by Sarah Rayne
There was a scent of age and dust, and when she bent down to open the lid of the tapestry stool, there was the feeling of memories, stored away and almost forgotten. There was the music just inside. Across the top were the words, Giselle’s Music.
There were only four pages, and there was nothing else written anywhere. Margot went back to bed. She did not think she had ever heard the name Giselle mentioned, but perhaps the music had belonged to some long-ago friend of Lina’s who had been called Giselle, and Lina kept the music in her memory.
FOUR
Marcus usually came home at half-term; Margot looked forward to this for weeks ahead, and planned the meals she would cook.
The first night, over supper, he told them about his studies. The modern languages school was very lively, he said, very interesting. There was a great mixture of students, but there was seldom any culture clash, although the French could get a bit excitable, and you could not always tell what the Russians were thinking.
It was a good evening; Marcus looked marvellous, and he made them all laugh. It was rare to hear laughter in that house.
But when their mother and Lina had gone up to bed, he said, ‘The old girl’s still stuck in her time warp, isn’t she? Bloody Christa and all the rest of it.’
‘Yes. And she goes down to the music room in the middle of the night, sometimes.’
‘Oh, God, does she? D’you know, I have to really psych myself up to come back to this house. All that crap about avenging people’s memories, and getting justice for ancient murders. Lina’s living in some slushy old-fashioned novel. Like that Rider Haggard book, where each generation’s taxed with hunting down the killer of some long-ago Egyptian Queen, but they all just write on an old document things like, “I could not go.” And, “To my son, who may have better fortune in the task.” And it goes on for centuries. You know the book I mean, don’t you?’
Margot did not know the book, and she had never heard of Rider Haggard, but she loved it when Marcus talked to her like this, so she instantly said, ‘Oh, yes, I know the one. Yes, you’re right.’
‘And Ma’s almost as bad. She’s been dragged into the same time warp. No wonder father left. Probably he was relieved to let Ma go to live with Lina and the memories of her sainted father.’
‘You’re exaggerating.’
‘I’m not. I’m even starting to think we need to talk to a doctor about Lina.’
‘I don’t think it’s as bad that—’
Marcus stood up, and grabbed her hand. ‘Come with me,’ he said, and pulled her from the room into the dim hall beyond.
‘Where are we—’
‘Ssh. The old girl’s music room. Something I found ages ago.’
The music, thought Margot. Giselle’s Music. I know about that, though.
But it was not Giselle’s Music at all.
Marcus shut the music-room door, switched on a table lamp, and opened up the tapestry stool. There were the yellowing sheets of old music and the faded covers of song sheets. And Giselle’s Music. That was there, too, of course. But Marcus did not seem particularly to notice it; he lifted the stack of music out and put it on the floor, then reached down to the bottom of the stool’s interior for a large envelope.
‘I found this years ago,’ he said. ‘Lina moves it around to different hiding places. She puts it under those books, or she hides it in between music scores, or wedges it behind a picture.’
‘Because she doesn’t want us to find it?’
‘Yes. But I think she takes it out and broods over it when she’s on her own,’ said Marcus. ‘I bet she’s squirrelled other, similar things away as well, only I’ve never found them; well, I’ve never looked, because this house is so stuffed with junk it would take seven men seven years …’
He opened the envelope carefully, and put a dog-eared photograph and a faded newspaper cutting on the side table, where the lamp’s light fell on them.
The photo was of a man who looked to be in his late thirties or early forties – although it was difficult to judge from such an old black-and-white image. He was narrowing his eyes at the camera, as if strong sunlight might be shining on to his face. His hair might have been any colour, but he had dark, strongly marked brows, and a wide mouth that might be either very sensitive or that might be cold and even cruel. Margot was not sure if she would have liked him very much – she thought she might have been a bit frightened of him – but she could not stop looking at him.
‘Who is he? And where—’
‘If you look here, and here—’ Marcus indicated on the photograph.
