The Edge of Dark

by Pamela Hartshorne

  ‘Micklegate, please,’ she said as she climbed into a taxi. ‘Holmwood House.’

  The taxi driver pursed his lips and regarded her in his rearview mirror. ‘Holmwood House . . . is that a hotel?’

  ‘It’s a restored Elizabethan house,’ said Roz. How many of them could there be in York?

  ‘Oh aye, I know where you are. With all the scaffolding?’

  By the time she had finished with her marketing plan everybody would know where Holmwood House was, Roz vowed.

  The traffic was heavy, even this early in the afternoon, and it took an age just to get out of the station. At last they were on the road, although stuck in another queue, and Roz could see York Minster looming over the other buildings in the distance across the river.

  Surely she must have seen the Minster before? Roz stared at it, straining for a glimmer of recognition, but there was nothing. From this distance it was just a building, impressive for its size and its age but a cathedral like any other. There was no sense of déjà vu, no flash of familiarity, no sense of coming home.

  It was a strangely colourless day, with a milky light that blurred every outline. Even in mid-September the pavements seemed to be crowded with ambling tourists. Roz rubbed her thighs with the heels of her hands, impatient to be up and moving forward, to be doing something instead of sitting in this taxi not being able to remember or recognize anything.

  She was not impressed by her first sight of Micklegate. The street rose up the hill in an elegant curve, lined with an odd mixture of nightclubs and dark old churches, of body piercing clinics, tanning parlours and second-hand bookshops. The taxi rumbled over the cobbles and pulled up outside a building hidden behind scaffolding. Green netting festooned the scaffolding and made it impossible to get a proper look at the house.

  No sense of foreboding made Roz pause as she paid off the taxi. Adrian had told her that the facade of Holmwood House had been stripped away to reveal the original Elizabethan timbers, but the adjoining buildings in the terrace retained their Georgian elegance. A discreet brass plaque was affixed to the door of the house on the left: The Holmwood Foundation. This must be the office Adrian had told her about. Anxious to get inside and look around, Roz knocked briskly.

  The woman who opened the door was about Roz’s age but dressed as if she was much older. She had a blouse tucked into a sensible skirt and shoes so dowdy that Roz had to look away.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Hi. I’m Roz Acclam. The new events director,’ she added when the woman’s brows only rose.

  ‘Oh. Yes. We weren’t expecting you until tomorrow.’

  Well, thanks for the warm welcome, thought Roz, but she kept her smile pinned to her face. ‘I know, and I hope I’m not disturbing you, but I’ve just arrived and I thought I’d come and say hello to Adrian.’

  ‘I’m afraid he isn’t here at the moment,’ the other woman said stiffly. ‘I’m his PA, Helen Cox.’

  ‘Oh, hello, Helen.’ Clearly she had erred somewhere, but Roz persevered. ‘We’ve been in touch by email.’ Although you would never have guessed it from Helen’s closed expression. She had a doughy face and short brown hair with a tight, resentful mouth. Roz had never seen anyone more in need of a makeover, or more determined to revel in her plainness. Still, she kept smiling. Perhaps Helen was just having a bad day. ‘It’s nice to meet you at last,’ she said, and held out her hand, leaving Helen no choice but to take it, although her handshake was limp with reluctance.

  ‘Adrian said I should pick up a key to my flat here too,’ she said.

  ‘Sir Adrian. That’s how we all refer to him here at the Holmwood Foundation,’ Helen pointed out.

  ‘Really?’ Roz kept her voice pleasant, although Helen’s naked hostility was beginning to irritate her. ‘He insisted that I call him Adrian.’

  Helen’s face darkened. ‘I’ll get you the key.’

  Leaving Roz on the doorstep, she turned and went into her office to find the key, but by the time she came back Roz was in the stone-flagged hall with her case and her laptop and her expensive-looking handbag. She was unbuttoning her coat as she glanced around at the portraits of various Holmwood ancestors and she looked as if she was about to make herself right at home.

  He insisted that I call him Adrian, Helen mimicked savagely to herself. Sir Adrian hadn’t stopped going on about Roz Acclam since he had come back from London a few weeks ago. How attractive she was. How clever she was. How she was exactly what was needed to put Holmwood House at the top of York’s visitor attractions. Even Roz would have a hard time topping the Minster, Helen had thought sourly to herself.

