The Crystal Cage

by Merryn Allingham

  ‘I did warn you,’ he said, and shrugged. Nick’s shoulders were as expressive as most people’s faces. ‘But you’re welcome to crash for a few days.’

  At least he wasn’t suggesting I move in permanently, and then to gladden my heart further he added, ‘I’ll sleep on the couch. I think there are some clean sheets for the bed somewhere.’

  Our relationship was being carefully defined, and I was grateful. Thetford Road was hardly to my taste, but it would provide me with a perch until I regained my bearings. No doubt I would soon be fluttering back to Hampstead. That was evidently what Nick assumed; he wasn’t setting any store by what had happened in Dorset.

  He busied himself cooking us an evening meal while I searched out the sheets he’d spoken of. They turned up in one of the kitchen cupboards, but they were clean as he’d promised and by the time I’d wrestled with making a bed hemmed in by three walls, he had produced a decent Bolognese from the store cupboard. I was seriously impressed. It was a great deal more than I could do.

  But had I really believed that I could live here as a friend? It was naïve in the extreme, hardly worthy of a woman nearing thirty. Entombed in my large and lumpy bed that night, I could hear him in the next room, thrashing around on what I judged the hardest couch in London. Whether it was sympathy for his plight or self-pity at being abandoned to a horribly empty bed, I don’t know. But two hours into a night of wakefulness, alert to every small sound while trying to pretend heavy sleep, I gave in. The door opened and Nick swayed hazily on the threshold.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’d like to share? My back is in at least six pieces.’ He was trying to sound winning, but he needn’t have bothered. I was already a fair way to being a pushover.

  ‘We could always find a spare pillow to divvy up the bed,’ he said hopefully.

  I threw back the coverlet. ‘No pillow.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he said and fell in on top of me. It felt good to have him close again, and we didn’t waste much time rediscovering each other. It was a pity that we seemed destined to love in the most dismal surroundings, but somehow it didn’t matter. I fell asleep in his arms.

  That first night set the pattern, and now I was used to being woken halfway through the night, to eating, sleeping, loving as the mood took us. I could have happily continued the lotus life indefinitely but for the fact that I was running out of clean clothes and the launderette Nick patronised was a two-mile walk away. Far better to brave Lyndhurst Villas again and pack a couple of suitcases.

  But come the morning it didn’t seem so simple and I put off making the decision to go. How better to prevaricate than by checking my email, which I’d been ignoring for days. I’m glad I did because alongside the usual inbox dross there was one message boasting a very red exclamation mark. It was from Leo Merrick. He was desperate. It was not only his wife now who felt a malevolent presence on site but the builders working there, and they were threatening to walk away from the job if the strange activities did not cease. What these were he didn’t specify. It was evident though that he was taking it seriously. Mrs Merrick might be dismissed as fanciful but a clutch of brawny builders was another matter. I felt like telling him to call in the local priest, but instead I checked out the school again. I’d promised to do that days ago, but the Dorset trip had pushed it from my mind. The Raine Foundation School still existed, albeit under a different name. It had moved around the East End over the last century and a half, but its records had been preserved from a long way back. It wasn’t difficult to call up those relating to the 1845 wing; they were more or less complete and had been uploaded into the school’s archives courtesy of a lottery grant. I sent silent thanks to Camelot. There was a good deal of information that was of little interest: building specifications, architectural plans, budget details. I was looking for something more personal, and I found it when I alighted on a roll call of teachers who had been in charge of the girls’ school.

  Leo Merrick seemed relieved to hear my voice. ‘I’m not sure that you can do anything with the information I’ve found,’ I cautioned.

  ‘Anything has to be better than nothing. Can you come?’

  ‘Come where?’

  ‘To Silver Street. The schoolhouse. Can you meet me there? I think it’s important you see the place. I’ll bring my wife and you can tell us both what you’ve discovered. She’ll know then I’m not trying to pull the wool over her eyes.’

