With bewilderment on her face, she hurried out. I rang for one of the page boys and sent him dashing off to the stream where Osborne and Lene were bathing. They were told to come at once. Then I went up to my room to pack.
I was filled with energy, and hard as steel. I could barely recognise myself. I knew we were going into the last great battle. Unless it was already too late … The Earl was caught between two opposing catastrophes, and I wondered which was the more dangerous — the increasingly sinister spirit or the coldly-calculating twentieth-century assassin. The Knight, Death and the Devil …
Thirty minutes later we were all together in the reception area. I told the others how things stood. Cynthia went deathly pale and burst into tears. Her world was in ruins.
But every detail tallied. She recalled that during the day she had spent at Llandudno her friend had gone out twice in the car alone, once in the morning and once in the late afternoon, leaving her with some acquaintances. They were precisely the times when Eileen had tried to gain admittance to Llanvygan.
We piled into the car, excited and confused, four children left on their own by the grownups to wrestle with Death and the Devil.
“I just need to know where this Caerbryn is,” Osborne announced from behind the steering wheel. “It’s some godforsaken little place up in the mountains.”
Close study of the map ensued. At long last we found both it and the shortest way to get there. Thereafter we drove in silence, awed equally by fear and the magic of speed.
Half an hour later we were in the mountains. Soon we had to slow down. The main road had come to an end and we found ourselves on tracks that had never been intended for cars. We had to consult the map every few minutes.
Meanwhile the morning that had been so friendly had turned dark and threatening.
I would never have believed that in Wales, in Great Britain, there could be such ancient, truly Nordic places, without trace of people or human dwelling. The road was either lined with bald rocks of the most fantastical shapes and sizes, or it led through forests of gigantic trees bearded with moss. But as the view closed in around us we grew steadily more impatient: at last we seemed to be getting somewhere.
Somewhere, at the end of the world, the road came to a halt. The car stopped beside a lake whose waters, in the gloom beneath the mountains, were black as ink. The reeds sighed endlessly, and the trees stretching out their branches were inexpressibly sad.
At the edge of the water sat an old woman. She seemed to have been there since the days of the first Earl. She didn’t even look at us, she just carried on mending her ancient and endless net. Every so often she would toss a pebble into the water.
“Excuse me, but which is the way to Caerbryn?” Osborne asked her.
She looked up but gave no answer. Cynthia put a question to her in Welsh, but again there was no reply. She seemed quite unaware of our presence. Somehow, though we never admitted this to one another, she filled us all with deep foreboding.
“This lake isn’t on the map,” Osborne remarked. “Perhaps it didn’t exist in 1928, when they made it.”
“Or else you’re looking in the wrong place,” Lene said. “We aren’t where you said we were. You’ve lost the way.”
“Then this must be Llyn-Coled. We’ll have to turn back.”
“Oh, Llyn-Coled!” cried Cynthia.
I knew something had struck her, some dark, superstitious thing she didn’t want to name. The same wild superstition raced through me too, adding to my worst apprehensions.
With much difficulty, we turned the car around.
“We’ve lost three quarters of an hour,” Osborne muttered. “But if we turn right here we’ll find a short cut.”
We were driving between two steep cliffs, in almost total darkness, pitching and jolting violently. Suddenly we bounced up out of our seats, almost thrown from the car. An enormous rock had fallen on the road, blocking our way. Turning here was impossible. The passengers had to get out and walk alongside as the car reversed slowly out of the canyon.
It had now started to rain. As a pleasure outing, this would not have been a success.
Then Cynthia’s nerves gave way. She came to a halt in the driving rain, trembling and shaking with the violence of her sobbing.
“You press ahead,” she wept. “Just leave me here. I’ll go back to Llyn-Coled. Leave me, leave me!” And she stamped her feet hysterically.
Osborne and I looked on helplessly, but Lene was an angel of God. With a couple of affectionately crude remarks she got Cynthia back on her emotional feet, and we continued on our way.
At long last we were out of the canyon and back on a proper road. Soon we found ourselves on a relatively friendly plateau, from which we might have found our bearings had the rain not obliterated the view.
Eventually a village appeared in the distance, clinging to the side of a hill.
“That can only be Caerbryn,” said Osborne.
We were again up to full speed, so far as the road would allow, softened as it was by the rain. Then the car decided to follow Cynthia’s example and have a nervous breakdown. It gave an almighty groan and stopped dead in its tracks. Osborne crawled underneath it, and after a while Lene joined him. Snatches of a fierce argument could be heard from beneath the chassis. After fifteen minutes they slithered out again, unrecognisable under their coating of mud.
“I just can’t imagine what could be wrong with it,” said the person who had once been Osborne.
“It doesn’t matter,” the other one stated. “That’s Caerbryn over there. It looks less than two miles. Let’s just walk it. We can leave the car here. It’ll take a genius to steal it.”
We set off on foot. Slowly the details of Caerbryn came into focus. It was a strangely picturesque mountain village. Every cottage was flattened against the precipice; on the summit stood the ruins of a timeless castle, soaking in the rain.
It was three in the afternoon and not one of us had given a thought to lunch. We reached the village by four, drenched to the skin and almost dead with fatigue. But we were finally on inhabited ground. The people could even speak English, and showed us the pretty little cottage where John Mansfield lived.
We knocked for some time before the door opened. The man was very old, but with a fine, handsome face.
“Mr Mansfield?” Osborne enquired.
“Yes, sir,” he replied, eyeing Osborne and Lene with evident surprise.
“Mr Mansfield, you must ignore our alarming appearance. I am Osborne Pendragon, this lady is my sister Cynthia, and these are my friends.”
“Come in, come in,” the old man replied, his face brightening. “I’m sorry there’s no fire for you to dry yourself against, but I’ll make one up. Meanwhile, you must have something to eat. A bit of cheese?”
“That would be excellent,” said Osborne. “But first, where is my uncle?”
“His Lordship isn’t here. He went out, perhaps an hour ago. He didn’t say when he’d be back.”
“Did he say where he was going?”
“No, I’m sorry, he didn’t. A lady came for him in a car, and he went off with her.”
“A lady? What did she look like?”
“Quite tall, reddish-blond hair: very handsome. The sort you must be familiar with in London.”
“Eileen St Claire!” Cynthia exclaimed.
“She didn’t give her name.”
“Mr Mansfield,” I asked, “do you know whether he was expecting her?”
“No, sir, he wasn’t. He was extremely surprised to see her. In fact, he seemed rather shaken. But I couldn’t say … ”
“Where did they go?” Lene asked.
“I don’t know. I’ve really no idea.”
We went outside and held a council of war.