  She had been dreading the arrival of such a paragon. Helen had seen her CV, and she knew all about Roz’s degree, her master’s, her background in swanky London institutions and latterly in the museum world. Roz was everything Helen had dreaded, and more. She wasn’t pretty exactly, but she had a lively, interesting face with strikingly pale eyes and thick dark hair tied up in one of those artfully messy styles that Helen had always found deeply irritating. Why couldn’t she brush it neatly back from her face? No, it had to look as if she had twisted it up and pinned it carelessly.

  Helen’s lips tightened. She was prepared to bet that Roz Acclam never did anything carelessly. She combined the glossy assurance that Helen was only too aware that she lacked with a fine-drawn quality that made fools out of men. It wasn’t quite fragility – Roz looked sturdy enough – but there was a hint of strain around her eyes that clearly had Sir Adrian aching to be her white knight.

  ‘Here’s the key,’ she said.

  Roz took it. ‘Thank you,’ she replied, but she didn’t put it away. She stood turning it between her fingers.

  ‘The flat’s in St Andrewgate, on the other side of the river,’ said Helen, turning away. ‘I’ll call you a taxi.’

  ‘Actually, I think I’d like to look around the house first, since I’m here.’

  Helen sucked in an irritable breath. ‘It’s not a very good time,’ she began, turning back to Roz with a forced expression of regret, but before she could finish, the door opened as Sir Adrian returned from his lunch.

  As always when he appeared, Helen’s heart stumbled. His hair might be silvering at the temples but Sir Adrian was still the most handsome man she had ever seen. He was a true gentleman, too: courteous, charming, with an old-fashioned gallantry, too often wasted, in Helen’s opinion, on women who didn’t deserve it.

  Look at him now, fawning over Roz Acclam. ‘You made it!’ he cried, swooping down and kissing her extravagantly on both cheeks, which Roz, of course, took as her due. ‘It’s marvellous to see you!’ Anyone would think she had achieved some extraordinary feat just by turning up inconveniently a day early and throwing out everybody else’s plans, thought Helen. ‘Have you had a look around?’ Adrian asked Roz.

  ‘Not yet. I gather this isn’t a very good time,’ she said coolly.

  ‘Nonsense, of course it is! Come and I’ll show you the house and you can meet everybody.’ He rubbed his hands together in anticipation. ‘Let me take your coat . . .’

  As if Roz couldn’t take off her own coat. Tenderly, he helped her off with the coat, and dumped it in Helen’s arms. ‘Helen will look after your bags, too, won’t you, Helen?’

  Helen set her teeth. ‘Of course.’ Her arms were full of soft cashmere and she could smell Roz’s fragrance, something subtle and expensive.

  She watched as Adrian ushered Roz through the door that led into Holmwood House, his hand resting fussily at the small of her back. The door closed behind them with a dragging swish. Helen carried the coat back into her office. She spread it over her desk, inspecting it. It was a beautiful coat, soft and supple and light, with striking buttons. Roz had looked good in it. She probably liked it a lot.

  Helen picked up a pair of scissors, and very carefully snipped off a button. Brushing the stray threads away, she hid the button at the back of a drawer and hung up the coat, pleased. It was enough.

&nbs
p; ‘We’ve put in a door here, behind where the buttery and pantry would have been.’ Adrian pulled the door to behind them and Roz took the opportunity to step out of his reach as unobtrusively as she could. She couldn’t bear the way men like him seemed to think they could handle you. Adrian was constantly touching her elbow, her arm, the small of her back, as if she were a fragile flower that couldn’t make it from one side of the room to the other without male guidance.

  ‘It’s convenient to be able to go between the two houses, and of course we’ve put in a state-of-the-art kitchen next door which means we can use Holmwood House for catered events.’ He talked on, leading her through the small dark rooms into a large room so magnificent that Roz stopped and gaped.

  ‘Wow,’ she said inadequately.

  ‘This was the great hall.’ Adrian looked around proudly. ‘The buildings archaeologists were able to tell us how big it would have been, and we’ve used the latest research to restore the room to its former glory.’

