Song of the Damned

by Sarah Rayne

  ‘Joachim said he found it in the convent,’ said Gina.

  ‘Yes. That’s where I know it from.’

  ‘How do you know about it? How would such a thing come to be in a convent? They have such beautiful music—’

  ‘They do, don’t they?’ he said, with almost a note of gratitude. ‘I know about it, because …’ His voice faded into the wet blur again, and Gina could not tell what he said. She could feel that his fragile strength was draining fast, and she wanted to keep gripping his hand, as if by doing so she could keep him alive.

  She thought he said, ‘I’m so sorry. My dearest love, I’m so very sorry.’ And then she thought, he said, in a voice of extreme longing, ‘Oh, Ginevra, I’ve loved you so very much …’ But the words were threadbare and she could not be sure, and calling her Ginevra was not something he had ever done …

  There was a flicker of something within the flesh and the bones of the hand clasping hers – almost as if all movement and all feeling was being gradually inverted. There was the curious feeling of something being wrenched out of her grasp, and of something fighting and resisting, but finally, quietly, yielding to the inevitable. Slowly, the hand slid away from her. There was a sighing-out of breath, followed by something that was not quite a choke but more than a gasp.

  John Chandos’s dead body fell sideways against Gina, the head resting on her shoulder.

  Diary entry, 1790s

  This morning I woke to a thin light trickling between the bars of my cell, and to the sound of loud hammering and the rattle of wheels outside my cell window.

  I went to the window, and stood on tiptoe, grasping the bars with both hands, and pulled myself up so that I could peer outside.

  I knew what I would see, of course, and I did see it. It was only a quarter completed, but it was recognizable.

  My window looks out onto a small, enclosed courtyard, with the walls of The Conciergerie rising up around it on three sides. At the far end is a low stone archway leading, I suppose, to other parts of the prison.

  Men were working and they had arranged several rows of seats around the courtyard. The seats rose up in a semi-circle, as if people would be coming to watch a theatrical performance. On the ground in front of them were a few wooden stools.

  The focus of it all – the place to which the eyes of those people who took seats in the semi-circle and who squatted on the stools on the very ground – was not yet there, but its skeleton was. A raised platform, and above it a terrible shape that was stark and black against the sky. A thick, ugly oblong with a mechanism at the top that could be operated from below.

  The guillotine.

  As I stared, a tilt-cart was brought in, heaped with straw, and armfuls of the straw were spread over the ground immediately beneath the dreadful outline.

  I stayed there, clinging to the bars, watching it all, until the strength in my fingers gave way, and I dropped back to the floor.

  And now I am sitting on the narrow pallet bed in the corner of the cell, reaching for prayers that are slithering away from me, trying to calm my panic.

  It is only two days since the men came to my cell. I am writing it all down, because it feels as if I am telling a friend.

  I thought I had four days in all. Have they brought my death forward? If so, how many hours of life do I have left?

  If only I had made that attempt to barter with the turnkey – to barter my body for freedom. Probably it wouldn’t have worked … And yet …

  Is it too late to do it, even now?

  TWELVE

  Harriet Madeley’s assertion that Olivia Tulliver would walk barefoot across burning coals to get Phineas Fox to read his father’s opera had stuck in Phin’s mind.

  Driving back to the Black Boar, Arabella happily disinterring the details of the discussion in Harriet Madeley’s study, he suddenly said, ‘Would you object if I phone Olivia Tulliver, and see if I can go back to Infanger Cottage to see her before we have dinner?’

  ‘To get a copy of The Martyrs?’

  ‘Yes. This might be quite a good time to catch her – just on six.’

  He waited to see if she would suggest accompanying him, but she only said, ‘That’s a good idea. And you’re here to sort out that opera, anyway. I’ll have a long hot bath while you’re out, and we can have dinner when you get back.’

  Phin, who had not been able to decide if he wanted Arabella to accompany him to Infanger Cottage, said this sounded fine.

  ‘I feel as if I’m imbued with church dust and grisly old legends,’ said Arabella, as they went up to their respective rooms. ‘And also with the moral rectitude of Cresacre School in general and Dilys Davy in particular.’ She unlocked the door of her room, and Phin followed her in. ‘Dilys has never liked me since I organized a ghost-hunt one term. It’s a daunting feeling to be disapproved of so thoroughly, you have no idea.’

