by Sarah Rayne
Nor were there any ghosts in the music room. Sunlight poured in through the French windows, warming the dim old chintzes, and lending colour to the faded wallpaper. Nell suddenly liked the room enormously.
The piano was still open, and the tapestried stool where Michael had found Ralph West’s notes was open as well. Nell closed the stool, and Beth handed over the camera, explaining that her mother should stand in a particular corner so as to get the French windows into shot.
‘Over there,’ said Beth, pointing.
‘All right.’ Nell obediently squashed into the corner Beth indicated. ‘This angle takes in the corner of the fireplace – is that all right?’
‘Could you take one with the fireplace and one without?’
‘Only if I climb up to the ceiling or swarm up the curtains.’
‘I don’t s’pose you could do that, could you?’
‘Not without bringing the whole ceiling down.’
‘You’re always making difficulties,’ said Beth, grinning. ‘Are you ready? I’m going to put my hand on the keys now.’
Nell took several shots with Beth in various poses. She was remarkably unselfconscious in front of the lens. ‘The battery’s flickering,’ she said at last. ‘But I think we’ve got some really good photos.’
‘Double good.’
‘Ready to set off back?’ said Nell.
‘Yes, only . . .’ Beth got down from the stool and looked round the room. ‘Could I go upstairs to look at those old books again? The ones with the schoolgirls who play lacrosse and stuff? Or did you pack them up?’
‘I didn’t pack them because we don’t know yet if the aunts want to actually sell them,’ said Nell. ‘I just listed them all.’
‘I’d really like to have another one to read tonight,’ said Beth. ‘If I’m extra careful could I take one?’
‘I should think so. Let’s get one, then we really will have to get back.’ Nell did not say she wanted to be out of Stilter House before darkness started to fall. The afternoon sun was still pouring through the windows, but as they went upstairs she felt a flicker of unease. It was no more than a faint ruffle across her mind – like the first warning pinprick of a bad headache – but she was glad that it would only take a few minutes to get one of the books for Beth. Then they would leave Stilter House to the ghosts. Whoever those ghosts might be.
In the bedroom Beth seized eagerly on another Malory Towers book, looked at the first page with a smile, then stood for a moment studying the room.
‘All right?’ said Nell, softly.
‘I was thinking about Dad being here. Sleeping in this room and using that desk.’
‘So was I.’ Nell reached for Beth’s hand, and for a moment they stood together, not speaking. Then Nell said, briskly, ‘We’ll go back now, shall we?’
‘Um, yes, OK.’
Nell glanced round the room as they left. Goodbye, Brad, she thought. If you’re still here you aren’t the Brad I knew, but you’re the Brad I’d like to have known. The small boy with hair and eyes like Beth’s, and that eager delight in life. Oh God, I do still miss you.
But these thoughts could not be allowed to take over, and alongside them was the deeply pleasing knowledge of Michael waiting for them. He might suggest again that they stayed for another night, and mention the possibility of The Pheasant’s having a double bed. Nell thought she might even accept the suggestion this time. After the ghosts it was a very tempting idea.
They were halfway down the stairs when they heard the music.
TWENTY
The astonishing thing, to Nell, was that Beth was entirely unafraid. She said, happily, ‘That’ll be Esmond. He said he’d—’ She broke off and looked guiltily at Nell. ‘Can I go down to say goodbye and explain we’re going home? Esmond gets upset if people leave without saying goodbye.’ Before Nell could even think what to say, she was running eagerly down the stairs and along the hall.
Esmond, thought Nell, and in the frozen moment before she followed, she was realizing Beth had known all along that Esmond would be here. She did not dare think how Beth had known, but clearly it was why Beth had wanted to come back – she wanted to say goodbye. Esmond gets upset if people leave without saying goodbye, Beth had said. And twenty-five years ago, in a letter to Esmond, Beth’s father had written, I know you hate it when people go away without saying goodbye . . . But there was not time to worry about Beth’s small, understandable lie – Nell would sort that out later.
The music room door was half open, and the music was still being played. But is it Esmond as Beth believed, thought Nell? Or is it Anne-Marie who vowed never to leave this house?
As she reached the hall she heard Beth’s voice.
‘I don’t think it’s any good you doing this over and over again,’ Beth was saying. ‘Because I don’t believe you should try to – um – call back the dead. I wish I could call my Dad back and I know Mum does, too, but I wouldn’t try to do what you’re doing and she wouldn’t, either.’
There was a pause, as if Beth might be listening. Then she said, as if explaining something very simple, ‘Well, because once they’re dead they belong in another place, like I belong in Oxford now. They’re not meant to come back.’
Pity washed over Nell, and she wanted to reach out to the strange little creature who was so heartbreakingly like Beth, and who was so clearly trying to call back his dead mother. She wanted to wrap her arms around Esmond and keep him safe. But he doesn’t exist, said her mind frantically.
