Abby was furious.
If someone thought she was going to die out here on the moor, they were crazy.
Snow had got down into her boots and was soaking her socks, but she'd rather have her toes freeze than risk giving herself away by making a lot of squelchy noises trying to yank them off. Anyway, with only the low wall of the shooting butt to hide her, she didn't want to do too much moving about.
It surprised her that Tim was managing to be so silent, lying here beside her. Of course, Tim was used to lying about the barn, but he seemed alert, the way he kept looking first to one side, then to the other, then to her.
Abby knew nothing about guns, nothing at all except for the few times she'd come out to these grouse butts with the Major and watched him as he scrambled up, swung his gun quickly to his shoulder, took aim, and missed an entire skein of grouse flying about two feet from his cap. The Gun: that's what the Princess called him.
Until this evening, that had been her only experience with guns. But she'd never forget the crack of the shot that had barely missed her and ricocheted off the wall. How long ago had it been? Probably only a few minutes because the sky had begun to darken as she'd been climbing the stile. The shot had come as she'd got to the top and she'd fallen back to the ground, sorting out her choices: either a dash to the stand of trees or to the line of grouse butts. Knowing what she did about her aunt's death, it didn't take long to drop the stand of pines as an alternative.
They thought she didn't know her aunt was shot. Didn't they ever stop to wonder if children listened outside doors and windows? She had an idea that the Scotland Yard policeman did because he seemed to know everything else about her. Abby had his card in her jumper pocket. She pulled it out and read it again, though it was getting too dark to read.
Where was Stranger? Where? She knew he wasn't shot because there'd only been the one.
Abby pulled at her damp hair, grabbed two fistfuls, and yanked it down like a lid to keep her thoughts from leaping up like flames out of control, as if she were a fiery furnace, which was what she felt like. She had been mad all her life and she didn't see any reason to stop now.
She reached out carefully from the grouse butt, scooped up snow, and rubbed it all over her face to keep the blood going. The Major liked to talk to her about "survival in the wilds" because she loved to tramp the moors. He wasn't in any danger of not surviving, she thought. He always made sure he had three sandwiches and a little flask of whiskey before he even put a foot out of the front door.
There was no sound, nothing now but a whisper of wind in the bog rush and bracken.
Her waterproof was yellow. Yellow. Mrs. Braithwaite had made sure she wore a bright waterproof when she walked to school so if a car came round a bend it would see her. She'd argued the roads were too narrow for any car to go fast and she'd rather have a black waterproof. This one was like those reflecting lights on Ethel's bicycle. The moon was like a spotlight, and in this bright yellow she'd be like a shooting star if she tried to dart from the butt to the wall. She looked down at Tim. A yellow slicker, a full moon, and a white dog. God hated her.
One of the reasons she'd liked Jane Eyre at first was because she'd thought God hated her, too; but then when Jane went to work for Mr. Rochester, Abby knew what was coming and decided God didn't hate Jane at all; he was just "trying" her.
Like Job. Her aunt made her go to church school where Abby had to sit and listen to the minister talk about Job and his three Comforters with crazy names. She'd just sat there thinking about Job, wondering why he didn't get off his dung heap and beat the Comforters up. After she'd said this and a few other things in church school, her aunt had told her she didn't have to go back.
Abby lowered her head, thinking about Aunt Ann, trying to feel bad about her. But she couldn't, and her mind wandered off to Stranger again. Stranger had been trailing her and Tim, straggling after them, exploring what was left of the snowbank against the far wall over there, and had got way behind.
He was out there, somewhere.
And here she was with a crazy person with a gun, the Gun, the same Gun that had killed her aunt, she was sure.
And here she was with nothing. Only her crook, which she would gladly beat the Gun to death with, smash his brains all over the moor; Ethel's dog, a heeler that she would gladly signal to rip the heels of the Gun to shreds, and then all the rest of him. But her head drooped, her fisted hands pressed her temples, and she knew neither of those weapons could get close enough to save her.
Something glimmered in her mind and she slowly raised her head and tented her hand over her eyes, squinting way off across the moor.
Sheep.
Where in heaven's name were they all?
The Hall was virtually deserted except for Melrose and the staff, and with the exception of Ruby, they were in their rooms, Mrs. Braithwaite having decided she could be as ill as Cook, as long as she had the poor drudge Ruby Cuff to see to getting a platter of cold chicken and cheese and salad on the luncheon table.
