“I’m needed at home. I’m taking the night flight to Shannon.”
“What happened? Did Eric call?”
“No. No one phoned.” Jessica pulled on short black gloves. “But I know I’m needed there.”
Maud said anxiously, “Are you coming down with something? Let me see...”
But as she raised her hand to the girl’s forehead, Jessica twisted away from her and said, “I’m perfectly all right. I’ve called for our bill and a cab.”
“Just hold on, young lady. If you think you’re waltzing out of here because you’ve got some whimsical idea—”
“You can stay here if you like, Maud, but I’m leaving.”
“If this is your idea of a game, please stop it. How could you possibly know what’s going on at Easter Hill?” Maud squared her shoulders. “Calm yourself, Jessica. I’m not going to let you go.”
Jessica stared at her aunt, and the older woman took an involuntary step backward, suddenly frightened by the burning expression in the girl’s eyes and face. “Don’t you dare try to stop me,” Jessica said in a voice that Maud had not heard before, hard and low and resonant, and the timber of it sent a chill streaking through her nerves.
“Why are you trying to scare me?” Maud said anxiously.
“A darkness is coming. There are shadows on Easter Hill. Is that why it is happening? Is that why Fluter is dying?”
Jessica cried out these words though Maud realized with another spasm of fear that the child was no longer talking to her, but staring beyond to the treetops of the open park. Jessica had seemed to change before her eyes, no longer so delicate and polite but charged with a visible determination and power, currents evident in the movements of her body as she turned to stare again through the windows. And the voice was changed, too.
“You may do as you like, Aunt Maud.” Jessica stared at her with hard, glazed eyes. “I’m leaving now.”
“No, wait for me. Hold the cab. Eric would want — I’ve got to go with you.”
And when Jessica had gone to the lobby, Maud — feeling threatened and vulnerable — picked up the phone and asked the hotel operator to place a call to Easter Hill in Ballytone. She was alarmed to notice how badly her hands were trembling.
At dusk, with the soft tones of evening spreading across the meadows, Eric Griffith walked down to Capability Brown’s quarters, one of several small cottages adjacent to the stables. The door stood open and Brown was packing his clothing and personal effects in a worn duffel bag.
The other servants had already left — the girls and Mrs. Kiernan in tears, old Flynn with eyes flashing anger, and Kevin O’Dell giving notice in sympathy with the others — departing with their possessions in the single old taxi from Ballytone.
Eric rapped lightly on the door jamb. When Mr. Brown turned to him, his craggy features set in bitter lines, Eric regarded him with raised eyebrows.
“What’s this, Brown? You’re not thinking of leaving, I hope.”
“Just as soon as I pack my things, Mr. Griffith.”
“I think you should reconsider, Brown.”
“No way I will, I’ve had my fill of this place. I won’t stay on where good, honest people are called liars and thieves.” Turning his back to Eric, Mr. Brown removed several framed photographs from the wall and placed them on a cot beside his duffel bag. “Mrs. Kiernan, the girls, and Jack Flynn — they never touched a farthing that didn’t belong to them. So I’ll be off with young Kevin.”
Eric studied the reflection of fading sunlight on his buffed nails.
“Brown, I’m a reasonable man. If you’ll stay on, I’m prepared to overlook your impertinence.”
“Don’t put yourself to any trouble on my account.”
“Impertinence is one thing, stupidity is quite another,” Eric said. “In your own interests, Brown, I’d urge you not to indulge the one at the expense of the other.”
“Can you speak plainly, as one man to another, or is that beyond you, sir?”
“I’m warning you, Brown, don’t test my anger.”
“Begging your pardon, I think I’ll chance that.”
“Let’s see if you can, then,” Eric said, his voice cold and derisive. “I’ve got information that you participated in an IRA raid several years ago. I have the date and the names of the men who were with you that night, including your own son, Timothy, now with the Provos in Belfast. Would you like—?”
Brown stared at him with burning eyes. “You’d crush a man for his loyalties to his blood, would you? I say you’re no man, you’re a devil, Mr. Griffith.”
“That’s a matter of opinion, Brown. When I submit those names, if your stubborness forces me, the Ulster Constabulary and the British will call me a friend of the Crown and a gentleman of conscience. Once again, Brown, I strongly urge you to stay on.”
Brown sat down heavily on the edge of his narrow cot and, without meeting Eric’s eyes, said, “I’ll be staying on.”
“Speak up, man. I can’t hear you!”
With an effort, Brown said again, “I’ll be staying on, sir.”
“That’s a good man,” Eric said and walked back through the gardens to the manor house, whistling a light accompaniment to the chatter of starlings nesting in the ivy-hung walls.
As Eric entered the library, Tony Saxe was crossing from the bay window to the fireplace.
“What the hell’s wrong with the kid’s dog, Eric? He was out on the side lawn throwing up.”
Eric shrugged. “He might have caught himself a raunchy groundhog. Was there a call from London?”
“No. You expecting one?”
“Yes, but there’s still time.” Without explaining this cryptic remark, Eric poured himself a whiskey and looked steadily at Tony Saxe. “Well? Have you thought it over?”
“It’s no good, Eric. It’s too dicey.”
“Then all I can say is, you’re a fool.”
“Maybe, maybe not. But just for the record, here’s what I bought into. I bankrolled the three of us and Benny Stiff, backed your play against the people who worked here, touted you onto Ethelroyd—” Saxe flicked a glance at his wristwatch, “—who’ll be knocking at the door of my room at the Hannibal in about three hours. Ethelroyd gives us the cash, you give him the keys to this place. He takes what we’ve agreed on, makes the substitutions, and splits. That’s what I bought, that’s what I want.”
“You’re settling for a cheese omelette when you could sit down to an eight-course banquet...”
Tony Saxe looked skeptically at the leather folder of correspondence on the coffee table. “You want to bet your share of this caper on crystal balls, be my guest. I don’t buy any of that crap — tarot cards, astrology, palm readings, they’re just rackets to fleece old ladies and hippies.”
“Tony, the conclusions in this folder were reached after eight years of investigations, by a doctor who gave my niece every test known to science.”
“Hell, that stuff can be faked, Eric. Scientists can go shut-eye just like carny freaks, proving whatever the hell they want.”
Eric said, “If you’re too lazy or blind to see the gold pieces we could pick up, I’m not going to argue with you. But I’ve seen the entries for the Grand National. Sterling Choice, Gitano, Bowbells, all going at better than seventy-five to one. Eleven other horses are better than thirty- to forty-to-one. If the winner is in that pack of long shots and my niece—”
Saxe interrupted him with an emphatic head-shake. “I’m telling you again, Eric. No way! My horse is that fat crook Ethelroyd.”
He began pacing, rubbing his hands together nervously. His rings and wristwatch glittered with reflections from the burning logs in the fireplace. After a moment, he stopped and stared at Eric. “Look, if this kid is a psychic, if she can really see into the future, then how come she didn’t see what you and Maudie are up to? You been lying to that kid every hour on the hour, planning to rob her blind. So where was her crystal ball during all that?”