The Time of the Hunter's Moon by Victoria Holt
“Well, I hope you enjoy tonight.”
It was almost as though she were waiting for me to open the letter.
I put it down and turned to the mirror.
“Well…have a good time…”
As soon as she was gone I picked up the envelope. I looked hard at it because my name and address were in block capitals. The postmark was Colby. Who could have been writing to me from there? I slit the envelope. There was one piece of paper inside and the same block letters were used. The words sprang out and hit me like a blow:
WHERE IS MRS. MARTINDALE?
DON’T THINK YOU CAN GET AWAY WITH MURDER.
YOU ARE BEING WATCHED.
I felt as though I were dreaming. I turned the paper over in my hands. Just an ordinary sheet of plain paper. I looked at the printing. Anyone could have done that. It was obviously written like that to disguise handwriting. I looked at the envelope again. The same printing. The Colby postmark. What did it mean? Some malicious person was suggesting that I had either killed Marcia Martindale or had had a hand in it.
How could they? What motive had I? Of course…in spite of my determination to remain aloof I was becoming involved. Jason’s pursuit of me had scarcely been discreet and people had noticed. Thoughts raced round and round in my mind. The person who had written this letter believed that Marcia Martindale was a rival of mine and that we both wanted to marry Jason Verringer.
“You are being watched.” What horrible ominous words!
I looked over my shoulder. I could almost feel eyes peering at me, even in my own room.
I read the note again and again.
The evening was spoiled for me. I was being drawn farther and farther into this turmoil of deceit. Where was Marcia Martindale? If only she would come back and show herself! Nothing short of that would stop this gossip.
I looked again at the paper. Could it be Mrs. Baddicombe? No. Surely she would not go so far as that. Hers was over-the-counter gossip. She was not the sort to write anonymous letters. Who was? One could never be sure. That was at the root of the whole nasty procedure. One could never be sure.
I tucked the letter inside my bodice. I could hear the sounds of bustle below. The carriages were waiting.
I was hardly aware of driving to the Hall.
“You’re dreaming,” said Eileen Eccles. “Is it of delights to come?”
I roused myself and tried to smile.
Jason was receiving his guests. He took my hand and kissed it. Nothing very unusual about that as it seemed to be his mode of greeting to most of the ladies.
“Cordelia,” he whispered, “it’s wonderful to have you here.”
I wanted to cry out, I have a letter…a horrible…horrible letter and it is all due to you.
Instead I said nothing and heard myself being introduced to a gentleman whose name I was too bemused to catch. There was a great deal of talk about last evening’s entertainment and the excellence of the production.
“I understand from Jason that you were responsible for that, Miss Grant,” said one young woman. “How very clever you must be.”
I acknowledged the appreciation and the gentleman whose name I did not catch said that the most thrilling moment was when the monks suddenly appeared among the ruins chanting.
“I got quite a frisson,” said the lady.
“I suppose that was what was intended,” replied the man. “In any case, you brought the atmosphere alive.”
“It was really quite creepy. Look, Serge Polenski has arrived. They say he is one of the greatest pianists of the time.”
“That is why Jason has him here. He’s taking London by storm and I hear he has just come from Paris where he was a great success.”
“He’s such a little man. I imagined him taller. But perhaps he looks small beside Jason.”
“When is he going to perform?” I asked feeling it was time I said something.
“Very soon, I should imagine. Jason is taking him to the music room now. Shall we follow?”
I walked with them into a smaller room where there was a grand piano on a dais. The room was decorated in white and scarlet and there was a high bowl of red roses on a marble console table. Their scent filled the room. The windows were wide open to the moonlit lawns. I could see a fountain and flowerbeds and the trees of the shrubbery in the distance. There was an atmosphere of complete peace in great contrast to my state of mind.
I noticed a group of our girls together. There were eight of them. Fiona and Eugenie had been allowed to ask three each. I saw Charlotte Mackay, Patricia Cartwright and Gwendoline Grey among them.
Teresa had told me that she had not been invited but she didn’t care.
Charlotte looked up and smiled at me. So did the other girls.
I went over to them and said: “This is going to be wonderful.”
“Oh yes, Miss Grant. We are looking forward to it,” said Gwendoline, who longed to play the piano professionally, an ambition which Mr. Crowe regarded with some skepticism.
“You’ll be able to see how it should be done,” I said.
“Oh yes, Miss Grant.”
I left them and went back to my seat.
The concert was indeed wonderful and for a few moments I forgot the horrible implications of that letter as I listened to Serge Polenski playing some pieces of Chopin and Schumann.
Too soon it was over. He was taking his bow to rapturous applause and Jason was thanking him and leading him from the room.
Conversation broke out and everyone said: “How marvelous!” And then we were all drifting into the ballroom. I was still with my unknown lady and gentleman and another man had joined us. He talked knowledgeably of the magnificent performance of Serge Polenski and we seated ourselves close to a pot of palms. Flowers from the greenhouses had been brought in and because of the time of the year there was a spectacular display. Servants in liveries of blue and silver flitted in and out, most of them making their way through a door which I presumed to be the supper room.
