"Yes," she said heavily. "It's just that while he was up there, looking out over the countryside, I felt as though he was casting a pall of evil over everything that fell under his gaze."
She gave a little shudder.
"I feel that if we went out there now we'd find every tree and bush withered, and every blade of grass turned brown."
"Now you're being fanciful," he chided her gently. "Just the same, I do know what you mean."
"John," she said suddenly, "Can we go back to the cross? Please, I just want to see it. It'll make me feel better."
"Of course we will. And we can take another look at the earth, to see if we missed anything last night. Let's go now, before the light starts to go."
They hurried down the path and across the bridge. The bright day was fading, and a watery sun sliding down the sky as they entered the woods, which now seemed bathed in an eerie light. To Rena's morbid imagination they had a withered look, as though Wyngate's malign influence had indeed blighted them.
She tried to pull herself together, conscious of John's warm, strong hand holding hers. She was being foolish. Any minute now they would reach the cross, and it would cast its usual comfort over her.
"There it is," said John. "But surely - Rena, I couldn't have dug a hole as big as that last night, could I?"
"You didn't do that," she breathed.
As the foot of where the cross had stood was a hole so large that it seemed only a wild animal could have made it. Some creature in a frenzy had gored into the earth, ripping its heart out.
And the cross that had stood proudly in that earth had been ripped out too, and now lay on its side, abandoned, desecrated.
* "Wyngate went there last night, after we had gone," John agreed. "He saw us digging in that spot, and went to see what we were looking for. If there were any coins left, they're now in his possession." It was late at night and they were sitting on the oak settle in the kitchen. Cecil had gone to bed, and they were at last alone with their love, and their despair. "I wish I hadn't agreed to Matilda's plan to seem complacent with Wyngate," John added. "I don't think it would have made any difference," said Rena with a sigh. "He makes his plans despite us. It's like being strangled." "Forget him for now, my love. Hold me and let us dream of better things."
She snuggled against him, willing to allow herself these few precious moments of happiness, perhaps to last a lifetime.
But they were disturbed by a knocking on the front door.
"Who can that be, so late?" John demanded.
"I'll see."
"I'm coming to the door with you," he said, rising. "If it's Wyngate or that bullying clergyman, I'll deal with them."
They made their way through the dark house into the hall. Another storm was brewing outside, with the occasional flash of lightning searing through the windows, then vanishing into darkness again.
John drew the bolts back and Rena opened the door wide enough to see who stood on the step outside.
At that moment there was another flash of lightning, illuminating the stranger from behind, turning him into a silhouette.
Her blood froze, and a scream strangled in her throat.
This was the man who, that morning, had mysteriously appeared and even more mysteriously vanished.
It was the second Wyngate.
For a moment time seemed to stop. Then John's glad cry rang out, "Adolphus, my dear fellow. How good to see you."
Before Rena's bewildered eyes he wrung the man's hand and drew him into the house.
"I can't believe this," he kept saying. "You're actually here."
"Can't believe I'm here?" the stranger said. "But you wrote to me. I thought you wanted me to come."
"Of course I hoped you'd be able to come, but I didn't dare think it possible, knowing how busy you are. Rena, this is the friend I told you of, the pastor and historian who may know what the coins are. The Reverend Adolphus Tandy. Adolphus, this is Miss Rena Colwell, the lady I am going to marry."
"Well, well, that's delightful news. My dear, I am so pleased to meet you."
"But we have met before, haven't we?" she said, in a dazed voice. "Or at least, I have seen you before."
"Yes, indeed. Early this morning. I'm so sorry that I gave you a fright. Perhaps I could explain later."
"Of course. Please come in and I'll get you something to eat."
Now she could see that he was a very old man indeed, possibly deep into his eighties. But his movements were still hearty and vigorous, and his eyes were bright and alert.
As she took his coat she noticed something that she had instinctively known would be there: the shoulders that were too broad for his body, the arms that were too long, the slightly ape-like appearance that she had seen in Wyngate.
