“I don’t know.” She spoke truthfully. Something about that little valley disturbed her. Beads of perspiration stood out on her forehead as she stared down into the grassy hollow; but there was nothing there, nothing which could cause her such alarm.
Martin moved his horse alongside. “Miss Melissa drowned down there.” He pointed into the valley.
Sarah held her breath, almost overcome by the malevolent sensation which swept over her in wave after wave of revulsion. Melissa.
Jack looked down into the hollow. “It’s hard to credit that anyone could drown in there. You can’t see a trace of the pool.”
“Aye, but it’s there right enough.” Martin spoke in a hushed voice, almost as if someone or something might hear him.
Jack nodded. “Between those two rocks, isn’t it?”
Surprised, Martin glanced at him, filled with a new respect for the townsman whose keen eyesight could see the almost invisible. “That’s right, sir. It’s bounded on the far side by that broken tree and on this side by the gorse bush.”
Jack gathered his reins. “Well, I see that the tree is an ash, so I begin almost to believe your tales of witchcraft and sacrifice, Martin. Come on or it will be dark before we even begin to eat.”
His horse began to descend, stones crunching and rattling beneath its hooves. As she followed him, Sarah felt as if she was descending into the pit of hell. She could almost hear the wild fluttering of her fear as they went lower and lower toward the floor of the valley. High above loomed Hob’s Tor, towering and immense now they were so close. She wished that she had sided with Martin and Janie, for everything about this place was horrible.
The valley was silent. No birds seemed to frequent it and none of the small moorland creatures scuttered before the horses as they had done before. It was as if nature shunned such a place. Even the flowers were subdued, hardly moving their bowed heads in the breeze which was picking up as the storm overhead mushroomed across the heavens. But the breeze seemed to avoid the bottom of the valley, for everything was still and breathless there, not a blade of grass moved.
Sarah stared at the motionless expanse of green before them. Not a ripple showed the presence of that evil pool; the green was flawless, solid-looking, and infinitely deceitful. Was Melissa there? Was she? Sarah glanced warily at the broken ash tree—only an ash tree would grow in such a place, she thought.
The horses were uneasy, moving forward unwillingly. They knew, thought Sarah, sinking further into the realm of superstition; the animals knew.... This valley was bad.
“Well, one thing is certain: we cannot ride up there.” Jack was looking up the steep slope of the tor. “We’ll have to eat here.”
“Eat here? I couldn’t.” Sarah’s eyes were huge.
“Nor I.” Janie swallowed, edging her horse closer to Martin’s.
Martin sighed reluctantly. “I don’t like the place but I must agree with Mr. Holland. We cannot go any further without eating. Besides ...”—he indicated the gathering storm—”the storm’s coming quicker than I thought and we’ll have to get to some sort of shelter before long.”
They dismounted, tethering the horses to the gorse bush whose golden flowers were somehow duller than its fellows on the open moor. Sarah looked at the flowers and was not surprised; she felt, like the gorse, drained of sparkle and vitality, as if the pool was sucking everything from her.
Silently they ate, with only Jack showing any great appetite. He poured himself a glass of wine and then stood up, wandering a little way up the tor amongst the huge rocks and boulders which littered the ground. A vague rumble of thunder in the distance gave the first hint that the storm was almost over Dartmoor. Martin glanced up at the yellow-gray clouds which billowed angrily high above.
“We’ll not get to shelter, I fear, so we’d best resign ourselves to getting wet.” As if it heard him, the storm released the first heavy raindrops. Janie hurried to pack away the food in the hamper and Sarah helped her.
Jack shouted suddenly, “There’s a cave here, with shelter enough for us till the storm’s over.” He hurried down the slope, scattering dust and pebbles before him. “Make the horses fast and then we can get inside before the rain really comes down.”
The wind picked up with a warm gust, lifting Sarah’s light skirts and bringing with it the smell of the moor surrounding this awful valley. She stared toward the hidden cave. Mother Kendal’s cave. She felt cold and sick. A slow, insidious hissing sound spread over the little valley and Sarah’s heart seemed to tighten in her breast.
“Listen.” She held up her hand and the others fell silent as a new sound filled the air.
