Tower of Silence

by Sarah Rayne

  Krzystof said he understood only too well about grants and bequests. The Rosendale was reasonably self-supporting but they were always thankful when a large donation was made.

  ‘I’d like to see your Rosendale Institute one day,’ said Patrick.

  ‘We’re quite proud of it. Sometimes we give lecture tours or take exhibitions round to schools and history societies. I’m only one of the interpreters, so I’m mostly sent out with the buyers and the scouts, but I sometimes help with the tours–they bring us some of the sordid dosh. We were in Poland last year–they have some amazing things there.’

  ‘Isn’t there a Polish church filled with things made by people from the concentration camps?’

  ‘Yes, several of them. We don’t negotiate for anything like that, of course, but sometimes we’re allowed to make videos. They can be quite an interesting part of an exhibition.’

  D wing was at the top of a flight of stairs and along an upper corridor with doors opening off it. Each door had a spyhole at eye-level and a small name-board outside. Electric alarm bells were sunk into the wall at regular intervals, each one painted with scarlet enamel–an unpleasant reminder that this was a high-security unit.

  Krzystof was finding Moy a dreadful place, even though he knew, logically, that the inmates had to be locked away, for their own safety and for the safety of everyone else. This is all they have, he thought, appalled, and this is all their life will ever be. Locked rooms, clanging iron bars, strict regimentation…Yes, but most of these people have killed and mutilated other human creatures. They’re mentally sick, and they’re extremely dangerous.

  At his side, Patrick said very gently, ‘It’s a cruel old world at times, Krzystof. We do what we can for the patients, and we’re as humane as we can possibly be.’

  ‘Do you make a practice of thought-reading?’

  ‘Occasionally. I’m sorry you’re finding this so distressing. Perhaps if you weren’t here to try to trace your wife you’d be better armoured.’

  Krzystof could not decide whether to be comforted by Irvine’s swift comprehension or annoyed. But it was true that he was a skin short at the moment.

  Patrick said, ‘Being locked away in her room every night was one of the things Mary Maskelyne found difficult when she first came here. She had been at Broadacre, and Broadacre was never especially well run. Mary used that to her advantage, of course. In fact I suspect that if there had been more supervision there the wretched attendant she killed might still be alive.’

  ‘Now that I do remember hearing about,’ said Krzystof.

  Patrick glanced at him. ‘It was at least twenty-five years ago,’ he said. ‘Mary was barely twenty at the time. You couldn’t have been very old when it happened.’

  ‘I wasn’t, but I remember seeing the TV news reports. I remember hearing what was done to that attendant and it stuck in my mind. I used to have nightmares about it for weeks afterwards.’

  ‘Yes, it was a nasty business,’ said Patrick. ‘Mary thought the woman had betrayed her in some way–she thought the woman had lied to her.’

  ‘She knocked the attendant unconscious or something, didn’t she? And then—’

  ‘Say it,’ said Patrick as Krzystof paused. ‘Exorcise the childhood nightmare. Don’t you know the old belief that in order to rout out and banish a demon you must first name it?’

  Krzystof grinned. ‘And I was thinking you were a man of science.’

  ‘I am, but there’s often a grain of good common sense in the ancient beliefs.’

  Krzystof said, ‘All right. The story was that Maskelyne drugged the woman or knocked her out, and then cut off her lips with a fruit knife.’

  ‘That’s pretty much what happened. The poor woman died from shock and loss of blood. Maskelyne said she had absolutely no memory of doing it, and it was only two or three days after she gave birth to a child. They said at the inquest that Maskelyne could have been suffering from some form of post-natal syndrome, depression, baby-blues, whatever label you like to give it. She could just have been suffering from something like that, of course, although I don’t think anyone really believed it. And she’s never referred to either the child or the dead woman since.’

  ‘Curious, that,’ said Krzystof. ‘You’d expect any woman to have some feeling for her own child.’