  ‘I can see,’ said Roz. The walls were panelled with glowing wood, and the ceiling was an elaborate mass of intricate plaster decorations. She craned her neck to one side to look at it. ‘The ceiling is amazing!’

  ‘Yes, it’s been well done, hasn’t it?’ Adrian’s voice was plummy with satisfaction. ‘We brought in specialist craftsmen to restore the house using original techniques and materials as far as possible. And of course it will look very different once we’ve got the furniture and wall hangings in place.’

  Roz hoped it would look more welcoming. The room definitely had the wow factor at first glance, but after that initial gasp it struck her as cold and the air had a strange dense quality to it, closed and unyielding. She put it down to the scaffolding that covered the windows and filtered the meagre light through the green netting. It was chilly, too, and she wished she hadn’t left her coat with Helen. Absently, she rubbed her arms.

  ‘Where will the visitors come in? The way we did?’

  ‘No, there’s a passageway at the side of the house which leads into a yard at the back. Visitors will be able to buy entrance tickets in the shop, which will be in what would have once been the kitchen range, we think. We haven’t developed the back yet,’ Adrian told her. ‘That’s something to think about for the future.’

  Roz glanced at the massive wooden door. ‘You’re not using the front door then?’

  ‘I don’t want to spoil the hall with computers and credit card machines.’ Adrian’s nostrils flared with distaste. ‘The whole point is that the house is completely authentic.’

  ‘With electricity,’ Roz couldn’t resist pointing out, with a nod at the discreet sockets set into the wall, and his lips tightened.

  ‘Sadly, the fire risk means that we can’t rely on candlelight,’ he said. ‘You wouldn’t believe the health and safety regulations we’ve had to deal with. Bureaucracy run mad! But as far as possible I want everything to be as it would have been in Sir Geoffrey’s day.’ Stubbornness crept into Adrian’s voice. ‘It was Sir Geoffrey who established the Holmwood fortune and we’ve been able to establish that this was his house, so I want it to be one he would recognize. A kind of tribute to him, if you like. That’s his coat of arms over the fireplace. See the red boar?’ he said, leading Roz over and pointing as if she couldn’t tell a coat of arms by herself. ‘That was his personal emblem.’

  Dutifully Roz admired the fireplace, which was magnificent, but the coat of arms gave her the shivers. The boar’s expression was mean, its head lowered aggressively, its tusks vicious. Roz’s skin was shrinking against her scalp and she had the oddest sensation that the room was tightening around her. She wriggled her shoulders and rubbed her arms, hoping Adrian would take the hint that she was cold. When she felt someone come up behind her, she turned gratefully, hoping that Helen had realized how cold she would be and had brought her coat, but the hall was empty.

  Odd. A frown touched Roz’s eyes. She could have sworn there had been someone there.

  She forced her attention back to Adrian, who was determined to tell her all about his illustrious ancestor.

  ‘Holmwood House was Sir Geoffrey’s residence in York,’ he said, with a grand gesture to encompass the room. ‘The family seat, Holme Hall – where I still live, in fact – is in the Wolds, but records show that the Holmwoods had a house in Micklegate as far back as the early fifteenth century. When they found the Holmwood crest carved into some of the timbers, we were able to identify this as the house.’ Adrian’s patrician features were alight with enthusiasm. ‘Of course, we don’t know exactly how it would have been decorated, but it’s inconceivable that Sir Geoffrey wouldn’t have refurbished his town house in the latest style, so Lucy has been sourcing the kind of furniture and hangings that we know were used by noble families during that period.’

  ‘Lucy?’ Roz leapt on the chance to interrupt his flow.

  ‘Oh, I should have explained.’ To Roz’s relief, Adrian led the way across the hall to a passageway at the far side. ‘Lucy is our curator, so she’s in charge of the displays. She’s out chasing up some tapestries today, but she’ll be back tomorrow.’

  ‘Who else is on the team?’ Roz asked, glad to hear that she would have colleagues.