They could all hear it. A stealthy murmuring, whispering sound as if there was some hidden enemy nearby. The sound moved around the valley, seeming to come from every direction at once. Goose-pimples prickled all over Sarah’s body and something akin to terror rushed over her. The horrible, unintelligible whispering grew louder and she bit her lip to hold back the whimper which trembled near.
“It’s the whispering rocks.” Martin’s voice came as a surprise. It was so ordinary and normal after the unearthly rustling of that other sound.
“No wonder everyone stays away from here.” With wide eyes Sarah stared around the valley, and she would not have been surprised at anything just then. Every primeval instinct was aroused, every sense and fiber quivering with fear.
Jack saw her alarm and took her hand firmly. “Come on, let’s get to that cave.”
The rain was pattering on the dry earth as they passed the edge of the hidden pool. Sarah’s feet dragged and she looked from the corner of her eye at the ash tree whose dead and dying branches lay jaggedly against the green. Melissa was there; Sarah knew it suddenly. The pool threatened her and she felt Melissa’s presence as surely as if the girl stood next to her. That same hatred which had always been with Paul’s lovely sister was here now, and it touched Sarah.
On the ledge before the cave Jack paused, his hand tightening over hers. They both looked down at the flat, smooth stone by their feet. The large drops of rain were already washing the blue and red chalk drawing away, but it still clearly showed a blue fox engulfed in red flames. Janie and Martin scrambled up the incline without seeing the drawing, and Martin’s muddy boots obliterated the vestiges of chalk.
Jack glanced at Sarah’s pale face and then pulled her past the stone and into the cave. Neither of them mentioned what they had seen, an unspoken bond keeping them inexplicably silent.
The entrance to the cave was low, but it opened into a fairly large chamber. Sarah clung to Jack’s hand as they stood inside, and she could not help glancing fearfully behind her ... as if ... She shook herself. Nothing was creeping behind them—nothing at all! Take a grip on yourself, Sarah Jane Stratford!
The storm broke at last. Peal after peal of thunder rippled over the skies, the sound muffled to their ears by the cave and the immense weight of Hob’s Tor above them.
The cave smelled musty, but it was dry. There were traces of someone having been there recently, and Sarah remembered James Trefarrin’s talk of the man who had been stealing his sheep. He must have used this cave.
Across the entrance the endless rain slanted down, tamping noisily on the stones until they shone like polished jewels. The scent of the wet earth crept in to join the mustiness of the cave, soon smothering it altogether. Sarah shivered and Jack put his arm around her, pulling her down to sit beside him.
Martin and Janie were huddled together, and all four were silent and subdued. The afternoon’s ride on the moor had somehow gone very wrong, and no one was enjoying the outing. Outside, unheard from the cave, the whispering rocks hissed and menaced, the eerie sound hanging in the stormy air like an evil presence.
It was a long time before Sarah noticed the tiny fragment of cloth caught on a spiky rock. It flapped a little in the cold stream of air from the mouth of the cave. Emerald green. Brilliant and clear. She looked at it, stretching out her fingers and then stopping as she recognized it. With a gasp she sat up, pulling away from Jack’s arms. Melissa’s riding habit—her emerald green riding habit which had been torn! She had been here, in this cave!
She scrambled to her feet, the revulsion becoming too much for her taut nerves. She pointed at the cloth, unable to speak at first. The little piece of emerald green seemed frightening to her, like Melissa herself.
Jack stared in the direction of her pointing finger, reaching out and lifting the cloth from the rock. He said nothing, but studied it closely.
Martin too was staring at it. “That’s from her riding habit, from Miss Melissa’s riding habit.” Janie gasped and hid her face in his shoulder.
Jack dropped the cloth as if it had become a writhing worm. Filled with blind panic, Sarah ran toward the mouth of the cave. She must be free of this place— The greasy mud outside was treacherous and she could not hold her balance, slipping on the flat surface of the stone where the chalk drawing had been.
The earth crumbled away, made unsafe by the downpour. Lightning flashed brilliantly over the moor and she gripped the huge boulders by her side to steady herself. They rocked beneath her hands as the slippery earth shifted, and in a moment an avalanche of rocks and mud was falling away down toward the valley.
