by Sarah Rayne
It was a nightmare that teemed with police officers tramping across fields and copses, peering for wisps of clothing or shoelaces, looking for signs of disturbance or for footprints, although as Don said, footprints after all the rain seemed wildly optimistic. Donna wanted to go with the searchers, but the police said best not. Best stay at the cottage with your brother, my dear, then we’ll have a base, so to speak. A checkpoint. And who’s to say that your parents mightn’t turn up at the cottage when we’re least expecting it?
A policewoman stayed at the cottage with them, offering to make cups of tea every ten minutes, trotting out little reassuring stories about people who had turned up after being lost for days on end. They wouldn’t believe the odd things that happened in life. Amnesia and so on. And how about a bit of lunch? They had to keep their strength up, didn’t they?
On the third day, the police brought in dogs, and Donna was asked to provide items of recently worn clothing that would be imbued with their parents’ scent. She found a pair of her father’s socks and some of her mother’s underwear which the inspector said was exactly what they wanted.
Donna thought you heard a good deal about the agonies families went through when people vanished, but nobody ever mentioned that you had to burrow sordidly in linen baskets to find unwashed knickers to wave in front of police tracker dogs.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Inevitably, the police search for Maria and Jim Robards included Twygrist. Donna had told them about their mother’s interest in the place; there had been no reason not to tell them. Her parents liked local history, she said, determinedly speaking in the present tense; they often had a project like this when they were on holiday. They had stayed at Charity Cottage for several summers, so they were sufficiently at home to enjoy delving around in the area’s past.
The police had searched the inside of the mill, as well as combing the surrounding hillsides. They did not tell Miss Robards or her brother that they were now hesitating worriedly over the reservoir, created over two hundred years ago to power the mill’s unwieldy mechanism. They had not yet reached the stage of dragging it, and they were hoping not to do so–dragging any expanse of water was a messy, long-winded procedure never mind being unreliable, and it was more than seventy years since Twygrist’s sluice gates had been raised. The mechanism was likely to be rusted beyond use.
On the morning of the fourth day, the inspector who had been called in to head the search decided to go back inside Twygrist with more powerful lights and with the dogs. It was such a labyrinth when you actually got inside, he said, it was possible they had missed something.
Donna went with them. She could not bear it any longer, she said to the inspector. Please let her come along, if only for a couple of hours. She would feel so much better knowing she was joining in the search and in any case, they could hardly prevent her from driving out there herself, even if they would not actually let her into Twygrist. The inspector was not very keen but eventually agreed, stipulating that she was not to get in the way or try to climb into any of the inaccessible parts of the mill. It had been derelict for years and parts of it were probably dangerous. She was to regard herself as under police orders, was that clear?
‘Perfectly clear,’ said Donna politely.
Whoever had built Twygrist, had taken advantage of the natural slope of the land, and it was set into the hillside with a good part of it below the ground. Donna did not know if this was because the mill had sunk over the centuries, or if it had been built like that in the first place so as to get the full weight of the water from the reservoir directly behind the mill, a little way up the hillside. The roof was a long steep structure, its eaves so low that at the front they were only a few feet from the ground. Tiny slatted windows were set into the roof, but most of the slats had rotted away so the windows resembled empty eye sockets.
On the side was the over-elaborate clock her mother had said was to commemorate someone. There was some sort of local fund to pay for the regular winding and cleaning of it–the office of Clock-Winder was passed down in one of the local families, father to son or nephew, apparently. Maria was hoping to discover the identity of the family, and talk to them. It was very rustic, wasn’t it? She thought it perfectly charming.
Donna had not thought it perfectly charming at all, and she thought the clock itself was very ugly. It had a bulbous surface, so that from some angles it looked like a swollen face poking through the wall. It was rather unnerving to approach Twygrist and look up to see those empty windows and that swollen-faced clock.
The roof overhung the doorway so much that the policemen had to duck their heads to go through, and Donna, who was fairly tall, had to do so as well. The door itself was black with age and half hanging off its hinges, but one of the men propped it open to allow daylight in. But even with that amount of light, entering Twygrist was like stepping into a dank black cavern. It was like walking beneath an old, old lake, with the uncomfortable knowledge that directly over your head was a huge volume of dark stagnant water. Donna wondered how long it was since the old sluice gates had been raised, and the water had poured out of the reservoir, down through the tunnels and culverts, to gush into the mill and power the two massive millwheels. She had a sudden unpleasant suspicion that it would not take much to set the rusting mechanism in motion again: that if she leaned on something unwisely, or trod incautiously on a particular part of the floor, she might feel a shudder go through the old timbers, and the massive waterwheels would slowly begin to rotate once more. Sheer nerves, nothing more.
The police searched this floor first, sweeping their powerful torches over the long-disused mechanism, and brushing aside festoons of grey-white cobwebs in order to check all the corners and tucked-away little recesses. Almost all of Twygrist was decayed and rotted beyond repair, and there was a smell of sour dirt and extreme age. Donna stayed by the door, wanting to keep a low profile in case they decided to order her out, but watching where the searchers’ torches went, trying to see if there were any clues that were being missed.
