She lowered the screwdriver and then tossed it into the footwell. ‘We all have our cross to bear,’ she said. ‘So you say you’re not with Doradus, or with Gilgamesh. So who are you? Stephanie called you Pipistrelle.’
‘A nickname. Otherwise known as Charles Rayne.’ He nodded at the bulging midriff. ‘You are due in April.’
Her hand brushed the firm rise of her pregnancy. ‘So they tell me. Where are we headed?’ She handed him the ignition keys.
‘Somewhere safe,’ he said, gunning the engine. But he hesitated, his hands planted on the wheel. Then he took another look at his watch.
‘She’s probably dead,’ she observed.
He took in a slow, deep breath. ‘Yes, probably. That was always the risk,’ he said, ‘but it doesn’t make it any easier.’ He reached over, lifted the blanket she had let fall. ‘Cover yourself; this old thing hasn’t got a great heater and it’s freezing cold outside. Keep yourself warm, we’ve got a long way to go tonight.’ He drove the van off the track and onto tarmac, out of the corner of his eye seeing her pull the blanket right up to her chin.
He was reluctant to wake her. She looked so peaceful, as still and as perfectly formed as a porcelain doll, he thought. Unconsciously Charles Rayne ran a light finger over his own blemished cheek. She was pretty. Perhaps her pregnancy added to that, he thought, as is the way with some women. His heart sank again when he thought of Stephanie. But there was always hope, he thought. He eased over and tapped the woman on the arm.
She snapped awake like a trap jumping to its prey, her eyes saucer-wide and immediately on the alert. ‘Where are we?’ she asked.
‘Home,’ he returned, getting out of the cab. She followed.
It was still very dark. They were in a village, but there were few streetlights to illuminate the few stone buildings. Against the slightly lighter grey that was the sky she made out the rise of bleak, brooding hills. There was even more of a chill in the air here, and snow lay in faintly luminescent swathes on the ground, lining the base of snaking dry-stone walls, capping some of the high hills.
‘Where is home?’ she asked.
‘Derbyshire. A small place called Elldale,’ he explained. ‘This is my house. Quickly, get inside before you catch your death of cold.’
The house was constructed of dark, severe stone, solid and oppressive, she thought, with a low grey slate roof and small windows. It was set back from the side road, in grounds of its own, and sat in total darkness. She felt the cold touch of snow tapping her warm cheek.
‘Careful, let me give you a hand over these rough stone slabs,’ he offered, reaching out to help her, but she shrugged him off with a fierce glare. ‘I have a room prepared for you,’ he said, opening the door. She paused at the doorstep, her expression one of fretful mistrust. ‘It’s OK, you’ll be safe here.’
‘I am not safe anywhere,’ she said dryly, and stepped over the threshold.
‘Please forgive the clutter,’ he said. ‘The life of a scholar is forever dominated by paper. I swear one day I will drown in it.’
‘You live here alone?’ There was a table in the centre of the room piled high with paper and books, more books crammed onto an inordinate number of bookshelves.
‘Yes, all alone,’ he said. ‘I never married…’ He coughed lightly. ‘Both my mother and father passed away rather suddenly — they were on the older side when they had me. The house was left to me. I stay because it is all I have known.’
They entered the study and two men rose from their seats. The woman flinched at seeing them. ‘You said you lived alone.’
‘And I do, ordinarily. Please forgive me for not mentioning them earlier. I did not want to unnerve you any more than you are already. Let me introduce you to the two other members of The Lunar Club, myself being the third — Howard Baxter and Carl Wood.’
‘The Lunar Club?’ she said suspiciously.
‘Without their help you would not be here. We have worked together…’
They stared at her, failing to hide their amazement. Baxter lunged forward and held out his hand to shake, but she backed off in alarm. Charles Rayne held up a gentle hand for him to step back. ‘Pleased to meet you at last,’ said Baxter as Charles led her away.
‘Come this way, through here,’ he said indicating a door that opened onto a flight of stairs. He nodded at her midriff. ‘Can you manage the stairs? They are dreadfully small and tight, as is the way with these old places.’
‘I am not made of porcelain,’ she said, and he thought immediately of her doll’s face as she slept. She gripped the banister tightly and went up the stairs.
‘Second door on the left,’ he said.
The room was small but neat, plain unassuming furniture sat against prettily patterned wallpaper, a wooden- framed mirror, a double bed heavily laden with thick woollen blankets, a bedside table strewn with a few books.
‘It has been so long since I slept in a proper bedroom,’ she said. ‘Able to turn out the light…’
‘I have arranged for a local woman, a former midwife, to attend to your needs when the time is right.’ He saw her sudden, alarmed expression. ‘Don’t worry; she thinks you are on the run from a violent husband. She is sworn to secrecy. I know her well.’ He went over to the window and drew the curtains closed. ‘We must ensure you and your babies are going to be well. But you will need help beyond all this, though, and on that score I can assure you I have matters in hand.’
She sat slowly on the bed. The springs squeaked. ‘Why are you doing all this?’
He found he had to avert his head when she looked at him directly. He was all too aware of her beauty and his disfigurement. ‘Because you need my help.’
She didn’t answer. Her hand was running over the soft woollen blanket, disturbing tiny fibres of wool that sprang up and swirled in the air like so much dust. ‘I cannot stay,’ she said. ‘You know they will find me, and they will kill you.’
‘For now you are safe,’ he said. ‘What name do you wish me to call you? I ask only because it is difficult to address someone without using their name.’
She shrugged. ‘What’s in a name anyway?’ she said bleakly. ‘Please leave me alone for a while.’
‘I will fix you something to eat presently,’ he said. He left her staring fixedly at the blanket and closed the door softly on her. When he came back with a tray of food and knocked softly at the door, opening it and poking his head round, he saw her in bed sound asleep. She looked so peaceful, he thought, but he knew better. She could never be at peace.
He stood there, hands wringing, outside the door. Pacing, pacing, and as nervous as an expectant father. From within the room he heard agonising screams. She had been in labour for hours, far longer than was good for her, said the midwife, dashing out and then dashing in again, closing the door on him before he could catch a glimpse of what was happening. He heard scuffling and soothing words, and more screams and panting and rapid breathing. He heard water being squeezed from a cloth into a bowl. And then, finally, he heard a baby cry and there were no more screams. Then even the baby fell silent and he knocked tentatively at the door. Eventually the midwife stepped outside. She looked exhausted herself, locks of grey hair wet with sweat sticking to her forehead.
‘Well?’ he said.
‘She gave birth to twins, a boy and a girl,’ she said, rubbing her tired eyes. ‘Both of them bruisers, and little wonder she was so large and they took some getting out.’ Then her face looked all at once solemn. ‘But, Mr Rayne, I have some terrible news…’
‘What? Tell me!’
‘I am sorry. There was nothing I could do. She is dead.’
