by Sarah Rayne
Michael reread the chapter he had just written and thought it was not bad. But before he let his editor see it, he would email it to Beth and Ellie. They loved being in on the birth of a new Wilberforce exploit and they would be completely honest about whether it made a good story.
As he got into bed, he wondered if Benedict Doyle had traced any of the people in his story. He had been going to get the Title Deeds to Holly Lodge – perhaps he would ring to let Michael know about that.
Lying in bed, his mind was full of fragments of Benedict’s curious story and the vivid collection of people who seemed to have been its major players. It was an extraordinary tale.
He began to drift into sleep, and as he did so, a half-memory nudged uneasily at his mind. He was toppling over into sleep when it clicked fully into place. It was of Benedict sitting in Michael’s study that day, the sinister glint of blue in his brown eyes, saying Nell should not go to Holly Lodge.
Because we both know who’s inside that house, Benedict had said and his voice had once again held the soft Irish overlay.
TWENTY
Nell enjoyed the evening at Nina’s flat. Nina had made a huge risotto which they ate in the large friendly kitchen, together with the bottle of Chablis which Nell had brought. Nina rattled on in her customary inconsequential way, Benedict putting in the occasional word, and Nell listened with amusement. But several layers down, she was aware of an undercurrent of excitement. Only a few hours left, then I’ll see him again, her mind kept saying. I’ll find out who he is. I’ll find out what he is. But this last thought twisted the excitement into such a wrench of apprehension that she pushed it away and focused on what Nina was saying about how people thought you could successfully transport beef Wellington for thirty people halfway across London without the pastry going soggy, could you believe it?
Benedict seemed entirely normal. He teased Nina about the risotto, and helped cut up ciabatta bread to hand round. Afterwards Nina shooed Nell and Benedict into the sitting room while she made coffee, and Nell asked Benedict about the criminology studies.
‘At the moment I’m researching for an essay on old Victorian cases,’ he said.
‘You mentioned that last time I was here. It sounds interesting.’
‘It is. I’m trying to find some really unusual crimes from the late 1800s – the 1890s particularly. Ones that weren’t publicized – ones we don’t know about today.’ He glanced at her hesitantly, then, as if realizing she was genuinely interested, said, ‘To start with, I thought I’d re-examine them, comparing the police methods with today’s forensic science. But then I thought that if I could unearth some really good ones, I’d try to find oblique references to them in the fiction of that time. I don’t mean obvious things like the Artful Dodger representing all the pickpockets in Alsatia, or Mr Hyde being Jack the Ripper—’
‘Mr Hyde wasn’t Jack the Ripper, was he?’ said Nina, coming in with the coffee pot, and sounding startled.
‘No, that’s just an illustration of what I mean.’
‘Where on earth was Alsatia? Oh bother, I’ve forgotten the milk. And I made some petits fours—’ She vanished to the kitchen again.
‘Where is Alsatia?’ said Nell.
‘It was in Whitefriars,’ said Benedict. ‘Roughly speaking, the Fleet Street area across to the Thames. It was sort of a sanctuary place for thieves and general ruffians and crooks.’
‘And now it’s home to newspapers and journalists,’ said Nell, deadpan, and was pleased when he grinned and instantly said, ‘Yes. So what’s new?’
‘I like your essay idea. And it’s such a colourful era, as well. The minute you mention the 1890s, you see all the images.’
‘The street life,’ said Benedict. ‘The hot food sellers and the beggars and toffs, and the ordinary clerks and workers. Apothecaries’ shops with huge glass flagons in the windows, and little dusty drapers’ shops and barrow boys. It would smell different then, and it would certainly sound different. London’s always noisy, but it’d have been noisy in a different way. Hansom cabs rattling over the cobblestones, and people shouting and quarrelling, and the hoot of barges from the river, and the sound of overstrung, out-of-tune pianos played in smoky pubs—’
He broke off, and Nell said warmly, ‘And one of the fascinations is that it’s still just about touchable, that era. Our grandparents would remember their grandparents or even their parents talking about it. And we’ve got photographs from those years. Voices, as well. Those scratchy old recordings. But go back a bit earlier, and there’s only what was written down. We’ll never know what people really looked like.’
