If only his heart would stop pounding so loudly against his chest. The animal must be able to hear him, smell the sour fear. Inch by inch he edged up against the pillows away from the sound. There was a crack in the bed curtains now, as the sheet caught against the rough tapestry and he could see a faint line of light from the window shutters. It was nearly dawn.
Sweet Jesu, make it go away.
Another sound from the corner of the room sent a fresh sheen of sweat across his shoulder blades. There was a grunt and the sharp crunch of teeth on bone. Dear Lord, the creature had caught something. It was eating it, there, in his bedroom, taunting him. He could smell blood, smell the rank breath, the rotting teeth, he could almost see its small red, evil, eyes.
How had it got in?
He frowned. He could remember closing the door and sliding the bolt. He could remember barring the shutters. Or had he? He glanced towards the tell-tale strip of pale light. He had felt so ill as he climbed the narrow stairs the night before, the fever once again clamping its sweaty hold over his shoulders. He had fallen on the bed, racked with coughing, too tired even to pull off his bucket-top boots. He remembered that. He moved his foot slightly. No. It was bare. He must have kicked off the soft leather boots and removed his breeches and stockings before crawling under the bed covers.
Outside, the darkness lifted perceptibly. The stars and the quarter moon, hanging low over the hill behind his house, began to fade. The birds were waking. First one tentative call, then another, rang out in the cold garden.
His throat spasmed. He was going to cough again. He mustn’t. He mustn’t make a sound. He groped blindly for a kerchief, for the sheet, the pillow, anything to smother the noise. If he coughed, the creature would know he was there and turn its attention to him. He could feel the cough building, the tightness in his chest, the agony in his throat. His terror was overwhelming.
As the first cough exploded from him, he heard himself scream. He leaned over towards the bedside table and snatched the dagger that lay there, ready, thrusting it wildly in front of him as the bear turned to stare straight between the bed curtains into his eyes. For a moment they exchanged a long thoughtful glance, then slowly the bear rose to its feet.
Downstairs the maid heard his frantic shouting as she knelt to lay the fire. She glanced up and shook her head. Master Hopkins must be having another of his nightmares. She paused for a moment, listening, then she turned back to the fire.
Upstairs, at the first sound of the coughing, the tabby cat dropped her half-eaten mouse and fled from the room, leaving a small pile of bloody entrails in the corner as she leaped for the window, pushed through the unfastened shutters and vanished into the cold dawn.
In the bed, his fear drained away as swiftly as it had come and in its place he felt rage. Rage such as he had never felt before. The women who had caused him to feel such fear would pay and pay dearly for their foul conspiracy. And he knew who they were, for they were on his list. The Devil’s List.
AUGUST
The London air was coppery, metallic on the tongue, heavy with traffic fumes and sunlight. Emma Dickson climbed out of the cab, handed over a note and glanced at her wristwatch, all part of the same flowing movement.
The cabby made a great show of diving into his money bag for change. Mean cow. Only three quid from twenty. She could afford to give him the tip. He glanced at her and in spite of himself his face softened. A bit of all right. Black dress. Gorgeous legs. Slim arms. Nice hair. Good make up. Business lady, but would tart up nicely. He handed her the change. She took it, hesitated, then handed it back. ‘OK. You keep it.’ She grinned at him as though she were aware of every stage of his thought processes. ‘You got me here on time. Just.’
He watched as she turned across the pavement and climbed the steps towards the door. Devonshire Place. An expensive doctor, probably. He found himself hoping, as he pulled away from the kerb, that she wasn’t ill.
The shiny black door with gold knocker and nameplate opened to her ring and she disappeared inside, grateful for the coolness of the hall after the blazing heat of the street outside. It was Friday. She had taken the afternoon off to visit the dentist, then she was going home to stand under a cold shower before starting to organise the evening’s dinner party.
‘Good afternoon, Miss Dickson.’ The receptionist opened the door of the waiting room and ushered her in. ‘Mr Forbes won’t keep you long.’
There was no one else in the large elegant room. Sofas and easy chairs stood somewhat formally round the walls, two huge flower arrangements faced each other at opposite ends of the room and on the large low central table several piles of magazines lay, neatly squared, waiting to beguile her while she waited. Automatically she glanced at her watch. It was hard to relax, to slow down. It had been a hectic morning; she had been on the phone since eight a.m. There had been no time for lunch. For one of the senior fund managers for Spencer Flight, Jordan of Throckmorton Street, there very seldom was. To find she had to wait for her appointment was almost more than she could bear. Taking a deep breath she threw her bag on the largest sofa and picking up a magazine at random she flopped down and kicked off her shoes.
She had to learn to slow down; to relax. She wasn’t even sure any more that she was still enjoying the frenetic lifestyle in which up to now she had revelled. With a long slow sigh she stretched out the long legs the taxi driver had so much admired, opened the magazine and glanced at it casually.
She had picked up a copy of Country Life. She flipped without much interest through page after page of house advertisements. Mansions and manor houses, even castles, all taken from their best angle, primped, air brushed, seductively enticing. Improbable. But they would all turn out to be someone’s dream. Someone who had had the time to stop to consider whether the place they lived was right for them; whether they were happy, whether they should move on.
She turned another page, about to throw down the magazine, then she frowned. She sat up sharply, swung her legs to the floor and sat, staring at the picture in front of her. There were four houses on the page, all in Essex and Suffolk, all smaller than those through which she had been idly leafing. It was the one on the top right hand corner of the page that held her attention. She frowned, looking at it more closely. It was a house she knew.
She read the details with a frown.
15th century listed farmhouse withsmall commercial herb nursery.3 bedrooms, 2 reception.Large farmhouse kitchen.
Garage. Offices. 3 acres.
The house was pretty, colour-washed with exposed beams, an uneven roof, half tiled, half thatched, an oak front door surrounded by the statutory roses. She looked quickly at the other houses on the page. They too were pretty. In fact one was a great deal prettier, but this one was special. Near Manningtree, the details said. North Essex. Minutes from the picturesque River Stour.
It was Liza’s.
‘Miss Dickson?’ It was the second time the receptionist had called her name. ‘Mr Forbes is ready for you.’
She jumped almost guiltily. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you.’ Fumbling inelegantly for her shoes she rose to her feet, still holding the magazine.
‘Shall I?’ The receptionist held out her hand, ever helpful, ready to replace it on the pile.
Emma shook her head. ‘I’m sorry. I need to keep it. This house –’ She looked up and saw irritation in the other woman’s face. Shrugging, she held it out, then changed her mind. ‘Do you mind if I tear out the page? It’s a house I know.’ She had done it before the woman could object, folding the shiny paper into her handbag and closing the fastener