carriage was completely gone now and gloom began to cluster in the lane.
“Will you stay home tonight?” said Sir John.
“If you insist,” Lawrence said with bad grace.
“I do.”
The first of the evening birds raised its plaintive call from the darkening trees.
“I cannot lose you as well,” said Sir John, and before Lawrence could respond the old man turned and entered the Hall. Lawrence stood and stared at the door, which Sir John had left ajar, and a thousand emotions became snarled on the thorns in his heart.
C HAPTER S EVENTEEN
A s the sun dwindled behind the autumn trees, armies of shadows gathered in the forest and on the eastern slopes of the hills and then pounced on Talbot Hall. To Lawrence it seemed as if in the space of one breath and another the old house went from pale walls and reflecting glass panes to a featureless mass as dark as sackcloth. His father had gone to bed early and the house was silent and dark. Not a single light shone in the windows. Talbot Hall had closed its eyes for the night.
Lawrence was fine with that.
He led the black gelding out of the stable and walked him quietly up the lane. He had a pistol tucked into his belt and a folding clasp knife—a gift from a stagehand in Chicago—in his coat pocket and snugged into a saddle holster was a fully loaded heavy hunting rifle. If the moonrise drove the lunatic to murderous rage again, then let him come, thought Lawrence.
Let him come.
By the time they reached the iron gate beyond the arch the sky was beginning to grow ghostly pale. The moon was rising.
What was it father called it?
mused Lawrence.
The Goddess of the Hunt.
That suited him quite nicely. His lip curled back in asnarl of anticipation. Let Ben’s killer come hunting for him. He’ll find that the hunt is already on.
“Let him come,” he said in a low, feral whisper. “God . . . let him come!”
He swung into the saddle and the horse gave a deep-chested nicker as Lawrence kicked his heels back. Together they raced away down country lanes that the moonlight opened before them.
D EEP WITHIN THE woods Lawrence paused at the crest of a hill and looked down on a ring of ancient standing stones, relics of a forgotten age. They stood like silent sentries at the edge of the ancient cemetry that formed one edge of the Talbot Estate. Lawrence remembered coming here with Ben as a boy, making up games of ancient adventure in the depths of the forest. But never before had Lawrence seen the great ring of stones by moonlight. He steered his mount down a switchback path and entered the ring.
The smallest of the stones was twice a man’s height, and though they looked rough and crude, his father had insisted that the stones were made to calculate the movements of the stars.
“A more perfect lunar clock does not exist,” Sir John had told them long ago.
Lawrence rode among the dark giants and then paused before the heel stone, which was painted with pale moonlight. He bent low in the saddle and looked across the heel stone’s flat surface. Sure enough, the rim of the moon was rising in the precise center. Even now, with grief and anger and haste warring within him, Lawrence marveled at it, and for some reason this ancient proof ofthe dedication to the moon gave him a measure of insight into the obsession of lunatics.
He straightened in the saddle, wondering if this place itself would draw the killer, but after sitting there for five minutes he shook his head. Lingering here felt wrong.
He kicked the horse into a fresh canter and they moved through the woods, angling first toward the town and then skirting it. Finally Lawrence found what he was looking for. Not the madman, but something else that might offer both answers and clues. He heard it before he saw it: mandolins and violins, a concertina and a pennywhistle, and threaded through it was the tinny clash of finger cymbals.
Gypsy music.
He jerked the reins and picked his way through the woods
“Will you stay home tonight?” said Sir John.
“If you insist,” Lawrence said with bad grace.
“I do.”
The first of the evening birds raised its plaintive call from the darkening trees.
“I cannot lose you as well,” said Sir John, and before Lawrence could respond the old man turned and entered the Hall. Lawrence stood and stared at the door, which Sir John had left ajar, and a thousand emotions became snarled on the thorns in his heart.
C HAPTER S EVENTEEN
A s the sun dwindled behind the autumn trees, armies of shadows gathered in the forest and on the eastern slopes of the hills and then pounced on Talbot Hall. To Lawrence it seemed as if in the space of one breath and another the old house went from pale walls and reflecting glass panes to a featureless mass as dark as sackcloth. His father had gone to bed early and the house was silent and dark. Not a single light shone in the windows. Talbot Hall had closed its eyes for the night.
Lawrence was fine with that.
He led the black gelding out of the stable and walked him quietly up the lane. He had a pistol tucked into his belt and a folding clasp knife—a gift from a stagehand in Chicago—in his coat pocket and snugged into a saddle holster was a fully loaded heavy hunting rifle. If the moonrise drove the lunatic to murderous rage again, then let him come, thought Lawrence.
Let him come.
By the time they reached the iron gate beyond the arch the sky was beginning to grow ghostly pale. The moon was rising.
What was it father called it?
mused Lawrence.
The Goddess of the Hunt.
That suited him quite nicely. His lip curled back in asnarl of anticipation. Let Ben’s killer come hunting for him. He’ll find that the hunt is already on.
“Let him come,” he said in a low, feral whisper. “God . . . let him come!”
He swung into the saddle and the horse gave a deep-chested nicker as Lawrence kicked his heels back. Together they raced away down country lanes that the moonlight opened before them.
D EEP WITHIN THE woods Lawrence paused at the crest of a hill and looked down on a ring of ancient standing stones, relics of a forgotten age. They stood like silent sentries at the edge of the ancient cemetry that formed one edge of the Talbot Estate. Lawrence remembered coming here with Ben as a boy, making up games of ancient adventure in the depths of the forest. But never before had Lawrence seen the great ring of stones by moonlight. He steered his mount down a switchback path and entered the ring.
The smallest of the stones was twice a man’s height, and though they looked rough and crude, his father had insisted that the stones were made to calculate the movements of the stars.
“A more perfect lunar clock does not exist,” Sir John had told them long ago.
Lawrence rode among the dark giants and then paused before the heel stone, which was painted with pale moonlight. He bent low in the saddle and looked across the heel stone’s flat surface. Sure enough, the rim of the moon was rising in the precise center. Even now, with grief and anger and haste warring within him, Lawrence marveled at it, and for some reason this ancient proof ofthe dedication to the moon gave him a measure of insight into the obsession of lunatics.
He straightened in the saddle, wondering if this place itself would draw the killer, but after sitting there for five minutes he shook his head. Lingering here felt wrong.
He kicked the horse into a fresh canter and they moved through the woods, angling first toward the town and then skirting it. Finally Lawrence found what he was looking for. Not the madman, but something else that might offer both answers and clues. He heard it before he saw it: mandolins and violins, a concertina and a pennywhistle, and threaded through it was the tinny clash of finger cymbals.
Gypsy music.
He jerked the reins and picked his way through the woods
Similar Books
