The Buried Circle - Jenni Mills [138]
So there were no more tea parties until October, and that was when Mr Cromley snared me again.
Mr Keiller was in a black mood the Sunday afternoon after his return from Scotland. ‘That’s it,’ he said, to Mrs Sorel-Taylour. The flames from the fire in the huge grate made his face ruddy. I should have been talking to the airmen–I could see that boy with the artificial foot, again, trying to attract my attention, the rubber tip of his walking-stick squeaking on the oak floorboards–but instead I was hanging on the edge of their conversation, sick to hear Mr K so depressed. ‘I can’t carry on at Avebury. The house in Scotland is falling to pieces under the tender mercies of His Majesty’s Army, and I haven’t the money to keep on both establishments. I’ve told Young I’m closing the museum in November. We’ll stow the finds safely in the outbuildings, but the sooner I persuade a buyer to take the Manor off my hands, the better.’
‘You know what this is about, don’t you, Miss Robinson?’ said Mr Cromley, sauntering over from the tea table, with a cigarette between his fingers. Even though I’d braced myself for him to be there, I could feel my nerves tighten as he came up to us, his plate piled high with egg-and-cress sandwiches. The Manor hens must have been on overtime. ‘The poor old Barber Surgeon. It’s taken the heart out of him. Tell them, Alec’
‘The Royal College of Surgeons took a direct hit, earlier in the summer,’ said Mr K. ‘Frightful mess, and the least of their priorities was what had happened to our bones, but it looks definite now that the Barber Surgeon’s skeleton was destroyed in the fire. They can’t locate him anywhere.’
‘You know what I think?’ said Mr Cromley. ‘We should hold a requiem for the poor chap. All Hallow’s Eve next week, Alec. Samhain. The night of the dead. Let’s hold another of your jolly ceremonies in the garden. Dinner, cocktails, good company, and we’ll raise a glass or two to your statue of Pan.’
‘Pandemonium,’ said Mr Keiller, gloomily, looking out of the window where yellow leaves drifted across the lawns and piled against the box hedges. ‘The principle of Chaos governs the world, now.’
‘Ah, the trick is to control your demons,’ said Mr Cromley. ‘It’ll be fun. Miss Robinson will assist, won’t you, Heartbreaker?’
‘Count me out,’ I said, quick, not wanting to be part of anything Mr Cromley had his fingers in. ‘I’ll be…on fire watch that night.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Mr Keiller. He had brightened. ‘Of course you’ll be there, Heartbreaker. Join us for dinner. It won’t be quite the sort of fare we used to enjoy, but we can dress in our finest and laugh in Mr Hitler’s face. We’ll assemble for cocktails at eight.’
I couldn’t suppress a shiver of excitement. I’d never been invited to a proper dinner before. The thought of being among a procession like the one I’d watched in the Manor garden, all that time ago with Davey, filled me with joy. This, after all, was what I’d wanted, the magic of being part of that crowd.
‘Donald, I leave you to be Master of Ceremonies. Bring one or two young chaps from the base, if you like. Let’s give those demons a run for their money’
I felt uneasy then, but what could go wrong at the Manor? This wasn’t some hole-and-corner ritual in Swindon with Mr Cromley and his creepy uncle; wasn’t a ritual so much as a party. Mr Keiller would be there, and plenty of others, and I’d be safe. But as I left the Manor, Mr Cromley caught up with me by the gate.
‘You will be there, Heartbreaker,’ he said. ‘By command of the Marmalade King. And if you’re not…’ He shook his head. Amazing how far the sound of a single whisper carries at Avebury.’
I stood in the topiary garden at the Manor House on Hallowe’en night, shivering in my thin evening dress, ill-wishing Mr Cromley hard as I could. Moonlight glimmered on the pool between the box hedges behind the Library Wing. He’d made me leave the dinner inside to stand outside in the cold dressed as Isis or Diana, some old moon goddess anyway, in a long glittery