I could not see Jason and supposed he was still with the pianist. From the minstrels’ gallery the music began and one of our party asked me to dance.
We talked as we danced. He came from Cornwall. “Some fifteen miles away. Just over the border, you understand. My brother is with me. We have been visiting Colby all our lives. Of course, during the last years of poor Sylvia Verringer’s life it was not easy. She was such an invalid.”
“Yes,” I said.
“Jason had rather a bad time. Perhaps now. Well, it’s a year since Sylvia went. Poor soul.”
I wanted to tell Jason about the letter. I wanted him to know what harm he was doing me by his rash actions. It was almost suppertime before he came my way.
“Cordelia,” he said. “It’s wonderful to have you here. I’ve been trying to get to you the whole evening. Let’s dance.”
It was another waltz. At Schaffenbrucken there had been great emphasis on dancing, and I was quite good at it.
He said: “What do you think of the Hall?”
“It’s very grand. I have seen it before.”
“Not properly. I want to show it to you. Not tonight but come over tomorrow.”
“I’ve had a letter,” I cried.
“A letter?”
“It’s horrible. It’s accusing me…”
“Of what?”
“Of murdering Marcia Martindale.”
“Good God! There must be a madman here. Why…why you?”
“Isn’t it obvious? People are thinking she was my rival. It’s all so sordidly horrible.”
“Have you got the letter?”
“Yes, I brought it with me.”
“Have you any idea who sent it?”
“None. It’s in block letters.”
“I want to see it.” He had whirled me to an alcove where we were slightly sheltered from the ballroom by tall potted greenery.
He looked at the letter.
“Malicious,” he said.
“I wond
“This printing could be anyone. It is obviously meant to disguise the handwriting. What about the girl who found the earring?”
“Teresa! She would never do anything to upset me. She sets herself out to protect me.”
“Nevertheless she has ideas.”
“Only because she is afraid for me. She would never deliberately upset me.”
“Girls can behave oddly. There is obviously talk about you and me. The best thing to stop it would be to announce our engagement.”
“Scandal doesn’t stop with engagements. The only way to stop this is to produce Marcia Martindale.”
There was a cough behind us. I spun round. Charlotte Mackay was standing there.
“Charlotte!” I cried.
“I came to find you or one of the mistresses, Miss Grant.” She was looking from me to Jason with just a hint of amusement in her expression. I thought, surely they can’t be talking at school, and yet they must be because Teresa had been disturbed by it.
“Well,” I said sharply, “what is it, Charlotte?”
“It’s Fiona,” she said. “She’s got a headache. She wants to go back.”
“She can lie down here,” said Jason. “She has her room.”
“She said it was nothing and she would be all right in the morning, but she does want to leave now.”
“Emmet is waiting, I think. He can take her back.”
“I’ll go with her, Miss Grant, and Eugenie will too.”
“Oh, but Miss Hetherington said you could stay to supper if you went immediately afterwards.”
“We don’t really want any supper and Fiona says her head’s getting worse with the music and everything.”
“Where is Fiona now?”
“She’s sitting downstairs. Eugenie is with her.”
“Perhaps you’d better ask Miss Hetherington.” I went with her. I did not want her to go away and tell people that she had left me alone with Jason. It was bad enough that she had found us alone together.
We found Miss Hetherington seated with an elderly Colonel and they seemed to be getting on very well together. I told her that Fiona wanted to go back and why.
“Very well,” she said. “Emmet is there. Who will go with her?”
“I will, Miss Hetherington,” said Charlotte promptly, “and Eugenie wants to go too. We don’t need anyone else. We don’t want to spoil the evening for them.”
“H’m. Very well. But go quietly. After all, Fiona and Eugenie are hostesses in a way. Never mind. You three girls slip away quietly.”
The girls went and I left Miss Hetherington with her Colonel.
Someone asked me to dance. It was the supper dance and after that we went to eat. Jason had reserved a place for me at his table. There were four other people besides us so there was no opportunity to talk privately. I was rather glad of that. I felt he was not taking the anonymous letter seriously enough.
The evening to which I had looked forward had been something of a nightmare.
I was glad when it was over. I suppose I was rather silent on the journey from the Hall to the school. The others were all talking brightly and it didn’t matter very much. I hoped no one noticed.
The girls who had remained after Fiona, Eugenie and Charlotte went, left immediately after supper so they should all be in their beds by now. Before retiring I must take my last look round.
When I came to the room shared by Fiona and Eugenie I remembered Fiona’s early departure and wondered if she was cured of her headache. I looked in. I saw at once that Eugenie was awake although as I opened the door she shut her eyes quickly—but not quite quickly enough.
“So you’re awake, Eugenie,” I said.
She opened her eyes then. “Yes, Miss Grant.”
“How’s Fiona?”
She looked over to the other bed. “She was tired. She went to sleep at once. She’ll be all right in the morning.”
“Well, good night,” I said.