She knew now.
But she would wait for him to explain everything in his own time.
John drew the old man through to the warmth of the kitchen, and Rena served him some supper. They had wine now, having explored the wine cellar until they found something drinkable.
As he warmed himself by the fire the Reverend Tandy, or Adolphus as John called him, continually watched Rena. She couldn't be sure whether it was because John had said they were to be married, or because of what he had seen that morning. But his gaze was piercing, although kindly.
His scrutiny did not trouble her because she was also studying him. Despite his disconcerting resemblance to Wyngate this man's presence radiated an intense feeling of good, as strong, if not stronger, than Wyngate's of evil. It was as if some powerful force had come into the dimly lit kitchen, illuminating every corner with hope. Rena did not understand it, but it comforted her.
He was as shabby as the kitchen. His clothes must have been at least ten years old, darned repeatedly, worn at the cuffs, threadbare at the sleeves.
Yet his poverty caused him no sorrow. He had the look of a man at peace with life and his own soul. Whatever he had found in his chosen path, it had brought him fulfilment.
Which was incredible if what she believed was true.
Rena went upstairs and found him somewhere to sleep, her mind spinning with the incredible discovery that she had made.
She couldn't quite see how, but she knew that what had just happened was going to change everything.
When she returned downstairs she found the two men with the coins spread out before them on the kitchen table.
"Your description was excellent," the Reverend Tandy informed John, taking out a large magnifying glass and studying a coin closely. "The details made my mouth water. Yes - yes - excellent."
"You mean - you know what they are?" John asked on a note of rising excitement.
"Oh yes, no doubt about it. My goodness, what a find!"
"Are they valuable?" John persisted, and Rena held her breath.
"They might be worth a very great deal, but not if you only have seven. You see, much of their value resides in their historical interest. They are the last gold sovereigns ever struck in the reign of Charles I. Only thirty were ever minted. The story is that they were given to his eldest son when he went into exile."
"Then they must be scattered far and wide," Rena said.
"No, because the young Prince Charles was so loved that none of his supporters would take a penny in return for hiding and protecting him. And so he arrived in France with his thirty sovereigns intact, and swore never to spend them but always keep them together, to remind him that it was his destiny to return as King Charles II.
"Eventually, of course, that's just what he did. Nobody knows what became of them after that. But the King had a good friend, Jonathan Relton, who had helped him survive during his exile. As a reward Relton was granted this estate and the Earldom of Lansdale.
"The king used to visit the family here. One theory says that he entrusted Lansdale with the keeping of the coins, which had almost a mystical significance for him by that time."
"And these are the coins?" John asked, awed.
"Some of them, I'm sure of it. If you had all thirty the set might be worth - oh, anything up to a hundred thousand pounds."
Neither of them could say a word. With that money - or even half the sum - they were saved, the Grange was saved, and the villagers were saved.
Yet that hope was still a distant dream.
"But even seven must be worth something," John was almost pleading. "If thirty are worth a hundred thousand, then seven must be worth about twenty three."
"I'm afraid not. The value lies in the completeness of the set. Separately each of these coins might be worth about five hundred pounds."
Three and a half thousand pounds. Not nearly enough to do all that needed to be done. The disappointment was severe.
"But we may yet find the others," Adolphus' voice was encouraging.
"No, Wyngate has them," John said despondently. "He saw us digging there last night, and today we found the place turned over. Whatever was there, he's taken."
"May I ask how he comes to be involved in all this?" Adolphus asked in a quiet voice that made Rena look at him.
"He wants me for his daughter," John said bitterly. "He would have preferred a Duke, but I'll do if necessary. He sees my impoverished state, and he is determined to move in, spreading his money irresistibly wherever he goes."
"Ah yes," Adolphus murmured. "That was always his way."
"You know him?" John asked.