And following luncheon, the guests had scattered like buckshot; Mrs. Braithwaite's cooking and murder had that effect on one, Melrose supposed. It made no difference that Superintendent Sanderson had given instructions that they were all to keep themselves available for questioning. The constable who had been left behind (in his orphaned, custodial position by the door) had been removed in the morning -with some help from Ellen and her BMW. The Weavers Hall inmates seemed to breathe easier.
Dinner the previous evening had consisted of some sort of stewed chicken and mushy peas and overboiled potatoes. Today's lunch had been a drier version of the dinner.
Major Poges had tossed in the towel-or the napkin-and announced that he refused to eat another meal until Cook was up and about and said he would dine at the White Lion, would anyone care to join him? Not even the Princess cared to; she had a vicious migraine and retired to her "rooms." She always made her part of Weavers Hall sound like a floor of some splendid, if decaying, Venetian palace whose facade Melrose could imagine reflected in the night-lit shimmering waters of the Grand Canal. Vivian was always gondolaing by in these fantasies. He could see Vivian's latest creation from some couture house as clearly as he could imagine the Princess's room strewn about with silk and bombazine, printed velvets and brocades.
Ramona Braine, throughout the meal, had remained rigidly silent, checking her turquoise watch every ten minutes, thinking, from her expression, of their ruined holiday to Cumbria and her meeting with the Emperor Hadrian- dashed now because his specter had already been hanging about there (it being well past noon), come and gone as specters do. Melrose's attempt to solace her with the suggestion that "perhaps next year" was met with a furious glance that removed him completely from the provenance of the spirit world.
Only Malcolm was making the most of things. He had exhausted the topic of the murder of "the landlady" and been chillingly silenced by George Poges. Thus what he saw as the bloody corpse was transplanted by a long description of the bloody chickens he had watched Ruby throttle and then chain-saw to death (to hear him talk). The remnants now lay coldly on the platter before them; Malcolm described this slaughter with all of the relish of Agamemnon's father, Atreus, serving up the fatal pie to his brother that contained Thyestes' children. What was impressive about the Greeks was that they never forgot anything, never let a slur pass, never let a gauntlet drop without reprisals. For family feeling, they could teach the Mafia a thing or two. The Greeks reminded him of Commander Macalvie.
Melrose pushed the pale chicken piece about his plate and took a bite of cold potato and thought of Agamemnon murdered by Aegisthus and Clytemnestra. Next generation: Orestes and Electra. Yes, it went on forever. Revenge really turned their cranks (as Ellen would probably say).
He was thinking of this as he stared out of the window at dusk. He frowned. Where in hell was Ellen, anyway? After breakfast she and her bike had skittered down the drive, spitting up shale and rocks on her way to some Brontë research revel, this time in Wycoller. That had been nearly twelve hours ago.
He walked over to the fireplace, kicked at the barely burning log, looked at his reflection in the gilt mirror and found it less than inspiring. And where was Abby? He'd been checking his watch as often as had Ramona Braine and was looking through the window as if the specter might appear in its shredded graveclothes and beckon him to the pile of rocks.
Abby had been in the barn after breakfast and he hadn't seen her since. His appearance hadn't resulted in anything but her playing her Elvis record louder and stomping round the byre to medicate her cow.
He had decided to ask Ruby to fix Abby's tea, and been told, when he wandered into the kitchen that it'd do no good; Abby always did her own tea just the way she liked it.
"But she must at least come to the main house for supplies. " Even Admiral Byrd had to get those, though Melrose had forgotten how.
"She be all right, sir; we never worry about the lass."
He thought this so peculiar that in his abstraction he picked up a tea towel and began to wipe a platter. Ruby was doing the washing-up from their earlier meal and wasn't happy about the extra work. Her thick brows were working toward the center like burrowing moles. Clearly, she felt put upon, what with both Cook and Mrs. Braithwaite having fled the scene.
She told Melrose he needn't do the drying, but she was obviously pleased that a guest was doing scullery work and taking the load off her narrow shoulders.
Indeed, no one (including himself) had paid any more attention to Ruby Cuff than one would a lamp or a chair. He put the platter by and chose something smaller-a teacup. Police had asked Ruby a few rudimentary questions, but perhaps because Mrs. Braithwaite was clearly the head of the staff and had been there the longest, Ruby had been given short shrift. Ruby had that straight-up-and-down, tightly laced and buttonhooked look that made it hard to tell if she were twenty or forty. Had she been a beauty-like the Princess-this ageless limbo would have served her well.
"Ruby, how long have you been employed by Miss Denholme?"