Beth was saying, quite briskly, that she did not know where dead people went. ‘Heaven or something, I think. But that person who said you could bring your mum back through the music was really bad. I’ll bet it doesn’t work, either. If it did, everybody would do it, and there’d be dead people everywhere and that would be gross. But listen, I’m going home soon, so I came to say goodbye. And I thought before I go, what we’d do, we’d play that duet. I’d really like that, only I’m not as good as you, so you mustn’t get cross if I go wrong, OK?’ She appeared to listen again. ‘Well, because I haven’t had as many lessons as you, and I’ve got school and homework and stuff so there isn’t as much time to practise. But if we play it now, I’ll practise it like mad when I get home, and I’ll remember you every time I play it. That’s a promise. And I know it’s Chopin, but for me it’ll always be called Esmond’s Nocturne.’
There was the sound of a rustle and a faint creak. She’s got onto the tapestry stool next to him, thought Nell. Oh God, I don’t believe this is happening. It’s a fantasy – she’s made up a friend and she’s pretending to talk to him. Maybe she found Brad’s letter and she’s built it on that. But there’s the music, said her mind. Both of us heard the music when we were upstairs.
She thought Beth said something else but she did not catch it. Then the music started again, and cold fear swept over Nell because it was being played by two people – there could be no doubt about it. Two pairs of hands were playing this music – one assured and smooth, the other a bit stumbling and hesitant.
He’s in there, thought Nell. Esmond is in there with Beth. They’re side by side at the piano, playing that duet. And Esmond thinks it will call his dead mother back.
The horror and the unreality of it tightened around her, but this was Beth, her beloved and precious Beth, and moving quietly, Nell stepped into the doorway.
Strong sunshine slanted into the room, lighting up everything it touched, but leaving parts in shadow. Beth was in the light, her bright hair glinting, her small face absorbed. But the pouring radiance only lay across half of the piano, creating a division between her and the boy. Esmond was sitting next to Beth, but he was outside the shaft of light, and his outline was so insubstantial it might have been a tissue-paper cut-out or a reel of threadbare ciné film projected onto old glass. But it was possible to see that he and Beth were so alike they could have been brother and sister – twins, even. He’s not real, thought Nell. Or is he?
There was no immediate threat
to Beth, though, and Nell did not want to intrude or break the fragility of the moment, or signal to Beth that there might be anything alarming or sinister.
Even as these thoughts tumbled through her mind, the music stopped, and Esmond turned to smile at Beth. A deep pain wrenched at Nell, because it was Brad’s smile. Esmond got down from the stool, and went towards the French windows. He paused, silhouetted against the gardens, and looked back at Beth. He made no gesture, but Beth responded as if obeying a command. She went towards him, and for a moment the two children were silhouetted in the doorway, then ran together into the gardens. In those seconds, the sun went in and the gardens tumbled down into mysterious, shadows. The ghosts were reclaiming Stilter House . . . And Esmond was taking Brad’s daughter with him.
Nell ran across the room and out onto the moss steps beyond the windows, then paused, trying to see which way Beth and Esmond had gone. But the shrubbery was overgrown and her eyes were still slightly dazzled from the bright sunlight moments earlier. She thought there was a faint laugh from somewhere on the right, and she ran down the steps and through the deep grass with the thrusting weeds, calling to Beth as she went.
The laugh came again, light, brittle, like splintered glass, and Nell jerked round, listening, trying to see. She said, ‘Beth?’ but there was nothing. Had it been Beth she had heard? She went towards the sound and, as she came in sight of the ramshackle outbuildings, a figure darted across her vision. It was too tall for Beth, and the sight of it sent Nell’s mind looping back to the night when the ravaged-faced woman had stalked them through the dripping gardens. Could it be the same woman? Oh God, did she want Beth? Was Esmond a decoy?
The figure paused at the far end of the outbuildings, as if scanning the gardens. Nell could see the two doors into the buildings and a black gaping oblong where a third door might once have been. She ran towards it, aware beneath her panic that she should get help – try to find Sergeant Howe, try to phone Michael. But if the woman had got Beth in that tumbledown place she could not waste a minute. And Esmond? How benevolent was Esmond?
She reached the outbuildings, took a deep breath, and went in. The dimness closed round her and she called to Beth again, but her voice only echoed mockingly and maddeningly. Beth could not be here – she would have called out. But what if she was injured – knocked out? Nell’s eyes were adjusting to the darkness now, and she could see an inner door with a grille near the top. This was where Samuel Burlap had been that night; this was what he had seen. There were the bolts he had talked about, one halfway down, the other near the top. Nell glanced back at the garden, then pulled at the door. It was heavy, but it opened with a protesting screech of old hinges, and stale air gusted out.
‘Beth? Are you in here? Are you all right? Is Esmond—’
There was a rush of movement behind her, and a pair of hard, bony hands pushed her with such force she fell forwards, into the fetid darkness. Before she could scramble to her feet, the door was slammed hard, and there was the sound of the thick bolts being drawn.
Nell threw herself against the door at once, beating on it with her fists, but aware that the bolts were holding firm. She shouted to be let out, but there was only the fractured laugh she had heard earlier, and then the impression of someone standing on the other side of the grille – someone who was in that outer room, and someone who might have been spun from the shadows and the dusky cobwebs, but who was sufficiently substantial to shut out most of the faint light that trickled in. Mad eyes, with no sanity or humanity in them, stared at her and Nell recoiled.
