Song of the Damned

by Sarah Rayne

  A rumour circulated that the police were considering downgrading what they called the risk assessment. There were three levels, it seemed: low, medium and high. In light of Imogen’s past behaviour and the fact that no struggle seemed to have taken place anywhere, it was likely that this would soon be a low-risk case. Somebody even said it would probably be put in the time-waster class, and that Imogen Amberton would next be heard of flaunting herself on some glitzy TV programme, scantily clad and heading for stardom.

  The next day Gustav set off for Worcester, catching an afternoon train. He did not have a car, because he did not approve of the internal combustion engine, although this did not stop him from travelling in other people’s cars. But there was a through train to Worcester, and he would get taxis to and from his meeting, he said.

  He had told Olivia he was likely to be home very late – probably on the eleven p.m. train. Theatre people were apt to be convivial – even amateurs; maybe especially amateurs. There might be the offer of a drink in some local pub, or even a late supper somewhere, which he would accept, of course, said Gustav. Olivia tried to visualize her uncle as part of a lively pub group, or partaking of a late Indian or Chinese meal, and could not.

  Rain was sheeting down when she left her final class that afternoon. It dripped from the trees and the woodland path was muddy. Olivia was relieved to reach the cottage, and dry her hair, and get into warm, dry clothes.

  Infanger Cottage always felt different when she was here on her own. It was not exactly eerie, but there was a vague feeling that if you opened the door of a room a bit too quickly you might glimpse something whisking itself out of sight. But this might simply be because she was not used to being here on her own. Her uncle did not often go out for any length of time as he had done today. He did not often go out at all, in fact.

  With the rain rippling against the windows, the rooms were bathed in an eerie greenish light, almost as if Infanger Cottage had sunk to the bottom of a deep old ocean. Olivia shivered, pulled on a thick sweater, and was about to go into the kitchen to make something to eat, when she heard the tapping.

  At first she thought it was the rain beating on the roof. Then she thought it was a branch blowing against a window. It might even be something in the plumbing. Mr Firkin, the local builder, who could turn his hand to a blocked drain or a leaky stop-tap if required, had said the plumbing at Infanger Cottage was a law unto itself. When Olivia and her uncle moved in, he had told them that there was a bad case of water hammer in Infanger. Airlock in the pipes, that was what it was, he said, and it meant the pipes sometimes juddered against floor joists or rafters. Difficult to get rid of without major upheaval, but not impossible, he added, hopefully. Gustav had said that if he wanted Mr Firkin’s help, he knew where to find him, and after Mr Firkin had left, Gustav had said he would not trust Firkin’s Builders from here to that door, and he did not care if they had been established for two hundred years, he was not paying good money for somebody to rip up floors and tighten a few joints.

  Olivia, remembering this conversation, felt a bit better, and when she went back downstairs the tapping seemed to have stopped. But as she was looking in the fridge the sounds came again. And it really did sound as if it was coming from below. From the cellar.

  A lurch of fear twisted her stomach, but she made herself go into the hall and open the cellar door. Silence, apart from the rain beating against the windows. It had been her imagination then. Or it had been water hammer after all—

  No, there it was again. A tapping, coming at intervals, sometimes strong, sometimes weak. It might be a trapped bird somewhere. Might it even be an intruder? This was a shivery thought, although an intruder would not tap on walls. What it really sounded like – Olivia faced it – was someone trying to attract attention. Someone wanting help, and someone whose strength was failing, and whose hands were weak. The fear gripped her more tightly, and she sat down on the hall chair, and reminded herself that it was nearly two days since Imogen had died.

  But supposing Imogen had not been dead? Supposing Gustav had been wrong, and Imogen had been knocked into a coma? And supposing she had come out of the coma and found herself trapped in that dreadful dark space, and was hammering to get out?