"Near ten year, sir." This seemed to please her. "You needn't dry this," she said, holding up a big roasting pan.
Melrose had no intention of doing so as he watched her place it on the rack.
"But then you must have known Miss Denholme quite well."
She looked less pleased at having to admit she didn't. "You needn't try getting that bit of stain out of the egg cup. The Princess stuffed out a cigarette in it. It's the Major's."
"I take it that's why she did it." The egg cup had stubby legs and blue-dotted shoes. He frowned at it.
The smile did nothing to light up her plain features. "Cats and dogs they are."
"I expect police asked you about your relationship with Miss Denholme?" He redried the egg cup by way of avoiding the cutlery and especially the heavy skillet.
"Well, they asked how long I been here and did I know anyone'd got anything against her."
"Of course, there wouldn't be: I mean, no one you knew of?"
Since he'd appeared to have answered his own question, she saw no reason to answer it again and just kept on running a rag around a dented kettle.
Melrose sighed and picked up another egg cup. It had shoes, too, yellow ones. He had a vision of egg cups, hundreds of them, marching down Oxford Street. Blinking it away, he wondered how Jury got them to talk-the suspects, the witnesses, the children, dogs, cats. Grass, trees… Don't be absurd; you're just jealous. "Did Miss Taylor happen to mention when she'd be back?" Melrose hadn't meant to give voice to this speculation; it would throw him off target.
"No, sir." Ruby wiped a strand of hair back from her forehead. "She's a strange one, ain't she? Do they all dress like that in New York City?"
"Yes." He certainly had better not get into defending Ellen Taylor or her clothes or he'd never get anything out of Ruby. He gave the shoes another shine and watched Ruby bailing the water out of the plastic tub. Then, after she'd plucked another tea towel from a drawer and reached for the skillet, he beat her to it. That's what Jury would do. He'd have done all the washing up. "No, Ruby, you've been working too hard. Just have a rest." The skillet seemed to weigh a ton. Had he been in charge of a kitchen he'd have thrown all the heavy stuff straight out and used those plastic disposable things.
Ruby beamed-if the expression could be called that on her pudding face-and let out a martyred sigh and announced as how she needed a sit-down.
She made herself a mug of tea from the low-boiling kettle on the hob and took a rocking chair by the fire where she sipped and was silent.
"Well, I certainly admire you, Ruby. You," (a slight emphasis here) "don't crumble in a crisis." No response but a self-satisfied little smile and a few more sighs. Martyrdom sat well on the maid. "A horrible thing to happen," Melrose went on. "Horrible. And on the moor. One wouldn't expect something like that out there."
She shrugged. "Moor's as good a place as any. Better. No one about to see him do it."
Him? He had set down the half-dried skillet and was now half-drying the pot. "You think it was a man?"
With a slightly incredulous stare, she said, "Well, it warn't no woman to do a thing like that."
"You mean a woman wouldn't? But Mrs. Healey…" He tossed down the tea towel, ignoring the cutlery.
"Well, I didn't mean that." She shook her head. "Mrs. Healey doing that…" She shook her head in wonder. "That was a surprise. I don't know her, mind you, not to talk to. She is a cool one. Though she did like Abby. Always bringing her things, she was."
Melrose came over to stand by the fireplace. "You say that was surprising as if you weren't especially surprised by Miss Denholme's murder. And you said you didn't mean 'that'- that a woman mightn't have done it. What did you mean?"
Resolutely, Ruby clamped her lips like a penurious old lady snapping her purse shut.
He oughtn't to have been so direct. Now her eyes were beginning to close. "You know, it's rather odd Miss Denholme never married. She certainly was an attractive woman." Ruby's eyes opened, studying him carefully. "As a matter of fact,"-he laughed artificially-"she had a bit of the, ah… well, no speaking ill of the dead and that sort of thing." His smile glittered, he hoped, like his green eyes. They had at least been said to glitter by those who didn't compare them with scarab beetles.
"Meaning her ways with men?" Ruby's smile was thin and a little mean. "Well, there was plenty of them to dance attendance."
At last his efforts were paying off. "Around here?" He laughed again. "It's a bit of a wasteland for romance, isn't it?"
"I never said romance. I do the rooms, you know."
With that elliptical statement and a crimped, probably jealous little smile, she was off for her own lie-down.
Ruby Cuff had a prurient mind, thank God. Ann Denholme had not apparently drawn the line at her own guests.
And who else? Melrose was wondering now, as he looked fretfully out of the front room window and yet again checked his watch. Nearly nine o'clock and no Ellen. No Abby, either. He'd just been down to the barn three times after his talk with Ruby and no sign of her.
