The Edge of Dark

by Pamela Hartshorne

  Alan picked up his coffee, but Roz could see the twitch of his shoulders at the memory. ‘It still gives me the heebie-jeebies to think about that smile,’ he confessed. ‘Anyway, my mate took him round the front, and one of the neighbours recognized him. We’d been looking for him, of course, thinking that he would be hiding like you. That’s when it became clear that he’d set the fire.’

  ‘There wasn’t any doubt that he did it?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. He was fully dressed, and they found traces of liquid petrol on his clothes. I heard later that when they interviewed him all he would say was, “It wasn’t me,” but all the evidence said that it was him.’

  Chapter Ten

  Roz was silent for a moment. She turned her bangles round and round on her arm, thinking about the brother she had never known. The brother who had calmly set fire to a house and watched his family die with a smile.

  ‘When I spoke to my aunt’s friend, she said they’d diagnosed Mikey with early onset schizophrenia,’ she said. ‘I don’t know much about it, but perhaps he felt that he didn’t do it because he had someone else in his head.’

  Like Jane was in her head. Roz shuddered. What if she were schizophrenic like her brother? The thought of seeing a doctor, of explaining what was happening, having tests and being given drugs was appalling. She caught herself manically turning the bangles on her wrist and made herself stop with a grimace. She didn’t feel ill, but then, perhaps Mikey hadn’t either. She would have to talk to Nick at the weekend and take his suggestion of a hypnotherapist seriously.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Alan, watching her expression. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’

  ‘No, it’s okay.’ She mustered a smile. ‘I’m glad you told me. My husband did some research and found some accounts of the fire, and Karen – my aunt’s friend – told me what she could, but it’s not the same as hearing from somebody who was actually there.’

  ‘You haven’t been in touch with your brother yourself?’

  Nick had said that she ought to try and track down Mikey and find out for herself what had happened and why, but Roz had resisted the idea. What was the point? Knowing why wouldn’t bring her parents or her sisters back, and she had managed fine without a brother up to now. Why go out of her way to get in touch with one who was a murderer and an arsonist? Roz didn’t think that would be much of a family reunion.

  ‘No. I mean, if Mikey did have schizophrenia, then I’m sorry he was ill, but he must be better now or they wouldn’t have released him.’

  ‘That’s true. There would have been a risk assessment to decide whether he was a threat to society or not.’

  ‘That’s what Jim Hebden said. He was a police officer who worked on the case,’ Roz said when Alan lifted his brows. She told him about the letter she had found in her aunt’s papers, and his enquiring look turned to a frown.

  ‘It’s very unorthodox to write like that,’ he said disapprovingly.

  ‘Jim said that, but he was obviously concerned enough to write. He thought Mikey was manipulative and might still be dangerous, which didn’t exactly make me want to rush out and find him. Besides, I gathered they gave him a new identity when he was released.’

  Alan nodded. ‘They would have done. It was a tragic case, and Acclam is an unusual name. People in York would remember.’

  ‘I worked it out. He was six years older than me, so he’d be coming up for forty now, but I’ve no idea what he looks like. He’s white and brown-haired, but that doesn’t exactly narrow things down.’

  Roz looked through the window at the shoppers and tourists wandering in the middle of the pedestrianized street. There were plenty of men of about forty passing by. Some of them were clearly tourists, but with others it was harder to tell. Men in T-shirts and jeans, apparently under the impression it was still high summer. Men in suits, walking briskly. Men in hoodies, and shirts, and jackets, and overalls. ‘He could be Mikey,’ she said, pointing. ‘Or him . . . or him . . . or him. There’s no way of telling. He might not even be in York any more. That letter was nearly twenty years old. He could have moved on. I can look at every fortyish-looking brown-haired man who passes me in the street and wonder if he’s my brother, or I can let it go. So . . .’ She lifted her shoulders and let them fall. ‘I think I have to accept that somewhere I have a brother and leave it at that.’

  ‘Where have you been?’ Helen had been watching out for Roz, who didn’t even have the grace to look embarrassed at being caught strolling into the office this late in the morning. She even had the nerve to raise her brows at Helen’s tone.

  ‘Out for coffee,’ she said in that snotty southern voice of hers.

  That was typical. The rest of them were happy with a mug of instant, but that wouldn’t be smart enough for Roz, would it? She would have to go to some coffee shop and have a latte or some pretentious cappuccino with soya milk or some such nonsense.

