The Iron Thorn - Caitlin Kittredge [60]
“I’d get out of bed to check that the window was locked up in the garret,” Bethina said. “And … I’d see them, out in the moonlight.”
“The mysterious Them. I got chills.” Dean had already polished off his cigarette and was up digging in cabinets. All he unearthed was an ancient packet of TreacleTarts, the pudding inside the pastry shell gone rock-hard from age.
“I call them the tall men,” Bethina said, her voice no bigger than the child with nightmares she described. “They were pale, too. Cold eyes. They came from the woods, single file. Every full moon, they came. I heard Mr. Grayson on those nights, pacing in the library.” She reached out and clapped her hand over mine and I started. Her palm was hot from the Ovaltine, while I’d gone cold. “I didn’t mean to snoop,” Bethina whispered. “I didn’t mean to be trouble.”
I wriggled my hand free. Hers was slick. “Bethina, what did the tall men want with my father?”
“I didn’t never want to find that out, miss,” she whispered. “They were awful, the pale men. Their pale fingers and their pale eyes … one looked up at my window, and I swear he stole the thoughts from my head. So bright to look on, in that full moonlight. So beautiful …” A tear slipped down her cheek, dangled unnoticed on her flower-petal skin. “I could have looked at him forever, even though I had the most awful nervous flutter in my chest when he caught my eye. I wanted to hide but I couldn’t.…” She stopped, and knotted her fingers together. “I fear I’m not making any sense, miss.”
“Trust me, you’re making more sense than a number of folks I know,” I told her. Even though she was scared and didn’t appear overly bright, I couldn’t help feeling sorry for Bethina. She’d been trapped alone in the house, and obviously whatever had visited my father had spooked the tar out of her. I gestured Cal out of her chair. “Let’s get you settled and then you can tell me the rest of the story,” I suggested, trying to be kind like the endlessly patient and immeasurably patronizing nurses at Nerissa’s madhouse.
Like the patients with their sedative-addled senses, Bethina didn’t cotton to the fact the entire act was for her benefit. “Thank you, miss. You’re not such a hooligan as you first seemed,” she said, dabbing at her cheek with the edge of her cuff once she’d sat. “Talking about the tall men … it does set me off sometimes, like a silly thing.”
“Forgive me, Bethina,” Cal said, “but could you have maybe seen a real man, flesh and blood, wearing an illusion cloak like in the Phantasm comics?”
“Of course not.” Bethina sniffed. “That Phantasm ain’t real.”
Cal flushed. Dean shoved a handful of stale TreacleTart into his mouth to muffle what would surely be a sound of derision.
“Did Conrad meet the tall men?” I asked. “Did they do something to my brother?” Conrad wasn’t like me. He was fearless, and he’d charge into something strange without a thought. I was the one who worried, who weighed logic before she did anything larger than pick out a new pencil from the box.
Bethina bobbed her head, but I couldn’t tell if she was acquiescing or trying to hide embarrassment. “One day Mr. Grayson was gone. Dismissed the staff in a note left in his gentleman’s parlor. Some clothes and favorite books, his sturdy boots and his shaving kit … all gone. He left his bedroom and dressing room in such a mess it took me all day to straighten up on my own. Even left his diary behind, tossed on the floor like trash.” She fiddled with her curls.
“And?” I prompted. “Conrad?”
“Mr. Conrad came a few weeks later. After your father had gone. A wild-eyed type, that’s for certain. Mr. Grayson would have been none too happy with his manners. Mr. Conrad wanted to poke about. He kept talking about some birthday and wanting to ask Mr. Grayson about his mother, which I didn’t understand none of, because Mr. Grayson’s not seen her in near fifteen years. But I still made up a bed and put on some supper. He was a decent sort, if you could get past his comportment.” Bethina’s voice dipped to a whisper, nearly