He settled down with a large brandy to think, trying to console himself with the notion that Abby was totally unpredictable and was out with Stranger digging out sheep, or something.
Except no more snow had fallen.
Indeed, it had been melting. But it must be sheep.
A blind cast.
Abby lowered her head on her folded arms and wished she'd paid more attention to Mr. Nelligan. A blind cast had to be the hardest thing to do and she didn't even know where Stranger was.
Tim nosed at her hair and whimpered. Abby raised her head and looked squarely into the eyes of this dog she'd always thought of as a lazy layabout, although she knew it was Ethel's fault. Ethel never tried to train him, no wonder. The only commands he'd ever heard he'd got came from Abby-
So it might be possible, even a blind cast. Right now, looking into Tim's sparkling eyes, she was willing enough to swallow all the tales of Babylon, Summertime, and impeccable breeding. Abby curled her fingers in Tim's coat and tried to bore, mentally, into his mind. Sheer concentration was the trick. She'd been at a lot of sheepdog trials and she'd seen what those dogs could do. She had seen the best of them head off a mob of sheep without getting a single command.
If Tim had all that royal blood in him, even if he hadn't been a working dog since Ethel got her little white uncallused hands on him, still, blood was blood and you didn't forget how to do what you'd been born to do. The Queen of England would never forget how to be a queen; it was like bicycle riding.
The night had grown colder, the moon surrounded by mist, the stone walls insurmountable. Her mouth was frozen more with fear than cold, her waterproof crusty with rime, her hair straggly-wet with mist.
But she was not going to be like Jane Eyre's friend Helen and go round and round in a ring in sopping rain and soppy obedience to her torturers, a saint among devils.
Stranger. Well, she was going to believe he was out there waiting for a signal. Way off, the sheep were dotted about the hillside. It was more difficult now, the moon having gone misty, to see them, how distant, how far-flung. Mr. Nelligan, despite his habits, never seemed to lose one and he had over a hundred and fifty… It seemed an impossible task; her heart hammered.
Then she heard-this time a little closer-the sort of rock-chinking noise someone might make scaling a wall. She turned slowly in her hideout and raised her eyes to see, over the shooting butt, a black mass slowly rising above the dry-stone.
Abby dropped her eyes, turned back to stare at Tim, the energy that had stoked her rage now massed like a fiery ball into sheer concentration. She would move Tim out to the right where he'd have at least the protection of a white backdrop, what was left of the bank of snow against the long hedgerow.
Very slowly and softly she said to Tim, "Away to me."
Tim jerked up, turned, and streaked toward the snowy rise where he turned right again and ran like a white projectile to the far moorland.
Abby huddled down. She didn't think the Gun would waste a cartridge (and also give away his or her own position) by shooting at a fleeing dog.
Thus the crack of the rifle shot totally disoriented her for a second; her mind whirled with the explosion of it; a terrifying noise that could have blown up every living thing on the moor, could have blown up the moors themselves. She squeezed her eyes shut.
Yet one part of her mind was still and told her to take advantage of the second's aftermath of that shot. With her eyes still shut, she stuck her fingers in the corners of her mouth and whistled. It was so piercing that she knew it would carry as far as the rim of the hill, way off.
Then it was quiet. Abby opened her eyes to see that Tim was still streaking toward the far fields.
The Gun had missed.
The Gun was a fool and Abby, in her excitement, was almost getting up to shout it out, to tell whoever it was: You missed, you missed, screw you, you bloody, stupid sleazeball. Sleazeball was one of Ellen's best words.
Everything was quiet now.
Tim was alive; she was alive; the moors remained.
Melrose moved the Braine woman's lap desk, still with cards outspread, and slouched down in the deep armchair that she had staked out as her territory.
He had the Tarot and Malcolm's portable stereo for company. The Magician stared up at him; the stereo squawked lightly and indecipherably with one of Malcolm's oo-ah-oh-oh-ohteeny-bopping tunes. He reached over and pushed the stop/eject button and looked over the several tapes to see who this brain-curdling group was. BROS. The picture in the empty plastic box showed four very young men who looked like they'd just graduated from the Beavers. He found the Lou Reed tape and slotted that in, turned up the volume, and leaned back to think.
