Nanda and Alexander were arrayed in costume once more, though the delight they had formerly taken in their fine garments had dimmed. Both were troubled, no more focused upon the play than Lilli. Konrad had not even tried to affect an interest; he eschewed his thespian trappings, his thoughts too busy and his mind too troubled for theatrical trivialities.
What had Eino meant?
I had to. You must not hurt her!
He was a bundle of fears, Eino, convinced that harm threatened at every moment; not just himself, but his guests, too. Why? He was not wrong, for great harm had already befallen two of the residents of the house. But he did not appear to know about Kati’s death; therefore, could Konrad be certain that he knew of Alen’s? Perhaps his eagerness to play down the peculiarity of their failure to appear was a product of fear, too. He was petrified to find himself correct to fear trouble, and desperate to convince himself of some other, comfortably mundane explanation for their absence.
Konrad’s gaze met Nanda’s, and held. He read in her face the same frustration he was feeling himself, and a wordless agreement passed between them. She paused to address a few words to Nuritov in an undertone; Konrad could hear nothing of what she said. Then, quick of step and with an air of purpose, she came to Konrad.
‘This is useless,’ she said. ‘No one here cares a whit for the play, without Eino to chivvy us along. Will anyone note our absence, or care for it if they do? I imagine not.’
Konrad was only too happy to set down his play script. ‘You have some other activity in mind?’ he enquired.
‘I shall go and talk to Eino. He is feeling vulnerable now, and afraid, and perhaps he may confide in me. He may benefit from the presence of a friend, too. Alexander is gone to talk to Lilli. What shall you do?’
Lilli? How curious. But the inspector had indeed approached the sour-faced Marjan woman, and to Konrad’s mild surprise, Lilli did not seem to resent the intrusion. In fact, she came close to welcoming it. How did Nuritov manage to endear himself to people so well?
‘Um,’ he said in answer to Nanda’s question. His first thought had been to rush outside into the snow and join the search for a way into the cellars. But that was, most likely, futile. What Tasha and his serpents could not discover was unlikely to be revealed by any meagre efforts he could muster; he was but one, and possessed of few abilities which could be of use in a prolonged search. He was, moreover, sadly pervious to the cold.
But there was another prospect.
Konrad bent his head closer to Nanda’s. ‘Consider what Eino said, to the ghost. You must not hurt her.’
‘I remember.’
‘To fear of this mystery woman’s coming to harm at the hands of a resident ghost, Eino must be aware that the lady is within the ghost’s reach. Or in other words, somewhere in this house. No?’
‘That does make sense.’
‘Very well, then. We know of no one else here besides those guests to whom we have been introduced, and the household staff. So who was Eino referring to? It could have been Kati, but that seems unlikely, or surely he would have raised a far greater hue and cry over her apparent disappearance. Lilli seems still more unlikely, for there seems little real friendship between the two of them. That leaves the servants, or—’
‘No,’ said Nanda. ‘He told me that the servants are all recently arrived, many of them hired specifically for this party. And he implied that they were hired by someone else, for he claims to have had little hand in their selection.’
Konrad noted that with interest. ‘That rather reinforces my idea: that there may be someone else in this house, a lady, to whom we have not been introduced. Who has, in short, been hidden from us. The house is quite large enough for such concealment.’
One of Nanda’s brows went up; she was thinking. ‘Possible,’ she conceded at last. ‘I cannot think why Eino might want to hide someone he apparently cares for, but—’
‘Because he knew to fear some danger, perhaps?’
‘I think not, for why otherwise would he invite his friends here? Why invite me? I think that Eino fears danger now, but he did not before.’
‘I bow to your superior knowledge of his character.’
Nanda nodded once, satisfied. ‘So you will search the house?’
‘Yes. Especially those parts into which we have ventured but little before.’
‘Be careful, Konrad.’ Nan looked at him with an expression uncharacteristically grave, a trace of fear discernible behind her eyes. ‘Kati… knew that something was amiss, I think, and she has suffered for it. Take care that the same does not befall you.’
‘As must you,’ said Konrad softly.
‘I shall be well,’ she said, rather dismissively, and left the room without another word.
Konrad paused a moment in thought. Nuritov was deep in discussion with Lilli, the latter talking with unusual animation. Marko was nowhere to be seen. Druganin was still at the window — no, he was leaving the window, and approaching Konrad.
‘Savast,’ said he, with a cool nod.
Konrad did not much like the familiarity of such an address. Nor did he like the way Denis Druganin’s eyes travelled to the door through which Nanda had just departed, or the faintly regretful look that crossed his face in the process. The man had not developed an interest in Nanda, surely?
‘Miss Falenia does not stay for the rehearsal?’ Druganin enquired.
‘She is feeling a little unwell,’ Konrad lied. ‘And has gone to her room.’ He hoped that this misdirection might prevent Druganin from attempting to follow her.
‘A pity,’ said Druganin, and surveyed the few who lingered at the theatre, his lips twisting sardonically. ‘How pitiful a performance it shall be, with so many absences.’