‘Yes,’ said Benedict, with a kind of eager gratitude for her interest. ‘And we’ll never know what they sounded like, either. In ordinary everyday speech, I mean.’
‘Because language changes,’ said Nell, thoughtfully.
‘Yes. Not just because we use different expressions. We don’t pronounce words as people did a hundred – even fifty – years ago.’
‘That’s true. You only have to watch one of those old 1930s or 1940s British films to hear that. Tell me some more about your essay.’
‘Well, the thing is that an author writing today might have a character mentioning a current murder trial that readers would recognize and know about. Even today if you say Ruth Ellis, most people know she was the last woman to be hanged.’
‘Or Fred and Rosemary West and the macabre patio in Gloucester.’
‘Yes. But those references in a book probably wouldn’t mean anything to somebody reading it in a hundred years’ time,’ said Benedict. ‘So it’s the lost cases of the 1890s I’m going for, then I’ll see if they’re mentioned in the fiction of the day.’
‘Weren’t there books that used to be termed the Newgate Novels?’ asked Nell.
‘Yes, there were,’ said Benedict, pleased. ‘They were a kind of fictional counterpart of some true stories of the era. Oliver Twist is regarded as a Newgate Novel.’
‘Yes, of course. Will you use the essay as the base for a PhD, later on?’
‘It’d be nice to think I could,’ said Benedict rather wistfully. ‘Only I’m not sure about even doing a PhD yet.’
‘Wouldn’t it be a good idea? And you’re so knowledgeable about that era.’
‘Am I?’ He frowned slightly.
‘Yes, you are,’ said Nell. ‘You convey such a sense of it. It’s extraordinary, but when you were talking about it – about the street sellers and the scents and the sounds and the river barges – I could see it all so vividly.’
She knew at once that she had said something wrong. Benedict’s expression changed – so markedly that Nell was reminded of still water that had suddenly rippled beneath the surface. She felt a shiver of apprehension.
In a soft voice, Benedict said, ‘I’m glad you came. I hoped you would, you know.’
It was an odd, slightly disconnected remark, and for a moment Nell could not think how to reply. But then Nina came back, and Benedict said in a completely normal, slightly tired-sounding, voice, ‘Nina, d’you mind if I skip coffee and head for bed?’
‘To make some notes on your essay while they’re still alive in your mind?’ said Nell, smiling at him, relieved that the brief disconcerting moment had passed. Perhaps it had been something to do with the illness he had – she had been enjoying talking to him so much she had almost forgotten about that.
‘Well, yes, sort of,’ said Benedict. He stood up. ‘I expect I’ll see you before you set off for Holly Lodge tomorrow though.’
Nina began to fuss about the sleeping arrangements, wanting Nell to have her own room, because it would be no trouble at all, she had put clean sheets on just that very morning, and it was not right that a guest should sleep on a futon fold-out thing, because what if it collapsed halfway through the night and precipitated Nell on to the floor—
‘I’ll have the futon,’ offered Benedict. ‘Then Nell can have my room. I don’t mind being collapsed on to the floor.’
&n
bsp; Nell said, ‘For heaven’s sake, both of you, I’ll be fine, and the bed won’t collapse and I’ll even get my own duvet from the airing cupboard. Stop fussing.’
‘OK,’ said Benedict, but he still hesitated, and Nell suddenly thought he might be wondering if he should come with her to Holly Lodge tomorrow. Please don’t let him suggest it, she thought, then felt deeply guilty, because Holly Lodge was his house after all, and he would be paying her for the work. But he merely smiled, wished her good luck with the bed, nodded to Nina, and went quietly to his own room.
