Thorn by Sarah Rayne Read Free Book Online Page A

been? You were all down here in the study. I was in the kitchen—’
    â€˜I was in the sitting room,’ said John Shilling. ‘I heard you all talking. I heard Mrs Foy come down and join you after Mrs Scullion brought in the tray of tea. I think I’d have heard anyone come out and cross the hall to go upstairs.’
    â€˜Aren’t we overlooking something?’ This was Aunt Rosa. ‘There were two separate incidents today—’
    â€˜I always knew you had a gift for understatement, Rosa,’ said Flora. ‘I should not, myself, call what happened today
incidents
.’
    Rosa said, ‘Whatever name you give them, they were both obviously the actions of a sick mind. And I don’t know about you, but I find it difficult to believe that two separate members of this family have run mad on the same day.’
    â€˜Well, yes,’ agreed Flora reluctantly.
    â€˜If the Ingram madness – I’m sorry if you don’t like the word, Elspeth, but that’s what it is – if it’s erupted after all this time, it must have been like a – like a simmering volcano finally exploding,’ said Aunt Rosa with unconscious eloquence. ‘Hurling itself out in several different directions. Doctor?’
    â€˜What? Oh yes. Yes, I’m very much afraid you’re right. A sudden releasing of restraints. Yes, it would be like a tightly-coiled spring snapping free.’ He dredged up a morsel of professionalism and said, ‘I gave Imogen a mix of secobarbital. Quite mild. Mrs Foy, you took it up, didn’t you?’
    â€˜Yes. She drank it, and I left her more or less asleep. Thalia, I’m sorry, but I
can’t
believe Imogen is responsible for this.’
    Thalia stood up. ‘I’d hoped this wouldn’t be necessary,’ she said to Flora. ‘But you’d better come upstairs. John, will you come as well? And George? But the rest of you had better stay here.’
    Imogen’s room was not quite in darkness, and the curtains had been dragged back from the windows to show the wintry blackness beyond.
    Thalia and Flora stood in the doorway with John Shilling just behind them. The bedroom was filled with creeping shadows, and with the dry rustling of the wind in the ivy on the outside wall. It was impossible to avoid thinking that it sounded exactly like dozens of dry, bony hands being rubbed together with evil glee.
    The casement window was closed, and the lattice of lead strips that made it rather charming in the daytime cast its silhouette harshly across the bed, like iron bars on a prison floor. Beyond the window, less distinct, was the ghostly outline of an old oak tree, gnarled and twisted, its leafless branches like huge-knuckled hands against the night, lifted, ready to snatch up its prey.
    Flora said abruptly, ‘I drew the curtains and switched on the bedside lamp. It wasn’t really dark outside yet but I thought it would be friendlier for the child. She was tucked into bed and half asleep when I left her.’
    John Shilling said, ‘Someone’s opened the curtains. And someone’s switched the light off.’
    And someone’s lying in bed with blood-dabbled hands and blood-smeared jowls
. . .
    Imogen was lying amidst the tumbled blankets, sound asleep. Her lashes were dark against her cheeks, and her hair was dishevelled. She looked impossibly young and unbearably innocent. She wore a thin cotton shirt, a rather masculine garment that only emphasised her femininity, and in the shadowy room it was impossible to tell if it was white or cream or pale blue. But across the front were several dark, irregular splashes and the hand that had fallen loosely over the side of the bed was stained with the same dreadful, thick darkness.
    Because blood turns black in the moonlight, my dears
. . .
    Across one cheek was a smear of blood, and John and Flora – the one a slightly drunken and thwarted romantic, the other a