by Sarah Rayne
He walked around the house, intending to knock loudly on the front door – always supposing he could find it. The rain had stopped and a watery moon was shedding enough light for him to find his way around the side. Halfway along was a wrought-iron gate, and Michael realized he was on the side furthest from the drive. It was then he saw, just before the gate, a window, wide open, and jutting out at right angles to the wall. No one would leave a ground floor window open at this time of night, not when it was pelting down with rain. Nell certainly would not, particularly not in someone else’s house.
There were footprints in the wet ground directly underneath the window. Did they indicate that someone had got in or that someone had got out? Michael could not tell, but when he looked into the room, he could see two or three pieces of heavy-looking furniture pushed up against the door. Barricades? His mind instantly saw Nell and Beth taking refuge in this room, (from who? from what?), piling up the cupboard and the settle to stop someone getting in. And then climbing out of the window and fleeing for safety?
His first instinct was to run back to his car and phone the police, but he remembered the lack of a signal. He would have to investigate on his own: he could not risk any delay. Abandoning the original idea of openly knocking on the door, he grasped the window sill and swung himself over it. As he dropped down into the room, Stilter House’s darkness and its scents closed around him. But woven into the darkness was the thin fragile music he had heard earlier. Michael stood still, listening. The music might actually mean Nell or Beth had a radio on, in which case there was nothing to worry about. But it’s not a radio, said his mind. It’s someone playing the piano.
Crossing to the door, he called out, ‘Nell? Beth? It’s me – Michael.’
His voice did not echo as it had done in the stone building, but there was a hollow ring to it, as if he was calling into an empty house. Only it could not be empty, because of the music. He began dragging the cupboard and the settle clear of the door. When he paused once to listen, he could hear the music still playing. But surely the pianist must have heard him? Wouldn’t whoever it was come in here to investigate? He focused on getting the settle clear of the door, and opened it.
Beyond the room was a wide dim hall, with several doors opening off it and a narrow passage leading to the back. There was a stairway, winding up into darkness. Michael called out again, willing Nell to answer, but the only sound was the music. It was coming from a room near the front; the door was slightly open. He went towards it, trying not to think the soft sound of creeping footsteps followed him or that the faint rustlings were anything other than the ordinary sounds of an old house.
To chase these sounds away, he called out again. ‘Hello? Someone here?’ This struck him as an outstandingly stupid thing to say, because of course there was someone here. ‘I got in through the window,’ said Michael, which sounded even more absurd, and before he could succumb to real fear, pushed the door of the room wide and stepped inside.
It was filled with swirling shadows, but he could see the piano clearly enough at the far end, near a curtained window. What he could also see clearly was the small figure seated at it. He started to say, ‘Beth?’ then stopped, because even through the dimness he could see this was not Beth. It was a boy of about Beth’s age, and whoever he was, he did not, at first, seem to have heard Michael come in; he continued to play, leaning forward to read the music, frowning with the effort of concentration. Michael stayed where he was, watching, and the boy played a few more bars, then faltered and looked up. His eyes widened – disconcertingly they were Beth’s eyes – then he darted across the room towards the curtained windows behind the piano. The folds of the fabric stirred slightly and he was gone.
Michael went after him at once, banging into things in the dark, knocking over a small table, but reaching the window within seconds. He dragged at the heavy curtains, pulling them back, revealing an old-fashioned French window. Then the boy had gone out through that, although he had done it so silently and swiftly . . .
Except that he could not have done. There was a key in the lock of the French window and it was not just locked, it was also bolted at the top. Michael looked at the two panes of glass flanking the French window; they were long and narrow, with heavy leaded lights criss-crossing the entire panes. Neither had any kind of opening hinge or handle and certainly no one could have got through them. It was a version of the old conundrum in a whodunnit – the room with the murder victim and the door locked from the inside.
He peered through the glass, shading the reflection with his hand, trying to see into the gardens, but if any more spectral figures flitted across the gloaming, he could not see them.
