Song of the Damned

by Sarah Rayne

  For the first time I saw Cecilia’s resolve falter. She looked at me, and – oh, dear God, if ever I saw entreaty in another human being’s eyes—

  The executioner had returned to the platform, and Cecilia was thrust down onto the platform, her head pushed into the wooden boards beneath the blade. At any moment the executioner would release the mechanism, and once the blade began its grotesquely slow descent, it could not be stopped.

  They say extreme danger lends extraordinary strength. It did so for me, then. I was not being held very firmly, and I jerked myself free and bounded onto the steps. How I did not knock them over I have no idea, but I did not, and as the executioner’s hands began to reach for the blade’s mechanism, I reached upwards. Grasping the chain operating the weights with both hands, I swung my whole weight on it. In that same instant, the blade’s mechanism was released, and the blade came down.

  And because my weight had replaced the machine’s weights, the blade came down as fast as the blink of an eye – faster than the skip of a heartbeat. I half fell onto the platform, murmuring a prayer of thanksgiving.’

  TWENTY-FIVE

  It was several moments before Phin could turn the page, but when he did he was relieved to see that Chimaera had added a final piece.

  ‘Looking back, although I did not realize it at the time, that was the moment – that crowded moment on the guillotine platform – when my opera was born properly; not the half-hearted, half-formed idea I had been playing with for some time, but a real story. I saw an imprisoned heroine inside The Conciergerie, and a dashing hero running to her rescue. A band of rebels, colourfully garbed, singing rousing choruses; even scenes in which they scaled the walls of the battlements, and encountered boiling oil poured down over them by the guards trying to repel them.

  ‘The finale must be the heroine and her faithful friends, singing as they walked to their deaths. Their voices would gradually diminish as each one ascended the scaffold. Each time there would be the whoosh of the blade coming down. Finally, the heroine would be left alone and her lone voice would ring out until the blade silenced it for ever.’

  Beneath this, Dr Quilt had written, ‘A remarkable narrative, as I am sure readers will agree. I found in another account a list of names of prisoners who were freed – in the main they were people who had been identified as supporters of the Revolution, some on the flimsiest of reasons. Among those names was that of Signor Chimaera.

  ‘As to the opera of which he writes so eloquently, I have been unable to find any indication as to whether it was actually ever created. However, my studies do not take me into musical areas.’

  The chapter ended there, and Phin put down the book. His mind felt as if it had been wrenched open, and force-filled with information, but two facts stood out very clearly.

  Cecilia and the others had died on the guillotine that morning, but at least they had died swiftly and mercifully and bravely. But what had happened to the two who had managed to run from that courtyard? Had they got away? Phin dared to hope they had, because someone had brought Cecilia’s journal back to England and back to Cresacre.

  Gustav Tulliver had clearly found – and used much of – Chimaera’s story for The Martyrs. But had he also found Chimaera’s actual opera? Phin could easily believe that it was Chimaera’s hand – a ‘fine Italian hand’ in truth – that shone through The Martyrs with those erratic flashes of brilliance. But that was to assume the opera had been written. Had Chimaera got any further than the gratifying image of himself as a celebrated composer?

  Still, there it was. He had found out what had happened to Cecilia and the nuns, and he knew a bit more about the Lemurrer.

  But what about the other players in the story? Sir John Chandos, for instance. And what was it that Olivia Tulliver had been so anxious to hide? ‘I could never sell Infanger Cottage,’ she had said. ‘I would never dare.’

  Infanger Cottage. The book about guillotine legends had been there, and it was there that Gustav had written The Martyrs. It was there that Phin had seen the letter from Cecilia. Might there be more to be found in that cottage?

  It was five o’clock, and almost dark. Phin had no idea where Arabella was, or what was happening about returning to the Black Boar, but he would phone the Black Boar later and find out. His car was parked outside, so clearly Arabella had returned from the visit to the printers.

  He replaced The Martyrs in its wrapping, and set off down the drive.