Jack shouted Sarah’s name as he dived forward to grab her arm, pulling her back from the edge of certain death. He stared down the side of the tor to where the rockslide crashed into the waiting arms of the Green Pool. It pierced the cloak of green and exposed the naked waters beneath. The ash tree splintered beneath the weight of the rocks, but still its determined roots held firm and it hung over the pool. He clasped Sarah’s shaking body near to him as he led her back into the safety of the cave. She hid her face in his shoulder, holding him tightly and whispering his name over and over again.
He pushed her away gently, putting his hand to her chin and raising her face toward his. He kissed her gently, and then more insistently and she returned the embrace. His closeness was a comfort she needed so very much. She opened her eyes to look at him and a brilliant flash of lightning illuminated his face for a moment, reflecting from the cave walls behind him.
The smile died on her lips as she saw the things on the cold gray stone. They swung slowly in the cool air from the entrance. The lightning was bright, striking again and again, sending slanting electric blue lights over the dolls. Jack turned sharply to follow her gaze and she felt his body stiffen in her arms.
“My God, my sweet God in heaven,” he murmured, unable to take his eyes from the witch gewgaws decorating the unholy place.
Martin stood still, his arm firmly around Janie, who stared with frightened eyes at what they could all now see, even without the aid of the lightning. Even in the darkness of the storm light they could make out the little images, the three hideous likenesses.
Martin held Janie tightly. “This is Mother Kendal’s place!”
Janie pointed. “Look, the one on the left. It’s old Mrs. Ransome. The doll is dressed in some cerise silk I remember.” The maid crossed herself in horror. “So the old lady was witched to her death. They all said she had been, but I’d never really thought it until now. And look how well they’re preserved, for all the world as if they had just been made. Who are the others, Martin?”
Sarah knew. “The one with the nail through its leg is meant to be my father.” She closed her eyes briefly and could almost see her father with his ebony cane and his grumblings about his knee. “The other dolls look new because they are new, Janie. They aren’t the work of Mother Kendal.”
The maid went closer and saw the amber pin on the third doll. “It’s meant to be you, Miss Sarah,” she breathed. “But who would do such a thing?”
Sarah looked away from the dolls. “How could she show so terrible a hatred for me, Janie?”
“You mean Miss Melissa, don’t you?” said Martin heavily. “Ah, well, she knew all about such things and no mistake. But see here, there’s no heart on this last doll yet. She wasn’t ready to do her work on you, Miss Sarah. They’re not complete until the heart is pinned on—then they begin to work. Like the one of your father; I reckon he must have a bad leg, eh?”
Sarah nodded.
Janie touched her arm gently. “Did she hate you on account of your cousin? The one called Edward that she was supposed to have married but for you?”
“I believe so, Janie. Indeed it must be so, for I know of no other reason why she should hate me. She must have hated my father because he refused to let Edward marry her.” She turned into Jack’s arms again, hiding her face against his shoulder.
He held her close and she noticed that he had hardly said a word since first seeing the dolls. Martin reached out and pulled the little heart off Sir Peter’s image.
“Reckon your father will notice an easing of his pain from this moment on, Miss Sarah. I’ll take these things with us and burn them on the church steps tonight. That’s the only way I know of destroying such evil work.” He ripped the three dolls down, unpinning the amber brooch and pressing it into Sarah’s hand.
Jack looked through the cave entrance. “Will this storm never end?” he said at last, and the words sounded lame.
Martin smiled at him. “You’re a townsman, sir. Are our country ways a bit strange to you?”
Jack smiled wryly. “There are not many witches in Hyde Park, Martin.”
Janie walked to the entrance and stared out through the storm. As she turned back she saw the rough scratchings on the cave wall. “Look here. Someone has been writing on the wall with a hard stone or something. What does it say, Miss Sarah?”
But it was Jack who read the poorly formed words, crouching down in front of them and rubbing them with his fingers. “It says:
Ma bien aimée, ma vie, mon coeur, mon âme, ma parfaite—Mélisa—Le premier Février de l’an 1815. Armand St. Philippe
.
”
“Which means?” asked Martin quickly on hearing the Frenchman’s name.
Jack touched each word as he translated. “
Ma bien aimée
—my beloved,
ma vie
—my life,
mon coeur
—my heart,
mon âme
—my soul,
ma parfaite
—my perfection—Melissa—Armand St. Philippe.”