  ‘You didn’t sound especially daunted.’

  ‘I’m good at pretending.’

  ‘That’s what worries me.’

  She swung round to face him, and put her hand up to trace the lines of his face with a fingertip. ‘You’d know if I pretended with you, Phin.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Phin, who had no idea if he would know or not.

  He sat down on the bed to make the phone call to Olivia Tulliver. It was annoying when the call went straight to voicemail, but Phin left a message saying he was in the immediate area, and that he would call at the cottage anyway – in about twenty minutes or so – in the hope of catching Miss Tulliver in. He added that he wanted to talk about The Martyrs.

  ‘She’s probably there anyway,’ said Arabella, who was hunting through her suitcase. ‘She never used to go out much, as far as I can remember. She was never part of anything at all social.’

  ‘Was she – is she – attractive?’

  ‘I don’t remember her as very attractive. Boiled gooseberry eyes and hair like shredded wheat. But, of course, she might have masses of WAG-style blonde locks now, and turquoise contact lenses. Anyhow, that mention you made of old Gustav’s opera will get her. She’ll welcome you with open arms, gooseberry eyes or not.’

  ‘I hope she won’t think I can get the opera onto a stage,’ said Phin, slightly alarmed.

  ‘She probably will.’ Arabella was still burrowing in her case. ‘D’you know, Phin, I have the horrible suspicion that I didn’t pack a dressing gown—’

  ‘You can borrow mine if you want.’

  ‘Well, I will, if you don’t mind.’

  Phin had a sudden alluring image of Arabella wearing his dressing gown, which would certainly be too large for her, and with her hair tumbling untidily around her shoulders, slightly damp from the shower. She would have used the scented bath stuff she always used … He began to wish he had delayed the meeting with Olivia Tulliver until tomorrow.

  But he fetched the dressing gown from his room, remembering to pick up a notebook as well. ‘Enjoy your bath,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back in time for dinner.’

  She kissed him. It was quite an explicit kiss. Phin thought the meeting with Miss Tulliver did not need to take very long at all.

  ‘Bring an appetite back with you,’ said Arabella, and her eyes slanted mischievously.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Phin. ‘I will.’

  It was important to quench thoughts of the evening ahead with Arabella, and to focus on Olivia Tulliver and her threats about old, dark scandals, and also on her uncle’s troublesome opera. Phin, driving back to the school, already aware of a pleasant air of familiarity about the surrounding countryside, could not decide if he was intrigued or annoyed by the prospect of reading The Martyrs.

  He assumed it would be all right to leave his car on the sweep of gravel at the front of the building, so he parked and locked it, then set off along the drive, to the little track that Arabella had pointed out.

  It was very narrow indeed – certainly too narrow for a car. Trees overhung the path and thick shrubbery crouched on the edges, shutting out the light. The
re was a scent of leaf mould and rain, and it was not difficult to see why Arabella had called this the path to the Hansel and Gretel witch’s cottage. It was astonishingly easy to imagine that a witch, ‘old as stone’, lived at the end of this track. Phin thought he would look out that particular section of Humperdinck’s opera to show Arabella the lyrics. He might even take her to a performance of it, if one happened to be running anywhere at the moment. He had a sudden vision of the two of them in seats in the Royal Opera’s grand tier, and having supper afterwards in the famous Crush Room. Arabella would wear something noticeable, if not necessarily appropriate, and if she did not lose a scarf or an earring halfway through the performance, she would probably dislodge a contact lens, and the entire row would end up crawling around on the floor to find it. Phin was trying to decide if this would be endearing or maddening, when the track widened slightly, and directly ahead was Infanger Cottage.

  And of course it was not the grim gingerbread house, although neither was it exactly benevolent-looking. It was built of dark red brick, crusted here and there with lichen and ivy. The windows were small and some of them were set slightly askew, giving the house a squinting look. It was impossible to estimate its age, but Phin had the impression that bits might have been added over the years, and without much aesthetic consideration.