  Today she had on boots and leggings and some kind of weird elegantly asymmetrical top that Helen couldn’t put a name to but which she bet cost a fortune. It would look ridiculous if Helen wore it, but on Roz it looked striking and stylish. Her hair fell shining to her shoulders. There were silver bangles chinking at her wrist and Helen caught the wink of silver dangling from her ears. She hated the way Roz always made her feel frumpy and dumpy and out of place. Roz was the one who didn’t belong, and she ought to feel that way, instead of giving Helen that long, cool stare of hers.

  ‘Sir Adrian’s been looking for you,’ Helen said accusingly.

  ‘Okay.’

  No apology, no awkwardness at the idea that she’d kept her boss waiting. Oh no, Roz just swanned past her to Sir Adrian’s office like it was hers. Helen curled her fingers into fists. God, she wanted to slap that smug look off Roz’s face. She hated her. She even hated the way Roz walked, straight-backed like a model, like the world owed her a living.

  Helen could just imagine her growing up a pampered princess, with Mummy and Daddy fawning over her. She’d seen the wedding ring on Roz’s finger. There would be some rich husband in the background, a banker probably, and a massive house in London, while Roz played at her little job.

  Events director! Helen’s lip curled. Anyone could arrange an event. She did it all the time for Sir Adrian, but she didn’t feel the need to give herself a fancy title.

  When Sir Adrian called out for a cup of coffee for Roz, Helen poured some from the percolator into a cup, added some milk and very deliberately spat in it.

  Roz didn’t want coffee. She tried explaining that she had already had some that morning, but Adrian was so insistent that she couldn’t be bothered to keep refusing. She was still thinking about the fire and her brother and whether schizophrenia was hereditary. She should have thought of that before, but until these episodes with Jane it had never occurred to her that she might be mentally ill. She would need to google it.

  She barely listened to Adrian wittering on about his extensive contacts in Yorkshire and when Helen ungraciously set a cup of coffee by her side she glanced up with a brief absent-minded smile of thanks but ignored it.

  ‘So you’ll come?’

  Belatedly, Roz realized that Adrian was looking expectant, and she gave herself a mental shake. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she apologized. ‘I was miles away there for a moment. Come where?’

  A hurt expression flickered over Adrian’s face. Clearly she was supposed to have been hanging on his every word, the way Helen no doubt did. Roz caught herself. She was being bitchy. Buffoon or not, Adrian was her boss and this was her career. She had to concentrate.

  ‘To Holme Hall,’ he said. ‘As I was saying, I’m having one of my house parties,’ he explained, oozing self-satisfaction. ‘I know one or two people, who shall be nameless, who have been angling for an invitation for quite a long time. They’re really quite sought after.’ He folded his hands on his stomach and leant back with a complacent smile. ‘I’ve been thinking about the launch and this time I’ve invited people with connections. I th
ink it would be useful for you to meet them socially.’

  ‘Well, er, that sounds lovely,’ said Roz, grimacing inwardly. A house party with Adrian Holmwood and ‘people with connections’ – she couldn’t think of a worse way to spend a weekend. The worst thing was that Adrian was probably right. It would be a good opportunity to make some contacts. She was new to York and she couldn’t afford to turn down the chance to make any connections. ‘When were you thinking of?’

  ‘This weekend.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ she said, relieved. ‘I’ve arranged to go back to London this weekend. Nick’s expecting me,’ she added. No harm in reminding Adrian that she was married. In spite of his carefully cultivated air of old-fashioned distinction, Adrian had always struck Roz as asexual. From a distance, he looked like the kind of man who would have a wife who rode and a bevy of children at public school, but close up, Roz had never picked up any signals of interest in women or men. He seemed to be acting a part, the constant touching no more than directions on a script called How to be a Country Gentleman.

  But she might be wrong, Roz conceded. She had been wrong plenty of times before.

  Adrian was extravagantly downcast. ‘Oh, but couldn’t you rearrange? I really do think you should come if you can. Couldn’t Nick come to York? You could bring him to the party. There’s plenty of room. Do at least ask him,’ Adrian persisted when Roz hesitated. ‘It would be marvellous if you could come.’

  Roz had seen pictures of Holme Hall, a wonderful early Jacobean mansion. It would be interesting to see it. As for Nick . . . well, he always claimed he wanted to be an author. Freelance journalism was a stepping stone to his first novel, he said. A weekend at Holme Hall would be good material for him.