  Olivia forced herself to consider the situation sensibly. Could she wait for her uncle to get home and ask what they should do? But he would not be back until at least midnight, and Olivia did not think she could wait all that time, constantly hearing the sounds, wondering …

  Wondering whether Imogen was still alive.

  Moving slowly, she took the torch from the kitchen drawer. Then she took a deep breath, and forced herself to open the cellar door and to go down the steps. A smeary rain-light came from the narrow window near the ceiling, and from here it was impossible to tell that the alcove on the right-hand side had been disturbed. Olivia switched on the torch, grateful for the sharp modern light that cut through the dimness, and went over to it. She placed her ear close against it, listening. There was nothing.

  ‘Imogen?’ Olivia had not realized she had been going to call out, and the sound of her own voice startled her. ‘Imogen? Can you hear me?’

  Still nothing. But suppose Imogen had cried for help for the last two days – shouted over and over again until her voice gave out? Suppose she was swimming in and out of consciousness, and not able to answer now? If she were alive, that would mean that – after all – Olivia was not a murderess. But it would also mean she would be able to tell people Olivia had tried to kill her.

  Olivia rapped against the brickwork, grazing her knuckles on the harsh surface. Still nothing. She sat on the stone steps, and waited. If the sounds came again, if they were definitely from behind the brickwork, she would have to do something. Or would she? If Imogen were to be rescued, she would tell people what had been done. Olivia could not risk that.

  But the minutes ticked away and nothing happened. It must have been a bird after all, or that thing in the plumbing. She was about to go back up the stairs when she saw a small glint within the bricks she and her uncle had put in place almost two days earlier. Something there was catching the strong torchlight.

  She shone the light more closely on the bricks. Partly wedged into the mortar was a ring, tarnished, but with the glint of silver. What looked like a small black stone was set into it. Had this been here last night? If so, surely she or her uncle would have seen it? But they had only had candles and the old oil lamps, and the flickering light from those might not have picked this up.

  Olivia reached for the ring and tried to pull it free. At first she thought the mortar was already set, but when she tugged a bit more forcefully, the ring came away. She went back up to the kitchen and carefully wiped the ring clean. It certainly looked like silver, although she did not really have any knowledge about that kind of thing. She had no idea what the black stone might be. Could it have been Imogen’s? But when, almost automatically, she slid it onto her own finger, it was far too small; in fact it was too small for any of her fingers. Olivia thought she had quite small hands and quite slim fingers, but this ring would not go past the first knuckle of any of them. It couldn’t have been Imogen’s. It might have been a child’s ring, though. Or the ring of someone who was very small and very fine-boned.

  She took ring up to her bedroom and put it at the back of a drawer where it would not be found.

  Gustav arrived home shortly after ten o’clock, having caught a much earlier train than he had planned.

  He was in a bad mood, because he said the trip had been a waste of time and money – the cost of train tickets and taxis was shocking these days. The amateur company had been very amateur indeed, and all they wanted was to prance around a stage in nice costumes, singing The Merry Widow or choruses from Gilbert & Sullivan. Gustav had not even bothered to show them The Martyrs because it had been clear that it would be completely out of their class.

  Olivia said, ‘Did you remember about Imogen’s phone?’

  ‘Yes, I di
d. I left it on the train,’ he said, looking pleased with himself. ‘I pushed it down behind a seat. It could be days before it’s found. Weeks, even.’

  ‘Would anyone connect you with the train?’

  ‘I bought tickets at the station, and I paid cash,’ said Gustav. ‘It was very busy – I don’t think the ticket person even glanced up. And the train was crowded – it was going on to … Carlisle, I think. Dozens of people were getting on and off. There couldn’t possibly be any connection back to me. And even if it was noticed that I went to Worcester the day after Imogen vanished, it was a perfectly innocent journey, and it had been fixed up a couple of weeks ago.’

  This sounded all right, and Olivia relaxed.

  ‘Has anything happened about the police search?’ said Gustav.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good.’