But there was nothing to be seen anywhere, and after a while the search was moved to the upper level. Donna watched the police go warily up the rickety staircase. She thought the upper level was where the workers had shovelled corn into a chute so it could be fed down to the millstones for the actual grinding. Josiah Forrester had employed local women and girls for that–it was one of the things Maria Robards had discovered and talked about. They had all sat in the upper rooms, she said, picking over the corn before it was fed into the chute, and there had been a legend that some of them were witches. That was because they had worked in near-darkness on account of it being dangerous to have lit candles or rushlights inside Twygrist, and because they had usually worn black cotton gowns and hats to protect their hair from the corn dust.
There was the chute overhead, a little to her left, and directly beneath it were the two millstones that had worked together to crush the corn to flour. She walked across to them. They were both badly cracked–one was almost in two completely separate pieces–and their surfaces were deeply pitted. Donna glanced round and then reached down to the nearer stone. By leaning over she could brush it with her fingertips. It felt cold and hard and she stepped back at once, repelled. As she did so, the floor-joists around the millstones creaked protestingly, almost as if the voice of the mill was wheezing and grating its way back to life again…
I am not really past my work, my dear, so be wary of me…I can still grind and I can still crush and mill. Once songs were sung about me and once children’s rhymes were chanted about how I could grind men’s bones to make bread–and women’s bones as well, my dear. I was never particular whether it was a man or a woman who fell into my hands…
Donna looked around, scanning the shadows, but although she could still hear the police moving overhead, nothing stirred at this level. She realized she had been holding her breath, and let it out with annoyance. This was sheer nervous reaction: she was short on sleep and lo
ng on worry–it had been four days since her mother and father had disappeared. But no matter how sinister Twygrist might be, she was not going to start having the kind of whimsical imagination that ascribed malevolent personalities to old buildings.
The police had taken the torches and lights with them but there was enough light from the propped-open door to see the outlines of the immense oblong tanks enclosing the two great waterwheels and the complexity of axles, shafts and cogs that linked them. Above the larger wheel was what remained of the culvert where once the water had come rushing in. Donna studied it for a moment. Would the police search inside that? Surely no one could have got up there and become trapped inside the culvert–no one would want to go up there in the first place?
Her nerves were becoming stretched almost to snapping point by Twygrist, and she realized she was glancing over her shoulder every few minutes, as if expecting to see someone watching her from the shadows. Ridiculous. There was nothing—
Or was there? Wasn’t there something here that the police inspector and his searchers had still to find…
And what is that, Donna? What is it you can feel–or you think they will find? Bones, ground up to make bread? Because I have had my victims over the years, you know…You’re really quite afraid, aren’t you, Donna, AREN’T YOU?
Donna turned her back on the crouching mechanism and walked determinedly to the doorway. She sat down. The floor was disgustingly dusty, but she was beyond caring. She leant back against the door frame, looking out at the warm sunshine. The sun was high; it must be about midday. Normally she would be thinking about lunch, but she felt as if she would never be hungry or thirsty again.
Below the mill was the road that led to Quire House and then wound its way on to Amberwood. Cars were speeding along, and a fat little country bus chugged to or from a local school. It was all normal and unremarkable, and it was a reminder that the ordinary world was still going on out there. But for the moment I’m stuck here, thought Donna, and I’ve got to stay here because I’ve got to know if they find anything. I’ve got to stay here in this dark place, with that clock ticking the minutes and the hours and the years away.
The policemen were coming down from the upper level. They nodded to Donna with an air of awkward apology, and the inspector called out that they had not found anything, but they were going to check the lower levels. Best if she stayed up here while they did so, he said.
‘I didn’t know you could get to a lower level,’ said Donna.
‘Neither did I,’ said the inspector shortly. ‘And neither, it seems, did anyone else. But Dawkins has just told me about it.’ He glanced angrily at the unhappy Dawkins.
‘Oh, I see.’
It was entirely understandable that the inspector and most of the men, except the presumably local Dawkins, had not known about the steps leading down to Twygrist’s bowels. A small doorway was tucked behind the lower waterwheel, and unless you had known it was there you would certainly have missed it. It was, in fact, necessary to squeeze round the wooden tank to get to the opening, and the space was so cramped that the larger of the policemen had a struggle to get to it. Donna, watching, thought how Don would have enjoyed seeing that; he loved it when authority figures were made ridiculous. Don…
She waited until the men had gone through the door, and then got up and went quickly and quietly after them. Shallow steps led down from the doorway, curving round as they went. The walls had the smoothness of extreme age so there were no handholds anywhere–it would be treacherously easy to miss your footing and tumble all the way down to the bottom. You might lie down there in the dark for days, badly injured–dead or dying–with no one knowing where you were. Donna shivered, but went all the way down, thankful there was enough light from the searchers’ torches to see her way, trying not to brush against the black stones of the walls which were crusted with the dust and grime of years.