‘You are an enthusiast for theatricals, I collect.’
Druganin regarded Konrad, his expression unreadable. ‘I have always loved performing,’ he said, which explained his presence at the house, for he did not seem any closer to Eino than Lilli. ‘But you are no enthusiast, I think,’ Druganin continued. ‘Performing holds no appeal for you, if I am not mistaken.’
How true. And how ironic, considering that almost everything about Konrad’s life involved some degree of pretence. ‘I do not often participate in the performing arts,’ Konrad replied.
‘I wonder, then,’ said Druganin, with a narrow-eyed look. ‘Why is it that you are here?’
Konrad had no immediate response to give. He could hardly admit that Nanda had hauled him here expressly to investigate the trouble she had known to expect, and he had no other excuse to hand, for he had not thought that he might be interrogated by his fellow guests. From Druganin’s point of view, his presence must seem inexplicable indeed; for he was clearly no friend of Eino’s, and he had been so incautious as to make it obvious how little he relished his part in the play.
Before he could think of anything to say, Druganin had made him a tiny bow, his lips twisted into a sardonic smile, and sauntered away again.
Curse it.
Konrad left the room as soon as he felt able, heaping opprobrium upon his own head. If he could wonder and doubt and question his fellow guests at the house, small wonder that they could and would do likewise. How was it that he, so well-used to masquerade as he was, had provided himself with no plausible tale?
Konrad soon found that searching the house was only marginally more comfortable than searching the grounds. It had not previously occurred to him to note how very little of the house’s available rooms were in use. The kitchens, the scullery, the pantries, a few bedchambers, the theatre and one or two parlours; so few, for so large a building.
The rest were like the wing he had, so reprehensibly, forced Eino to traverse not long since. They looked strongly as though they had not been entered in several years; everywhere lay thick carpets of dust and grime, the windows too besmeared to allow much light to filter through. No fires had been lit since the house had been abandoned, in all likelihood, and the cold had penetrated
deep. Walking alone through those deserted halls, his echoing footsteps sending clouds of dust whirling into the air, Konrad shivered and cursed himself, once again, for a fool. He had not even thought to collect his cloak before he ventured forth.
He returned to the room in which Tasha had made of herself a ghost of the Vasilescu, and examined it and its surrounding chambers more closely than he had before. Finding nothing of note, he trod determinedly on, deeper into the dark, draughty old house. It was a sorry vision of decay that met his eyes. In its prime, the house must have been spectacular, richly clad in colour and drenched in light. Would it ever be so again? Konrad had no notion whether Eino’s funds extended anywhere near far enough for a total restoration of so large a property, but being by no means ignorant on the topic himself, he tended to doubt it. The house at Divoro was ten times the size of Bakar House, and three times as luxurious. Had any man fortune enough for such a vast task?
Having no map of the property to hand, Konrad’s path through the house was winding and haphazard. He covered all of the ground floor fairly swiftly, and some large portion of the floor above. It was not until he had ventured higher still, and begun to find his way into the upper apartments and the towers, that he uncovered something of interest. Not, alas, a hitherto unknown chamber with a mystery guest secreted behind its firmly locked door, but something quite other, the likes of which it had never occurred to Konrad to search for.
He had found his way into a large, strangely empty hall, not far from the long gallery with its eerie, dust-ridden portraits. The chamber was but little decorated, and bore almost no furniture at all. Its floor was covered in a thick, grimy carpet, revoltingly spongy underfoot, and a grand chandelier hung still and dark from the ceiling. That was all, save only for the simple lamps spaced along the walls; these Konrad lit with the torch he held. All of them together threw out a vast deal of light, drowning the room in a bright radiance which seemed starkly at odds with the gloom and the decay they brought into full view.
One wall was covered, end to end, in long drapes of dark blue velvet. And that was odd, because the windows were on the opposite side of the room…
Konrad drew back one long, heavy curtain, touching the aged fabric as gingerly as he might. The velvet proved sound, however; dust-choked but not decayed. They were relatively new, then, these curtains, and behind them was concealed a sprawling family tree. Painted directly onto the wall, in ornate lettering and with many a flourish, here was an ancestry of which the house’s former owners had clearly been proud. Many generations were there recorded, the topmost names undoubtedly dating back hundreds of years. Why had so important a document, and so beautiful a work of art, been hidden behind obscuring curtains?
It was a record of the Vasilescu family, of course; perhaps the concealment had been made shortly before the family’s departure from the house. Konrad perused it with great interest, noting in particular those most recent entries upon the tree: Ela Vasilescu and her sisters, Olya and Alina. This third name, Alina, he could barely make out, for someone had all but painted it out. Had she been cast out, this Alina Vasilescu? Why? He could not make out the year of her birth, but if she was approximately of an age with her two sisters, she would now be somewhere in her fifties or sixties.
No children were recorded for any of the three sisters, save only one: a son born to Olya a little over thirty years ago, his name Denis.
… Denis Druganin.