‘The outline of a turret?’
‘Yes. See what it says on the back.’
On the back of the photograph, in Lina’s writing, familiar from Christmas and birthday cards, were the words, ‘My dear and beloved father at Wewelsburg Castle in 1939.’
‘Wewelsburg,’ said Margot, softly.
‘Yes. And that’s the murdered martyr himself.’
‘He looks quite young,’ said Margot.
The other thing in the envelope was a newspaper cutting, brown-spotted with age, the paper brittle, but the print still readable. The date at the top was March 1976, and the heading said: THE WILDCARDS OF MURDER. A subheading said, ‘Vanished Killers’.
Margot looked questioningly at Marcus, but he only said, ‘Read it.’
The article was about people who had been suspected of murder – suspected so strongly it would have been difficult for those people to prove their innocence if they had not vanished. There were three or four pictures of these people, with brief descriptions of what they were thought to have done. They all looked perfectly normal, and the details given were carefully phrased – Margot supposed the newspaper had to be careful about printing anything that might be wrong. It was libel or slander or something.
‘Why would Lina keep this?’ she began, then saw that one of the photos was of a girl, who looked to be about twelve or thirteen. She had smooth dark hair and narrow eyes and a shy smile, as if she was not sure if she entirely liked having her photo taken. At her side was a small boy, who strongly resembled her, even in the grainy newsprint. He was hunching his shoulders and looking slightly anxious.
The caption said, ‘An early photograph of Christa Klein with her younger brother, possibly at their childhood home just outside Berlin in the late 1930s. The fate of Klein’s family was never established, but Klein was believed to have played a key role in an horrific slaughter during the early years of World War II at Wewelsburg. A number of rumours circulated after the war, and Klein’s extreme youth at the time of the killing has always been stressed.
‘Christa Klein was never brought to justice – and her age at the time of the deaths would severely have restricted any actual sentencing. It was never known what happened to her.’
Margot, reading this, had the curious sensation that for a few moments she and Marcus had stepped into a grisly, lamplit fragment of history that had its place seven decades earlier in Nazi Germany.
‘So now you see,’ said Marcus, replacing the photo and the article in the envelope, ‘how obsessed Lina is. She’ll bang on for ever about justice for the woman who murdered her father, and she’ll never let go of it – neither will Mother.’ He put the envelope back in the music stool, careful to replace it in the exact same place, and laying the old music scores on the top again before closing the lid. Giselle’s Music was still on the top.
‘Marg, I’ve more or less left home, but you’re still here. If you aren’t careful they’ll drag you into that time warp with them.’
Margot knew he was right. She had a moment of panic, because she could see the years of dreariness stretching out in front of her, and she could see herself repeating the pattern, sinking into the same dreary, whining life as her mother had.
‘But one day we’ll be out of this, won’t we? And then we’ll be together. Won’t we?’
‘That’d be nice. Pity there’s no dosh. Unless—’
‘Yes?’<
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Marcus paused, then said, very softly, ‘You know what I’m thinking, don’t you? You know what would have to happen to make us – especially you – really free? And give us a bit of money into the bargain?’
A sudden silence came down between them. Margot stared at him, and had the eerie impression that a light had kindled behind his eyes.
Then he smiled, and said, ‘Bad thoughts to have. Not to be put into words. I’m for my bed. Night, Marg.’
Sleep was impossible. Margot lay awake, unable to stop Marcus’s words playing and replaying in her mind. He would be asleep by now, of course. She liked to think of him just along the landing. His hair would be tousled on the pillow, and his lashes would lie like dark half-moons on his cheeks.
She turned over, trying to find a comfortable place on the pillow, but her thoughts were scurrying back and forth. Was this to be one of the nights when Lina stole down to the music room, and looked at Giselle’s Music, and at the photograph Marcus had found? ‘My dear and beloved father at Wewelsburg Castle …’
The bedside clock was showing twenty minutes past midnight when Margot got out of bed and went downstairs. It was very quiet, save for the ticking of the long-case clock. One day Margot was going to silence it, so that it could no longer tick and chime away the hours and the days and the years of her life.