  Olivia had thought that once she had the bookshelves and the books in place, they would smother all sounds from the cellar. But they did not, not completely. At intervals she could hear Arabella shouting to be let out, and a number of times she heard her banging on the door. The sounds brought back memories of Imogen and those nights immediately after Imogen’s death when Olivia had lain awake and believed she could hear her crying and tapping to get out. She could almost hear her voice now.

  She sat in the study, her hands pressed over her ears. It was getting dark; shadows huddled in the corners of the room. Switching on lights would chase them away. But lights would let people know she was here. If she had to creep around in darkness for the rest of her life, no one must be allowed inside this cottage …

  If only Arabella would stop hammering on the cellar door, Olivia would be able to think what to do. If only the memory of Imogen’s voice would go away …

  Then, through the blurred sounds, came a sudden imperative knocking at the front door. Olivia’s heart leapt in panic, because she could not allow anyone in here. It would be all right, though; whoever it was would see that the cottage was in darkness and would go away. All she had to do was remain silent and still.

  She waited, her heart pounding. Arabella was shouting again – Olivia could hear her, very faintly. Could the sounds be heard outside? No, the cottage was old and solid.

  The knocking on the door stopped, and Olivia drew in a sigh of relief. But even as she did so, the phone rang. The answerphone was on, as it always was, and she heard her own message asking the caller please to leave a message. She waited, then heard Phineas Fox’s voice.

  ‘Olivia, it’s Phin Fox. I seem to have called when you were out, but I wanted to return The Martyrs. I’d like to talk to you about it – and about the book with the guillotine legends. Could you give me a call when you get this, please? Thanks.’

  This was something that could be dealt with. Olivia would phone at some point and arrange to meet Phin at the Black Boar to collect the manuscript. It would have to be tomorrow, or even the next day, though; she did not dare leave the cottage until she had dealt with Arabella. (How? demanded her mind yet again. How are you going to deal with her?)

  Phin Fox had not gone away. Olivia suddenly realized he was walking along the side of the cottage – she could hear his footsteps crunching on the dry old bracken. A shape moved across the study window, and she shrank back in her chair. A face pressed against the glass, and a hand came up, as if trying to see if anyone was in the room. But Phin would not be able to see into the dark room. All Olivia had to do was stay still and quiet and wait for him to go away.

  Phin had enjoyed the short walk to Infanger Cottage. It was growing dark, but he took his time, liking the thought that this was where Cecilia and the nuns must have walked on that last night to meet Chimaera, and to wait for the mail coach.

  After he turned onto the tree-lined forest path that led to the cottage, he expected to see lights ahead, but there were none. Perhaps there was a timeswitch for an outside light, and it had not come on. Or perhaps Olivia was in hiding from the council planners and their threatened compulsory purchase order. It was sad to think of her on her own out here in the dark house, afraid to open the door or answer the phone.

  He supposed he should have phoned before coming, but he went up to the door anyway, plied the old-fashioned knocker, and waited. Nothing. Phin stepped back, looking up at the bedroom windows, which were all in darkness, then felt for his phone, and found Olivia’s number. It rang three o
r four times, then went to voicemail, so he left a message asking her to call him.

  But as he pocketed the phone, he remembered how nervous she had been of opening the door, so after a moment he went around to the back of the house. If she was in, he might be able to reassure her as to who he was.

  The rear of Infanger Cottage was very dark indeed, because the trees grew right up to it. But there was a small paved area, and a door that looked as if it opened onto a kitchen. There was no sign that anyone was inside, though – no lights or sounds of a television or a radio, or of crockery being clattered in the kitchen for an evening meal. No sounds at all …

  Or were there? They were faint, but it sounded as if someone was shouting for help. Had Olivia been taken ill and been unable to get to a phone? Phin tried the kitchen door, which was locked, then sped around to the front of the house. The door there was locked as well. He looked about him, trying to decide if a 999 call was warranted, then, as the shouting came again, he thought he would get inside and see what was wrong first. He picked up a large stone from the side of the house, and smashed it against the larger of the windows, then knocked out the glass shards, pulling the sleeve of his jacket over his hand to protect it. Then he climbed through.

  The room was in darkness, and it felt as if Infanger Cottage was listening and waiting. Phin called out.