‘Let me out!’ shouted Nell, almost hysterical with panic for herself and for Beth to whom anything might be happening. But there was only the sound of the laugh again, this time with a thread of triumph in it. Then the outline vanished – was the figure now turning its attention to Beth? The panic spiralled up but Nell fought it, because panicking would not help Beth. With the vanishing of her captor, a few threads of light had trickled into the terrible room, and Nell inspected it as much as she could. A chair and a table, both clearly very old and both half rotten. Nothing else. And there was no way she could see of getting out of this room, other than through the bolted door. But someone would look for her – of course someone would. Michael would miss her and surely Stilter House would be the first place he would check. And Sergeant Howe was supposed to be around as well. Yes, she would be found sooner or later. But supposing it was later? Supposing it was too late for Beth?
She looked back at the door. The surface bore long gouges in the wood. Exactly as if someone had been imprisoned here and had tried to claw a way out. The gouges were deep and they covered a wide area of the door. As if the unknown prisoner had been shut in here for a very long time.
Michael was not exactly worried when Nell and Beth were not at The Pheasant, but he was slightly surprised. It was not like Nell to be late, and she and Beth had only been taking a look round the village.
He checked his phone for messages. There was one from the Director of Music at Oriel College, saying what a very positive, profitable meeting he thought they had had, and asking if Michael might be able to let him have some notes about the Romantic Poets and their influence on music fairly soon. For the last two days Michael had been so deep in Caudle’s past and the story of Isobel Acton and Samuel Burlap, he had to think for a minute what the Director was talking about.
There was a second message, this time from his editor, saying they would like to bring forward the new Wilberforce book so as to have it in the shops in time for Christmas. With that in mind, could Michael send a fairly detailed synopsis so they could brief the illustrators? Michael began to feel somewhat beleaguered, and wondered if he could really manage to serve two masters – three if you counted Oriel College itself, which he should certainly do.
But there was nothing from Nell on the voicemail, so he sat down in The Pheasant’s small oak-panelled snug, which overlooked the street, and drank a cup of tea, expecting to see her and Beth any minute. But by half past four there was still no sign of them, so Michael asked if they were in their room.
‘No, and the key’s still here,’ said a youngish girl who was manning the bar-cum-reception. ‘Is Mrs West’s car outside?’
Michael had not thought of that. He checked and discovered the car was not there. This was puzzling but not very worrying. Nell might have gone anywhere and been delayed by traffic or by something mundane like a puncture. And the phone signal was so unreliable out here she might not have been able to phone. He tried her number but it went straight to voicemail. He went back inside and watched the clock crawl round to ten to five. By this time the puzzlement was giving way to something less comfortable. Might Nell have gone out to Stilter House? She had packed everything up this morning and put it in her car, but supposing she had forgotten something? He contemplated this possibility, and his mind turned up two separate, but equally sinister, facts. The first was Emily West saying she was uneasy for Nell, but especially for Beth. ‘Because if Esmond is still there,’ she had written, ‘thwarted of Brad he may turn his attention to Brad’s daughter.’
The second was Michael’s own experience of seeing the unreal face looking through the grille in the tumbledown outbuildings, along with the certainty that someone had been standing close to him. He set down his tea cup and went back to the reception desk.
‘I’m going out to Stilter House to see if Mrs West is there,’ he said. ‘Could you . . .’ He stopped. It would be melodramatic in the extreme to say, ‘If I’m not back in an hour send out a search party,’ so he simply, said, ‘Would you tell Mr Poulson where I’ve gone? I don’t think I’ll be long.’ Poulson, knowing a little of what had been going on at that house, would surely be alerted if Michael or Nell were not back by around six.
Nell had no idea how much time had passed since the door was slammed. She had tried to break through it again, but had only succeeded in scraping what felt like half the skin off her hands. Was there any other means of escape? How about the
ceiling, where it joined the walls? If there was a weakness anywhere it would be there. Could she knock through that? The ceiling was not high, but it was too high to reach from the ground so she dragged the chair across, but when she placed one foot on the seat, the rotten framework gave way and her foot went straight through. Nell swore, and turned her attention to the table. It would not matter if the thing collapsed under her, and it would not matter if she cut her hands to ribbons if it meant she got out and reached Beth.
The table was small and quite heavy, but Nell managed to drag it over to the wall, and pushed it against the timbers. So far so good. She was about to scramble onto it when she had the impression of slight movement near the door. She turned sharply, but there was nothing there, and she would have heard anyone unbolting the door. But there was something . . . Nell stood still, slow horror stealing over her.
Near the door something was moving. It was as if something was picking up the shadows and twisting them into an outline – as if long fleshless fingers were reaching down and gathering up the strings of darkness and decay to weave a human carapace.
There was a moment when the clotted shadows seemed to be fighting whatever was spinning them. Even the darkness doesn’t like whatever this is, thought Nell, wildly. I’m not believing any of this – it’s the light, it’s some kind of disturbance of the dust because I’ve been stamping around . . .