Free The Coldstone by Patricia Wentworth Page B

beaded reticule and dabbed her chin with it.
    â€œWhat’s the story about the Stones?” said Anthony quickly. “Why won’t anyone go near them?”
    â€œOh”—the hand with the handkerchief in it shook—“Oh, I don’t know. They’re afraid.”
    â€œWhat are they afraid of?”
    Miss Arabel had also turned in her seat; she had her back to the road and the high bank which rose above it. There were trees on the bank, heavy with dusty summer green. The shade was dense; here and there it deepened into an olive dusk. She looked over her shoulder and whispered through the folds of the handkerchief:
    â€œThey’re afraid—”
    â€œYes, but what are they afraid of?”
    Miss Arabel leaned nearer. Her voice trembled on the verge of inaudibility.
    She said, “The devil,” and sat aghast at her own words.
    â€œ What? ” said Anthony.
    The loudness of his voice shocked her very much.
    â€œOh, I don’t think I ought.”
    â€œOh, but you must—you can’t stop now.”
    â€œWe were never allowed to talk about it.”
    Anthony laughed.
    â€œThen you’re bound to know all that there is to know. There’s nothing makes you get to the bottom of a thing quicker than being told you’re not to talk about it.”
    â€œOf course it’s only a superstition,” said Miss Arabel. She looked over her other shoulder and shivered.
    â€œWell, tell me about it. What do they think?”
    â€œThey used to take the Stones. It is a very long time ago, of course—hundreds of years. They took them to build with because there isn’t any stone round here. Oh, I don’t know whether Agatha would think I ought to tell you this.”
    Anthony put a hand on her knee.
    â€œOh, Cousin Arabel, do go on!”
    She let her hand drop on his. Her fingers were cold. The handkerchief tickled him.
    â€œSusan says there were two rings of Stones—old Susan Bowyer, you know. Her great-grandfather remembered them—or was it his father? All the Bowyers live to be very old. There were two rings, only they didn’t quite meet. And there was a big stone in the middle lying flat, that they called the Coldstone.”
    â€œWhy?” said Anthony quickly.
    â€œBecause—oh, I don’t know. Our name comes from it.”
    Anthony patted her.
    â€œWell, the people took the stones—and then what happened?”
    â€œI don’t quite know—something dreadful. It was a long, long time ago the first time it happened. They went to lift the Coldstone—and the devil came out!” She leaned right forward and said the last words with a gasp. The effort made her whole body tremble. Then she drew back, breathed quickly, and said, “Of course that’s just what the village people believed.”
    â€œOf course. And then what happened?”
    â€œThere was an old wise man, and he helped them, and the Stone was laid down again. And he put a mark on it—”
    Anthony started. He drew back the hand he had laid on Miss Arabel’s knee.
    â€œWhat was the mark for?”
    â€œTo keep the devil down,” whispered Miss Arabel. “And after that no one moved the Stone for hundreds of years—but they went on taking the other stones. And at last they began to move the Coldstone again, and they say—”
    â€œYes—go on!”
    â€œThey say fire came out of the ground and burnt up all the grass round the Stone—and they dropped it quickly, or they would all have been burnt up. And they say no grass will grow round it even now—but I don’t know if it is true.”
    She looked timidly and yet curiously at Anthony.
    â€œThere isn’t any grass round it,” he said.
    He had a picture of the great grey Stone lying across a ring of bare stony earth; and beyond this ring, grass waist-high. He thought the story was a very odd one.
    â€œAnd after that,” said