Tower of Silence

by Sarah Rayne

  ‘She wouldn’t have wanted to risk failing,’ suggested Don after a moment, and Patrick pounced on this.

  ‘That’s very shrewd of you, and you’re right, of course. But it needs taking a step farther. I think it’s more that she doesn’t want to risk being seen to fail.’ He frowned, and then said, ‘I don’t understand her, and I don’t think anyone ever will understand her. But I do know that under all that false humility and that deliberate colourlessness she’s overwhelmingly vain and mind-blowingly arrogant. So why in the name of all the gods at once has she taken the risk now?’

  ‘Something she wants that’s outside Moy?’ hazarded Don Frost, who could not always keep up with Patrick’s swift twists of mind when he was in this mood, but who was following him at the moment.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Patrick. ‘But it must be something so compelling that she was prepared to take the risk of failure.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I don’t know. That’s why I need to reread her case notes.’ He had been rifling his desk drawer to find the last batch of notes on Mary Maskelyne, because he had not got round to sending them for typing and entering on the computer system. ‘I’m hoping I can fathom out what she might be after. Something recent it’d need to be–even something from the last two days.’

  ‘I’ll leave you to your fathomings,’ said Don, getting up. ‘They’re preparing a press release and I need to make sure it doesn’t make us sound like total incompetents. Oh, and I want to phone Emily—’

  ‘Emily?’ Patrick looked up sharply. ‘What about Emily?’

  ‘She was going to Teind House after lunch,’ said Don. ‘If she’s still there I’m going to ask her to stay put and lock all the doors. Miss March won’t mind, in fact she’ll probably be grateful for the company if she heard Moy’s bell. But I don’t want Emily coming back from Teind by herself with Maskelyne prowling the undergrowth.’

  Patrick had only an approximate knowledge of Teind House’s whereabouts, but he did know it occupied a rather remote situation on the outskirts of Inchcape, and he knew that the roads between Teind and Don’s cottage were lonely and unlit. He said, more sharply than he had intended, ‘Don, for Christ’s sake ring her now! Here, use my phone! Wherever Emily is, tell her to stay put. We’ll get someone out to her—Young Glennon or someone.’

  Don stared at him, and Patrick said, trying to beat down his impatience, ‘Maskelyne’s a multiple killer, Don! She isn’t a quiet, middle-aged lady who’s a bit eccentric, she’s a full-blown schizophrenic and she’s wildly delusional! She’ll kill anything that tries to get in the way of–well, whatever it is that she’s gone to find! She always does! Remember that three of her victims were killed within call of any number of people? Remember poor old Brooker, strangled in this very building this morning, within yards of at least thirty people? If Maskelyne meets anyone on those lonely moorland roads—’ And if anything happens to Emily—He snapped off the rest of the thought because it was too appalling to contemplate, and it was then that he saw something of his own panic mirrored in Don’s eyes. He remembered too late that Don’s wife had died barely a year earlier. (And Emily came back from university to be with him, said his mind).

  He understood that if Don lost Emily so soon after his wife’s death, he would not be able to bear it. He understood this all too well, because if anything happened to Emily Patrick would not be able to bear it either. In a gentler voice, he said, ‘I’m sorry. I expect I’m over-reacting. But ring anyway. Tell her to stay put.’

  As Don reached for the phone, Patrick went back to the filing drawer, this time finding the handwritten notes detailing his interviews with Mary. Something so compelling that she was prepared to take the risk of failure…

  What would compel Mary Maskelyne to break out of Moy? He flipped over two or three pages. Something to do with Joanna Savile, could it be? Yes, that struck an immediate chord. Joanna had unquestionably been interested in Mary: there had been that subtle probing on Joanna’s first visit here. And there had been that look in Mary’s eyes when she had first seen Joanna on the afternoon of the talk. The flicker of the serpent’s tongue and the smile of the Saxon–Patrick remembered how the simile had formed in his mind.