  ‘Mary isn’t just “any woman”,’ said Patrick dryly, and stopped before a door. ‘This is her room,’ he said. ‘You’ll remember what I said about her being at her most dangerous when she seems most sane, won’t you?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Krzystof, but as Patrick unlocked the door his heart was beating fast with apprehension. He thought: I’m about to meet one of the dark ladies of the twentieth century. Mad or sane, this woman was a macabre legend by the time she was fifteen. Her name will certainly stick in the history books, along with all those other evil icons–Myra Hindley and Rosemary West and their sisterhood. Lizzie Borden with the axe. Ought I to be feeling more fear than I do? he thought. Ought I even to be feeling awed? I’d happily feel all the emotions available to mankind if it would give me a clue to where Joanna is.

  The anger and the bitterness he had sensed earlier on was strongly present in Mary Maskelyne’s cell-like room, but at first impression Mary Maskelyne did not look like a legend, and she did not even look particularly evil. She was a small slight figure with short dark brown hair. She had on a plain dark sweater with a grey skirt and if you saw her in the street or in a restaurant or a supermarket you would not give her a second look. You would barely give her a first look, in fact. It took a moment to superimpose onto this insignificant woman the famous photograph of the fourteen-year-old girl with the Sixties eye make-up and smooth Sixties hair. Krzystof was just thinking that after all there was nothing so very remarkable here when the small figure turned its head to look directly at him, and he felt as if something cold had trickled through his mind. This one was not unremarkable at all and she was not insignificant by any means. And if she had in any way latched onto Joanna…

  But after that first look Mary Maskelyne seemed almost to retreat behind a veil of conventionality. She listened as Patrick Irvine introduced Krzystof and explained briefly what had happened, adding that as far as possible they were trying to piece together Joanna’s movements before she disappeared. Mary had spent some time with her after the talk: could she remember anything that might give any clue to Joanna’s state of mind? Any names mentioned, or places, perhaps?

  ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can help you,’ said Mary, and Krzystof heard with a further shock that her voice was rather gentle and soft. There might have been a slight accent–southern counties, was it?–but it was barely discernible. ‘I don’t think she said anything that you’d call significant.’

  Krzystof said, ‘I didn’t think there would be anything. But I’m clutching at all possibilities. I’d be very grateful if you could tell me a bit about your discussion.’

  ‘We talked mostly about writing,’ said Mary, frowning slightly as if thinking back. ‘She gave me a few very good tips, in fact.’ A swift glance to Dr Irvine. ‘I’ve been thinking of trying my hand at a short story.’

  ‘Good idea,’ said Patrick, non-committally.

  ‘So I talked to your wife about it. She was very helpful. Interested.’ The curious eyes turned to Krzystof again and this time he pinned down the elusive flicker of recognition. Snake’s eyes. Dark and calculating and watchful. ‘She’s very attractive, isn’t she, your wife?’ said Mary thoughtfully, and at once Krzystof felt a sharp stab of anger and panic slice through him. He remembered that it had been hinted that the murdered woman at Broadacre had been Mary’s lover. Had this soulless, snake-eyed creature looked on Joanna with some kind of desire? But he said, as casually as he could, ‘Yes, very.’

  ‘She did tell me that she was staying in Inchcape for a couple of weeks,’ said Mary, still apparently searching her memory. ‘She didn’t say exactly where, of course…’ This time the glance she sent t
o Patrick was unmistakably malicious. ‘That would be your instruction, wouldn’t it, Dr Irvine? “Never tell the inmates where you live”, isn’t that what you always say?’

  ‘It’s a reasonable precaution,’ said Patrick, unfazed.

  ‘It’s in case any of us manage to break out,’ said Mary to Krzystof, and incredibly there was a glint of amusement. Before he could think what to say, she said, ‘But she did say it was in Inchcape, because she said she thought it was a beautiful spot. Oh, and she mentioned the Round Tower–that’s one of the famous landmarks, isn’t it? She said it was intriguing. You’ve searched there, have you?’

  ‘The police searched it,’ said Krzystof. ‘They didn’t find anything.’

  ‘Oh, and I thought I might be giving you a clue.’ The unnerving eyes went on studying Krzystof. ‘Have you seen the tower yourself?’ she said. ‘Do you know about its origins?’

