The Green Lady Page 5

off him, I tell you, he makes me dizzy! I had half a mind to drag him into the tomb with me! Oh! Oh!’ (she seemed to have trouble articulating, and calmed herself with a swig of liquor) ‘Oh, I’m wound so tightly I could bounce up the stairs to him! But quickly, is he frisky tonight, or am I just picking up static off his natural magnetism?’

  Mina laughed. ‘You’ve been down here too long, Lizzy! It’s only Max, remember!’

  ‘Only Max? Only the man who every woman’s panting for— only the legend of foreplay— only the crown prince of the ten-hour session!’

  ‘Elizabeth Evering! I think you really have lost your mind! It’s true, Max does have a reputation as a gadabout, but you’ve dreamt up all the rest down here in the dark! If there are any rumours about ten-hour sessions, you can be sure he spread them himself!’

  ‘That kiss told me things they don’t even dare scribble on toilet cubicle doors, Mina. I’m determined to have him.’

  ‘Take another drink. You must determine to be disappointed.’

  Elizabeth willingly complied, and then smacked her red lips. ‘Max is the man to drive Hamish out of my head, without doubt! What a revenge this will be! For the nothing-trouble of seducing an absolute stud, I’ll make a lunatic out of my husband! He’ll foam at the mouth when he realises I’m not crazed, and I’ve ravished his best friend! And mark my words, ravish is what I mean to do! I can’t wait to see Hamish’s stupid face when he realises he’s been duped! Can’t you contrive for him to find me in bed with Max? I want him to see me in the throes!’

  Mina gave her an amazed look. ‘I think your revenge will be subtle enough without that! But you should be off, and I’m keen to get back to my warm bed. I was dreaming about being a little girl again— I used to play the penny whistle, but in my dream I was a child-prodigy on the clarinet.’

  Elizabeth now hoisted up her bosom and ran her fingers through her hair. ‘How do I look? How do I look? Stunning? Too much cleavage? Too little?’

  ‘You don’t want to suffocate the man. Now, hurry!’

  Elizabeth needed no second bidding. Mina held up the candle to light the steps, and they left the tomb together. Elizabeth waited while her friend made her way silently upstairs to her room, and then, with excited swiftness, she followed, and went in at the first door at the top of the spiral staircase.

  ‘Don’t be alarmed!’ she cried, in her best attempt at a whisper. ‘I’m not really mad —except mad for you, my beautiful Max!’ —and with a flourish she threw herself onto the bed.

  Being a large lady, it is probable that she might have crushed Max to death, had he indeed been sleeping there; but we know he was not. Neither, however, was Hamish, who Mina had allotted to this room. Elizabeth cooed for her intended sweetheart, and felt among the pillows for some minutes, before she discovered that she was alone. In surprise, she got up and switched on the light: the room was empty.

  ‘Nobody here!’ she remarked to herself in momentary confusion. In fact, though the bedclothes had been thoroughly mangled by her passionate entrance, there were no indications that they had previously been slept in at all. But then, she noticed her husband’s watch lying on the bedside table.

  ‘This is Mina’s doing!’ she concluded. ‘She swapped their rooms, in the hope that I’d burst in on Hamish instead of Max! No doubt she had some sentimental idea of us taking advantage of the dark to make up our differences— but I won’t have my revenge snatched from me! Very good, Mina, very noble— but Hamish must have wandered off somewhere, which foils your scheme! All the better for me: I won’t be reconciled to that man until I’ve made him utterly miserable! I will have Max— I’ll bet she’s put him into my own room, where Hamish would normally have slept. How perfect! This means I’ll have the pleasure of taking my lover in my own marital bed!’

  And so without ado she switched out the light and carefully returned to the gallery. Nobody appeared there, and she proceeded on tip-toe to the bedroom door opposite the portrait of Geraldine Hargrave. Elizabeth had guessed correctly: Max, never having visited the castle before, was easily duped into taking the conjugal chamber. Now, applying her ear to the door, the wife discerned that her intended paramour lay sleeping within. Triumphantly, she turned the handle and advanced inside.

  Meanwhile, the inquisitive reader may be interested to hear the reason that events had not fallen out as proscribed by Mina’s plan; in short, what had happened to Hamish?

  It seems that, having so far undressed for bed as to remove his watch, Hamish had been so powerfully stricken with a bout of remorse for his wife’s apparently lamentable situation, that he resolved not to sleep until he had fretted about it a good deal.

