It was a dreadful shock when I went down to breakfast this morning and found Rosalind rallying Alan Creighton about his midnight raid on the larder. It seems Cook had accused Jane Jenkins of stealing (how I wish I could have seen that! I knew they didn’t get on), and Alan confessed. Rosalind thought it a great joke, but I could not join in; I was in such a quake I might be found out, too. Rosalind is the dearest sister, but she has always been the least bit stuffy. She would be shocked to hear that I was a member of the party, and, at one moment, when Alan was laughing and he looked at me, I thought he might tell.
Of course, he did not. Breakfast passed off well enough with all the bantering—even Philip laughed—and then I was left with Rosalind to sit in the morning room. Very flat. I suggested a ride, but she put me off. And, when I declared she looked ill again, she could not deny it. If she had not looked so wretched, I would have questioned her right then. I did say it seemed odd she should be so ill in Northumberland when she never was so before. I believe she began to tell me about Alan to keep me from going on.
He is Philip’s only close relative, as Philip is his, which seems unusual. How did all the others come to die? Well, I know, of course, that Philip’s father was an invalid for years, and his mother was carried off by a fever when he was only six. But now I find that his aunt and uncle (the Creightons) were lost at sea three years ago, and there is no one else. Philip grew up alone with the servants, Rosalind said, because his father seldom ventured downstairs before his death. This made my blood run cold! Imagine having Forbes and Jenkins as your childhood companions? I could almost pity him if it weren’t for Rosalind. But then when I think how strange he must be, and also my sister’s husband, I am filled with dismay.
In the novel I am reading now, The Black Abbot, the heroine has no family left. But that is because the abbot has been killing them one by one to get them out of the way so that he may have her in his power. There is only her old nanny left at present, and I am fairly certain she is being poisoned. Perhaps Forbes poisoned Philip’s parents? It is all very well to say it was a fever, but what if it was brought on by some unknown Oriental drug? And mayn’t he have kept the old baron a virtual prisoner in his room? What if he wasn’t an invalid at all? But I have to admit I cannot see how Forbes could have arranged for Alan Creighton’s parents to be shipwrecked.
There is no denying that Forbes gives one shivers, and he has had charge of Philip all the times he was not at school. This must explain a great deal.
At any rate, Philip and Alan have never been close because Philip is six years older, and then Alan joined the army when he was nineteen and went to fight the French. They really only began to be acquainted when the Creightons were drowned, but then Alan had to go back to Spain. And he has been a year in London without visiting. I think perhaps he doesn’t like Philip either.
It is rather pleasant to have him for an ally. He must know all sorts of things I do not and will be able to help me should anything dreadful happen. He is not much like Papa or James in appearance or behavior. In fact, I have just realized that this is my first opportunity to become well acquainted with any man outside my family (a cousin of my sister’s husband hardly counts as family), which it is vital for me to do, if I am to be an author. I must know all sorts of things that most girls don’t. Mama is quite wrong to say that it will come with time, for how can it if I am never allowed to go about or speak to people who have not been introduced?
I shall study Alan’s character to learn what I may about soldiers, and I shall ask him about his experiences in the war. I’m sure he will be glad to have an audience.
* * *
Tomorrow we are to have an outing! Rosalind announced it at dinner, while Philip positively scowled at her. We are to drive down the coast a little and see the ruins of Dunstanburgh Castle, with a luncheon packed for us and a fire to make tea. This is something like!
* * *
I must record the loathsome thing that happened to me when I returned to my room to go to bed tonight. We had music again, and I was quite cheerful when I came up with my candle and began to undress. I had put on my night clothes and was brushing my hair (Jane Jenkins does not come to me at night, thankfully), when I noticed something odd about my bed. The coverlet was turned down, as usual, but there was a black hat or shawl on the pillow (this is what I thought). I went to look, and I discovered a great dead crow, its neck broken and its wings all twisted and spread, lying there. I have never been so shocked in my life. I am certain I had what one of my old governesses used to call a spasm, for my heart seemed to turn over in my chest, and my throat closed up until I thought I would choke. I wanted to scream, but I couldn’t. (Of course, I was very glad later that I had not disgraced myself.) Finally, I made my legs move and ran out into the corridor.
Philip was standing just outside the door, talking to Forbes! They were huddled together, plotting. I could see that perfectly plainly. Philip was frowning, and Forbes was distinctly uneasy. They jumped when I threw open the door, and Philip said, “What the devil?” It was so interesting I nearly forgot the crow.
They pretended to be making the evening rounds of the house, but why should Philip do that? I thought then, and I believe now, that he was lurking, waiting for me to find his horrid crow and shriek. He must have told Forbes to put it there. Yesterday he scolded me soundly for looking into an old shed on the moor, claiming he was worried for my safety. But why should he be?
When I showed him the crow, he went white with guilt. Forbes took it by the feet and tried to hurry away. But I would not let them go without asking who might have put such a thing on my pillow. They could not answer that! “Well,” I said, “if this is someone’s idea of a joke, I find it disgusting. If it is intended to frighten me, it didn’t!” I stared directly at Philip, and I could see he was shaken. He looked as if he would have liked to speak, but had not the courage. I was immediately glad I had put a bold face on things, even though I was quaking inside! For I shall not stop my investigations because of cowardly tricks. However, I mean to keep my bedroom door locked from now on (and I have thrown away that pillow). I wonder what Alan will make of this?
* * *
Well, Jane Jenkins thinks the crow was a Sign. I suppose everyone in the household knows of it by this morning. Alice will probably tell me a ghost left it. Jane said crows are creatures of the devil, and that I have been warned to change my ways and reform. And that, if I do not, I am doomed to endless torment and misery. It is very lowering to hear such things while one’s hair is being arranged. First thing in the morning, too. She left me another tract.