The Winding Stair

by Millie Vigor

  TWENTY-ONE

  Brett had finished his breakfast and was drinking the last of his coffee when Sally came in to clear the tables.

  ‘Where’s the dog, Sally?’ he asked.

  ‘He’s got a bone out in the garden. Why, are you going to take him for a walk? I thought you might be going to church.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s very likely. In any case, I think it might snow, so a good walk will keep me warm, so send what’s-his-name … by the way, what is his name? I can’t keep on calling him Dog.’

  ‘Yes, you can. Nobody could think of a name for him, so everybody calls him Dog and Dog’s his name.’

  ‘Huh, “call a rose by any other name”,’ said Brett. ‘I know he’s not going to smell as sweet, but Dog is a dog and Dog is good enough for me.’ He got up and pushed his chair back under the table. ‘I’ll just go and get my coat.’

  The village of Blackton was not neat. It sprawled. The church, the rectory, the Wheatsheaf pub, a row of large granite houses with double entrance gates and big gardens, then some cottages that straggled along beside the road made up half of the village. Opposite the Wheatsheaf was the turning into Church Lane. At the far end of it huddled the school, the post office, the village shop and an estate of council houses. The lane, like all country lanes twisted and turned and eventually snaked back to Drovers Way. Brett, on his many rambles with Dog, was totally familiar with the road round the village, but on this Sunday morning he thought to go further afield. Stepping out of the Wheatsheaf, he turned right and walked past the church. Dog trotted along beside him.

  Brett walked briskly and soon, apart from a farm and a couple of cottages, human habitations were left behind. There was very little traffic and walking was a pleasant occupation. Taking a left turn at a T-junction, man and dog were in a narrow lane with high banks, the hedge atop them a crow’s nest of bare branches. The lane eventually brought them back to the village. Brett walked into the village shop, which was open for the sale of Sunday papers. He bought one, ditched the magazine and the supplements that he had no intention of reading, stuffed the paper in a pocket and then went on to Drovers Way. Soon he would be at the pub again where he planned to sit by the fire in the lounge, eat a sandwich, drink a pint of beer and read his paper. What could be a more fitting end to a Sunday morning walk?

  As he went along Drovers Way he looked at the houses. Net curtains in some windows concealed any sign of life. All at their Sunday roast, he thought. And then, nearing the end of the row, there was a house that was obviously the pride and joy of the owner, for it was immaculate. Paint work on windows and doors gleamed, glass sparkled. And then, for a second only, through one of the windows Brett caught a glimpse of a pale face and a flash of auburn hair. Stopping so abruptly that Dog cannoned into him, he held his breath.

  Ginny. Could it be Ginny? No, of course it couldn’t. His mind was playing tricks and open to too much suggestion. She wasn’t the only person in the world to have auburn hair and if by some rare chance it was indeed her, what would she be doing in that house when her own was just around the corner? He stood and waited, hoping that the owner of the auburn hair would show herself again.

  She did not and he walked on.

  Sally was pulling pints when Brett walked into the Wheatsheaf. She looked up at him. ‘Jeez,’ she said. ‘That’s a long face. What’s happened, you haven’t lost Dog, have you?’

  ‘No, he’s here,’ said Brett and Dog, making straight for his feed bowl, padded through the bar, his claws clacking on the floor. Brett sat on a bar stool.

  ‘And what will you have?’ asked Sally.

  ‘What’s in your sandwiches today?’

  ‘Cheese and pickle or pork and apple sauce.’

  ‘Pork and apple, please, and a pint of your best.’

  Beer came first, then the sandwich, and while Brett ate he watched as Sally dealt with orders and handled the banter and teasing of the customers. She had grown up in the village, knew all of them and gave as good as she got. As the clock ticked towards closing time, one by one the drinkers slipped away.

  ‘They’ll get hell if they keep the Sunday dinner waiting too long,’ said Sally. ‘Good job you got no home to go to, isn’t it? I never asked you, but are you married?’

  Brett laughed. ‘No. Were you thinking about making me an offer?’

  ‘Not for a year or two, but I might think about it.’

  ‘I shall wait with bated breath.’ The thought of waiting for Sally made Brett chuckle. ‘Now that you’re not so busy,’ he said, ‘I’d like to ask you a few questions.’