  As director of the Holmwood Foundation, Sir Adrian Holmwood was a major supporter of museums and art galleries around the country, and his personal wealth was said to be enormous. Even so, Roz had dismissed him as a bit of a buffoon when she had met him in London. He had probably been very good-looking when he was younger, and he still had a thick head of hair, greying at the temples, but there was a jowly look about him now, and the air of self-importance he radiated didn’t quite disguise the portly stomach or the extra chin. He made a huge effort to be charming, but all that olde-worlde gallantry struck Roz as phoney and unnecessary, and it was a relief to know that there would be other professional members of the team.

  She would just have to hope that the others were friendlier than Helen.

  ‘There’s only a small team at the moment working specifically on Holmwood House,’ said Adrian as he led the way up the stairs. ‘Lucy is responsible for the displays, Mark is going to head up the front-of-house team, and you’re in charge of the marketing and publicity side. Obviously there’s administrative and IT support at the Foundation next door. Once things are up and running, we’ll be bringing in people to help you, but I’m afraid we’re not very organized yet.’

  ‘Well, that’s why I’m here, isn’t it?’ said Roz with a professional smile.

  ‘It’s marvellous to have you.’ Adrian beamed at her from the top of the stairs. ‘I’m so pleased you decided to take the position,’ he said. ‘I’ve been telling everyone what a wonderful job you did for the Godincourt Museum, and I know you’re going to be just what Holmwood House needs to put it on the map.’

  ‘I’m glad to have the opportunity.’ She kept her smile neutral. Adrian’s effusive compliments made her uncomfortable, but she mustn’t forget what a good deal she had here: she had been lured from London with a hefty salary and free accommodation, and the chance to really establish her reputation in the field as a freelance events manager. Nick might not think it was a good idea, but she was committed now, and she would make the best of it.

  Chapter Two

  The first floor smelt of new wood and dust. ‘We’re still at the snagging stage,’ Adrian said, pointing out the sawdust and curls of wood shavings. ‘The contractors are working through the house again, finishing off and fixing all the inevitable niggles, but they know they have to be finished before the launch on 31 October.’

  Above the hall was a large room Adrian called the great chamber, as well as several smaller rooms. ‘We think one might have been used as a parlour, and there would have been further bedrooms, and this one was perhaps a closet or a study.’

  No. The word was so clear in Roz’s head that she jerked in surprise, and Adrian broke off to look at her enquiringly.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s nothing.’ But
she was glad when he moved on.

  Her office was on the top floor, under the eaves. ‘We knocked two smaller rooms together for you,’ said Adrian. ‘Lucy has an office next door, and there’s a third room along the passage for when your team expands.’

  The ceiling sloped almost to the floor on one side, and a casement window was set into the roof to add a bit more light. The room had been freshly painted and equipped. There was a desk, three pale-wood filing cabinets ranged against the wall, and a couple of easy chairs under the window.

  It should have been a charming room, but it had an oppressive atmosphere that Roz couldn’t put her finger on. There was a heaviness in the air, as if something was mouldering and festering behind the clean paint, and her nose twitched at the acrid smell of smoke, of burnt wood.

  ‘Has there been a fire in here?’

  Adrian looked puzzled. ‘Not as far as I’m aware.’ He looked at her, sensing her reluctance to step further into the room. ‘Is this okay as an office for you, Roz? We could rearrange, perhaps, and put Mark up here if you’d rather be next door in the Foundation.’

  What could she say? She wasn’t going to be the prima donna who insisted on moving rooms the moment she arrived. Roz prided herself on her ability to fit into a team.

  ‘It looks lovely,’ she said firmly.

  ‘Excellent.’ Adrian rubbed his hands together. ‘Now, let’s go down and get some tea, and we can talk about your plans.’

  Roz was more relieved than she wanted to admit to leave the office. She could feel herself hurrying towards the narrow stairs that led down to the floor below, and made herself slow down. For once she was glad of Adrian’s old-fashioned gallantry as he gestured to her to go ahead of him, and the sound of her heels on the wooden steps exploded into the silence like gunfire. All at once her heart was beating hard, and when she collided with a large body as she turned out of the stairwell, it was all she could do not to scream.

  As it was, she gasped and fell back, a hand clapped to her throat. ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ she said breathlessly. ‘You startled me.’