  But as he was going up to bed, he called to her.

  ‘What is it?’ Olivia had been finishing some homework, but she went out to the hall.

  Gustav pointed to the cellar door. ‘It’s open,’ he said.

  Olivia’s heart lurched. I left it open, she thought. I must have done. It’s the only way it could be open like that. She said, ‘It doesn’t fit very well. Maybe the wind blew it open. It was very windy earlier on.’

  He frowned, then pushed the door wide, and went down the stone steps. Olivia waited, her heart bumping against her ribs. But there would be nothing wrong. There would not be anything to show she had been down there earlier.

  Gustav came back, and closed the door firmly. ‘I think you’re right about the door not fitting properly,’ he said, examining it. ‘I believe it’s warped or the frame’s slipped, or something. I’ll see if I can fit a bolt or something to it tomorrow. We can keep the bolt across, and that will keep it shut.’

  ‘Will you be able to do that yourself? We can’t call anyone in, can we?’

  ‘Can you get a bolt from one of the DIY places?’

  ‘I suppose so. Yes, I could do it on Saturday.’

  ‘Then I’ll fit the bolt myself,’ he said. ‘And we’ll keep the door shut.’

  After she got into bed, Olivia looked at the silver ring again. Definitely it was too small to have been Imogen’s. It looked very old, and there was an initial inside it. Olivia looked at it closely. It was worn and it took a while to make it out, but in the end she was sure that the initial was G. G for Ginevra?

  Could it be Ginevra whose body was down there? Was that the truth of the legend? That she had been walled up alive?

  Diary entry, 1790s

  This isn’t how I expected to die. Not like this – with brutality and hatred and misunderstanding. And with fear that almost chokes me.

  My death will happen in four days, so they tell me.

  This morning, the turnkey brought in two men from what I took to be either the National Guard or perhaps officials from the Republic. They wore the distinctive red and blue uniforms, with the tricolour cockade. I suppose it looks striking and smart.

  The minute they came in I felt as if something had driven a fist into my very guts, but I forced myself to be calm, and sat with my back very straight and my hands folded in my lap.

  I knew what they would say before they spoke. They would demand that I take the oath of allegiance to France, just as they were demanding it from all professed religieuses. Because even though I was born and had lived most of my life in England, they would know of my French ancestry, and it would weigh in the scales against me.

  When we made our decision to come to France, we had thought of ourselves as English – women who would not be in danger from the Revolution. We had thought – foolishly as it turned out – that our vows would protect us. If I had given my French grandmother a thought, it was simply to be grateful that I had grown up able to speak French nearly as well as I could speak English.

  It was not the oath of allegiance these two men were demanding, though. They stood in the centre of the cell, their faces hard and their expressions implacable, and the younger one said, ‘We shall be presenting the nuns who accompanied you with the oath of allegiance.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘But we shall not be presenting you with it,’ said the other man. ‘We shan’t waste time doing that.’

  I said, as coldly as I could, ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because we already know you to be guilty of a very grave crime,’ said the younger man.

  ‘A crime,’ said the other one, ‘which is punishable by death. You are to be taken to the guillotine, Sister.’

  The fear almost engulfed me completely then, but somehow – with God’s help, I believe – I managed to say, ‘What is this grave crime supposed to be?’

  ‘It’s a crime that has not been encountered in France – or any other country, I think – for several centuries,’ said the younger one, coming closer. His skin had an unpleasant resemblance to badly cooked porridge. ‘We know who you are, Sister Cecilia. We know your family, and we know about the music that has been in their possession for several centuries. When you entered the English convent, you took that music with you.’

  ‘You preserved it,’ said the other one. ‘And now you have brought it back to France.’ He paused, then said, ‘You are here, Sister, to revive the custom of the Lemurrer.’

  The Lemurrer. The word fell into the room like a heavy stone.