  ‘OK, fire away.’

  ‘The houses across the road – do you know who lives in them?’

  ‘Yes, most of them.’ As she talked, Sally began to gather up empty glasses. ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Something caught my eye in the one that’s second to last coming this way, who lives there?’

  ‘That’d be the Brookes-Taylors. Funny lot them. She died and the old man buggered off and hasn’t been seen since. Landlord can tell you more than I. D’you want me to go and see if he’ll come through? Wait a bit.’

  Steve Watkins, sixty-five and looking seventy, nodded his head at Brett as he strolled into the bar. ‘Sally says you want to know about the professor and his family, I believe, Mr McIvor.’

  ‘Yes, if that’s who lives in the house I asked about.’

  Watkins sat on a bar stool and laid an arm along the bar.

  ‘Well,’ he said. ‘That family had more than their share of bad luck. There were two kids, boy and a girl. The girl got knocked down and killed. The mother got cancer and died a slow death. They had a cook and gardener. The cook looked after the boy during the day and he was left to his father at night. Then the gardener died and instead of letting his wife stay and be his housekeeper, the professor sacked her and put the boy in a boarding school. He was a cold fish, old Brookes-Taylor.’

  ‘What happened to the house, then, was it sold?’

  ‘It was shut up, mothballed, you might say. The old chap was a lecturer in economics, clever old sod he was. He went off one day and never came back.’

  ‘So who lives there now?’

  ‘Oh, that’s the boy. He’s another queer fish, always got his nose in a book. He works at the library in Salisbury.’

  ‘In Salisbury?’ Brett, his mouth open, stared at the landlord. ‘Are you telling me that it’s Curtis Brookes who lives in that house?’

  ‘Ah, that would be him.’

  The bar, thanks to a well stoked fire was warm, but that didn’t stop a cold shiver going down Brett’s spine.

  ‘Is he married, does he have a wife?’

  Sally, who had been leaning on the bar listening to the conversation, laughed out loud.

  ‘Married! Who’d have him?’ she hooted.

  ‘So he lives there alone?’ said Brett.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Watkins. ‘Was that what you wanted to know?’

  ‘Yes, thank you very much.’ There was nothing more to say for the moment and although a swarm of questions filled Brett’s mind, he fell silent.

  ‘If there’s anything else, you just have to ask,’ said Watkins as he slid off his stool.

  ‘Thank you, that’s good of you,’ said Brett.

  ‘Do you know Curtis Brookes then?’ asked Sally.

  ‘Not really. I met him at the library. I thought he was a bit of an oddball.’

  ‘Ha, there’s no doubt about that. He’s a right nutter. He’s been in here for a meal once or twice but he never comes in to drink. I got to close up now, what are you going to do?’

  ‘I’ve got a phone call to make. I’ll see you later.’

  Brett tapped out a text on his mobile phone and seconds later a reply came from Nancy to say he was welcome to come along and when, ten minutes later, he arrived on her doorstep, she was there to open the door and invite him in.

  ‘To what do I owe the pleasure of seeing you?’ she said.

  �
��It’s something I’d like to discuss with you and your husband too, if he’s at home.’

  ‘He’s not just now but he should be in about an hour’s time. I’ll put the kettle on, we’ll have a cup of tea and you can talk to me. Come into the kitchen. I’ve been baking and it’s warm in there.’ Brett followed Nancy. ‘Pull out a chair and sit down,’ she said, so he did.

  On the table in front of him, a dozen freshly baked little cakes were cooling on a wire rack. Brett wrinkled his nose and sniffed the spicy smell of them.

  ‘Help yourself,’ said Nancy, ‘they were made to be eaten. Mug or cup?’

  ‘Mug, please,’ said Brett.

  ‘So what is it you want to talk about?’ said Nancy as she poured tea.

  ‘I was out with the Wheatsheaf dog this morning and as I was coming home along Drovers Way, I had a glimpse of a young woman in the window of one of the houses. You didn’t tell me Curtis lived in this village.’

  ‘Didn’t I? I suppose I thought it didn’t matter. Why?’