Well, Great-Aunt Charlotte West, thought Michael, turning back to look round the room, your house certainly has some surprises. I suppose I ought to be thoroughly spooked – in fact I think I ought to be downright terrified, because at the latest count I’ve seen three figures, two of whom could certainly be called wraithlike, and one small boy who poured ethereal music into the house, then disappeared.
Esmond. The name was already in his mind, of course. Was it Esmond he had just seen? Esmond never left Stilter House, Emily West had said on the phone. And Beth is so very like Brad was at that age.
If Michael was going to be spooked by anything in this house, he thought it would be Esmond. Was Esmond here now, hiding somewhere in this dark silent house? Oh for pity’s sake, said his mind crossly, and on this heartening note of anger he went back into the hall. There was just enough light to make a brief check everywhere, but the moonlight drained the colour from the rooms, and Michael felt as if he had stepped backwards into an old black-and-white film – something from the 1930s, perhaps. Charlotte West’s youth, would that be?
Whether the elusive boy had been Esmond or not, he did not seem to be around, but Michael did not have the sense of a completely empty house. He took a deep breath and went determinedly into all the rooms, making as much noise as he could. But there was only the gentle imprint left by an old lady’s long occupation and the faint mustiness of a closed-up house, here and there overlaid with a drift of old-fashioned polish and the scent of stored apples in the kitchen. But there is something more, thought Michael. Is it Esmond, after all?
In the room with the barricade he found several sheets with Nell’s writing on. Clearly she had sat in here to make out a draft inventory of the house’s contents. But then what had happened?
By now he was as sure as he could be that Nell and Beth were not here – Nell’s car had not been outside and there was that open window. If they had seen the boy in the music room, or the nightmare figure in the stone outbuilding it was no wonder they had made a hasty retreat. But he had to make absolutely certain, and without pausing to think too much, he went upstairs. The bedrooms were all empty, most of them furnished with rather heavy old-fashioned wardrobes and tallboys. In a big bedroom overlooking the side garden with the wrought-iron gate were signs of occupancy: a sleeping bag on the two beds, and a sweater Michael recognized as Nell’s over a chair. In a smaller bedroom were shelves of old books and neatly stacked games and jigsaw puzzles. Had this been Brad West’s room when he stayed here? Had he sat at the desk by the window and written that extraordinary composition which Emily had sent to Nell?
Esmond always waits for me in the piano room, Brad had written. He doesn’t like being around when the grown-ups are there.
With the memory of those words something seemed to brush past Michael in the quiet room – something that was unbearably sad and heartbreakingly lonely. In a soft questioning voice, he said, ‘Esmond?’ and waited. For a moment he thought the silence was faintly disturbed by a faraway bar of music, so tenuous it barely thrummed on the air. Then there was nothing, and he thought after all it had only been the old house creaking in the cool night air.
He glanced into the large, slightly old-fashioned bathroom, and into a linen cupboard, and found nothing. Attics? But he could not see any stairs that might lea
d upwards, and any attics that might crouch under the roof would be as dark as the Stygian rivers.
He went back downstairs. There was something here, but it was keeping out of sight. As if drawn by an invisible thread, Michael went back to the music room. He would not have been surprised to see that small figure again, intent on the keys, but there was nothing, although the piano lid was open, and a tapestry-covered stool was drawn up to it. Michael saw now that a music score was propped on the stand, which he had not noticed earlier. He hesitated, then picked it up. Even in this light it was yellow with age, but at the top were the words ‘Chopin’s Nocturnes for Piano’ in thick bold italics, with the name of the publisher beneath. Above this, in faded writing, was the name ‘Esmond’. Then you really are still here, thought Michael, and putting the music score into his pocket he closed the door on the room. He made sure the open window was shut, then let himself out through the main front door which had a standard Yale lock, and slammed it firmly closed behind him.
As he got into his car and drove back along Gorsty Lane to Caudle village, he was trying to remember if he had seen a police sign in Caudle village, because if Nell and Beth were not at The Pheasant, Michael would call out the whole of the Derbyshire County Police Force to find them. But surely they would be at The Pheasant, surely if they had fled Stilter House, for whatever reason, they would have taken a room there, rather than drive home at this hour? And if anything had happened to them there would have been signs of a struggle in the house.