‘There’s a lot of dirt and debris everywhere,’ said the inspector’s voice from deeper in the tunnels. ‘So it’s difficult to be sure about footprints, but I think there are several sets. See them?’ The torchlight moved around. ‘They look fairly recent, but they might just have been made by local kids on a dare, or a version of “chicken”, or something. Dawkins, since you know the place better than the rest of us, you’d better lead the way.’
A dreadful stifling warmth seemed to push downwards, and the drumming of the clock’s mechanism was more noticeable down here. Twy-Grist…Twy-Grist… That was what it was saying. Twygrist meant twice ground, presumably. Or was the clock saying, Two-dead…Two-dead…
Twygrist’s bowels were a series of stone and brick-lined cellars, most of them so narrow they were scarcely more than tunnels. Donna counted the rooms as she went. Three, four, five…Would they search every one? The inspector had said earlier that Twygrist was a labyrinth, and Donna found herself remembering that all labyrinths have a centre, a heart, a dark core…
And there, at Twygrist’s dark core—
‘What in God’s name is that?’ said one of the voices, and Donna jumped nervously. She stole forward, hoping to see without being seen.
‘Just another cellar, isn’t it?’ said the inspector.
‘No, it’s doors,’ said someone, shining one of the torches. ‘In fact, steel doors, by the look of it.’
‘It’ll be the old kiln room,’ said Dawkins’ voice. ‘We’re most probably directly under the floor where they used to spread the grain to dry it out–the drying floor, they called it. You can’t see it from outside any more because they concreted over it years ago, but it’s a kind of flat roof near the ground at the back of the mill. It’s clay or terracotta or something like that, and it was made with hundreds of tiny holes.’ He paused as if waiting to see if anyone interrupted, and when no one did, went on, ‘They spread the grain over it, and then lit a fire down here directly underneath so the dry heat rose up and drove the moisture out of the grain. My grandfather used to farm around here, and he remembers it being done.’
‘And you reckon this kiln room’s on the other side of those doors?’
‘Seems logical, sir.’
‘So it does,’ said the inspector thoughtfully. Donna was keeping well back in the shadows, but she could see the men grouped around the doors.
‘We’re right at the heart of the building here,’ said the inspector. ‘So the kiln room is surrounded by all these other rooms. If a fire ever got out of hand, there’d be some protection.’
‘And,’ said Dawkins, ‘The steel doors seal it off.’ He paused and the inspector said, ‘And if the drying floor is concreted over, it’d be virtually airtight in there.’
The hot bad-smelling darkness seemed to gather its forces and jump out at them, and then in a completely different tone, the inspector said, ‘Get those bloody doors open now!’
The doors were not locked, and although there were indentations where handles must once have been, they had long since rusted off. The doors were wedged tight together and virtually seamless.
‘They open outwards,’ said the inspector after a moment. ‘But without the handles they’re as smooth as eggs–there’s nothing we can get hold of to pull them back. What we need here is a set of old-fashioned burglars’ tools.’
‘The jemmy principle, sir?’
‘Exactly. See if you can break off any sections of the old machinery to use as levers–anything that looks strong enough and thin enough.’
The cellars seemed to Donna to be filling up with panic, and the smooth-as-eggs doors began to take on a dreadfully sinister appearance. Airtight. Airtight… The clock was still beating out its rhythm, but the words of the rhythm had changed. Airtight…airtight…
The inspector’s voice cut through this horrid tattoo. ‘One of you had better go back upstairs and radio Area to ask about the availability of oxyacetylene cutters in case—Oh, wait though, it looks as if you’ve got some purchase on it at last. Don’t let it slip back!’
The door did not slip back. Its old h
inges screeched like a thousand souls in torment, and the metal scraped protestingly against the rough and ready levers the men had inserted, but Donna saw it begin to swing outwards. Dry stale air gusted out, and something that had been huddled against the other side of the door fell forward.
‘Oh, God,’ said Donna, no longer bothering to remain hidden. She clapped both hands over her mouth as if to force back a scream or a sob. ‘Oh, God…’
They were both there. They must have been there all along–all the time. Four days. And the room had been airtight…
Maria Robards had fallen onto her back, and the glare of the torches showed up her terrible face. The skin she had taken such care of–beauty treatments at expensive salons, her insistence on buying the best make-up obtainable–was suffused with purple where the veins had swollen in her frenzied efforts to escape and the panic-filled struggle for air. Her eyes were wide open–bulging from their sockets–and the whites were stained crimson where the tiny capillaries had haemorrhaged.
She had taken care of her hands as well. Scented hand lotions, manicures, always wearing costly rings. The rings were still there, but the once-perfect nails were broken and the fingertips were crusted with blood where she had clawed at the heavy steel doors.
Donna’s father was not by the door; he was lying near the brick chimney. His face was turned away from the torchlight, but it was possible to see that his hands were also bruised and bloodied. Perhaps he had been trying to find a chink in Twygrist’s structure: a tiny tear in the fabric which could be widened to let in air. Perhaps he had not known where he was, though, and had been beating uselessly against the bricks, in the mad, dying belief that they were doors that could be forced open.