  After what felt like a very long time, I managed to say, ‘I have no idea what you mean.’ Thus adding the sin of lying to the tally, because of course I knew what they meant. I knew all about the dark, forbidden chant, handed down in my family through the generations, and never destroyed. My grandmother’s words came to me. ‘It should be kept in the darkness from which it came,’ she had said. ‘But it should never be destroyed. There may come a time when it can be used for good.’

  ‘Of course you know what we mean,’ said the younger man, impatiently. ‘Your family has possessed the Lemurrer chant and its music for several hundred years. Your ancestors were among those who carried out the ritual – who put to death the sinners who committed fornication.’

  ‘I am hardly responsible for the sins of my ancestors,’ I said, coldly.

  ‘The Bible suggests otherwise, of course. And your eyes filled up with a memory when I mentioned committing fornication. Is it a guilty memory, Sister Cecilia?’

  I said, coldly, ‘Fornication is a mortal sin.’ But even as I said it, I was thinking: forgive me, my dear, lost love for speaking of you as a sin – you were never that to me.

  ‘We aren’t concerned with your mortal sins,’ said the man. ‘We don’t really care who you’ve fornicated with, or how many times.’

  (He did not, in fact, actually use the word ‘fornicate’, but another word – one which I have certainly heard before, but which I find repugnant to write down.)

  ‘We are concerned with the fact that you have brought the Lemurrer to France,’ said the older man. ‘Because you have done it with the intention of using it against our Church.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘You came here to call together your own kind in secrecy—’

  ‘My “own kind”?’ I said, sharply.

  ‘Catholics,’ he said, with a sneer. ‘You brought the Lemurrer back to the place of its birth in order to use it to rally Catholics. To ignite hatred against the Revolution and the Republic. The Republic is suppressing your religion, Sister – and you hate that, don’t you? Your crime is the crime of incitement against people you see suppressing your religion. And incitement is punishable by death.’

  ‘I have no music of any kind with me,’ I said, meeting their eyes without flinching. ‘You must know I brought almost nothing on the journey. We – my sisters in God and I – came to France to give support to some Carmelite nuns who were imprisoned for refusing to obey your constitution.’ It sounded convincing. It sounded true.

  ‘We were travelling to Compiègne to be as near to them as we could,’ I said. ‘Our mother house is in Compiègne – we knew we would be given shelter
there.’

  ‘The Lemurrer does not need to be written down,’ he said, ignoring the last part of my words. ‘It’s handed down by word of mouth. You grew up knowing it. It’s stored in your head.’ He tapped his own forehead significantly. ‘If you had reached Compiègne, if we had allowed you to reach it, you would have reached out to Catholics – you would have gathered them to you.’

  ‘But our people are loyal and alert,’ said the other one. ‘And all members of religious communities are taken for investigation at the moment. That’s why you were taken when you reached Calais. And then when we realized who you were—’

  They feared us because of the music, my grandmother used to say. They watched us, because they were afraid we might start to use it again …

  ‘What will happen to the others who were brought here with me?’ I said, abruptly.

  ‘I’ve already told you what will happen to them. We shall offer them the chance to take the oath of allegiance. If they refuse, they will join you on the guillotine. But for you it will not be offered. You are too dangerous, Sister Cecilia. An enemy of France. As such, you have already been sentenced to death.’ He paused, then said, ‘You have four days to make your peace with God.’

  Before I could say anything – although I have no idea what I would have said – they had left, and there was the sound of the lock being turned in the door.

  NINE

  Cresacre, 1794

  Gina had heard people imply that sin was very pleasurable during the actual committing of it. Satan knew how to spike his barbs, they said, slyly. Certainly, nobody had ever suggested that sin might be boring. But during the committing of Gina’s sin with Chimaera – there had been four occasions in all – on two of them she had been thinking about her spring wardrobe, wondering whether green watered silk would be more becoming than blue, and whether last year’s hat with ostrich feathers could be dyed to match.