Chapter 7 #2
The tiniest sound of the kitchen door swinging open alerted him to hurry up and he descended the stairs as nimbly as he could in the dark.
He felt his way around the large kitchen table and stumbled toward where he vaguely remembered the door to have been.
It opened with the same small complaint it had made before.
Barnaby shut it again and stood, listening, for a hint as to where his suspect had headed.
Nothing.
A moment of panic besieged him, and he rushed along the path that followed the perimeter of the house to the front. Beyond the confines of the building, the almost full moon made Barnaby’s progress smoother and offered him a glimpse of a running figure disappearing down the drive.
Having reached the bottom of the curved drive, Barnaby drew back. The road was open, the hurrying shape of a young woman clear against the bright night.
He allowed her to shrink into the distance before hastening after her, careful to pause in the shadow of a convenient tree or shrub where these appeared along the route.
At the turning to the coastal road, she veered right, down to Fenwick.
Barnaby now started to doubt himself. Perhaps the maid was meeting a local lad, her only crime being one of the heart. Barnaby didn’t even know who, exactly, he was following, for she wore a hooded cape.
On the coach to Fenwick the week before, he had heard talk that smugglers were active in these parts. What if this young woman was involved with them?
Barnaby felt suddenly very alone and exposed.
Another hundred yards and he would pass by the Tully cottage.
He wished he could knock on the door and ask Joy what she thought.
Her father’s blunderbuss wouldn’t go amiss, either.
But the house was dark and he dared not wake them for what might be a fool’s errand.
He didn’t know which would be more risky: having Joy insist on accompanying him into the night, or having her father think he was a madman and shutting the door in his face, possibly forever.
So, Barnaby continued on his solo mission, blind to what lay ahead and determined to see it through, no matter what.
The Queen’s Barque was still brightly lit, conversation emanating from its open door as a straggler stumbled out and headed home in a less-than-linear manner. The hooded figure turned at the movement, her features revealed by the brief light before the door swung closed once more.
Moira.
Barnaby barely had time to process this discovery before they were off again, scurrying past one building after the next, until they entered the secluded churchyard.
Now Moira slowed. Turning abruptly, she slipped down through the rows of silent graves until she reached a headstone shaped like a cross.
Here she kneeled, the movements of her hands unclear.
She muttered something that sounded like a prayer, the words unclear, but the tone urgent, almost a little desperate.
After barely a minute, she stood again, a lone specter in the cemetery, and hurried back toward Barnaby.
He nearly fell over himself in his haste to hide. Heart thudding, he hovered behind the low-hanging branch of an ash.
Moira’s urgent pace drew her quickly past and out of sight.
What had brought her here? Was this where she had hidden the pages? Was she going to return them to Lord Brathwaite in the morning? If so, Barnaby must give her the opportunity to salvage what remained of her honor.
But what if she now planned to destroy them? He had no idea why she had taken them in the first place. Was she meeting someone else who wanted them? Should he confront her?
Barnaby took a breath. Think, man, think! Moira is a simple servant. Until a month ago, she lived more than fifty miles away, in service to Lord Brathwaite then as she is now. What would she know of smuggling or the value of ancient folios? Is it even likely that she can read?
Realization dawned, cold and icy between his shoulder blades, where his imagined wings stood to attention along with the rest of him.
Determined to see if he was right, he followed the path that Moira had taken between the final resting places of strangers, all the way to the cross-shaped headstone.
Here Barnaby knelt as she had done, probing with his fingers for the secret he felt certain was there.
A large stone—wide as both hands, nestled deep in the blue-hued night-shadow of the stone crucifix—shifted under his grasp.
Barnaby rolled it to one side. In the hollow beneath, folded small enough to fit, a collection of papery sheets rustled at his touch.
He lifted them with a mixture of excitement and reverence.
Dusting them off carefully, he unfolded each one, three in all.
Even at night, the magical colors of Lyra’s drawings came to life.
But Alwin’s faded writing needed more light.
Barnaby could not wait to get back to his room and light a candle to study the pages.
The final pieces of the puzzle would slot into place.
In the morning, he would find Moira and determine whether his suspicions regarding her motives were right.
Lord Brathwaite, he hoped, would be more forgiving if he understood. If he allowed himself to understand.
Barnaby hastened back to Hill House. It was already past midnight.
This was not an hour for civilized folk to be about.
Moira must have felt the same because her robed shape remained so far ahead of him, her sights set straight ahead on home, that Barnaby did not even need to worry that she would see him.
The Queen’s Barque was quieter now, its drinking customers gone home, its overnight clientele tucked in bed.
Barnaby paused once more outside the Tully cottage, longing to share his find with Joy.
He would send her news of his discovery, first thing, but Sunday seemed no closer than it had been a few days before.
On he went. Left at the turnoff to Ipswich. Right up the winding drive. Round the house to the kitchen. A noiseless turn of the door handle.
The door did not budge.
Barnaby tried again, this time with more force and less care to be quiet.
The door remained obstinately in its frame.
Barnaby’s shoulders sagged at his own foolishness.
Moira had returned and locked the door behind her.
Of course she would. The only way to get back inside now would be to wake somebody up.
He would have to pound loudly on a door.
The household would be disturbed. He would have to explain his reasons for sneaking out.
Lord Brathwaite would demand the pages be handed over at once.
These were all undesirable outcomes.
Should he head back to Fenwick and stay the night at the inn? Barnaby shuddered at the very idea. He would rather sleep on a garden bench than set foot in that noisy, moldy place. He was very tempted to beg shelter with the Tullys but thought better of it.
In the end, Barnaby found a warm, dry—if rather scratchy—bed on the straw of the stables. The folded pages tucked safely in his breast pocket, he allowed himself at last to ease into sleep.
As he sank into oblivion, his tired thoughts made way for dreams—of wings that wrapped themselves around him like the warm embrace of his beloved.
In his sleep, Barnaby smiled.