  Guilt and compassion seized him with claws fully as cruel and remorseless as those of any ghoul. He had gone a fair way to convincing himself (as Elizabeth intended he should) that he was entirely responsible for his spouse’s sad lapse into insanity. It must all be on account of his taking a mistress, he guiltily decided. If only he could remember the trifling slight that had prompted him to do it! But what use was bickering now? Elizabeth was beyond reason, even love-spat reason. Now, all he had left to feel was compassion for her wretched plight.

  For sure, she must be put into some sort of institution— he would faithfully visit her very day! Except at weekends, when he was obliged to play golf; and Tuesdays, when his mother came to visit. Oh, and Thursdays, when he was taking badminton lessons. Still, he was at liberty to sit and wipe the dribble from her chin three evenings a week, and what mad wife would expect more?

  But then, institutions are expensive places; who was to pay? The castle could be sold, and all the furniture auctioned. But everything was in Elizabeth’s name; how could she be brought to consent, and sign a consent too? Undoubtedly she would try to sign herself “Geraldine”. That would never do; there must be some way of getting hold of the estate, seeing as she was incapable— there must be, or the bills would fall to him. Oh! What a distressing situation! If only he hadn’t taken a mistress! If only he’d never met that damned Genna! How much trouble she’d caused! Poor, poor Elizabeth! How sorry he was! If only she would get well, and not need an asylum —even a partial recovery might save thousands on nursing and consultants. Elizabeth! Oh, for the sweet mercy of your economical sanity, what wouldn’t he do?

  Having heard Mina and Max go to their beds, he resolved to head downstairs and take a drink to calm himself. Accordingly, he stepped into the gallery and passed, with a shudder, the disagreeable portrait, before continuing down the main stairs. The alcohol and the yet-glowing fire awaited him, and he sat awhile, ruminating on his unhappiness.

  The elements seemed to conspire to frighten him then: the sea, striking at the shore nearby, had a melancholy sound; the wind, rising and rushing against the windows, agitated the curtains in a preternatural manner; the fire threw out cracks and sparks that made him jump as he sat nursing his glass. Suddenly, he fancied he saw the large shadow of a figure pass across the wall and ceiling— he gasped— could it be Elizabeth, stalking him with murderous intent? Was it, indeed, the Green Lady, determined to haunt him in vengeance for his treatment of her maligned descendant?

  The shade withdrew, and he shook the idea away, only for it to be succeeded by a more traumatic terror: the thought of every penny he had ever earned, or would ever earn again, swallowed up in caring for his insane wife! He leapt up in horror— no, it must not be! Elizabeth must recover, the alternative was too dreadful to conceive of.

  ‘If she’s still in the crypt, I’ll get her out,’ he soliloquised. ‘I’ll cure her myself, I swear it!’

  Setting down his glass, he ran to the doorway that led to the vault. Quiet and still reigned below. The candlestick, still smoking, rested on the windowsill; he snatched it up, lit it, and made his way to the tombs. Once there, he called softly for his wife, holding up the light to investigate every corner.

  ‘Oh, do answer me, Elizabeth!’ he whined petulantly. ‘Are you in here, baby? Are you there?’

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nbsp; He approached the gate where he had last seen her vanish, and reached forward to pull it open; but just then, he was startled by the sound of a footstep behind him, and whirled around. The candle flame fluttered, and steadied itself, but hardly penetrated the surrounding gloom.

  ‘I hear you,’ he said. ‘I know you’re in here somewhere. Won’t you show yourself, sweetie? Lillybet? I’ve come to say I’m sorry.’

  Confronted with more silence, he glanced about him desperately, and at last alighted on the guitar.

  ‘Do you want some music?’ he hazarded to the shadows. ‘Is that what you like? Will you come out then, and talk to me? Eliz— Geraldine, do you want me to play something?’

  Nothing responded to approve or disapprove this notion, but since it had answered once already, he saw no reason why it would not again. So he set down the candle, perched himself on the edge of the open coffin and took up the instrument.

  He plucked a string experimentally. The tragic flaw in his intention was that he couldn’t play a note; still, he felt he looked the part with the guitar on his knee, and resolved to hum. But hum what? Something romantic, to soften her. A thousand love songs with crazy in the title rushed through his brain; he chose one, and began humming quietly, fingering out a