Touch Not The Cat (33 page)

Still smiling, he walked out of the maze.

The letter was not nice, but full of charge Of dear import, and the neglecting it May do much danger.

—Romeo and Juliet,
V, ii

The three of us stood as if struck still, while the harsh threshing of the bell drowned out even the wild sounds of the night. Then I made a move. Emory's hand shot out and gripped my wrist.

"We're not here, remember? And neither are you. Leave it."

"It might be Cathy."

"And if it is? She doesn't know you're back here. Leave it."

I was angry now. "It's my phone, Emory. I shan't tell anyone you're here, if you're afraid. But what is there to be afraid of now? Your crime's been called off, hasn't it?"

"There's a light in the Court." James spoke quickly, from the window. "Rob must have gone over. If he's seen the water level he may be telephoning here before he goes over to the High Sluice. She'd better answer, or he might think something's up."

"Could be," said Emory. Then, to me, swiftly: "Is he likely to call help in if he's seen the level?"

"I doubt it. He's quite capable of dealing with it himself. He's kept the Court going for long enough."

I did not trouble to keep the bite out of my voice, but Emory didn't seem to notice. "Well ..." he said, and stood back.

Only as I picked up the telephone did the other possibility present itself. As late as this, the call must be urgent. It would certainly not be Rob, but it might well be Herr Gothard. He would not have received the photographs yet, but he might speak of my promise to send them; or he might even be ringing to tell me of some other progress made towards identification of the guilty driver. I had the receiver half back to its rest, but a voice was already talking quickly, and very audibly, through it. Not Herr Gothard; it was Leslie Oker, not even waiting for me to respond, but in full and joyous spate with his news.

"Bryony? My dear, I simply had to ring you. I know it's a dreadful hour of night, and I'm sorry if you were asleep, but I've been trying to get you off and on all day, and when you hear what I have to tell you I'm sure you'll think it was worth it. My dear, the book . . ."

It was a loud telephone, Leslie's obvious excitement carrying through almost as if he were in the room. Beside me, Emory made a sharp movement of interest. I started to speak, but Leslie wasn't listening. He swept on.

"I just had to tell you—I'm as certain as can be that the book's genuine. It's been re-bound, and that will take something off its value, but it's still very valuable indeed. I wouldn't like to guess at a figure, until I've found out a little more about it. . . . In any case, when you come to the real rarities, you can't put a figure on them until they go into the sale room. But it could be very valuable, very valuable indeed . . .

museum stuff . . . provenance . . ."

He talked on about the book, half technical jargon that I hardly took in. I put a hand tightly over the mouthpiece, looked up at Emory, and spoke under my breath. "Well, there's your answer. Ready cash, or at any rate something to borrow on—collateral, do they call it? Now I hope you'll leave my home to me for as long as I need it?"

I doubt if Emory even heard the bitter little gibe. His eyes were gleaming, and he mouthed something; I thought it was "How much?" I shook my head as the telephone quacked what was obviously a question, and took my hand off the mouthpiece again.

"Sorry, Leslie, I didn't catch that. What did you say?"

"I said, when I lifted it, I found something that might be in its own way even more interesting. It's a bit long, but do you want to hear it now?"

"Hear what? Lifted what?" I asked unguardedly.

"The bookplate. That curious rectangular design with the crest in the middle and that weird motto of yours, 'Touch Not the Cat.'"

Something jarred me right back to the alert. "Oh yes, that," I said quickly. "Well, look, Leslie, I should have told you sooner, the book isn't officially mine any longer. Since Daddy's death all the family things belong to my cousin Emory. I'll tell him to get in touch with you, and—"

He didn't hear the rest, and for a very good reason. Emory's hand had come between my mouth and the telephone, covering the mouthpiece again. His other hand closed on the receiver, over mine, and lifted it away from me. Held in midair in front of me, the metallic voice quacked on, all too clear.

