2006 - Wildcat Moon by Babs Horton Read Free Book Online Page B

could hear the rattle of keys or, more likely, the clanking of chains.
    He must be imagining it.
    He blinked, shook his head. When he looked again there was no sign of anyone. It was just his nerves making him jumpy, he was all to pieces.
    He stayed very still, sure that he could hear another noise, someone or something breathing heavily nearby. There was someone hiding in the shadows not far from where he stood.
    The place was alive with ghosts and ghouls and God knows what else.
    A spasm of fear rattled up his backbone.
    He ducked back into the chapel, locked the door with a shaking hand and then backed away.
    Moments later he thought that he heard the sound of someone trying the door…
    Holy Jesus and all the saints of heaven protect me.
    A rat ran across the floor, brushing against his foot.
    Frantic with fear he crossed to the cupboard, slipped his good leg over the wooden panelling and felt for the first step on the narrow staircase. If he could climb down the steps to the beach at least he could hide. He climbed cautiously down, one foot in front of the other…
    He slipped, clutched out wildly at the slimy walls and saved himself.
    He took another step downwards into the dank, salty darkness. And another.
    Then he fell.
    His calliper clattered against rock and for a moment he felt as if he were flying, hurling downwards into the darkness.
    For a fleeting moment he was surrounded by stars and then he felt the water sucking him under.
    Deep, deep icy water.
    Too deep for a boy who couldn’t swim to save his life.
    It was almost pitch black in the woods but old Gwennie didn’t need a light to find her way through. She could navigate her way by the feel of the trees, the gnarled oak and the horse chestnut the outline of the tiny gravestones in the animal graveyard.
    She moved slowly, surely, until she came to the edge of the woods and then she stepped out onto the moonlit lower lawns.
    Killivray House loomed up eerily before her. A light was on downstairs in the drawing room and another upstairs in the nursery.
    She crossed the lawn as quietly as a cat, climbed the steps that led to the rose garden and hurried through. She crept across the top lawn, taking pigeon steps along the terrace as she made her way towards the drawing-room window.
    She stood in the shadows of the old house, watching the huge moon, listening to the roaring of the wind in the trees; the swirling of the leaves across the gravel drive; and the creaking of the ancient eaves in Killivray House.
    Then she peeped through the window.
    Margot Greswode was sitting hunched in a high-backed chair, an empty glass in her hands and her eyes closed, although Gwennie could tell that she was not sleeping.
    It was the first time she’d seen Margot Greswode up dose and in the flesh. She looked the worse for wear, her lovely face was flushed and streaked from crying and her pretty hair bedraggled. By the looks of her she’d had a good skinful and please God she’d sleep tonight.
    Gwennie stood there for some time looking intently at the woman and then she made her way back across the terrace and on down to the summerhouse from where she could keep a watch on the house.
    The summerhouse was unlocked and the door rattled noisily as she stepped inside. She shivered now for it seemed even colder inside than out. She breathed in the damp and decay that was all around her; the place hadn’t been used for years. The gingham curtains were gone from the windows, scraps of rotten material hung there now and cobwebs covered every surface. The broken door on the cast-iron stove hung on one hinge and creaked in the draught. Cracked picnic crockery lay under layers of grime on a lopsided shelf.
    She clasped her hands tightly together and recalled a summer’s evening here a long, long time ago.
    The air was soft, heavy with the heady scent of honeysuckle and herbs. Beyond the windows the sky was streaked with crimson weals. Wood burned in the stove and steam rose from the