Here was the turn onto the main street, and a little way along the street were the sign and lights of The Pheasant. Would it still be open? Would they let him in? It was only just on half past eleven; he realized with incredulity that he had only been inside Stilter House for forty minutes or so.
But when he turned onto The Pheasant’s small car park he saw, with overwhelming relief, Nell’s car at the far end, parked neatly and tidily, not as if she had been in a particular hurry or in a panic or injured. Michael sent up a prayer of thanks to whatever god might be most appropriate, parked alongside, and went up to the door.
It was locked, but lights showed at the downstairs windows, and when he rang the bell a plump, pleasant-faced gentleman opened up and enquired, in an amiable tone, how he could help.
Michael said, ‘I’m sorry it’s so late, but – is Mrs West staying here? And her daughter?’
‘Indeed they are here, sir,’ said the man.
Michael just managed not to sag against the door frame with relief. He said, ‘You have no idea how glad I am to hear you say that.’
‘Did you want a room for yourself?’
‘If it isn’t too late. And if you’ve got one. If you haven’t,’ said Michael, ‘I’ll happily sleep on a sofa or in a linen cupboard.’
THIRTEEN
The Pheasant was able to do considerably better than a sofa or a linen cupboard. Michael was shown to a room, whose smallness the landlord apologized for.
‘All we have at present,’ he said.
But the sliver of a room was comfortably furnished, and with it came the offer of coffee or brandy and sandwiches. ‘For,’ said the landlord, who had introduced himself as Joe Poulson, ‘you’ll have had a long drive if you’ve come all the way from Oxford, and if you’ve been out to Stilter House – well, that’s a chilling place of a night these days.’
‘Chilling is one word for it,’ said Michael, a part of his mind noting that Stilter House seemed to have something of a reputation locally. He accepted the coffee and sandwiches gratefully, followed them up with a brandy for warmth, and wrote a quick note to Nell, saying he was here and would explain over breakfast. Tiptoeing along the bedroom corridor to slide it under her door without waking her or anyone else who might be staying here, it amused him to realize he had switched from behaving like a character in a Gothic ghost tale, to someone out of a French farce or an Edwardian house party. It was a pity he was not wearing a lush smoking jacket, and dodging itinerant husbands or wives engaged on various priapic errands. Back in his room, he devoured the sandwiches, downed the brandy, and fell thankfully into a sleep which was only briefly troubled by disturbing dreams.
The dreams had dissolved by morning, however, and seated in The Pheasant’s small dining room, with Nell and Beth opposite, eating Mrs Poulson’s idea of a nourishing breakfast which Michael thought was almost Victorian in its variety and quantity, the world seemed a normal place once more.
Beth was full of the adventure they had had last night; Michael thought she had been considerably frightened by the woman who had come into the house, but it was clear Nell had played down any possible threat, and Beth was now more interested in describing the dramatic aspect for Michael’s benefit.
‘We pushed the furniture against the door so’s she couldn’t get in, and then we climbed through the window,’ she said, eating sausages and tomatoes with industrious pleasure. ‘Then mum drove away at about a hundred miles an hour, and we left the woman there, and we came here and we were safe.’ She looked at Nell, suddenly doubtful, and Nell said, ‘Couldn’t be safer. And whoever that woman was, she was probably just a bit muddled in the head, which is actually a very sad thing. I explained that, didn’t I?’ she said to Beth. ‘About people sometimes getting their minds in a muddle and not realizing what they’re doing? I know it was horrible at the time, but she wouldn’t have known how peculiar she seemed to us.’
Beth nodded, considering the concept of people whose minds were muddled. ‘I ’spect a doctor can unmuddle her, though?’
‘Certainly. That’s why Sergeant Howe is going to look for her this morning, so he can make sure someone helps her. Is that honey in that jar? Well, stop hogging it, Michael, and pass it over.’