  ‘I’ve seen similar ones in Ireland,’ said Krzystof, unsure whether this conversation was helping him but seeing no reason not to follow the direction it was taking. ‘And round towers crop up in a number of cultures, although the basis for their existence varies with the country. As a matter of fact I’m staying with someone who encountered one in India as a child—’

  He stopped at once. The reaction was unmistakable. As if a strong light had been switched on behind the blank eyes. But she only said, ‘A tower? In India? How interesting,’ and Krzystof glanced at Irvine for guidance.

  Patrick said, smoothly, ‘Mary’s family had connections with India before she was born. She has always found it an intriguing country.’

  This seemed safe enough. Krzystof said, ‘Yes, I’ve always thought so. The ancient religions and the rituals. The–the friend I’m staying with was in a tiny northern province as a child. It was many years ago, but she remembers it quite well; she was telling me about it only this morning when I asked about Inchcape’s tower.’

  Mary Maskelyne was staring at him. Her hands were clutching the chair-arms so tightly that the knuckles had turned white, and although her face was so expressionless as to almost seem like a mask, that strong light blazed from her eyes. She said, ‘Was the place where your friend stayed by any chance Alwar?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Krzystof, slowly. ‘Yes, I believe it was.’

  Alwar. Alwar. The word reverberated through Mary’s mind, until her head throbbed and pounded with it.

  After Dr Irvine and Joanna Savile’s husband had gone, she sat for a long time, staring out of her tiny window, watching the sun setting in its crimson and bronze glory, trying to assemble her thoughts into some semblance of logic.

  So. So, there was someone living in Inchcape who had spent a few childhood years in Alwar. So, let’s not jump to conclusions, Mary. Yes, but Krzystof Kent said ‘many years ago’. She was in Alwar many years ago, he had said. So she was not a very young person, this friend. But she could not be all that elderly or she wouldn’t be having people to stay in her house.

  But let’s stay calm. Let’s remember that even if she’s the right age, this friend, this woman on Moy’s doorstep, and that even if she was in India in the late nineteen forties, so were a lot of other people. Yes, but how many of them were in Alwar? Alwar was a small place in India’s north-west. It had a palace and a museum and some industry, but its population then was only that of a small market town. Mary knew all these facts very well indeed; she had grown up knowing them.

  But this woman had known about the tower at Alwar; she had told Krzystof Kent about it, because Inchcape’s Round Tower reminded her of it. She must have meant the Tower of Silence at Alwar. She must.

  Christabel would know if this not-so-young, not-so-old female had really been there, of course; she would know if this was the survivor from that blood-smeared night when Christabel and those other children had died.

  But Christabel was being infuriatingly silent. Mary knew she was close by, because she could feel her presence in the way that she almost always could nowadays. But there was no emotion coming from her, and no sense of her mind locking into Mary’s. Because Christabel had heard what had been said, and was still stunned by it?

  I hate that child who escaped…Leila Maskelyne had said, over and over until Mary had wanted to scream. She has had the life our dear one should have had…Why couldn’t she have died instead of our dear girl…

  Mary had always hated the unknown girl as well. She had spoiled their lives, that child. If she had been the one to die instead of Christabel, Mary’s parents would have loved her. Mary would have known Christabel properly, as an older sister, instead of having this shadow-image who whispered into her mind.

  It was stretching coincidence rather a long way to think that Krzystof Kent’s hostess might be that unknown child who had escaped, but if you added everything up it was just about credible. If she could find out a name–yes, that was the crux of this whole thing. A name. She wondered who she could talk to on Moy’s staff who might know the local people, and she began to frame apparently innocent questions. You could do that kind of thing without raising suspicions providing you were clever and cunning. And Mary could be very clever and very cunning indeed; none of the stupid sheep-creatures who guarded her really knew just how clever and cunning.

  She went on thinking and thinking about this woman who lived in Inchcape.

  Emily was trying to take more of an interest in current affairs at the moment, because of visiting Pippa. Pippa was intelligent–you could see that, even when she was just sitting limply in the chair in the day-room–and she might like to hear about what was happening in the world. So Emily was looking out for odd, amusing news stories that she could relay to Pippa: not upsetting things like war in the Middle East or famines in unpronounceable countries, but things that might make for an interesting discussion. It was admittedly difficult having a discussion with somebody who never spoke, but you just had to keep on talking.