Later, in the narrow but perfectly comfortable bed, Nell thought how much Michael would have enjoyed the conversation this evening. He would have been deeply interested in Benedict’s proposed essay-cum-thesis, and his eyes would have smiled in gentle and amused appreciation of Nina’s pelting conversation. It was nice to think of having supper with him tomorrow evening, and telling him about tonight. And by tomorrow, thought Nell, I’ll have seen that man at Holly Lodge, and I’ll have got him cleared from my mind. This struck her as a peculiar way to think.
She felt a bit guilty about telling Michael there had been a prowler at Quire Court, although she had not precisely lied, because she had certainly heard something peculiar the night she had photographed the chess piece. But it had not really been very frightening – all she had heard were footsteps, it was important to remember that was all it had been.
And that sinisterly small hand, said her mind. Don’t forget that. Oh shut up, said Nell, and pulled the duvet over her head.
She set off for the tube straight after breakfast the next morning, leaving Nina pitting half a kilo of cherries for duck á la Montmorency.
‘You’d think, wouldn’t you, that they could have duck with orange, or apple stuffing for their Silver Wedding party, but no, it has to be bloody Montmorency, and no thought for how long it takes to stone cherries for sixteen people. It’s been lovely having you, Nell, darling, we won’t kiss or anything, on account of me being covered in cherry juice and duck fat. Let Benedict have the inventory for Holly Lodge when you can – there’s no frantic rush, but it’ll be interesting to know how you get on and what you find.’
‘Is Benedict still in bed?’
‘He got up early and went out to get the papers. He does that most mornings, but it’s only at the end of the road, so you might meet him on the way back, unless he’s called at the second-hand bookstore, which he often does, and once he’s in there, he loses track of time.’
‘Michael does that in bookshops,’ said Nell.
‘I like your Michael,’ said Nina enthusiastically. ‘I think he’s exactly right for you, in fact, if I were you— Oh God, there’s the phone, I’ll bet it’s that woman about the Silver Wedding again. Can you let yourself out, because if I don’t speak to her she’ll be hammering on the door like that horror story where the thing gibbers at the door in a snowstorm—’
‘The Monkey’s Paw,’ said Nell, belatedly identifying this allusion.
‘That’s the one,’ said Nina, and dived for the phone.
It was half past nine when Nell emerged from Highbury & Islington tube, and she collected rolls and fruit at a delicatessen so she would not need to go out for lunch. At a newsagents’ she bought a box of light bulbs. The electricity had certainly been on at the house last time, but most of the bulbs had gone, and Nell was blowed if she was going to fumble around in a darkening house on a grey January day. She would not be able to reach many of the ceiling lights, but there had been several table lamps which would give plenty of light.
Here was the road and the house, slightly shabby, and with the same sad feeling of neglect, and the faint smell of damp. She went systematically into each of the rooms before starting work, opening cupboards and drawing back curtains. This was not being neurotic; it was sensible to make sure an empty old house really was empty. It was certainly not that she was visualizing a ravening axe murderer ready to erupt from the linen cupboard. Or, said her mind cynically, expecting a mysterious man with vividly blue eyes to walk out of the shadows . . . ?
But despite her resolve, she found herself standing on the upper landing, her heart skittering with half-fearful, half-hopeful expectancy. There was no one here, of course . . .
Or was there? Standing on the second-floor landing, she had the impression that something moved in the room at the far end – the room where she had been working when she saw Declan. As she hesitated, there was a soft creaking sound from within the room. Nell jumped, then realized the sound was too rhythmic to be man-made; it was more the kind of sound the house itself might make – such as a door swinging to and fro on sagging hinges. But what would cause a door to move by itself in a silent and still house?
‘Declan . . . ? Are you here?’
Nell had not intended to say this aloud, but the words whispered into the shadows of their own volition. Her skin prickled with apprehension, then common sense kicked in, because she was behaving like some wimpish heroine from a bad horror film – tiptoeing ingenuously round the haunted house, artlessly enquiring if anyone was here. And what would you do, my girl, if your sinister blue-eyed Declan whispered back at you from the shadows? Here I am . . . I’ve been waiting for you . . .