  No lights showed, but it was not yet dark enough for lights to be necessary, so he went up to the front door and reached for the knocker. The door was opened almost immediately – so quickly that he could almost have believed the house’s occupant had been standing on the other side, watching his approach. This was disconcerting, but what was even more disconcerting was that the door was only opened by about four inches, and a security chain was visibly kept in place.

  A portion of a face appeared, and a suspicious voice said, ‘Yes?’

  ‘Miss Tulliver? Olivia Tulliver? I’m Phineas Fox. I left a voicemail message for you about half an hour ago.’

  ‘Oh, yes, you did, didn’t you? And I got your message. But I don’t often answer the phone. People can be very intrusive at times.’

  ‘If this isn’t a good time, I could come back tomorrow—’

  ‘No, it’s fine.’ There was the sound of the security chain being unfastened, then the door opened more fully.

  Arabella’s description of Olivia Tulliver had been a good one, although she had not mentioned the nervous air, or the habit of peering closely at everything. Perhaps this was not permanent, or perhaps she was simply short-sighted.

  ‘I’m sorry to seem suspicious, but I’m always careful about who I let in,’ said Miss Tulliver, closing the door. ‘It’s a bit isolated here, you see.’

  With the closing – and then the locking – of the door, Phin suddenly felt as if he had been shut in with something that might be unfriendly. But he said, ‘I think you’re very sensible to be cautious.’

  The hall was small and dimly lit, and the house smelt of stale food. The room into which Olivia Tulliver took Phin was at the far end and it was clearly a study. Phin normally found studies interesting, and he usually liked seeing where people worked, but he did not like this one. It was untidy, but it was not a comfortable, books-and-work-in-progress kind of untidiness. There were bundles of papers and notebooks, as if things were seldom thrown away, and alongside the stale smell was a faint impression of burned oil from an old-fashioned stove. Through the window was a rather dismal view of a yard, with weeds thrusting up through the cracks, and several ramshackle outbuildings beyond.

  And for a moment Phin thought he was hearing again the faint echo he had picked up twice already in Cresacre – in the church and later in the school as if hands were beating against bricks, and terrified cries for help were gradually becoming weaker … But he was letting his imagination run riot, and it was largely Arabella’s fault for conjuring up images of crones with macabre appetites, and assorted dark fairy stories as their backgrounds.

  Olivia was looking at him. She said, ‘I’m sorry about the clutter in here. I’m normally a very neat and tidy person, but I’m currently fighting a battle with the local authority. They want to buy this cottage to make a wider road. They insist they have a right to do that. Now that’s never right, is it?’

  ‘Well, I … It must be very worrying for you.’

  ‘It is, Mr Fox. Very worrying indeed. Compulsory purchase order, they call it. I told them in no uncertain terms that I wouldn’t sell,’ said Olivia, tightening her lips. ‘This is my land, and I have the title deeds and land registration documents to prove it. My uncle left me the cottage in his will. I’ve told the council that, and I’ve told them not to phone me or call at the cottage. So I don’t answer the phone or the door – that’s why I kept the chain on when you came. They can be sneaky, those council officials, you see. They trap you by pretending they’re someone else.’

  ‘That sounds dreadful.’ Phin had never actually owned land as such, although the ground rent of his current flat seemed to imply that the ground on which it stood might be paved with the gold of Dick Whittington’s pavements.

  ‘Oh, it is. I could never sell this cottage. I would never dare.’

  As Phin looked slightly startled, she said, a bit too quickly, ‘I would never dare go against my uncle’s wishes. That’s what I meant. The wording of his will was very explicit. He wanted me to have this as my home. For always.’

  ‘Yes, I understand,’ said Phin. ‘He wanted to be sure you would be safe. Perhaps a solicitor could advise you.’

  ‘I don’t trust solicitors any more than I trust council officials,’ said Olivia at once. ‘There was a solicitor who said he could help me once with some investments, but he was very unscrupulous.’ Her lips tightened and she frowned, as if at an unwelcome memory. ‘So I’m dealing with everything myself. My uncle kept all the paperwork – it was at the back of his desk. Correspondence and odd documents going a long way back. That’s why there’s a bit of a muddle in here.’

