The Magdalena Curse by F.G. Cottam

something evil. I have got rid of something bad. I’ve ended it.’ He meant the curse.
    Miss Hall shook her head. ‘On the contrary, you have started something,’ she said. ‘Because of you, it now begins.’
    He half sensed he heard the Rottweiler stir of life in the corpse to his rear. But when he turned she was dead, a thin, lifeless thing, her mesmeric eyes dim behind their closed lids. She had not shown the stubborn reluctance to die of her acolytes at the compound. But he had no time to wonder about that now. He kept his gun on Miss Hall until he had skirted warily around her and reached the door.
    ‘What an ingrate you are,’ she said, spat after him. ‘And what a fool you are too.’
    Outside, the storm vented its fury on the pale little settlement of Magdalena. Hunter opened the palm of his left hand and pried free the glass embedded there in his flesh. He held his hand out palm up and let the deluge rinse it clean. Lastly, he looked up, drawn by a light Miss Hall must have switched on in the spacious drawing room for which Mrs Mallory would never again have a need. He saw her bulky silhouette framed by one of the windows. She seemed to be swaying rhythmically from side to side. He wondered, was this some
ritual of grief for her dead adversary in their incomprehensible game? He did not really care to know. It was his ardent wish never to encounter the woman again. He turned and walked on the way out of the town, towards the forest and the camp and to the border and then, blessedly, to home.
     
    Elizabeth Bancroft had her head in her hands. ‘Mark?’
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘Why do you think your execution of Mrs Mallory unimportant?’
    He was silent before answering. ‘Because it has not lifted the curse,’ he said.
    ‘Have you ever regretted that you felt obliged to kill a woman?’
    ‘What makes you think she’s the only woman I’ve killed?’
    ‘I think she is. Have you ever regretted her execution?’
    ‘Not for a single moment, Elizabeth. And nor would you have, had you observed the manner of Major Rodriguez’s death.’
    Elizabeth sat back in her chair. ‘I use the term execution. I could equally say murder.’
    ‘You can play all the semantic games with me you want, Doctor Bancroft. I’ve no objection, so long as you fulfil your duty of care to my son.’
    She groaned to herself. He was as stubborn as she was. But locking horns was no way to progress. ‘Okay. When exactly did you become aware that this supposedly moribund curse was a live danger to your son?’
    He did not answer. Instead, he got up and went out of the room. She waited. She poked in a desultory way at the enfeebled fire. She stopped, only fearing that she was accelerating its death. The night was not warm and they might be up yet a while in it. He returned. He had something flat and rectangular wrapped in tissue paper in his hands. He
sat and handed it to her and she revealed the item. It was a framed watercolour. It depicted skaters on a frozen pond. The ice of the pond had been rendered in a way that made it dance and shimmer with winter cold and the blue weals of the skaters’ blades upon its surface.
    ‘It’s exquisite,’ Elizabeth said. She looked for a signature, but could see none.
    ‘He signed them on the reverse side,’ Mark said. ‘He was a self-deprecating man. At least, he was except in battle. In battle, he was bold.’
    Elizabeth flicked the picture over in her hands. ‘He sent you this?’
    ‘No. Peterson was long dead by the time it was sent. I’ve no idea who sent it. I received it a week or so before Adam’s dreams began.’
    ‘Is it valuable?’
    ‘That’s hardly the point.’
    ‘Is it?’
    ‘Dead painters are not prolific. They’re collectible. Daniel Patrick is very collectible. It’s probably worth thirty or forty thousand pounds.’
    Elizabeth sighed. ‘This is way beyond me, Mark.’
    ‘Just help my son.’
    She paused. The telephone rang. Hunter made no movement to answer