It seemed at first as though Adolphus would not answer this. He stared bleakly at the floor, as though crushed by a burden too great for words. But at last he raised his head, and said, as though the words were torn from him, "He is my son."
John started up in astonishment. "Adolphus, he can't be. Why, the man's as evil as sin - "
"Let him be," Rena said quietly. "It is true."
Adolphus gave her a faint smile. "You knew at once, didn't you?"
"When you appeared this morning, I thought it was his double. You are shaped so alike. It's an unusual shape. And you were so far off I couldn't see details of your face, although your head is like his too."
"Why that's it," said John suddenly. "I've been trying to think who Wyngate reminds me of, and it's you."
Adolphus nodded, "Not in features, so much, although we both have slightly large heads. It's more in the shape of our bodies."
"That's what I saw this morning," said Rena. "And I was so scared of him, and in such a fretful state, that I fancied he had managed to turn himself into two men. That's why I screamed."
"How rude of me to have frightened you, my dear."
"I'm not scared now that I can see you close. But then I had such wild fancies. I began to run to the house, but I looked back to see you walking towards each other. Then you just vanished."
"Rena told me about it," said John, "and I went to see for myself. But there was nobody there."
"I couldn't see how you could have reached the trees so quickly," said Rena.
"Because my son was determined to get me out of sight as fast as he could," Adolphus replied. "He had no idea that I was there until you screamed, and he turned and saw me.
"It is fifteen years since we last saw each other, and longer than that since we spoke. But he knew me, as I knew him. He wasn't pleased. He hates me as much as I - dread him.
"He came up to me, snarling even before he spoke. 'What the devil do you think you're doing here? Have you come to plague me and cast a blight over me?' He didn't wait for my answer, but seized my arm and dragged me to the trees.
"When we were hidden he said, 'Go away from here and don't come back.'"
He fell silent.
"Whatever did you say to him?" Rena asked.
"Nothing. I merely looked at him in silence. He took a step back from me, raised his arm as if to ward me off, and cried, 'Stay away from me. Don't come near.' Then he turned and walked quickly away."
"You're not safe," said John at once. "He will harm you as he has harmed others."
"No, my dear boy," Adolphus said gently. "He will do me no harm. He will rant and rave, but he will never touch me. He fears me too much for that."
"Wyngate fears nobody," said John.
"You are wrong. There is always some force to be feared, something stronger than ourselves."
"I don't understand how such a man can be born of such a father," said John, brooding.
"I too used to wonder about that. Jane, my dear wife, never knew the worst of him. I used to hide it from her.
"Franklin - that is his real name: Franklin Tandy - was our only child, and she adored him. I couldn't bear to see her heart broken and so I covered up his crimes - childish pranks I called them, although I knew then in my heart that it was much worse.
"He enjoyed hurting helpless creatures. Pulling the wings off insects was nothing to him, he did far worse. once saw him kill a kitten by breaking its neck, right in front of the child who owned it. Then he laughed at the child's tears." Adolphus sighed. "He was about seven when he did that."
"Thank God his mother died when he was eighteen, before the depths of him had been revealed. He was at her deathbed, sobbing, and within an hour of her death he had sold her favourite necklace to pay a gambling debt.
"As he grew older he grew worse. He seduced women and abandoned them. He cared for nothing and nobody but himself, his own pleasure, his own chance to make money.
"Money. That was his god. I saw it but could do nothing about it. Finally he made the country too hot to hold him. He was clever with figures and he went to work for a financier. The man liked him, took him into his family. He thought Franklin was an orphan.
"Then he died in mysterious circumstances. My son came to me in tears and threw himself on my mercy. He swore the death had been an accident, begged me to help him get away. God forgive me, I allowed myself to be persuaded for the sake of his mother's memory.
"I gave him enough money to get to Liverpool, and from there he sailed for America. A friend went with him and saw him aboard, otherwise I would never have known, because he has never sent me word of himself since.