  ‘The landlord of the pub told me that Curtis lives alone in the house where I saw the woman. In fact, he gave me a potted history of all the members of Curtis’s family.’

  ‘So … you saw a woman at Brookes’s house. What of it?’

  ‘She had auburn hair.’

  Nancy, who had been reaching out to take a cake, jumped back. She gasped and held her breath.

  ‘No, it couldn’t have been.’

  ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ said Brett. ‘You’re thinking the same as I, that it might be Ginny, aren’t you? But what are we going to do about it? We can’t knock on Curtis’s door and ask him who he’s got in there, so how can we find out if it’s her?’

  ‘We can’t, can we? We can’t hammer the door down and force our way in, and if we asked Curtis if he had her there, he’d deny it, even if he did.’

  The crunch of footsteps on gravel announced the arrival of Bill Graham. The back door of the cottage opened and closed and then he was there, his bulky frame filling the doorway.

  ‘Afternoon tea and little cakes,’ he said. ‘This is nice, isn’t it?’

  ‘Sit down, Bill,’ said Nancy. ‘Brett here has got something to tell you.’

  Brett told Bill of his sighting of the woman in Curtis Brookes’s window, his talk with the landlord of the Wheatsheaf, and added that he’d thought that Curtis was odd and though it was but a slim chance, could the auburn-haired woman be Ginny? More importantly, how were they to find out?

  Bill shook his head. ‘You can’t,’ he said. ‘It’s a private house and the man who lives there can have whoever he wants in it. Ginny isn’t the only one with auburn hair.’

  ‘But if he’s holding her prisoner—’

  ‘She wouldn’t be walking around and able to look out of a window. If, and I only say if because I think you’re wrong, it is Ginny, she must be there because she wants to be.’

  ‘Oh come on, Bill.’ Nancy looked at her husband, disbelief on her face. ‘You know that isn’t how it is.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry, but there isn’t anything you can do about it. If she’s there and she’s walking about free, she’s not a prisoner, otherwise it isn’t her at all. So forget it.’

  TWENTY-TWO

  Brett McIvor sat on the bed in his room at the Wheatsheaf. Monday, start of another week. I ought to go home but now that I may have stumbled on where Ginny is, I can’t. Can’t be sure of course, but I’ve got to do something about it. What am I going to tell the olds, though? He held his mobile phone in his hand. He looked at it then began to punch in numbers.

  ‘Hi, Dad,’ he said when he heard his father’s voice. ‘Ah … well … look, would you mind very much if I stayed here a bit longer? I would hope to be home for Hogmanay.’

  ‘But why not Christmas?’ said his father.

  ‘I told you about Ginny, didn’t I?’ said Brett. ‘Well, I think it’s possible she may be being held prisoner and I think I know where. I was taking the pub’s dog for a walk yesterday and thought I saw her through the window of a house in the village. I’m probably completely wrong so don’t mention it to her parents, will you? At least not until I can give you something more positive to go on. How are they holding up, have you seen them?’

  ‘They’re both in a pretty bad state. Poor Mrs Harvey is on the verge of a breakdown and he doesn’t seem to be much better. But they’re getting support from their friends and your mother goes round as often as she can. But Brett, why did you bother to ask if we’d mind if you stayed on? You know, you never could resist a challenge and I guess you want to do your bit in finding the girl. I’m right, aren’t I?’

  ‘Yes, but Mam must be wishing I’d come home. I’ve been a long time away. It can’t be much longer, though.’

  ‘My dear boy, it isn’t as though you’ve only got a couple of weeks’ leave, is it? How long have you got, three to four months? All you’ve got to do, Brett, is give me a ring and tell me when to meet your plane.’

  ‘OK, I’ll do that. Thanks, Dad, bye.’

  Brett switched off his phone. Am I doing right, or am I chasing rainbows? And what am I to do now? I’d better go to the library and change my books, I suppose.