". . . Sorry to hear that, dear, because really, such a
find
... Of course, moving it won't militate against the value of the book at all, since the bookplate was put on so much later. After the rebinding, too, did I make that clear? In fact, it looked to me as if it had been lifted before, and pasted down again; recently, I'd say ... so I felt quite justified in lifting it again, and indeed, I was right, because the original flyleaf was there. It puts the whole thing beyond the bounds of doubt. But this paper I was telling you about, that I found under the bookplate, well, that's of real family interest, I would think, because there's a note from one of your family, and the whole thing, love, looks like a
mystery
to me, too Gothic, really, but what fun. Listen."

We listened, all three of us. Whatever Leslie had found, I did not see now how I could stop Emory from finding out about it. All he had to do was ring Leslie back himself. It was his book, after all.

Leslie was explaining. "It looks like a page from a church register. It's numbered seventeen, and there are only three entries. They may all be interesting, I don't know, but the third one will just fascinate you. It's dated April fifteenth, 1835, and it records the marriage of Nicholas Ashley, Esquire, of Ashley Court, to an Ellen Makepeace, of One Ash."

Not for worlds would I have put the receiver back now. My mind meshed into gear like a racing engine. The consequences could wait; I had to know.
"The paper, it's in William's Brooke.

In the library
. . .
The map. The letter. In the Brooke."

"Yes," I said, "go on."

"Further down the page someone has written a note. It's signed 'Charles Ashley.' Do you know who he was?"

"He was Nick Ashley's uncle, William Ashley's brother. He succeeded to the Court after Nick Ashley was shot."

"Oh. Well, a note from him. It says—it's rather long, so I'll paraphrase the first bit—he says he bribed the clerk to recopy the page omitting the Ashley entry, and something about the incumbent—is that the Vicar, dear?—being a dependent. Does that make sense?"

"I think so. One Ash was one of the Ashley benefices. If there was a younger son or a poor relation they were given the benefice. I suppose Charles Ashley could put pressure on him to keep quiet about the wedding. Is that what he says?"

"Could be. He says—shall I read the rest to you?"

"Yes, please."

" 'It is said that the girl goes with child, and should she bear it before the nine months' term is up since my nephew's death, there will be those who, for their own base ends, will rumour it abroad that the child was already begotten on her by my nephew, before she married her husband. But it is neither right nor fitting that the fruit—if it be so—of so hasty and base a connexion should take the property from the hands of my own fair family who are sprung from alliance with the highest in the County, and who are of a fair age and disposition to administer the Estate. Moreover, and it is this which has driven me to act as I have done, the brothers of the said Ellen Makepeace did kill and murder my nephew Nicholas, so to my mind it were better that the child were born dead, than usurp this place with blood upon his head. So, God be my witness, it is not upon my conscience to do what I have done. The girl bears herself lowly, and has avowed publicly that the child is that of her own husband.'" A pause, during which I could even hear the rustle of the paper in Leslie's hands. He gave his little laugh. "She would, of course, poor creature. The dear Squire would probably have had the baby quietly put down otherwise.

Well, well, poor things. Past history is always a good deal better in the past, isn't it, Bryony dear? Does all this mean anything to you?"

Emory lowered the receiver to me again. I didn't look at him. I cleared my throat, but even so my voice came out rather unfamiliar, borrowing, falsely, a little of Leslie's own over-exuberance:

"I think so. Yes, I think so. Leslie, I'm terribly grateful to you. It's all so exciting, isn't it, and I'm awfully glad you rang. May I come over tomorrow, perhaps, and hear all about the book, and look at this paper? We'll have time to talk about it then."

"Well, of course. This awful hour . . . But I knew you'd like to know straight away. Look, there's a chap in London who'd know more about the
Romeus
than I do. I'll give him a buzz in the morning, shall I, before you come?"

"Please do. Thank you, Leslie. But Leslie—"

"Yes?"

"This friend of yours—ask him about the book's value by all means, but would you please not tell him anything about the letter; not till we've had a look at it, and worked out what it means?"

"Well, of course not. It's safe with me, dear." No emphasis, but I knew it was. "Good night."

"Good night. Thank you for ringing."

The telephone went dead. Emory's hands relaxed, and he stood back from me. I put the receiver down half blindly, so that it fell with a clatter. James picked it up and replaced it, and I sat down rather heavily in the chair beside the table.

