told me she committed suicide.’

There was a long intake of breath at the other end of the line. ‘I knew it was no accident!’

Suddenly it dawned on me that he’d sent me on this mission of discovery without telling me he already had some of the facts.

‘Look, John. What’s going on? You’ve sent me into this thing blind. You must have known all along that getting close to Dylan could be dangerous for my emotional well-being. Why d’you want to know all this about him?’

There was silence from his end of the line.

‘You better tell me, or that’s it….I’m off!

‘No!’ he barked.

‘Tell me, then!’

He hesitated. ‘Well….’

‘Tell me!’

‘All right! All right!….It’s simple: I used to know Sera. And I’m certain he’s responsible for her death!’

He slammed down the phone before I could answer.

I hardly had a chance to recover before I heard Dylan hurrying down the stairs. I replaced the receiver and jumped into a chair. He came into the room, but made for the servant’s stairs to the basement. He didn’t give me a second glance, mumbling ‘Bitch!’ under his breath as he went.

I followed after him, into the basement, past the wine cellar and then the larder, each with vaulted-brick roofs. I found him in a further pantry, opening a reinforced steel cabinet and producing a shotgun. He broke the weapon open and put a box of cartridges into his pocket.

I edged backwards, scared by what he might do.

He knew I was there, but ignored me. He fumbled with the door, then ran up a flight of stairs that ended with an archway into the courtyard. I followed at a discreet distance as he marched off down the driveway.

By the time I reached the bridge, two shots rang out in quick succession and the sound echoed around the grounds. The rooks squawked and rose from their nests in the beech trees. I rushed down the driveway, then the embankment onto the outer lawn. I was consumed by a feeling of dread that Dylan may have done himself some harm.

But then I saw him, breaking open the shotgun and struggling to reload as rabbits scattered in disarray in front of him. As I approached, he pulled the trigger again. One of the shots hit the hind quarters of a retreating rabbit, cartwheeling it into the air and onto its back. It had failed to reach the safety of its burrow by only a yard. It then rived in agony on the ground until Dylan went over and put it out of its misery by thrusting the butt of the gun down onto its head.