  As he waited at the bus stop, Brett stared at the house opposite and the window in which he thought he’d seen Ginny Harvey. There was absolutely no sign of life in or around the house now, but that must mean that Curtis was at work. Maybe there’d be a chance to talk to him later. If it had been Ginny that he’d seen, what was she doing there and why didn’t she go home? It was all very puzzling. If Curtis was holding her prisoner, he must lock her away somewhere while he was at work. That is of course, if she was being held against her will, because if she was there because she wanted to be there she would be free to come and go as she liked. But then … was it Ginny he had seen? Brett remembered being told that food had been left ready to cook on Ginny’s stove and that, if nothing else, told him she was not staying away voluntarily. There were so many possibilities, so many avenues to explore; how was he ever going to get that vital clue? Speculation came to a stop with the arrival of the bus. Brett climbed aboard, paid his fare and sat down.

  At the library, he put his books on the desk, then wandered off to browse the bookshelves and find something else to read.

  ‘Hello, how did you get on with MacBride?’ It was Curtis.

  Brett straightened up. ‘Hello, Curtis,’ he said. ‘Not bad at all. I’m just looking for something else now.’

  ‘I understand you’re staying at the Wheatsheaf,’ said Curtis. ‘What made you decide to stay there?’

  ‘I had a place in the city, but it was noisy. I’d been telling Nancy Graham about it and that I’d rather stay in the country not too far from town and she recommended the pub. It’s peaceful and quiet, the beer’s good and the food is excellent. What more could I want?’

  ‘So are you going home for Christmas?’

  ‘Well, no. I’ve decided to stay a bit longer. Actually …’ Brett lowered his voice. ‘You must not repeat this to anyone.’ He gave a quick glance around then leaned towards Curtis and in a hoarse whisper said, ‘I’ve been told that there have been some developments in the search for Virginia Harvey.’

  Keeping his gaze fastened on Curtis, Brett saw the momentary flicker of panic on the man’s face. It was followed in an instant by a smile which didn’t quite ring true.

  ‘Oh, I’m so glad,’ said Curtis. ‘Was that from the police? Do they know where she is? Are they going to bring her home?’

  ‘I’m not allowed to say,’ said Brett. ‘I really shouldn’t have told you, but I know you were fond of Ginny. You were, weren’t you?’

  ‘Yes … mm … actually, yes, I am.’

  Brett, holding a couple of books in his hands, leaned against the bookshelf. He’s rattled. He hasn’t asked if she’s still alive, which suggests to me that he knows she is. And there again was that something in the way Curtis spoke of Ginny. What was it? Ah … that’s it. He never t
alks about her in the past. Yes, he’s said he is fond of her, not was. And what does that say? Just that he knows that she isn’t dead. What he doesn’t know is that I’m pretty sure I know where she is. But that’s all very well, I couldn’t go to the police and tell them that, or that he was inclined to panic when I said there were developments in the search, they’d laugh me out of the station. He flipped the pages of one of the books he was holding, looked up and smiled.

  ‘Have you got any idea what could have happened to her, Curtis?’

  ‘Well, I really couldn’t say. I mean, how would I know?’

  ‘Good question. But you must have known her quite well, because didn’t you meet for lunch sometimes, and didn’t you take her out to dinner?’

  ‘Yes. But we were just friends. I really must get on. Mrs Thomas will be after me if she thinks I’m gossiping.’ Curtis began to walk away.

  ‘No, don’t go,’ said Brett as he followed him. ‘You wouldn’t have talked about the weather all the time so surely you must have got to know each other very well.’

  Curtis did a quick about-turn, so quick that Brett almost charged into him. Nostrils flaring, eyes dark and anger written all over his face, Curtis glared at Brett.

  ‘Mr McIvor,’ he said. ‘I will not be cross-examined by you. My private life is my own and I do not wish to discuss my acquaintance with Miss Harvey.’

  ‘Oh, tut-tut, Curtis, keep your hair on. I thought you’d be as keen as the rest of us to know that Ginny’s all right and that we’ll get her back safe and sound. And come to that, we don’t know yet if she’s alive or dead.’

  ‘She’s not dead. She’ll be back.’

  There he goes again. ‘You know that, do you?’

  ‘Go away, Mr McIvor. I am not going to speak to you again.’

  A smile creased Brett McIvor’s face. Thank you, Curtis, he thought. You’ve done it now. You’ve told me that Ginny isn’t dead and who would know better than you? You’ve given yourself away and that pleases me. I am more than ever convinced that you have Ginny in your house, and I am going to see that she comes out of it alive and well.