  ‘I think it’s so brave of you to visit the poor soul,’ Miss March said, when Emily told her about it. They were in the scullery at the time, with the lights all switched on because Great-uncle Matthew had always said that it was the constant switching on and off of electric lights that wore out the bulbs, so a light, once switched on in Teind House, stayed on all day. Emily had not been able to decide if Teind House was spookier with lights blazing than it was when the shadows crawled into it at dusk.

  ‘My great-aunt Rosa used to do a little charitable work,’ said Selina. ‘Visiting the sick people in the cottage hospital was one of the things she did–my great-uncle Matthew was on the board of the hospital governors.’ The once-a-month meetings of the hospital governors in Stornforth had in fact been a fixed point in Great-uncle Matthew’s life. Nothing had ever been permitted to interfere with those meetings. Selina said, ‘And Great-aunt Flora made calves’ foot jelly and egg custards for people in the village when there was illness. She was a very domestic person, Great-aunt Flora. She believed in good nourishing meals, especially for gentlemen.’

  Emily, who had been making a pot of kedgeree for Krzystof Kent’s breakfast the next morning because Miss March subscribed to Great-aunt Flora’s maxim about good nourishing meals for gentlemen, furtively grabbed a handful of kitchen paper and guiltily mopped up spilt rice and haddock flakes.

  ‘She was very housewifely, Great-aunt Flora,’ said Selina.

  As well as being housewifely, Aunt Flora had also been annoyingly inquisitive, especially after Aunt Rosa died. She had taken to asking questions–where was Selina going? Why had she not come home from school at the usual time?–and wanting to know about homework and lessons.

  Great-uncle Matthew had never asked questions about Selina’s activities, because Great-uncle Matthew never took any notice of anything that did not directly affect him or his comfort. After Aunt Rosa died he simply went on studying his bits of local folklore, and writing irritable letters to people whose opinions clashed with his own, and attending his beloved hospital meetings, and cataloguing his stamp collection
. On the first Monday of every month he wondered rather querulously why they had to put up with Aunt Flora’s Church Ladies’ Guild in the sitting room because it meant a lot of clacking women in the house, and at frequent intervals he asked why Selina could not do her homework in her bedroom instead of on the dining-room table. In his day children had not been allowed to spread their messy schoolbooks everywhere, said Great-uncle Matthew, and, told that Selina’s bedroom was apt to be chilly on account of being north-facing, said that in his day children had not been so pampered.

  When Selina timidly asked if she might have a record-player for her fourteenth birthday so that she could listen to records like the other girls did, Great-uncle Matthew was shocked to his toes and did not know what the world was coming to. In his day there had not been such things as record-players and songs about kisses sweeter than wine–most unsuitable–or the yellow rose of Texas, whatever that might mean. Children had been the better for it, as well. Selina might, if she was so inclined, take piano lessons, said Great-uncle Matthew. He would make no objection to that, providing it did not cost too much, and providing she did not practise scales on Teind House’s piano, because there was nothing less conducive to concentration than having to listen to somebody practising scales.

  Selina did not much want to learn to play the piano, but it was something a bit different to do, so she had a lesson once a week and was allowed to practise on the schoolhouse’s tinny piano on Friday afternoon after everyone had gone off full of excited weekend plans, leaving her on her own except for the janitor.

  She and Aunt Flora sometimes listened to the Light Programme on the wireless in the kitchen: Aunt Flora liked Mantovani and the selections from Cole Porter musicals, but these were not as good as the things people at school listened to.

  Selina had expected Great-aunt Rosa’s ghost to come sneaking and prying into her bedroom after the witchy old thing had fallen down the stairs and broken her neck, but she had not done so, not once. This had been a bit surprising, because Selina had thought that even after Aunt Rosa was dead she would find a way to denounce the shrine, carefully rebuilt in the tower. She had waited, fighting sleep night after night, in case Aunt Rosa’s ghost came but it never did, and the shrine stayed.