"That was sensible," said Emory. "Well, how many more surprises do you suppose this night will hold? This Ellen Makepeace . . . if she actually had that baby—"

I hadn't looked at either of them, but James, prompted perhaps by something in my expression, or by some stray instinct of the Ashley gift, or, what was more likely than either, by some residuum of jealousy, got there with frightening speed.

"She did. You can bet your bloody life she did. Makepeaces . . . One Ash is full of them, and the Grangers are connected." Then, savagely, to me: "That's it, isn't it? Rob Granger—that's who it is! You can bet your life he goes straight back to this stupid, so-called marriage. That's why you did it, isn't it?

Why you married him? Because you knew he was an Ashley, and legit., at that. Why else would you marry a lout like that?"

"Shut up, Twin." This, sharply, from Emory. "That sort of thing gets us nowhere. Bryony, did you know about this?"

They would only have to look in the parish register, or even, country memories being what they were, ask any adult in One Ash, to find that Ellen was indeed Rob's ancestress "straight back." I nodded. "I knew he was an Ashley, but I didn't know about the marriage. Neither does he.

He told me he was descended from Nick Ashley, but on the wrong side of the blanket. That was all."

"Oh, he knows that much? Then I suppose all his family know, too."

"Only the same story we've been hearing all our lives, that the brothers shot Nick for debauching Ellen, and that she married the Granger lad and had a baby son, but swore on the Bible it was her husband's, so people accepted it."

"And all the time," said Emory, with a twist to his voice, "she was telling the exact truth. Poor Charles. He must have fairly sweated it out until he saw she was going to be sensible."

I said nothing. I was thinking about Ellen Ashley. I felt consumed with pity for that girl, bereft and helpless, swearing on the Scriptures to protect her lover's child, and hugging to herself the comfort that all the time it was the truth. Poor Ellen. I wondered how Robert Granger had been with her, and how much he had known or guessed of the things she kept in her heart.

"Are you trying to pretend," demanded James, "that Rob never guessed?"

"That he was legitimate? Of course not, why should he? If there had ever been a hint, even that he was an Ashley by-blow, our family would have known, but I told you, it was accepted that the baby was Robert Granger's. His family may have talked about it among themselves, but nothing more than that.

Have you ever even heard a rumour? I haven't."

"But you said he'd told you that himself."

"Yes. He knew because"—I looked from one to the other —"because he has the Ashley gift. You know about that. Well, so have I. That's why our marriage happened as it did, so suddenly. I'd meant to tell you about that, anyway; I felt I owed you that."

It seemed very strange that I should ever have felt I owed James anything. Now, if I owed an explanation to anyone, I owed it to Rob. So I told my cousins quickly, the merest sketch, and they listened, not arguing or even very surprised; they were Ashleys after all. They knew the history of the "gift," and had themselves claimed some kind of intuitive link.

"You'll tell him all about it now, I suppose?" asked James, when I had finished.

"Can you think of any reason why not?"

"Well, my God—" began my cousin, but Emory stopped him.

"Let her talk. Go on, Bryony."

"Well, why not? Do you think I can stay married to him all my life and not tell him something that might matter to him like this? He ought to know he's a true Ashley, and that his great-great-grandfather wasn't just a brat fathered on a light-minded girl. He ought to know that Nick Ashley loved Ellen enough to marry her."

"Or that he was scared silly of her brothers." That was James.

"That's stupid!" I spoke hotly, as if I were defending Rob himself. I knew, as well as if they had told me, why Nick and Ellen, just for those fatal few days, had kept their mar riage secret.

They were trying, like Rob and me, to keep something to themselves for a while before the world broke in. And with even less success.

I straightened wearily in my chair. "Look," I said, "why don't we call it a night and talk about it tomorrow? With Rob, if you like. As I see it, what we've found out will make no difference, one way or another, to what happens here at Ashley. But if you two don't get on your way now, and do something about the High Sluice—"

"To hell with the High Sluice." It was odd how James seemed to have taken over the scene. "Are you seriously trying to tell us that if you tell Granger all this—this old-time Gothic trash, do you seriously tell us that he won't be tempted to make it public? Claim the Court and everything that goes with it? Stay here with you and play lord of the manor? Someone like that couldn't resist it."