Caroline says-
while biting her lip
Melrose had to admit to a fascination with Caroline's chronicle, with her drugged-out, crazy, wasted life. All of the songs were about Caroline, he was certain, though her name came up in only two. Caroline and her lover or husband and their marriage made in hell.
it's so cold in A-las-ka
it's so cold in A-las-ka
Endless snowy wastes. Melrose got up and went to the window again and saw the moon cast an ambient light across the misty courtyard. Where could the girl be but on the moors? Suddenly, he thought of Mr. Nelligan and relief flooded him for a few moments. Abby was probably sitting in Mr. Nelligan's van warming herself with a cup of cocoa at the very moment Caroline was being beaten.
But he didn't really believe it and walked morosely back to the armchair. Absently, he rolled the brandy around the balloon glass and thought about Ann Denholme. Ann Denholme sitting on his bed. Ruby's comments. The persistent beat of the most depressing of the songs,
they're taking her children away
because they said she was not a good mother
A relentless dirge of guitar chords. It mimicked the repetitive, meaningless sexual encounters of Caroline-army officers, incest, she drew the line at nothing. He half-smiled thinking of Major George Poges. But even given Ruby's hints of Ann Denholme's promiscuity, Melrose couldn't imagine her trying it out on Poges.
miserable rotten slut couldn't
turn anyone away
Up again, he paced round the room. He stopped, went out into the hall, looked at the boots lined up there, and noticed the Princess's ermine-lined ones were missing. Perhaps she'd decided to dine with Poges after all.
What was a woman like that, with her printed velvets and figured satins, her Worths and Lady Duff Gordons… what was she doing here?
He returned to the front room and the fireplace and leaned his head down on his folded arms. Police. Should he call them. About what? No one else was in the slightest way concerned that Abby hadn't eaten her tea. He sighed and paced.
Charles Citrine. Charles Citrine was a regular visitor to Weavers Hall… It was ridiculous to jump to such a conclusion. He knew the man only through that brief meeting. Still.
Ann Denholme had got a phone call; she'd left and been walking in the direction of that house. When he'd stopped by on his way from Harrogate, had he seen that cloaked figure against the sky taking the same route?
But if Charles Citrine had rung up, if he were the one waiting on the moor, why? Or one of the others in that household-Nell Healey or her aunt. Had Charles Citrine thought to marry Ann Denholme? Inheritance couldn't be a motive. Had the sister, Rena, hope of her brother's money? According to Jury they didn't get on. And Nell Healey was far richer than her father. If not money, what?
Knowledge? Blackmail?
since she lost her daughterit's
her eyes that fill with water
That scrap of conversation during breakfast. How Ann Denholme had gone to tend her ill and pregnant sister because the doctor feared another miscarriage.
The Princess had said Ann Denholme hadn't been here when she'd made her first visit to Weavers Hall. That had been eleven years ago. Doesn't come on as the motherly type, not to me, George Poges had added. Why'd she take over the child? Doesn't seem to care much about her….
because of the things that
she did in the streets and
He heard the piercing sound from down there where she was. She hadn't come with the sound. He knew what it meant but he was used to seeing her, her being there behind the sound, aiming the crook or making the clicking and snapping noises or, sometimes, only her eyes telling him what to do. Or trying to. She wasn't that good, but she was small, too, like most of the sounds she made. She couldn't know everything.
What he did know was danger and that there was too much of it in that cracking noise, the air splitting above his head. He could sniff it like blood. Blood everywhere on the snow.
He had not run away. He had run farther, higher, to watch and wait.
He looked sharp to one side then to the other, his nose for the heady smell of the Smokes. They were standing or moving silently down on the moor and round the banky hillside. More were on the other side and he'd have to get behind them and-
He froze. An onrush of white over there was making for the Smokes and running faster than he believed it ever could. It was the Deadheel, the one that never moved from the mat in front of the fire.
That one could run?
The Deadheel could move that fast? But if she'd sent it on a long outrun, she wanted him to work with it.
His brief howl was not pain, not Hello. It was Oh no, oh no, oh no and he pulled it back into his throat.
Oh, no.
In a straight line from his point to its point, he looked at the Starer and panted from the long outrun toward the Clouds. He'd watched the Starer sometimes freeze a cloud with his starey eyes and go right on until he'd frozen himself, as if he was staring at his own eyes.
It wasn't the best way to get the Clouds to obey. You had to get your teeth into them.
But they would have to do this together. Oh, no.
He started climbing the hill and so did the Deadheel. A stumbling hill of banks where the Smokes ranged wide, a hill of broken shards that made walking hard, and running awful. As he ran, some of the Smokes turned and watched.
They knew; they always knew.