The other girls were all sleeping. I envied them. I knew that I had to endure a sleepless night. Whatever I tried to think of I came back to the same question. “Where is Marcia Martindale and does Jason know where she is?”
***
The next morning came the shock, and I doubt whether there had ever been a greater one in the whole history of the Academy.
I had risen earlier than usual after a sleepless night and I knew the girls were stirring because of the sounds of activity which came from their rooms.
Eugenie came to me and there was a sly look of triumph in her eyes.
She said: “Fiona has gone.”
“Gone! Gone where?”
“Gone to get married.”
“What are you talking about?”
“She went last night…straight from the Hall. She never came back here.”
I dashed into her bedroom. I saw the heap of clothes under the covers on Fiona’s bed which last night I had mistaken for her.
I said: “You will come down to Miss Hetherington with me immediately.”
I had never before seen Daisy at a loss for words. Her face was gray and her lips twitched. She looked from Eugenie to me as though imploring us to tell her that we were joking.
Then she spoke. “Gone! Fiona! Eloped…”
“She’s gone to get married, Miss Hetherington,” said Eugenie.
“It’s some horrible mistake. Go and tell Fiona to come to me immediately.”
I said gently: “I think it’s true, Miss Hetherington. She’s not in her room.”
“But she came back last night. She had a headache.”
“The headache was obviously a pretense. I gather she left the Hall. Her lover must have been waiting for her.”
“Her lover!” cried Daisy. “One of my girls!”
I was sorry for her. She was really distressed and I could see her trying to reject the story and at the same time wondering what effect it was going to have on the school. But she would not have been Daisy if she had not quickly recovered from her shock.
“You had better tell me everything,” she said.
I spoke first and said that when I had made my rounds last night Fiona had appeared to be in her bed. This morning I had discovered that what I had thought was Fiona was in fact a bundle of clothes, and Eugenie had told me exactly what she had just told Miss Hetherington.
“You admit this, Eugenie?”
“Yes, Miss Hetherington.”
“You knew Fiona was going and you said nothing about it?”
“Yes, Miss Hetherington.”
“That was very wrong. You should have come to me or Miss Grant at once.”
Eugenie was silent.
“Who is this man?”
“He is very good-looking and romantic.”
“What is his name?”
“Carl.”
“Carl What?”
“I don’t know. He was just Carl.”
“Where did you meet him?”
“In the woods.”
“When?”
“When we went walking.”
“Walking alone in the woods!”
“There were others with us.”
“Who?”
“Charlotte Mackay and Jane Everton.”
“When was this?”
“On May Day.”
“Do you mean to say you talked to a stranger?”
“Well, it wasn’t quite like that. He asked the way…and we got talking.”
“And then?”
“He asked about the school and the girls and all that and he seemed to like Fiona particularly. Then we saw him again. He was always in the woods. He was interested in the trees and the country. He had come here to study them.”
“You mean he wasn’t English?”
“He seemed it. He’d come from somewhere…I don’t know where.”
“You only knew him as Carl. You don’t know where he came from, and Fiona goes off with him!”
&nb
“And you conspired…”
“Well, she is my sister. We had to help her.”
“We? Who had to help her?”
“She means Charlotte did too, I daresay,” I said.
“Oh dear,” said Daisy, putting her hand to her head. “Someone had better go over to the Hall and tell Sir Jason of this disaster. Perhaps it is not yet too late.”
It was obvious that we were not going to learn much from Eugenie. Perhaps Jason would be more successful. I could have slapped the girl. She stood facing us with a rather mocking expression and the manner in which she pressed her lips together showed clearly that she was not going to give anything away.
Daisy sent her to her room with instructions to stay there until sent for and she put Miss Barston in charge of her. She talked a little incoherently while we waited. “They left last night…It was when they went from the Hall. A headache! Oh, the duplicity of girls! Have they learned nothing here? It was before supper…and that was at ten. Where could they have gone? Could they be married now, I wonder? One does not expect this sort of thing nowadays…And one of my girls! Sir Jason will know what to do. He’ll bring her back, I daresay. I do hope there isn’t talk…”
It was becoming a nightmare. Yesterday the letter. Today Fiona’s elopement. What next? I wondered.
Jason came immediately and Daisy went off into explanations. He found it hard to believe.
He sent for Eugenie and questioned her. She began by being defiant and then broke down and said that Fiona was in love and had a right to get married if she wanted to. Carl was wonderful. He loved Fiona and Fiona loved him. They were happy. Yes, she had known Fiona was going. Charlotte had helped her. Fiona hadn’t got into the carriage with them when they had gone back to the school but had gone to Carl who was waiting for her. Yes, she had made it appear that Fiona was in her bed so that I had been deceived when I looked in.
Charlotte was sent for. She was equally defiant. It was quite clear that there had been a conspiracy between them all and this lover…this Carl had taken advantage of it.
But in spite of the grueling questions, the pleas and the threats, we could get nothing more from them than that they had met Carl in the woods, he had asked the way and they had talked; he had seen them again. Once they had ridden off to meet him because they were making arrangements for the elopement. I remembered that occasion well and how scared Miss Barston had been.