Konrad stared at the name in some surprise, and tried to remember if he had ever heard mention of Druganin’s connection to the family before. He had not, he was certain. Denis had not been introduced to them as a Vasilescu, nor had he volunteered the information. Yet here was his name, clear as day, and it was too much to imagine that another, unconnected man of the same name — and the right age — had chanced to be invited to this particular house.
The house had been sold when Denis was a very young man, then. By whom? Which of the Vasilescus here recorded had been responsible for the family’s downfall? Which of them had sold the house?
Did any of it matter, now? Konrad shook himself out of his absorption, issuing himself a stern reprimand. While the history of the Vasilescu family was interesting, and Denis’s concealment of his origins might be considered suspicious, he had no reason to imagine that any of it was connected with the deaths of Kati Vinter and Alen Petranov.
Except, perhaps, for those hidden cellars… if the Vasilescu had lived here for hundreds of years, then surely they had been responsible for building the lowest levels of the house — and for closing them off, later. Why? What was concealed down there? Konrad chafed in impatience, desperate for word from Tasha or his serpents. It had only been a matter of hours since he had last heard from them, but it seemed like days.
He turned his back upon the exquisite family tree, determined upon pressing Denis for information at his next opportunity. Subtly, of course, and discreetly. But he would like very much to know whether Druganin had concealed his connection to the family out of embarrassment or disdain, or… some other reason altogether.
Chapter Eight
On the other side of the house, and up yet another floor, Konrad at last discovered the room he had been looking for all along. It was tucked away into a corner, at the end of an out-of-the-way and disused corridor. It was the footprints upon the floor that alerted him; upon turning down yet another dark, frigid, empty passage his torchlight shone upon disturbances in the thick layer of dust. Someone had walked this way recently — and frequently.
Upon approaching the only door in view, however, Konrad was startled by the sounds of voices talking nearby. Those low-uttered words struck him forcibly, incongruous after so long a time spent among the silence of long decay. He stopped several paces from the door, straining to discern words enough to understand the import of the conversation, or to guess at who was speaking. To no avail; his ears caught only a low babble, incomprehensible except for the fact that at least one of the voices was certainly female.
It seemed more than likely that his theory had been correct: someone lived here in secret. But if so, who else was in the room with her? Was there danger, if he entered? He wished suddenly for his serpents, and regretted that he had not recalled one of them to assist with his search of the house.
Nothing for it, then, but to proceed. He approached, moving as quietly as he could, and laid his ear near to the door…
… and the voices stopped at once, hushed by someone who had, apparently, heard the sounds of his advance. Then came footsteps from the other side, quick and brisk and oddly familiar somehow.
The door opened to reveal Nanda.
‘Ah!’ she said. ‘I was hoping you would soon appear. Come in, come in.’ She stepped back in invitation and Konrad trailed past her, silenced by surprise.
Explanation enough soon came in the shape of Eino Holt. The big man was seated in a faded tapestry chair near a long window, a great cloak wrapped tightly around him. Nanda’s conference with her friend had gone well, then; she had induced him to confide in her, at least to a degree.
Recumbent upon a narrow bed in the far corner of the room lay an elderly woman, dark silken covers drawn up to her chin. She looked frail and tired, her face drawn and sunken with age and too many cares. Konrad made her a polite salutation, biting back all the questions that immediately rose to his lips. ‘Ma’am,’ he said.
The woman stared at him with wide, suspicious eyes, and made no move to return his greeting.
Konrad paid the same courtesy to Eino, who at least deigned to return it, though his face revealed that he was no more disposed to trust Konrad’s sudden and uninvited appearance than the lady.
Nanda bustled to the chair that sat by the side of the bed, and seated herself in it. ‘Konrad, this is Eino’s mother, Alina Holt. Mrs. Holt, this is a friend of mine, Mr. Konrad Savast. You may trust him, for I do, with my life.’
The woman — Mrs. Holt — surveyed Konrad with less suspicion and rather more curiosity, though
she did not grow noticeably friendlier towards him.
‘Mr. Savast,’ said Eino in his deep voice. ‘How did you find this room?’
Konrad made him a half-apologetic smile. ‘I searched until I discovered it. I knew there must be something like it, you see, after your recent, er, comments.’
By the look on Eino’s face, he had not been aware that Konrad had been present to witness his outburst. ‘Oh,’ he said at last. He looked searchingly at Nanda, and said no more.
Nanda went to him, and took his hand. ‘Eino. Mr. Savast has no love for the theatre, as you must have observed. I brought him because he is quite expert at dealing with precisely the kind of trouble we have lately experienced — he and the inspector, and the inspector’s assistant. I have brought them all to help, you see, and you must let us assist you. I could not be more delighted that you have entrusted me with the secret of your mother’s residence here, but you must yet trust me with more. Please, will you not explain?’
Eino looked as though he wanted to speak, but knew not where to begin. His lips moved, though nothing emerged, and he cast Nanda a helpless look. ‘I—’ he began.
His mother interrupted him. ‘The theatre,’ she whispered, and gave a long sigh. ‘Oh, Eino, tell me you have not.’
The House at Divoro Page 8