Wide apart from the Starer, he'd reached the other side at the same time. He looked over at the Starer through the Clouds and caught a signal. They dashed in opposite ways.
He would have to rough them; it was better to hurl himself against several than to hang on to just one.
In widening arcs they ran until he and the Starer were behind the Clouds.
Carefully, Abby dragged at the bright yellow waterproof; it was blue on the inside, darker.
In the middle of getting out of one sleeve as she watched the moor and the hillside, she saw them.
A line of sheep straight across the edge of the bluff, like a platoon. Like that Zulu movie with the native tribe suddenly appearing. Her mouth had dropped open then. She was breathless, now.
She forgot everything-the cold, the danger-for she had never seen such a sight in her life.
The veiled moon rode above a tall black pillar of pine and looked like the streetlamp in the Empire of Light.
Ellen swung off the BMW, grabbed up the white containers from a basket she'd attached to it, and held them aloft. "You like Chinese? Sweet-and-sour pork? Lo Mein noodles-?"
"No. Abby's missing."
Ellen dropped her arms. "Missing? What d'ya mean missing?" Her voice was ferocious. Panther-black, she approached him.
"Missing! Disappeared! Gone."
She stopped then and looked totally confused.
"I called Superintendent Jury-"
"You expected him to find Abby in London? You think she walked to London?"
"Shut up. I rang up the Keighley police."
"Police. Wonderful. It takes them an hour just to get their bikes going." Enraged, she flung out her arm.
"This isn't New York," he yelled as the white cardboard box sailed away, noodles cascading, falling and lying in slimy drips on the stones. She took furious aim and the pork followed, this container landing inside the mesh wire of the hen yard. He heard rustles, squawks and in a moment saw flapping wings. He turned and walked toward his Bentley, cold as hoarfrost except for the anger. Let her have her tantrum, dammit.
"Where're you going?" she yelled at his back.
As he slid onto the seat, he yelled back: "To look for her, of course." He slammed the door.
She'd followed him, standing now hands on hips gazing from boot to wing of the Bentley, shaking her head. "Terrific."
"Go eat Chinese with the chickens." Melrose turned the key. The engine quietly turned over and clicked into a purr.
"Beautiful. Brilliant. Across the moors in a Bentley!" Ellen stretched out her arms and flung the words into the night, "It's so you!"
"Go away." He was backing out slowly and taking her with him because she'd clamped her hands on the window-sill. "Away, away! You're an encumbrance!" But he jammed down on the brake.
"Listen, Wonderearl," she said, her voice dangerously low, "you will get about forty feet in this slab. And if the police ever doget here, who's to welcome them while you're crashing around in your Batman car?"
"Malcolm. Get your hands off." Melrose tried to push them. They were steel clamps. He nodded up toward the dully lit window. Malcolm waved furiously.
She squinched her eyes nearly shut, looking up. "You've got to be kidding!"
"And you." Since she'd released her grip, he backed up, spitting gravel.
Ellen hurled herself at the car and he hit the brake again. She yanked the door open, grabbed his arm, and jostled Melrose away from the wheel.
"Get your damned hands offme!"
She didn't.
He tripped on a stone, nearly went down, thinking if he'd fallen she'd simply have grabbed his collar and dragged him. Now she was shoving him onto the long, leather seat of the BMW. As she hopped on in front, he was pushed onto the metal fender. The noise of the bike's engine was shattering. As the bike shot away from the Hall, Melrose had to grab for her waist. He glanced back and saw Malcolm waving some idiot flag and could have sworn the chickens had rushed up in a long line and were beating their wings in applause.
The bike had slogged and sloshed down a green lane, come out on the Oakworth Road, then found an opening in a rotten wooden fence and they were now bucking along across the frozen field.
Melrose raised his voice, which was carried away by the wind anyway, and asked, "Do you know where you're going?"
"No." The word wailed in the onrushing wind.
"Keighley Moor." He took one arm from her waist and pointed west: "That way."
Ellen bumped across a stream and whipped the bike toward the west.
The bitter wind whipped his jacket back and he knew he would be in hospital straightaway. Still, he had to admit the race through the cold moist air, his arms hugging Ellen's waist, was exhilarating.
At least until he saw the low stone wall rushing toward them.
He saw the stone wall, knew the Smokes wouldn't want to move when they got there, knew he could fly over it, but they could only go through the rubble. The leader would try to hold and then to bolt.
A rush of Smokes just in front was already dithering and moving off to the left. He circled out to the left, corkscrewing to confuse them, and he got them back on course. Smokes could run. And Smokes were smart.