  And now Joanna was missing. But that was four–no, five–days ago, surely? Mary could not possibly be involved in that. Then what else? Think, Patrick. What’s happened that’s been out of routine? Krzystof Kent’s visit to Mary? And with the framing of the thought he knew, quite definitely and quite unarguably, that that was where the clue lay. Something had been said that afternoon–something said by Kent to Mary–something that Patrick ought to have picked up.

  What?

  And then he knew what it was. It was the look on Mary’s face when Krzystof Kent had said–quite casually–that he was staying with someone who had been in Alwar as a child. Selina March. Krzystof was staying with Selina March. Patrick stared at the three things in his mind. Mary Maskelyne. Selina March. And an Indian village. It’s there, he thought. The clue is there. He rearranged them, to see if a different pattern emerged. An Indian village, Mary Maskelyne, and Selina March. Like a child’s game where you built up brightly coloured blocks to make a pattern. Think, Patrick–for Christ’s sake, man, look at it the right way up, because the answer’s got to be there!

  And then he saw that the answer was there, and he saw that it had been there all along, that in fact it was bloody staring him in the face, and so vividly and so glaringly that he could not imagine why he had not seen it straight away.

  As Don put the phone down, Patrick stood up and reached for his car keys. ‘I know where Mary’s gone,’ he said. ‘And we’ve got to get after her. No, there’s no time to summon the police. We’ll ring them on the way–you’ve got your mobile with you, haven’t you? Yes, good. Oh, but wait now, see if you can get Robbie Glennon, will you? Ask him to meet us on the car park. He can think on his feet, that one.’

  Don dialled a number, and then started to say, ‘Where are we—?’

  ‘I know where Mary’s gone,’ said Patrick, who was at the door by this time. ‘She’s gone to find Selina March.’

  ‘Selina March?’

  ‘Listen,’ said Patrick when Don caught him up in the central wing. ‘Mary Maskelyne has spent the whole of her life hating one person, and that’s the one who escaped from the Tower of Silence in Alwar fifty years ago.’ He waited with barely concealed impatience as one of the duty warders unlocked the gates leading to the central courtyard. ‘The child who got away, leaving Mary’s older sister to die,’ he said, as they crossed the paved yard together and approached Moy’s main gates. ‘Oh–did you get Glennon?’

  ‘Yes, he’s on his way. Patrick, you said the child who got away—’

  ‘That child,’ said Patrick, ‘was always the focus of black bitter hatred, first by Mary’s parents, and then from Mary herself.’ He broke off, the memory of Pippa–Christabel Maskelyne–flooding into his mind. But Mary did not know about Christabel; she still believed that Christabel had died in that grisly tower all those years ago. Would it have made any difference if she had known the truth? I can’t tell, he thought, gesturing to the officer on the main gates to let them out.

  As they went across to where his car was parked, he said, ‘Two days ago Mary found out–and I’ve only just realised it–that that child who escaped that night is here. Living in Inchcape.’

  ‘Selina March,’ said Don. ‘That’s what you meant, wasn’t it? Dear God, Patrick, are you sure?’

  ‘Not entirely. But Mary is. She believes it. And so we’ve got to get to Teind House before she gets there ahead of us. In fact—’ He stopped, seeing the other man’s face. ‘Don, what is it?’

  ‘There was no reply from my cottage,’ said Don. ‘So I tried Teind House.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘There was no reply from there, either.’ He opened the passenger door, as Robbie Glennon galloped towards them, his tow-coloured hair blown into disarray by the wind.

 
; ‘Does Emily have a mobile?’

  ‘Yes. I tried that as well. It’s switched off. That probably means she didn’t bother to take it with her. She often forgets it.’

  ‘So,’ said Patrick, switching on the ignition, ‘either no one’s in at Teind House—’

  ‘Which isn’t likely, if Emily was booked to go down there—’

  ‘Or if she’s at Teind, she can’t answer,’ said Patrick, horror washing over him.

  It was completely dark by now, with the thick soupy night that descended on this part of Scotland in late October. As they drove down the road leading to Inchcape Patrick could hear a faint growl of thunder, as if, deep within the turgid skies, the storm was still seething and threatening. He had noticed the storm from within Moy, but only as part of the confusion and panic.

