Виктория Холт - The Captive

“I like it,” said Kate.

“So do you, don’t you. Cranny?”

“It is quite fascinating,” I said.

“I’m glad you find it so. I hope it will tempt you to come and visit me again.”

“I wish I’d been there,” said Kate.

“Ah. Sometimes things are better to talk about than to live through.”

“You must miss all this adventure,” I said.

“I was telling you how much I appreciate the peaceful life. I’ve had enough adventuring. What I want now is to settle down and enjoy the visits of my family … and to know that they are well and happy.”

“It seems a very noble ambition,” I said.

“And how the time has flown.

We must be on our way back, Kate. “

“Promise you’ll come again.”

I thanked him and Kate leaped up and flung her arms about his neck. I was astonished by her conduct. She was like a different child. And I was delighted to see this affection between her and her grandfather.

As we rode home, she said: “Isn’t Gramps wonderful?”

“He has certainly had a very interesting life.”

“It’s the most interesting life anyone ever had. Of course, you were shipwrecked … that counts for something. You ought to have told him about it.”

“Oh, his adventures were far more interesting, I am sure.”

“Oh yes. But yours are not bad. You can tell him next time.”

And of course there would be a next time. I was glad of that.

When I was in bed that night I kept going over that afternoon’s adventure. It had been quite eventful. First Harry Tench and then the Major. Both of those men would have been here at the time of the murder.

I imagined the Major living in Seashell Cottage with his daughter and granddaughter. I might learn quite a lot from him. A man like that would know what was going on and probably had his own theories.

I must cultivate the acquaintance of the Major.

I believed it had been a profitable afternoon.

The visit to the Major appeared to have been a great success in more ways than one. Kate became more friendly. I had liked the Major and she had made up her mind that the Major liked me; and as he was a hero in her eyes, I rose considerably in her estimation.

She talked of him freely, telling me of the wonderful adventures he had had, how he had fought battles singlehanded and was solely responsible for the success of the British Empire. Kate could never do or think anything halfheartedly.

But I was delighted by the growing friendship between us.

Lessons had become quite painless. It had been a wise stroke to introduce her to books with a good strong narrative. We had almost finished Treasure Island and The Count of Monte Cristo was lying in wait for us.

I used the books blatantly as a sort of unconscious bribe.

“Well, I know these sums are a little difficult, but when we get them right, we’ll see what’s going to happen to Ben Gunn.”

My success with her amazed me as much as everyone else. I was beginning to see that Kate was more than a rebellious girl bent on making trouble. I supposed there were reasons behind everything. And I was determined to discover more about her.

Through all this I did not forget for one moment the reason why I was here. I wished I could see the Major alone. It would be difficult to ask leading questions in Kate’s presence. She was already a little suspicious because of my intense interest in the murder. I could not call on the Major, of course.

Perhaps, I told myself, the opportunity would come and when it did I must be ready to seize it.

I had always known that Kate had an interest in the morbid, so I was not particularly surprised when I discovered what a fascination the graveyard seemed to have for her.

The church was an ancient one, famed for its Norman architecture. It was not far from Perrivale Court and we often passed it.

“Just imagine,” I said as we rode up to it.

“It was built all those years ago … about eight hundred years.”

We were, as Kate said, ‘doing’ William the Conqueror, and she was getting quite an interest in him since learning of the particular manner in which he had wooed his wife Matilda by beating her in the streets. Such incidents delighted Kate and I found myself stressing them whenever I found them, to stimulate her interest.

“He built a lot of places here,” she said.

“Castles and churches and things. And all those people in the graveyard … some of them must have been there for hundreds of years.”

“Trust you to think of that instead of the beautiful Nor man arches and towers. The church is really interesting.”

“Let’s go in,” she said.

We tied up the horses and did so. The hushed atmosphere subdued her a little. We studied the list of vicars which dated back a long way.

“There’s a wonderful feeling of antiquity,” I said.

“I don’t think you get that anywhere as much as you do in a church.”

“Perrivale’s very old.”

“Yes, but there are people there. Modernity creeps in.”

“Let’s go into the graveyard.”

We came out and were immediately among the tottering gravestones.

“I’ll show you the Perrivale vault if you like.”

“Yes. I’d like to see it.”

We stood before it. It was ornate and imposing.

“I wonder how many are buried there,” said Kate.

“Quite a number, I suppose.”

“Cosmo will be there. I wonder if he comes out at night. I’ll bet he does.”

“How your mind dwells on the macabre.”

“What’s macabre?”

I explained.

“Well,” she said.

“That’s what makes graveyards interesting. If they weren’t full of dead people it would be just like anywhere else. It’s the dead who are ghosts. You can’t be one until you are dead. Come on.

I want to show you something. “

“Another grave?”

She ran ahead and I followed her. She had come to a standstill before one of the graves. There was nothing ornate about this one-no engraved stone, no ornamental angels or cherubs, no fond message. Just a plain stone with the words “Thomas Parry’ and the date. A rough kerb had been put round it to separate it from the others and on it was a jam-jar containing a few sprigs of meadowsweet which looked as though they had been picked from the hedges.

“Who was he?” I asked.

“And why are you so interested in this grave?”

She said: “He was the one who fell over the cliff and was drowned.”

“Oh … I remember. You did mention him.”

“They said he was drunk.”

“Well, I suppose he was. I wonder who put those flowers there. Someone must have thought of him. Someone must remember him.”

She did not speak.

“Who was he?” I asked.

“Did you ever know?”

“He didn’t live here. He just came here and went over the cliff.”

“How foolish of him to get so drunk that he did such a thing.”

“Perhaps someone pushed him over.”

“But you say he was drunk …”

“Well, someone could. I reckon he walks by night. He gets out of his grave and walks about the graveyard talking about murder.”

I laughed at her. She turned to me and her face was serious.

Then she shrugged her shoulders and started to walk away. I followed her, turning once to look at the pathetic grave, un cared for but for a jam-jar filled with meadowsweet.

Dick Duvane rode over from Trecorn Manor. He had brought letters for me together with a note from Lucas.

He said he would wait for a reply.

The letters were from London-one from my father and the other from Aunt Maud.

I opened Lucas’s note.

Dear Rosetta, How are you getting on in the governess role? Aren’t you tired of it yet? Say so and I will come over and fetch you. In any case, I must see you. Could we meet tomorrow afternoon? We could see each other at The Sailor King. Should we meet there or would it be all right for me to come to the house? I could bring a horse for you. I want to talk.