Something told him he shouldn't be tasting this thick salty stuff but if the Cloud wouldn't move, the others near would stop, too. Charge the whole lot. Waste of time. He rounded on the big, stubborn one, caught its heel, clamped down. The Cloud made its dumb angry noise, but it moved back toward the mob and the others followed. He made a quick zigzag line in front of his part of the mob, showing them Teeth. Teeth, Teeth, Teeth, Teeth. Then back to his position, running slightly behind them. He looked over at the Starer dashing toward a Cloud way on the other side. The Starer only had Eyes. Eyes.
He was right. The Smokes were nearly at the wall. Black-wet, the wall ran like a river across the moor. He couldn't see the place where he knew she was, since he'd left the hilltop, but he knew she was only a clear field away on the other side of this wall. The place where she'd gone with the one in big boots and a gun who seemed to be trying to shoot the sky down. Never got it, though.
He was right; he would have to use a powerful eye on the old one, the leader. It was the leader who'd get the other Smokes through and over.
Lowering his tail, he crouched as if he had a saddle on his back, his belly nearly touching the ground.
He held the old Smoke's eye for a long time. He could have stayed here the night, but he had to get them moving. The Smoke stared back, then broke the look and started moving a little to the right, then a little to the left, but he couldn't break the look.
He moved in on it.
Deadheel was running a quarter-moon course at the rear of the mob. Good.
The mob was crowding at the wall but the old Smoke wouldn't move.
He couldn't waste time, because she was in danger. He had no choice.
He shuddered. He'd have to bark.
The old Smoke crashed through the opening and the rest went spilling after it.
It was all Abby could do to keep down because once again she couldn't believe it had worked. Worked this far, anyway.
Mr. Nelligan's sheep had been moved down the rocky hillside faster than she could believe possible. That was a hard drive. Hours, it should have taken.
Now they were cascading through the wall as if the wall were nearly invisible, no more than veils of smoke, mist, and clouds.
Again, Abby wanted to stand up and cheer and yell at this mob running toward her, driven by Stranger and Tim. The Gun would not be able to shoot, load up and shoot again and again, even if it were stupid enough to try picking off a hundred and twenty sheep.
But she did at least rise up on her knees and clasp her hands beneath her chin in a prayerful pose.
Looking up at the heavens, she thought, Oh, why not? and started to give thanks to Jane's, Helen's, and Charlotte's God. But then she lowered her fisted hands to her hips, and called up,
"It was my idea!"
She dropped back, trying to fold herself like an accordion, arms tight round her legs, but still watching the sheep running straight at her-
Oh, no!
The bike roared on through the underpinning of ground mist, nearly spilling Melrose as Ellen jumped a frozen stream as if it were an obstacle in a steeplechase.
They had zigzagged between drystone walls searching for the one Melrose remembered. Once the bike had skidded in loose dirt and toppled them both by a melting snowbank. She drove the BMW in ever-widening circles and through corkscrew turns at the ends of packed-down lanes.
After the second spill that had Ellen aiming mild obscenities at the BMW that seemed to sputter and grind in some sort of metallic rhythm, Melrose tried to work a boulder out of his shoe and mud off his jacket. Ellen had fanned out the ordnance map she used for her Brontë turns, paying him little attention, holding the map in front of her headlamp as she revved the engine, dying to get going again.
When Melrose had hoisted himself behind her, she tossed the map back at him and came down so hard on the pedal the bike bucked around now like an unbroken horse.
He took time out from worrying over Abby to remind himself that in spite of that incredible look of purpose, that intensity of eye, that frost that sparkled her hair, she was intractable, as grimy as his gardener, and probably in flagrante delicto with her BMW.
"Over there!" Melrose yelled, seeing the distant light of Nelligan's gypsy caravan.
"Where?"
"Straight on. Run along that wall-"
It came out as a wail, lost, but she careened the bike down the slope of the hill and another onrush of wind smacked him in the face.
Melrose unlocked his eyes to look across her shoulder as best he could. "Down there," he shouted, seeing the opening in the wall. His hand shading his eyes, he saw the hulk of what he thought might be a dead sheep until it moved sluggishly. "Don't hit that-"
She didn't. They didn't sail through the opening as much as they didover it. He was half-turned to look back through the rubble at the hindquarters of the moonlighting sheep and was, therefore, totally unprepared for the sudden braking of the bike.