  ‘Mary escaped so that she could get to Selina March,’ he said, as they neared the cluster of buildings that made up the village. ‘That’s the thing that compelled her, Don. That’s why she took all those risks to get out. And that’s why we’ve got to get to Teind House before she does.’

  ‘She’s five hours ahead of us, Patrick—’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And it looks as if Emily’s with Selina.’

  ‘I know that as well.’ Patrick glanced at Don who was seated next to him, and then in the driving mirror at young Glennon, white-faced and fearful in the back. I suppose he’ll go dashing to the rescue, white knight on a charger fashion, and she’ll fall into his arms, he thought. Very suitable, of course. He’s an ambitious intelligent boy; he’ll do well in life.

  ‘The police are coming,’ said Don, after a moment, switching off his mobile phone. ‘They said they’d catch us up.’

  ‘Good.’ Patrick was concentrating on the road, which was awash with rain from the storm, and trying to shut out images of Emily in Mary Maskelyne’s hands. As he turned onto the bumpy track that led up to Teind House, he said, ‘I don’t know if either of you believe in any kind of God. But if you do, this is the time to start praying that we’ve beaten Maskelyne to it.’

  ‘I can’t see any lights in the house,’ said Don after a moment. ‘But that might be the storm again.’

  ‘Let’s hope so.’

  ‘Uh–Dr Irvine–you really do think Mary might–hurt Emily?’ said Robbie.

  ‘Maskelyne’s waited nearly thirty years to find the child who survived in Alwar,’ said Patrick. ‘She’s wanted to kill her for all of those years. Tonight she won’t let anyone get in the way of that.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Krzystof had unearthed a torch from the glove compartment of the hire car, and this made him feel a bit better equipped for storming the dark citadel.

  The rain had stopped but as he went through the orchard the trees were dripping with moisture, and the damp night soaked into his jacket and spangled his hair. Several times he paused to listen, thinking he had caught the sound of furtive footsteps coming after him, and once he whipped round, flicking on the torch to scan the darkness. But there was nothing to be seen save the skeletal outlines of the trees, and if anything moved in the darkness it did so under a cloak of invisibility.

  Even Joanna would have had to acknowledge that this was a situation where embroidering was not necessary. Having done the classic prowl through the dark old house, Krzystof was now preparing to storm the ancient, legend-drenched tower. Gothic hero stuff after all. He walked cautiously because the road was deeply rutted, and the last thing he needed on a night like this was to stumble on the uneven surface and sprain his ankle.

  As he neared the tower, his heart began to beat uncomfortably fast. I’m not good at this hero-stuff, he thought. I’m not designed for it. Yes, but supposing this leads you to Joanna. Supposing it was her mythical lover who made those footprints inside Teind House and caused those lights in the Round Tower? But there isn’t a lover, thought Krzystof fiercely. I know there isn’t.

  But if Joanna had not had a lover–and of course she had not!–might she have had a murderer? The thought struck chillingly against Krzystof’s mind, but he knew it had been there for some time. Oh, get on with it, you nerd!

  He was no longer entirely sure about the light he had seen inside the tower. He could not see it now, and he was starting to suspect that it had only been a vagrant spear of moonlight, perhaps catching a gleam of something. Moonlight in the midst of a thunderstorm? You’re trying to duck out of this!

  But he was not trying to duck out at all. It was just that the closer he got to the tower, the less likely he thought it that there would be anything to investigate. Or would there? The Stornforth police had checked the tower; they had assured Krzystof that it had been one of the first places they had looked, and there was no reason to disbelieve them or doubt their efficiency. But he would check anyway.

  The palpable age of the tower did not especially daunt him; in fact, in other circumstances he would have been extremely interested in the place, and would have been wondering what fragments of history might be found inside, and whether the Rosendale might mount a small exhibition under the banner of warlike Christianity. Eighth-and ninth-century monks guarding their small religious treasures from the marauding Vikings who had frequently made raids to grab anything that was going in the way of females and possessions…Sixteenth-century abbots burying Mass vessels in the garden to fool Henry VIII’s commissioners. Yes, it was a good idea. Krzystof went on thinking about it because it helped him to ignore the feeling that the nearer he got, the more clearly he could be seen by the eyes that watched him from the slitted windows.