‘Rubbish,’ said Nell very loudly, and went noisily and decisively towards the room, opening the door wide. And of course there was no one there, only the same packing cases as before and the old dressing table with the oval mirror. Nell touched the mirror’s frame lightly, and it moved. At once the creaking came again, and Nell let out a breath of relief. That was what she had heard.
She went down to the long sitting room and started listing the contents. Anything she could not identify or evaluate herself would be photographed so she could check with colleagues. Like the chess piece? Measuring a Victorian bureau, Nell allowed herself a brief daydream in which she found the entire set, and made a killing at Christie’s or Sotheby’s.
The morning was very dark and towards midday she hunted out the table lamps and screwed in the light bulbs she had brought. There was an old-fashioned standard lamp lying in a corner, as well, which cast a friendly pool of light. Nell worked on. Three quarters of her mind was absorbed in what she was doing – categorizing what was clearly junk, setting question marks against stuff that might be worth placing with a good second-hand dealer, trying to put a figure against items that would be sellable in her own shop. There was a beautiful desk that had the elegant lines of the late 1700s, and a set of very nice dining chairs with petit point covers. Nell wondered if Benedict’s grandfather had bought them, or if previous owners had simply included them when selling the house. However they came to be here, she would certainly like to have the desk and the chairs in the window at Quire Court.
In a room overlooking the back garden were four framed charcoal sketches of local scenes: two views of Highbury Fields, a church, simply labelled as ‘St Stephen’s’, and a detailed drawing of an old music hall called Highbury Barn. Nell liked these and she liked the links they provided to an older Highbury. The sketches were dated 1863 and 1864, and looked as if they had been done by an amateur artist. They would not be worth a massive amount, but a local dealer might take them because people living in the area would like them.
She worked for another half an hour, then went through to the kitchen where she ate the ham rolls and the apple at the big table. The kitchen was a large room, and although it did not have the newest designer cupboards or fittings it was perfectly acceptable. While she ate, she looked through the notes she had made so far, then fetched her Filofax so she could write names of one or two contacts against a couple of the items, for possible consultations. There was a large mahogany dining table that was too big for most people’s houses, but might sell as a boardroom table.
It was very quiet, probably because this was the back of the house, although when she went through to the main part of the house, the creaking of the mirror came again from overhead. She would wedge the hinges in place later. For the moment she
would finish listing the dining-room furniture in company with a cup of tea. There was tea and dried milk in the cupboards; Benedict would not mind if she took a spoonful of each.
As she filled the kettle, she was glad that she had not fallen into the trap of listening for a knock at the door or the crunch of footsteps or tyres on the drive. Declan, whoever he was, had simply been playing a game that day. Come on the eighteenth – for pity’s sake, did he think he was a character in a slushy romance or a teen magazine story? Perhaps somebody had told him he had hypnotic eyes, or perhaps there had been some sort of squiffy bet at a Christmas party.
She switched on the kettle and left it to boil while she carried one of the table lamps into the hall, which was in semi-darkness. The shadows were raggedly edged with the deep red of the stained-glass fanlight over the door, but the lamp, plugged in and switched on, chased the shadows back to their corners. She glanced up at the stair, and tilted the lampshade slightly so that it shone up the stairs. That was better. She glanced towards the front door, then opened it and peered out. The gardens were drenched in gloomy January greyness, and it must have rained earlier, because the shrubs were dripping with moisture. But it was a perfectly ordinary, unthreatening garden with an entirely normal London street beyond. Nell closed the door. She would finish in the dining room, then make a start on the upper floors. She was not expecting to find a great deal in them, but the packing cases on the second floor must be gone through thoroughly. Would she find the rest of the chess set in one of them? She had just started to go up the stairs when a whispered voice came out of the darkness on the half-landing above her.