Ellen said, "What the hell-" as the BMW careened into a whirling dervish-dance, tossing Melrose into the rocky furze. "-is that?" she added, bringing the bike out of its spin and stopping with a thud. Her black-clad arm pointed ahead. She rose from the bike, using the pedals like stirrups.
Melrose struggled up from the broken rocks and rime-hard heather to inspect his ripped up trouser leg and the additional damage done to his sleeve, which was hanging by little more than threads.
"Well, look!" Ellen called back at him.
"Sheep! Don't you know sheep when you see them? I think my ankle's broken."
Her voice was high and frenzied now. "I think I'll go back to Queens."
Melrose dragged himself onto the BMW, which was clearly raring to go, and said, "Stop complaining. Go!" And he slapped the fender.
Less than a minute later, the BMW slid to a stop a few feet from the herd, and Melrose thought he'd swung free of it until his bootlace caught in the wheel spokes, landing him facedown.
"Hell's bells," he mumbled, reaching up to wipe away what felt like a lacework of blood. Ellen, naturally, had managed to land on her feet and was waving him furiously on.
To where? There were sheep everywhere, two hundred or so, he judged, as he hobbled along. There was Ethel's dog, Tim, throwing himself at one of them that was about to bolt. The Kuvasc's teeth were clamped in the thick wool of the leg. He ran, negligent of the ankle that was killing him, round to the other side, where Ellen looped back and forth, running like a border collie, only aimlessly.
Melrose saw Stranger standing taut as a bow, giving an old ewe the eye. Rising from the bleats and the awful smell of wet wool came a voice from in there somewhere.
"Get me out of here!"
The voice was familiar, both in sound and tone. Demanding, irascible.
"It's her, it's Abby!" Ellen was jumping up and down trying to get a view.
In absolute wonderment, Melrose worked his way to the back of the low wall. A dozen sheep were standing in some sort of hypnotic trance and Melrose muscled them out of the way to get to the wall, where he reached over, dragged Abby up on her feet, and bounced her over the backs of the sheep.
She was a mess, standing there black in both body and mind, saying to Melrose, "I could have died out here. And Stranger's foot's bleeding… give me a piece of your shirt."
"I hardly have any left," said Melrose, ripping a strip from the shredded end. "Here!"
Abby reached down and bound up Stranger's foot as best she could. Then she rose, wheeled away from them, beating the mud and bits of grit from her waterproof and shawl. As both of them stood there staring from her to the sheep, she wheeled round again, saying: "Oh, leave them, just leave them," as if the bumping, bleating mob were a big load of dirty dishes. "It's Mr. Nelligan's sheep; he'll find them and maybe it'll teach him a lesson."
Ellen pulled her bike upright and rolled it beside her, as Abby lost no time straightening both of them out on who and whatsaved whom in this rescue mission. She began with herself, went on in great detail about Stranger and Tim, and then praised the sheep for their part. Man did not come into it.
They walked on, followed at a distance by the two tired dogs, while Melrose said he'd go to Harrogate before he'd go back to Weavers Hall if it meant hurtles through fiery hoops, dives across abysses, plummets through the air with Ellen as driver.
"I'd sooner crawl," he announced. "You must be the world's worst."
Just then they heard the distant sputter of engines and saw, across the far field, ghostly lights bobbing, appearing, disappearing as incline and uprise dictated. There were at least three, possibly four motorcycles scattered round the moor.
"Police!" exclaimed Melrose, wanting to tear the ragged shirt from his body and wave it like someone marooned. "Police! At least, thank God, I can get a ride back with someone who knows how-"
The crash was deafening, splintering. That was to the left; off to the right he saw what looked like a black shape wheeling in the air, coming down with a ground-shaking thud.
A little flame darted up from the match Ellen was using to light her cigarette, which she then casually smoked, leaning against her BMW, looking at him with a question stamped on her grimy face. She shrugged. "Two outta three."
Melrose shrugged his shoulders and his sleeve fell off.
Thus they trudged on beneath the icy moon, fragments of argument trailing back to the dogs as the three up front got farther away…
"Three of us? On that?" Melrose's question was lost in the distance.
"… the basket," Ellen shouted.
"… not me. I'm not sitting…" Abby's voice proclaimed.
"I'll sit in the basket." Melrose limped along.
Stranger and Tim trotted on behind them on bloody feet and lame legs, looking longingly behind them at the mob of sheep who now were dispersing, searching out browse in slightly new territory.
They turned more or less nose-to-nose, looking at one another, both yawning and shaking themselves.
The ways of sheep were difficult, sometimes inscrutable.
The ways of man, impossible.