She went cautiously into the music room, and reached into the tapestry stool. Here was the music, and right at the bottom the photograph and the newspaper cutting. Margot propped them all up on the music stand, and sat down, staring at them. Giselle and Christa. And Lina’s father, murdered all those years ago. Marcus’s words earlier were still running through her mind. You know what would have to happen to make us really free? he had said. And give us a bit of money into the bargain …?
The curtains were open to the rain-drenched night and Margot could see her reflection in the blurred glass. When she moved, her reflection moved with her. It was an indistinct reflection, though, and she had a brief impression of a figure sitting next to her on the piano stool. She turned her head sharply, but of course there was no one there. But when she looked back at the window, there again was the impression of a small wavering shape like a phantom image within the darkness. Almost like a child pressing up against the glass, trying to get in …
There was a faint sound within the room, and Margot spun round. Her heart leapt. Walking towards her was a figure with a pale face and dark pits where the eyes were. A voice hissed, ‘So you’re back, you evil bitch.’
It was several panic-filled seconds before Margot realized it was Lina, and several more before she managed to say, in a shaky voice, ‘Lina – it’s me. Margot.’
A dreadful look of sly cunning came into the pallid face. ‘No you’re not,’ said Lina. ‘I know who you really are. You’re Christa. I can see her looking out of your eyes.’
Margot said, ‘Christa isn’t here, Lina. And I really am Margot. Let’s go back upstairs. It’s cold down here, isn’t it?’
‘You don’t fool me, you murderous bitch,’ said Lina, in the same eerie, blurred voice. ‘I always knew you’d come back one day. I’ve listened for you and watched for you all my life.’
Marcus was right, thought Margot, trying not to panic. She needs help – proper professional help. I’ll shout to him – he’ll know what to do. But she did not move and she did not call out to Marcus. The room was very quiet, except for the clock’s ticking, and a soft creak from the old window frame. And there’s something here that isn’t usually here, Margot thought. And then – no, not something, someone … Something that had pressed up against the window, wanting to be let in …? Something that was reaching out to her with dead, juiceless fingers, brushing against her skin like icy spider strands …?
Then she heard herself say, very softly, ‘So you recognized me. Yes, I’m here, Lina. I’m here with you.’
The words sounded thin and spiteful, and hearing them shocked Margot.
Lina was backing away, knocking over the piano stool, one hand going to her heart in the classic gesture of fear or defence or both.
‘I’m dreaming this,’ she said in a strangled voice. ‘You’re a nightmare, that’s all you are.’
The voice that did not seem to belong to Margot said, ‘All those years of hating me, Lina … All those years of telling your family I’m a murderess – didn’t it ever occur to you that one day the hatred would be so strong I’d hear it …? That I’d come to find you …’
‘No,’ said Lina, in a strangled voice. Her face was no longer just pale, it was taking a bluish tinge, especially around the lips. She was gasping for breath. ‘You’re not real …’
‘Aren’t I? Aren’t I …?’
Lina gave a strangled cry, clutched at the edges of the piano as if trying to stand, then fell forward across the edge of the piano frame. A faint resonance came from inside it, like the struggling moan of something dying.
Something dying … Lina was sprawled on the floor. She looked dead, but she might not be. She might be unconscious – from a stroke or a heart attack. If Margot summoned help, dialled 999 for an ambulance, Lina might be saved. But if she did nothing …
We need to be free, Marcus had said. And then, You know what would have to happen first …
Margot stood very still, staring down at the prone figure. The only emotion she felt was relief that the focus of the smothering hatred had gone. At last, moving very quietly, she went back upstairs to bed.