  (And there are some eyes that can eat your soul, remember…)

  Whatever the eighth-or ninth-century monks who had built this tower had done about marauding Vikings, they had built this stronghold firmly and well. It was amazing that it was still in such good repair a thousand years on. Krzystof walked round it until he found the small door set deep into the black stones.

  The door swung inwards easily and smoothly when he pushed it open, with only the faintest whisper of sound, and a faint warning note jabbed at his mind. Did this mean the hinges had recently been oiled? No, it was more likely that the recent police search had loosened any rust.

  The darkness came at him like a thick stifling cloak, and he pulled the torch from his jacket pocket and flicked it on, fully prepared for dirt and decay and for scuttlings from mice or rats or birds. But the little round room was far cleaner than he had expected, in fact it was far cleaner than it had any right to be. It’s been swept, thought Krzystof incredulously. Quite recently as well–there’s no dust or dirt anywhere. Was that the police search? But as he moved the torch slowly around, he thought it was not. The little room had the look of constant care–of dust and cobwebs kept ruthlessly in check, even of ledges in the stone walls carefully wiped clean. There might be some perfectly ordinary explanation for this, however; the place was bound to be a landmark and there might be a local history society or a preservation group who kept it in reasonable condition for tourists and students.

  Other than the surprising cleanliness there was nothing to be seen, except, of course, for the steps directly in front of him, which would wind up inside the tower, probably to the very top. Krzystof shone the torch onto the ground. Footprints in the dust this time? jeered his mind. Well, why not? But there were no footprints, because there was no dust. The only prints were the invisible ones left on the atmosphere by centuries of history.

  After a moment Krzystof went back to prop the door open, using a stone from outside, and, taking a firmer grip on the torch, he began to ascend the stair.

  And now it felt as if the ancient tower was coming alive all around him. The steps were solid stone, a little worn at the centre, and Krzystof’s feet made no sound on them as he went cautiously upwards. The light he had seen from Teind House–if light there had been–had seemed to come from the slit-like windows, halfway up. Could it have been the light of a torch–of someone going slowly up and up these steps, and round and round,
until the very top was reached?

  The higher he went, the more he was aware of the past all around him, as if the tower’s history was waking, and projecting itself, palimpsest-like, onto the present. The beleaguered monks, after all? Bustling worriedly up and down these very stairs, squirrelling away religious artefacts in the face of a raid? But Krzystof thought what he was sensing was far more recent: he thought it was more as if something violent and shattering had happened here, so that the early memories of the tower’s origins and its creators had been smothered and dimmed.

  Joanna’s death? Would that be violent and shattering enough? For goodness’ sake, man, you’ve been in enough peculiar places to know about unquiet spirits and the lingering echoes of extreme violence. But she can’t be here; they searched this place from top to toe. She can’t even have been kept here, or they’d have found signs. But supposing whoever took her cleaned up afterwards? Swept and tidied everything away, and swabbed down the decks? But this was so preposterous an idea that Krzystof dismissed it instantly, and went on up the stairs.

  The steepness and the sharp twist of the steps made his leg muscles ache before he had gone even a quarter of the way up, but the higher he went, the more he was aware of real sounds: of tiny scufflings and murmurings that might only be the wind groaning in the gaps of the ancient structure or mice scuttling to and fro, but might as easily be the sound of soft footsteps creeping up the stairs after him, or the groaning of someone held prisoner somewhere in the sour darkness…

  He swung round, trying to see back down the steps, but they wound too sharply round and he could not. Oh hell, this was turning into outright melodrama. But I’m blowed if I’m going to retreat now, he thought. And of course there’s no one in here. Onwards and upwards. But every slight sound tore at his already stretched nerve-endings, and every twist of the stair sent his heart pounding with nervous dread. There is someone in here with me, he thought. I’m not imagining it: I can feel that there’s someone else in here, just as I could feel it in Teind House. Someone crouching just above him, waiting on the next twist of the stair, perhaps? Was that the sound of someone breathing very quietly, or just the wind scudding through the ancient stones again?