  ‘I always work in a bit of a muddle,’ said Phin, hoping to strike a friendly note.

  ‘Oh, I don’t like muddle. Not in the normal way.’

  Phin switched tack. ‘Miss Tulliver, about your father’s opera—’

  ‘The title is The Martyrs.’ It was almost a rebuke, as if Phin had committed a solecism by not referring to the work by its title.

  ‘Yes. I’ve been asked to take a general look at it—’

  ‘Have you?’ It came out suspiciously, and she came closer. Phin tried not to take a step back. ‘It’s brilliant, Mr Fox. And I’ve … well, you could say I’ve dedicated my life to getting it recognized.’

  This was so extreme a statement that Phin could not think how to answer it. Instead, he said, ‘Would you be happy to lend me a copy of it? The book and the score, if that’s possible. It’d only be for a day or two. I’d take great care of it, of course, and I’m staying at the Black Boar, so I could look through it there and let you have it back by the weekend. Miss Madeley will let me play some of it on the school’s piano, so I’ll get a good idea of the main arias and the general mood of it all.’

  ‘So you’re a musician, too.’

  She said this half accusingly, half disparagingly, and Phin said, ‘Not exactly,’ then was angry with himself for sounding defensive.

  Olivia considered him for a moment, then looked back at his card, which she was still holding. ‘I’ll lend you a copy,’ she said. ‘I don’t allow the original out of my possession.’

  ‘A copy would be very—’

  ‘I’ll get one for you now. I have several.’ Her mood altered suddenly, and disconcertingly she became eager. ‘I’ll give you permission for you to show it to any colleagues or contacts you’ve got in the music world, as well. I own the rights, you know. I’ll put the permission in writing.’

  ‘I wasn’t exactly intending—’

  ‘I like to be businesslike about these things,’ said Olivia, and this time it was definitely a rebuke. ‘And while I’m getting the copy, I’ll put the
kettle on. I’m sure you’d like a cup of tea, and I can show you the most effective scenes while you drink it. No, it’s no trouble at all. I always make a cup of tea for my friends when they call. I have a number of friends, of course.’

  ‘I’m sure you do.’

  By this time Phin wanted nothing more than to get out of this sad, stale place – with its air of harbouring uneasy unhappinesses – and to be back with Arabella. She would have been liberal with her expensively scented shower gel, and she was probably even now getting ready to sit opposite him over dinner in the Black Boar’s oak-beamed dining room. He remembered that there had been moussaka on the menu. He also remembered that Arabella had said, ‘Bring an appetite back with you,’ and that they had both known she did not mean for the moussaka.

  But he could hear Olivia Tulliver opening cupboard doors, and then turning on a tap. There was a faint clanking, as if elderly pipes had been forced into reluctant life. He would have to stay to drink the tea and be shown some of the scenes of Gustav Tulliver’s work.

  He looked about him, curious, but trying not to be intrusive. It was difficult not to home in on the papers on the desk, of course. There were what looked like surveyors’ plans, presumably delineating Infanger Cottage’s boundaries, several legal-looking documents, some of them tied with fraying green legal tape, and a few faded and discoloured papers. But you do not furtively rifle someone else’s private papers while that someone is making you a cup of tea and looking out the score and book of an unperformed opera. Phin was not going to do so.

  Instead, he went to study the rows of books; there were a good many that were clearly from Gustav’s teaching days, but ranged beneath the window were books on opera and on the French Revolution. Phin bent down to see these, noticing the names of one or two authors who had scholarly reputations within the music world. Whatever Gustav Tulliver’s other faults, he seemed to have been able to recognize good research in others.

  Phin stood up, and went across to the piano standing against the far wall, to see if there might be any music on top of it. But there was nothing. He glanced up at a framed photograph on the wall immediately above the piano. It was of a man with deep-set eyes, an elongated jawbone, and a rather humourless mouth. A silver chain with what looked like a small, silver, pearl-studded ring hung over the photograph. Gustav Tulliver? A memorial? Almost certainly, yes. Phin studied it with interest. The silver ring seemed a curious memorial, but perhaps it had belonged to his mother or his grandmother.