  It was an unusual request and I hesitated. ‘I could, I suppose, but I should really be somewhere else this morning.’ I should, but I didn’t want to be.

  ‘It would take less than an hour of your time, Dr Latimer, and I’m happy to pay whatever fee you feel is appropriate. Things have got quite bad, you know.’

  I assumed he meant between him and his wife. The pressure was subtle, but to be honest, it suited me this morning to sidestep what I wasn’t ready to face.

  ‘I’ll be there by eleven.’

  ‘Thank you. Thank you, Dr Latimer.’ He sounded genuinely grateful, though heaven knows there was little to tell and what there was, was unlikely to make much difference to Mrs Merrick’s fear of the place. But I was keeping my client happy and that was the name of the game.

  I reached Silver Street before the Merricks, and the tarpaulins flapping in the wind led me straight to the schoolroom. Apart from an ineffectual attempt to shelter a part of the roof that had been opened to the sky, it was obvious that the builders had abandoned the site without securing it. I was able to open the heavy front door and wander into the narrow vestibule. This was where the girls would have hung their coats and capes and left their galoshes on inclement days. I should have waited for the Merricks here, but I didn’t. I was being nudged to explore. Another door faced me; I pushed it ajar and was drawn into a wide, open space. The schoolroom had remained much the same as it had when the last child had closed the lid of her desk.

  I walked across the scratched tiled floor towards the dais that stood at the very end of the room. Remarkably it still boasted a desk, placed in a position of authority. This was where the teacher would have sat, cane no doubt by his or her side. It was as I approached the raised wooden structure that I first felt the prickling. A definite prickling of the skin that started at my scalp and inched downward to my feet. Then my chest began to feel tight and my breath to come less easily. This is absurd, I thought. I was in an empty room, a space that was entirely innocuous. Was I allowing Leo Merrick’s tale of unquiet spirits to get to me?

  I was at the dais and starting up the steps to the desk when I stumbled. My legs felt suddenly heavy, so heavy that I could hardly drag one foot in front of the other. It was as though an invisible force was manipulating me, a force I wasn’t able to control. Somehow I managed to clamber onto the dais and collapse into a seat. The prickling had ceased but my chest was still tight, encased in a steel band. I sat staring down at the desk top for what seemed an age, until its grimy ridges began to flow one into another in a mad crisscross dance. When my pulse gradually steadied, I dared to look around. I’d been fearful at what I might see, but all I gazed on was emptiness. Light from the tall, arched windows fell crookedly across the floor, casting the corners of the room into shadow. But nothing moved, nothing breathed.

  I should have walked back to the vestibule then, but instead I lifted the desk lid. What made me do that, I have no idea; I just knew in that instant that I had to. The desk was empty, of course. Except for the scent. It was a scent that was very familiar and for a moment it caught in my throat. Then common sense returned, and I lifted the lid a little farther and glimpsed a patch of white. Scrabbling in the deep well of the desk I brought out a linen handkerchief and put it to my nose. The perfume was unmistakeable—jasmine. I shook the handkerchief out and looked at it closely. Patched with a century’s dirt, it must have been tucked at the very back of the desk for years. One corner held a small, embroidered initial. When I saw what it was, my heart gave a sharp jolt. It was the letter A.

  ‘Dr Latimer? Tha
nk you so much for coming.’ Leo Merrick had walked through the inner door without my hearing a footstep. I’d been too occupied, too overwhelmed by the coincidence. I slipped down from the desk.

  ‘It’s a splendid specimen, isn’t it?’ He gestured towards the desk. ‘Original I believe. It must have belonged to the last person to teach in this room.’

  I nodded mechanically. My mind was still all over the place. I looked around for Mrs Merrick, but he appeared to be on his own.

  ‘Your wife?’

  He seemed embarrassed. ‘She’s not coming, I’m afraid. I couldn’t persuade her here, not even to see you, but I’ve promised to make a faithful report.’