The following morning, her mother came running into her bedroom, crying, and saying she had found Lina – dear Lina, who had so generously given them a home for all these years – lying in the music room. She was cold and still, and certainly dead; what a shocking way to go, and whatever were they to do?
What they did – what Marcus and Margot did between them – was to call the paramedics, who came quickly. They were very kind; they said it looked like a heart attack, which would have been quick and quite merciful in its way. Well, yes, it was certainly a bit unusual that she had apparently gone down to play the piano after having gone to bed, but elderly people sometimes did reach out for their earlier years. Possibly she had been doing that. If so, it might be a comfort to them all to think she had met her death surrounded by happy memories of her past.
Margot did not say that the memories of Lina’s past would not be particularly happy, and her mother refused to be comforted anyway. She said Lina’s life had been very unhappy; it had been filled with sadness and violence and betrayal. She sat crying in a chair for the entire day, with the curtains all closed, wearing a dressing gown and refusing to eat. The GP, appealed to for help over the phone, said he would leave a prescription for a mild sedative at reception. Margot had to collect this and take it to the nearest pharmacy, because their mother refused to let Marcus out of her sight. It took her nearly two hours because she had to wait for buses that were late, and by the time she got back, Marcus was on the phone to the infirmary. He sounded angry. He said the family did not want a post mortem to be performed; his mother’s aunt had surely been so old that there was no question of anything other than death from – well, from old age, and no, he did not mean to be disrespectful, he was simply stating a fact. It was unkind to put his mother through such a trauma, said Marcus. He avoided looking at Margot when he said this.
But it seemed a post mortem was necessary, because the cause of death was not immediately clear, and as no physician had been in attendance for the preceding three weeks, the law required this investigation. The hospital said it would be done quickly and it would be very respectful, and in the end Marcus had to give in. The following day somebody from the coroner’s office phoned to say the cause had been myocardial infarction. A simple heart attack, exactly as the paramedics had thought. It was a pity there had been no warning, but that was how it happened sometimes. A good age, though. And a quick and painless death, which was surely what everybody wanted for their loved ones.
Marcus stayed until after the funeral, of
course. He had to make some phone calls explaining what had happened, and later, as she was going along to her own bedroom, Margot heard him make another call. She paused outside his door. His voice had slid down into a soft purr – Margot had never heard him use that voice before, and she clenched her fists. Marcus was saying, ‘Of course I’ll soon be back with you. Girl, dear, why do you think I want to be back with you?’
There was a pause, then he said, ‘Listen, though, it’s probably as well you aren’t here, because I’m bloody drunk tonight – it’s like a gothic novel in this house at the moment, and I had to get pissed to get through the evening. So you might find I was from suffering brewers’ droop – although it’d be a first if so, wouldn’t it—’
The girl must have said something at this point, because Marcus laughed, very quietly, in a way Margot had never heard him laugh before. He said, ‘Oh, that’s more than worth coming back for. I’ll be with you as soon as I can.’
It would not mean anything, of course. That girl, whoever she was, would not be important.
When, the next morning, Marcus said, ‘Margot, have you realized we’re one step nearer to freedom,’ Margot’s heart leapt and she stopped thinking about the unknown girl she had heard him phone, (and hating that girl), and knew that when it came to the really important things, she and Marcus were still of one mind. A life together, that was what they both wanted, and that was what would eventually happen. One day they would be free to sell this house.
One half of the stifling hatred had vanished. What of the other half? How long was their mother likely to live?
The funeral was very plain, because Margot’s mother said they did not need to be extravagant.
There was no get-together with friends or family afterwards, mostly because there was no family except themselves, and neither Lina nor Margot’s mother had any friends. Two of their neighbours came to the crematorium, but that was all.
When they got back to the house, Margot’s mother said she could not face eating the lunch Margot had got up early to make, in readiness for their return. In the end Marcus and Margot ate it between them, feeling rather guilty. ‘But I was ravenously hungry,’ said Marcus, a bit defiantly. ‘And it was bloody cold in that crematorium.’