The last thing he wanted to do was wake her up. Moving more carefully now, he tiptoed down the stairs and into the living room. Again, the portrait of Mrs Deverill’s ancestor watched him as he made for the front door. Its eyes almost seemed to follow him. The face was dark and secretive.
It was cold in the yard. Nothing stirred. Matt could hear the whispers more clearly now. They seemed not only louder but closer. He could even make out some of the words – not that they made any sense.
“NODEB … TEMOCMOD … EMANY … NEVAEH … NITRA.”
The strange sounds danced around him as he stood there, alone in the night. They were human whispers. Human and yet at the same time unworldly. He wondered what to do. Part of him wanted to get out the bicycle and try to get nearer. Part of him wanted to go back to bed and forget the whole thing. And then he noticed something that he should have seen straight away.
Mrs Deverill’s car wasn’t there.
The Land Rover was always parked in the same place, next to the barn, and it had been there at dinner time. Could she have left Hive Hall? Was she somewhere in the wood, part of whatever it was that was going on? Was Matt alone at the farm?
He went back into the living room. The portrait was the first thing he noticed and this time he knew it wasn’t his imagination: it had definitely changed a second time. The figure had raised a hand and a skeletal finger was now pointing upwards, as if ordering him to bed. Matt was certain it hadn’t been painted that way.
Matt did go upstairs, but not to his own room. He had to know if he was right, even though he dreaded what he must do. He crept to the end of the corridor and knocked gently on Mrs Deverill’s door. There was no reply. He knocked a second time, louder. Then he opened the door.
He found himself looking into a cold, empty room with bare floorboards and an iron bed. There was a wardrobe and a chest of drawers but little else. The bed was empty. He was right. Mrs Deverill wasn’t here. At last he’d been given the opportunity he needed.
Matt had already decided he was going back to London. Now he knew it was going to happen tonight. By daybreak he would have reached the motorway and he would hitch-hike south. He had no doubt that Mrs Deverill would call the police, but the further away he managed to get, the harder it would be for them to find him. Once he reached London, he would be safe. But he needed cash. Money was the difference between survival and constant danger. He would have to buy food. He’d need to find a room. There must be money in the house. He would find it and steal it now.
He began in the kitchen. No longer caring how much noise he made, he rifled through the drawers and cupboards, opened jars and boxes, trying to work out where Mrs Deverill kept her housekeeping funds. He could still hear the whispering, although it was more intermittent now. Was it coming to an end? He glanced at his watch. A quarter past one. He moved more quickly, afraid that the woman could return at any time. There was no money in the room. He looked for her handbag. A handbag would mean cash and possibly credit cards. But she must have taken it with her.
He tried the living room. Now the portrait seemed to watch angrily as he searched, looking behind the books and under the chairs in the hope that Mrs Deverill might have tucked her purse away. Matt hadn’t turned on the lights – Noah might still be in the barn and he was afraid of giving himself away. He was crossing over to look around the fireplace when something screamed at him, sending him back, his heart pounding. It was Asmodeus, Mrs Deverill’s cat. It had been asleep on one of the chairs but now it was standing up, as if electrocuted, its fur bristling, its eyes ablaze. It opened its mouth and hissed, revealing a set of white fangs. Matt stood still. The cat was going to attack him. He was sure of it. It was already bracing itself, the claws of its two front paws
It was cold in the yard. Nothing stirred. Matt could hear the whispers more clearly now. They seemed not only louder but closer. He could even make out some of the words – not that they made any sense.
“NODEB … TEMOCMOD … EMANY … NEVAEH … NITRA.”
The strange sounds danced around him as he stood there, alone in the night. They were human whispers. Human and yet at the same time unworldly. He wondered what to do. Part of him wanted to get out the bicycle and try to get nearer. Part of him wanted to go back to bed and forget the whole thing. And then he noticed something that he should have seen straight away.
Mrs Deverill’s car wasn’t there.
The Land Rover was always parked in the same place, next to the barn, and it had been there at dinner time. Could she have left Hive Hall? Was she somewhere in the wood, part of whatever it was that was going on? Was Matt alone at the farm?
He went back into the living room. The portrait was the first thing he noticed and this time he knew it wasn’t his imagination: it had definitely changed a second time. The figure had raised a hand and a skeletal finger was now pointing upwards, as if ordering him to bed. Matt was certain it hadn’t been painted that way.
Matt did go upstairs, but not to his own room. He had to know if he was right, even though he dreaded what he must do. He crept to the end of the corridor and knocked gently on Mrs Deverill’s door. There was no reply. He knocked a second time, louder. Then he opened the door.
He found himself looking into a cold, empty room with bare floorboards and an iron bed. There was a wardrobe and a chest of drawers but little else. The bed was empty. He was right. Mrs Deverill wasn’t here. At last he’d been given the opportunity he needed.
Matt had already decided he was going back to London. Now he knew it was going to happen tonight. By daybreak he would have reached the motorway and he would hitch-hike south. He had no doubt that Mrs Deverill would call the police, but the further away he managed to get, the harder it would be for them to find him. Once he reached London, he would be safe. But he needed cash. Money was the difference between survival and constant danger. He would have to buy food. He’d need to find a room. There must be money in the house. He would find it and steal it now.
He began in the kitchen. No longer caring how much noise he made, he rifled through the drawers and cupboards, opened jars and boxes, trying to work out where Mrs Deverill kept her housekeeping funds. He could still hear the whispering, although it was more intermittent now. Was it coming to an end? He glanced at his watch. A quarter past one. He moved more quickly, afraid that the woman could return at any time. There was no money in the room. He looked for her handbag. A handbag would mean cash and possibly credit cards. But she must have taken it with her.
He tried the living room. Now the portrait seemed to watch angrily as he searched, looking behind the books and under the chairs in the hope that Mrs Deverill might have tucked her purse away. Matt hadn’t turned on the lights – Noah might still be in the barn and he was afraid of giving himself away. He was crossing over to look around the fireplace when something screamed at him, sending him back, his heart pounding. It was Asmodeus, Mrs Deverill’s cat. It had been asleep on one of the chairs but now it was standing up, as if electrocuted, its fur bristling, its eyes ablaze. It opened its mouth and hissed, revealing a set of white fangs. Matt stood still. The cat was going to attack him. He was sure of it. It was already bracing itself, the claws of its two front paws
Similar Books