  ‘Hello? Olivia? It’s me – Phin Fox. Is something wrong? Olivia – are you ill? I heard shouting – someone calling for help.’

  There was no response, but Phin had the strong impression that the cottage was not empty. Was someone watching him? He began to think he would be better to call 999 after all, but he went through to the hall, found a light switch, and called out again. The shouting came again, and, puzzled, and increasingly concerned, Phin went into the study where he had discussed The Martyrs with Olivia – had it only been yesterday? He switched on the light and looked round. Nothing. There was something different, though. What was it? He frowned, trying to recall the layout of the room. There were certainly a great many books, but there had been more yesterday, hadn’t there? There had been shelves on the window wall, almost the entire length of the wall itself. Phin had looked along them while Olivia was making tea, and had noticed that there were a number of titles on opera and the French Revolution.

  He tried the chilly, old-fashioned kitchen next. Again, nothing. Or was there? Had there been a creak of sound, as if someone had trodden on old floorboards? Should he go up to the bedrooms? But the cries were not coming from up there – they were coming from this level of the cottage. But where? Was it Olivia who was calling for help? Where on earth was she?

  He went back to the hall. The feeling of being watched was stronger, and he reached for his phone, because clearly there was something very wrong here, and he would have to call 999 after all. But then the shouting came again, and now it was definitely nearer. Somewhere in this hall? No, there was a side hall leading off, and it sounded as if the cries were coming from there.

  Phin went to investigate. The side hall was quite wide, but it did not seem to lead anywhere. The floor was uneven, as if this might be part of an older structure, and there was what looked like an old-fashioned cloaks cupboard halfway along. Phin was about to open this, when his attention was caught by bookshelves at the far end. They were set on top of an oak chest and they almost reached up to the ceiling. It seemed an odd place for bookshelves, and as he stepped closer, he saw that several of the books were familiar – in fact, quite a number of them were familiar from yesterday’s visit. Why would Olivia move them out here? And why would you put bookshelves against a wall in a dingy and dark passage unless—

  Unless there was something behind them that you wanted to conceal.

  Instinct took over and, without stopping to question or analyse what he was doing, Phin began to sweep the books from the shelves. He had only cleared two shelves when he saw what lay behind.

  A door. An old door, set back into a stone wall and with a bolt across one side.

  The shouting came again – clearer now, and Phin called back.

  ‘Hold on – you’re going to be all right. I’m getting to you—’

  ‘Cellar. Locked in.’

  It was much louder now, and Phin said, ‘Yes, I know. I’ve found it.’

  ‘Phin?’ said the voice, and Phin felt as if he had been punched in the ribs.

  ‘Arabella?’

  ‘Who else?’ said Arabella. ‘Oh, Phin, she locked me in – Olivia. I don’t know why.’ Her voice sounded dry and hoarse, and Phin realized with a stab of anguish that she must have been shouting for help for a long time.

  He said, ‘Hold on, Arabella. I’m nearly with you.’

  No longer bothering to move the books with any care, he tumbled them onto the floor, then dragged away the shelves.

  ‘What are you doing?’ came Arabella’s voice.

  ‘Moving furniture – she’s barricaded you in. God knows why. But I’m almost there.’

  ‘Phin, be careful … I think she’s mad …’

  Phin was pushing the oak chest out of the way. The door was clear now, and he reached for the bolt. But as he did so a sound came from behind him, and he spun round.

  The cupboard door behind him was slowly opening from inside. There was a movement from inside it, then Olivia Tulliver, her hair falling across her eyes, her eyes wild and empty of all sanity, stood there. She pushed the door even wider, so that it spanned three-quarters of the width of the hall, partly blocking the way to the main hall. In one hand she held a large knife with a glinting blade.

  Phin looked frantically around him, but he already knew he was in a cul-de-sac. To get out he had to push the cupboard door back into place. And he had to get past Olivia.

  In a voice that sent icy prickles across the back of Phin’s neck, Olivia said, ‘So you’ve found her. I didn’t think you would. I didn’t want anyone to find her. Did you know I was watching you?’