Michael passed her the honey and the topic switched to The Pheasant and Beth’s forthcoming session in the kitchen. Beth was buoyantly explaining about helping Mrs Poulson make Bakewell tart.
‘She thought it’d be a pretty good idea for me to know how to do that,’ she confided. ‘I think it would be pretty good as well, on account of we can make some when we get home. It’s extra-double good, Bakewell tart.’
‘If you make it, we’ll have a tea party in my rooms,’ promised Michael. ‘You can invite some of your friends and we’ll shut Wilberforce in the kitchen.’ He buttered a piece of toast, topped up his coffee cup, then said, offhandedly, ‘Nell, do you have to go back to Stilter House this morning?’
‘Yes,’ said Nell and, as Beth looked up, she said, ‘Only for an hour or two, to finish the inventory. I told you Sergeant Howe is coming with me. We should be able to go home soon after lunch.’
‘If I came with you as well,’ said Michael, deliberately casually, ‘I could help with the inventory and . . . Why is Beth giggling, do you suppose?’ He winked at Beth, who said, gleefully, ‘Last time you helped with an invent’ry you got it all wrong, and you lost the bit with Mum’s prices on it. Mum was furious with you, and she said she’d never let you within a mile of an invent’ry again.’
‘I’d forgotten that,’ said Michael, who hadn’t, but was glad he had achieved his aim of making Beth laugh.
‘I hadn’t forgotten,’ said Nell. ‘But you can come with me this time. I’ll let him hold the pen and paper,’ she said to Beth. ‘He can’t get that wrong.’
‘I bet he can,’ said Beth.
‘I’ll make sure he doesn’t. How about you going up to your room to tidy up and brush your teeth before we find Mrs Poulson? Here’s the key. I’ll follow you up in a minute. You know how to unlock the door, don’t you?’
‘Oh yes.’ Beth, pleased to be allowed to walk through the grown-up hotel on her own, took the key, scrambled down from her seat, and vanished.
‘She’s all right?’ said Michael. ‘I mean – really all right?’ Nell’s account of how the woman had got in and followed them through the grounds had been a rather hasty story while Beth was in the shower, and Michael had the impression that there were other details still to come.
&nb
sp; ‘I think she’s almost completely recovered,’ said Nell. ‘She’s astonishingly resilient. And it was so fantastic – literally like something out of a fantasy, that I think she’s accepted it as an adventure. I told her we would get away from the house and be safe, and she trusted me. In fact she’s probably already half written the whole thing as an essay for school or an email for Ellie in her mind.’
‘I have a terrible feeling she might grow up to be a writer,’ said Michael. He set down his coffee cup and said, ‘Nell, did anything else happen at Stilter House?’
‘It’s an eerie house,’ said Nell, non-committally. ‘It’s a bit too easy to imagine you see things that aren’t there. Or,’ she said, not looking at him, ‘that you hear things that can’t be happening.’
‘Such as piano music?’
Her eyes flew up to meet his. ‘You heard it as well,’ she said, half questioning, half making a statement.
‘Yes. I saw the pianist, too. Just for a moment, but it was unmistakable.’
‘You can’t imagine how glad I am to hear you say that,’ said Nell. ‘I saw him, but I thought I was imagining it. I kept telling myself it was a trick of the light, or I was half asleep over the inventory notes.’
‘We might be well attuned, but I don’t think we’re attuned to the extent of seeing the same hallucination.’
‘When I heard the music the first time,’ said Nell, ‘I thought it was Beth trying out Charlotte’s piano. But then I heard it again, and I saw the boy, and I thought—’
‘That it might be Brad you were seeing?’
‘I . . . yes, I did. Thanks for understanding. I thought it might be a fragment of memory projected onto the room, or wish-fulfilment, or something,’ said Nell, in a mumble.
‘It’s an obvious conclusion for you to make,’ said Michael. ‘You were in the house where he had stayed so often as a child, you’d be feeling close to him.’ He reached for her hand. ‘Listen, my dear love, I wish you wouldn’t have this block about talking to me about Brad. I want you to have those memories of him – they’re all good ones. Beth should have them, too.’