They had not seen Jessica either, so Mr. Dalworth walked along the corridor to her room. It was empty, the bed neatly made, her books and playthings in orderly rows on the table before the fireplace.
Then a worried thought occurred to him. There was a cushioned seat under the bay window on the third floor, the highest view from Easter Hill across the meadows and past Skyhead to the sea, which Jessica called her private tower. And what was worrying Dalworth as he started up the stairs was that Jessica retreated to the tower only when she was in a lonely, withdrawn mood, when she felt a need to wrote poetry, when her normally exuberant spirits were weighed down by a gravity which Dalworth could not completely understand and was helpless to relieve.
The wide, deep embrasure of the bay window formed the shadowed refuge of Jessica’s “tower.” Its leaded windows gave her a world view, an exclusive solitude that complemented and reflected the insights and probings of her own powerful mental visions. It was here that she could see everything, as she could sometimes “see everything” in her mind. Here she watched the lightning, knowing where it would strike. Here she could see the trains enter the valley and wind their way into Ballytone... see unborn foals in her mind-span, foals that would one day charge up Skyhead... see eagles’ nests that would fill the skies with wings in the coming spring. This was her place of strength, as familiar as a chapel to a priest, as beads to a nun. She felt comfortable here with the muted tapestries, the beige cushions, the deep carpetings. They were as familiar as old friends. Jessica’s tower was a place where she felt both the pain and the strength of her gifts most keenly.
Now Jessica was seated there, staring out to the distant sea. Dalworth joined her, put a hand on her shoulder. When she turned, he saw the stain of tears on her cheeks.
“What’s the matter, Jess?”
“It’s Holly, Andrew.”
“What’s the little rascal been up to now?”
“Nothing, Andrew.” He heard the catch in her breath. “She’s dead.”
“Let’s hope you’re wrong this time. You know, that’s a possibility.”
“I’ve been praying I’m wrong, but it’s something more than Holly...”
Dalworth patted her shoulder gently and said, “What do you mean, Jessica?”
“I don’t know,” she said, and shook her head helplessly.
“Holly will cheer you up,” Dalworth said. “I’ll take Flynn and young O’Dell.”
“I’ll wait here for you,” Jessica said.
Parking his Land Rover on the southern slope of Skyhead, Dalworth followed a rough foot-trail down to the beach, his torch cutting an arc of brilliant light through the gathering darkness and the opaque, misting spray churned up by the surging waves.
Flynn had gone on foot to the meadows behind the stables, and Kevin O’Dell had ridden Dalworth’s hunter up to the rim of the woods.
Dalworth followed the shoreline for several hundred yards, picking his way carefully through beds of slippery kelp and feeling the battering force of the winds against his sheep-lined jacket.
Possibly the little terrier had found her way to Angel’s Cove, he was thinking, a favorite spot where they had picnicked on quiet summer afternoons. Perhaps she’d buried chicken bones or some cheese there and was foraging for it when the tides cut her off.
Wrong, he thought, after covering another fifty yards and stopping, the waves foaming around his boots. He knew he wouldn’t make the long hike to Angel’s Cove after all, because in the glare of his flashlight, at the water’s edge, he saw Holly’s furry brown and white body wedged in a natural vise of stone, battered by the waves, blood gleaming bright on her skull and muzzle.
The dog’s body was wet and cold, pathetically small in Dalworth’s hands. As he cradled it in his arms and started back toward Easter Hill, he concluded that the fierce little terrier had probably braved the waves after gulls and been struck by a piece of driftwood spinning about in the powerful currents.
And that’s what Jessica had known, he realized — that the dog was dead. But in his suddenly worried heart, he knew that the child had seen something else.
Chapter Nine
DR. JULIAN HOMEWOOD
PSYCHOMEDICAL GROUP, TRINITY COLLEGE CASE FILE 111
SUBJECT: JESSICA MALLORY
To summarize the past year: I have succeeded in gaining Jessica’s confidence. To summarize the two years prior to the past year: It was not an easy task, not without its up-and-down crises. A tentative conclusion: While a subjective relationship has been achieved, I’m not quite sure that’s for the best. That, however, may be a dysfunctional conclusion.
A friendship does exist between us — among all three of us, for that matter — Dalworth, Miss Jessica and myself. While I have supervised tests, some written and others under lab conditions, we have also enjoyed a number of non-working “social” interludes, such as soccer matches, trips with Andrew Dalworth to horse shows, art auctions and so forth. Naturally and inevitably I have been able to draw further conclusions about Jessica Mallory from these ostensibly social occasions.
For example, a picnic at Skyhead beach. Luncheon packed by Mrs. K. Jessica in a triumphant (almost malicious mood) about the rabbit incident. (In brief: Mrs. Kiernan planned a dish of braised hare for dinner the previous weekend. The usuals expected: Charity Bostwick, the local priest, etc., plus two of Dalworth’s business friends from Paris. At breakfast the day of the dinner, Jessica warned Mrs. K. that the rabbits would not be delivered by Mr. Cobb, the local purveyor of game. Apparently Mrs. K. dismissed this without much tact. We learned later that Mr. Cobb had suffered an accident with his wagon several hours earlier, but Easter Hill didn’t get the news till later in the afternoon and this threw the kitchen staff into a near panic. Instead of braised hare, there was a great scrambling about for substitute items. I sensed that Jessica enjoyed the confusion and Mrs. K.’s discomfit hugely.)
In attempting to analyze this nuance of character, I taped the following exchange with Jessica at the picnic on Skyhead beach:
“Tell me the truth now, Jessica. Why were you pleased that Mrs. K. was so upset?”
“Oh, she just likes to bang pots and pans around to scare Rose and Lily...”
“Don’t give me that, Miss Mallory. The poor woman had planned that special dinner for weeks. She’d even made the wine sauce.”
“Then she shouldn’t have treated me like a child. She should have taken me seriously.”
“But you must understand, Jessica, that what seems so clear to you isn’t always that way to others.”
“I’d better take Andrew a sandwich...”
“You better sit right where you are and listen to me. Never mind Andrew or your big, theatrical stares out to the sea. Talk about banging pots and pans around...”
“But Dr. Julian, I’m so tired of feeling responsible.”
“Jessica, I’ve explained to you that knowing about something in advance doesn’t make you responsible for it.”
“Dr. Julian, I don’t always know what’s going to happen. Don’t you understand that?”
“It’s clear enough. You don’t have to shout about it.”
“Well, it’s not easy not to. I try to stay calm. Things are easier that way. When I’m sad or frightened or angry, everything gets sharper, pushes at me. I don’t always like those colors...”