  ‘As I told you, there’s very little to report.’

  He looked disappointed. ‘I was hoping there might be more. With your coming here, I mean. I thought it might jog your mind, help you make connections.’

  I wasn’t sure what he meant. The only connections I’d made—jasmine and the letter A—were with Royde’s story and had absolutely nothing to do with the problems Leo Merrick was experiencing.

  ‘So tell me the little you know.’

  ‘This part of the site was the girls’ school,’ I began, ‘but you know that already. I imagine the oldest section, where the boys were educated, is derelict.’

  He nodded. ‘What was left of it was dangerous, and it’s had to be completely demolished.’

  ‘As I told you, the entire school moved from here in the latter part of the century and continued to move to several different locations before settling in its present site.’

  He nodded again, and I felt his solid presence bring calm into the room. I could move and breathe without effort now. ‘But while it was here in Silver Street,’ I went on, ‘there seems to be something odd about the teachers who were in charge. At least according to the records I’ve seen.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Their names are listed meticulously right up until 1883. That’s when the school moved. Each headmistress of the girls’ section appears to have stayed in post for around three to five years. Presumably at that point they either married or moved to another school.’

  ‘I’m afraid I have to say, so what?’

  ‘What’s interesting is that initially at least they were all headmistresses—there are five different sets of female names—but after 1863 the teacher appointed was male and the Board of Governors then continued to appoint a man to lead the school until it moved to its new location—a total of twenty years.’

  ‘You think there’s something significant in the shift from women to men?’

  ‘It was pretty sudden and pretty unusual. At the time school teaching was not a particularly respected profession for men, and heading a girls’ school would have been even less attractive. The Board wouldn’t have found it easy to hire male head teachers. But despite the difficulties, they did. Something could have occurred in 1863 to precipitate their decision.’

  ‘What, for instance?’

  I shook my head. ‘I have no idea. But the last female name on the list might offer a clue, I suppose. She has to be doubly fascinating—literally so. Not one woman but two were in charge in that final female year, and they stayed for a mere nine months.’

  ‘Do you know anything else about them?’

  ‘Only that their name was Villiers, the Misses F and G Villiers. They were a double act, a sister act, perhaps. One that may have gone wrong.’

  ‘Can you find out?’

  ‘Quite possibly, but I don’t honestly see what use it will be to you.’

  ‘Dr Latimer, I have a wife on the edge of a nervous breakdown. She thinks she is going mad. I have builders ready to pull out of the project completely and the whole thing is costing me an arm and a leg. I know I’m clutching at straws, but if I can give them any kind of explanation, it might help. You’ve made a start.’

  ‘And that’s where it could end,’ I warned, ‘but you’re the client. If you want me to continue, I will.’

  ‘I do. Very much.’

  By now we were back in the vestibule and for the first time I felt able to smile. ‘I’ll contact you as soon as I can, Mr Merrick.’

  I hope I sounded more professional than I was feeling. The experience in the schoolroom had shaken me, and I was tempted to make a dash back to the flat and normality. But Nick would want to know how the meeting had gone and I felt the less I talked about it, the better I’d be. I would go to Lyndhurst Villas after all, I decided. If I could brave the paranormal, I could brave Hampstead. Nick had earlier volunteered to come with me, but I thought it best to go alone, just in case Oliver had returned from Newcastle.

  And he had. I had barely turned the key in the lock when he appeared at my side, his skin an odd shade of pink and the usually calm lines of his face distorted by suppressed anger. I hadn’t expected to be welcomed joyously, but his reaction took me aback; it seemed so extreme. I speculated, foolishly as it turned out, that he had somehow found out about Nick and this was jealousy in action. I soon learnt differently.

  ‘Where have you been?’ were his first words, no greeting, no pleasantries.