  Phin just said, ‘Yes, I’ve found her,’ and, hoping Olivia did not suddenly attack him, pulled the bolt across and opened the door. Arabella must have been standing immediately behind it, because she almost fell out. She was dishevelled and her face was streaked with dust, but her voice was blessedly normal. Phin pulled her against him. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Never better,’ said Arabella, huskily. There was a fair attempt at a smile. ‘But never more pleased to see you.’

  In the same unnatural voice, Olivia said, ‘Did you find them while you were down there? Or hear them? They still cry to get out – even after so long. I hear them sometimes at night. I hear them tapping and clawing at the wall, as well.’

  ‘I didn’t find anything,’ said Arabella, rather uncertainly. ‘I heard Phin, though – well, I heard someone outside the cellar, so I yelled to be let out. But I didn’t know you’d piled all those books and things against the door,’ said Arabella. ‘Why did you do that? And for goodness’ sake, Livvy, put down that bloody knife – you look like Lady Macbeth in the sleepwalking scene.’

  For a moment Phin thought this typically Arabella speech might break the strangeness and bring Olivia back to sanity. He thought if there was even a flicker of uncertainty in Olivia’s eyes, he would take the chance and rush at her, trusting to luck that – with Arabella’s help – he could twist the knife out of her hands. But Arabella was clearly still shaky, and if Phin misjudged it, Olivia would knife him without compunction, then turn her attention to Arabella.

  But Olivia said, ‘I won’t put it down.’ In a soft, confiding voice, she said, ‘I have to protect myself. One night they crept up the stairs and stood outside my door. I heard them very clearly. So I always have a weapon to hand.’

  Arabella said, ‘Let’s go into the study, and you can explain what this is all about.’

  ‘No,’ said Olivia. ‘Instead, I’ll show you what’s down there.’ She looked at the cellar door, which was still partly open.

  Phin had been stealthily reaching into his jacket for his pho
ne, hoping he could tap out 999 without Olivia realizing, but she moved closer.

  ‘If you’re trying to make a phone call, don’t,’ she said. ‘Put the phone down there on the floor.’ The knife glinted threateningly, and Phin frowned, then did as requested. Olivia picked the phone up and slid it into the pocket of her jeans.

  ‘Now, both of you down into the cellar,’ she said.

  ‘So you can lock us in?’ said Phin, angrily.

  ‘Yes, that’s right. I’m sorry. I haven’t got any choice,’ said Olivia.

  ‘But you can’t possibly hope no one will find us,’ he said.

  ‘Why not? No one ever comes here.’

  ‘What about the purchase order?’ put in Arabella. ‘The planners?’

  ‘After a few days,’ said Olivia, ‘you’ll both be as near dead as makes no difference, and I can hide your bodies.’

  ‘How? Olivia, hiding bodies isn’t so easy.’

  ‘You’d be surprised.’ She took a step nearer. ‘Didn’t you notice the brickwork while you were down there, Arabella? The alcove at the far end, near where the old window was?’

  ‘I didn’t notice anything, because it was pitch dark,’ said Arabella.

  But Phin had guessed Olivia’s meaning, and he said, sharply, ‘That’s absurd. You can’t possibly build up a wall.’

  ‘I can. I did it before,’ she said. ‘I know what to do. And everything’s to hand. There are bricks still in the old washhouse. I can get mortar from a DIY shop. I was there when it was done last time – I helped.’

  Phin thought: dear God, she really is mad. I’ll have to rush her and take the chance; but before he could do anything, Arabella suddenly said, ‘All right, Livvy. We’ll do what you want. I’ll go down first. Phin you follow me.’

  She sent him a very direct look, then turned and went back through the cellar door. Phin stared after her, and thought: does she really want me to follow her though, or is she trying to send me a message? Has she got an idea for getting away? But he could not see how, because surely once he and Arabella were both in the cellar, Olivia would slam the door, bolt it, and probably replace the bookshelves to hide the cellar’s existence. He was about to lunge forward and trust to luck that he could knock the knife from Olivia’s hand, when, from the depths of the old cellar, came the sound of a girl’s voice singing. Phin had no idea who it was – it was certainly not Arabella. But the song was unmistakable. It was the Lemurrer.