  Despite the enormous effort he was making to control his temper, his tone was querulous. We seemed almost to have travelled back in time to continue the dispute of days ago. There was a difference though: I wasn’t the same person. Then I’d reacted stormily to his departure with Rebecca. I’d been upset by his abandonment and angered that a young girl threatened to displace me. Now I was thinking dispassionately, even coldly, and I decided that I didn’t like his attitude one little bit. I counterattacked.

  ‘Does it matter where I’ve been? You were happy enough to disappear to Newcastle for days. Presumably I’m as free as you to go where I wish.’

  ‘I went on a business trip,’ he said with heavy emphasis. ‘Are you saying that your journey was as essential?’

  I couldn’t say that, so I said nothing.

  ‘Exactly. As I thought.’ A note of triumph had replaced the anger. Then a sad shake of the head. ‘I don’t understand what’s got into you lately, Grace. You seem determined to upset me.’

  ‘That certainly isn’t my intention.’

  ‘Perhaps not, but that’s how it appears. We’re partners—we work together as well as live together and I depend on you for certain responsibilities. These days you seem to make a habit of ignoring them. It’s disappointing.’

  He tugged fiercely at his beard. He was the college principal and I the head girl who had not lived up to expectations.

  ‘And what responsibilities would they be?’ I asked, though I had little interest in learning. I thought he was sure to start droning on about the exhibition again and how much trouble my truancy had caused him.

  ‘Kezia.’

  It was totally unexpected and for some reason the single word struck me as comic and I began to laugh. That made him explode. If he had been angry before, he was incandescent now.

  ‘You find it amusing that you completely ignored a young girl’s birthday to go gallivanting I-know-not-where on some pointless whim, presumably just to spite me.’

  The latter held some truth, but I wasn’t going to admit it. Instead I challenged his preposterous suggestion that I was somehow accountable for his daughter’s happiness.

  ‘Kezia is your child,’ I reminded him coldly. ‘It’s you who has forgotten her birthday.’

  ‘I did not forget, but I was quite unable to do anything about it. I was away working.’

  ‘So you keep saying. But people do manage to juggle work and family, Oliver. You might even be successful if you gave it a try.’

  ‘Naturally I would not have gone to Newcastle if I’d had an inkling that you would let her, me, down so badly. Every year for the last—nine, is it?—you’ve arranged a suitable present and attended her birthday party. I depended on you to do the same this year.’

  ‘Why?’ I felt incensed. ‘You’re her parent, not me. Let’s be honest,’ and I had a burning desire to be honest, to le
t rip with the words I’d carefully smothered over the years, ‘I doubt if you even know how old she is. You’re simply not interested in your daughter and never have been.’

  ‘That’s a lie.’ The pink tinge had darkened to an unsightly red.

  ‘I think not. Interesting yourself in Kezia’s life would involve a degree of selflessness.’

  ‘How dare you speak so! You are in no position to judge my relationship with my child.’

  ‘On the contrary. Over the years I’ve visited Kezia in your stead, gone to her parties for you, chosen her presents, even taken her on shopping trips that you promised but couldn’t quite make. I’m more than capable of judging your adequacy or otherwise as a father. Forgetting her birthday—and don’t bother to protest—you’ve only just remembered it—is your fault. Not mine.’

  ‘You are my personal assistant. It was your job to remember.’

  His refusal to accept any blame was wilful. I’d thought I knew Oliver, knew him and accepted him warts and all, but I had never felt more disenchanted.

  ‘It wasn’t my job,’ I repeated wearily, ‘but I’m not going to argue.’

  ‘Good.’ His tone was brisk. ‘There seems little point, now that it’s too late to rectify the mistake. But it mustn’t happen again, Grace. Lately we seem to have got our wires crossed. In future we must make sure that we work more closely together and you’re clearer about what needs to be done.’

  A tentative smile had begun to creep across his face. He breathed out quite forcefully, as though he was blowing away the problems of the past. I hated to ruin his moment of satisfaction, but I was going to.