  ‘I’ll ask him,’ she promised.

  She left the coffee untasted.

  Jeff was out in the long, narrow yard with Lucy when Roz came out of the Foundation, obviously on her way back to her office. She looked distracted but stopped at the sight of them. ‘What are you two doing?’

  ‘I was just asking Jeff whether he remembered any outbuildings out here,’ said Lucy.

  Roz looked at him in surprise. ‘I didn’t realize you’d been here from the beginning of the restoration.’

  ‘I used to come here as kid,’ he said.

  ‘Someone said there used to be a model shop here.’ The clearness of her pale grey eyes was still a shock. He didn’t like the way they seemed to look inside him, as if she knew that he had lied when he said he couldn’t hear the electric train still rattling round and round and round in the great hall.

  ‘That’s right.’ His gaze slid away from hers. ‘That’s why I came here.’ There was a knot in his stomach: panic, guilt, resentment. He didn’t want to long for her absolution. It was all her fault. She had made him do it. She hadn’t understood him, hadn’t understood what he needed –

  No, that wasn’t right. Jeff frowned. How could his little sister have made him do anything? It wasn’t her he had both loved and hated. So why did it feel all at once as if she was to blame for everything? He rubbed his temple, trying to clear his head. Pain was banging behind his eyes, and his thoughts were confused, slipping and slithering away out of his grasp.

  He’d been glad at first that Roz hadn’t recognized him, but now he wasn’t so sure. Perhaps he should have told her straight away, but what could he have said? Oh, by the way, I’m your half-brother, you know, the one who killed our mother?

  He shouldn’t have come back to York. He shouldn’t have come back here, to Holmwood House. But this was where he needed to be, Jeff felt it in his bones. He was different here, stronger, more certain. At least when Roz wasn’t there, looking through him with those clear eyes. Sir Adrian could boast all he liked, but the house was Jeff’s domain. He liked it when he was there on his own. He would walk across the hall and listen to his footsteps, firm and in command, and he would feel himself unfurl and expand with power, and he’d know that this was the only place he had ever felt truly at home. He belonged here, but he hadn’t been able to enjoy it in the same way since Roz had arrived. Jeff wished she would go back to London. She made him feel . . . confused.

  ‘We’re thinking of extending the house into the yard next year,’ Lucy was saying. ‘There must have been a kitchen, and maybe a dairy of some kind or a brewery. I’ve been doing some research and I was wondering if there might have been a still room. The mistress of a big house like this would probably have made her own remedies.’

  ‘Of course I make my own.’ Roz sounded puzzled. She turned and pointed down the yard, and the hairs on the back of Jeff’s neck rose in a slow wave as something slid through the air, shifting and bending it, wiping the Rozness from her face, flattening her vowels. ‘My still room is there,’ she said.

  ‘Your sister is here.’ Annis found Jane in the still room, making an ointment. Robert had been complaining of an itch, and Jane was carefully measuring out the oil she had made from bay berries earlier in the year. She had steeped quicksilver in vinegar ready to be mixed with camphor and the bay oil.

  Jane liked being in the still room. It was quiet and clean, and even on this chill February day the air smelt like summer, fragrant with the bunches of herbs dried and tied and hung from the ceiling: lavender and thyme, sweet marjoram and pennyroyal, wormwood and sage and mint and chamomile and other herbs she gathered in the summer. In pride of place stood a little apothecary’s chest, its drawers full of berries, of hawthorn and sweet briars, and seeds and dried rose petals.

  The still room was Jane’s refuge, the only place in the house that felt like hers, and where she could arrange the bottles, bowls and jars the way she wanted. She looked after the rest of the house, but the other rooms were dark and oppressive, engrained with resentment, and no matter how often she bade the maids clean and polish and lay fresh herbs the air smelt tainted, with a foul undercurrent that struck the back of Jane’s throat.

  Nothing had ever been said, but Margaret and Robert had somehow known that she had discovered them, and they no longer bothered to conceal their depravity when the three of them were alone. Robert abandoned his futile visits to the great chamber, and Jane lay alone every night, mistress in name only. The servants must know, but what could they do? Like Jane, they must bear the offence of it, or else lose their posts.

  Small wonder Jane spent as much time as she could in the still room.

  ‘My sister?’ She put down the oil and wiped her hands on her apron. Juliana rarely came to Holmwood House. She liked Jane to visit her. ‘Is she well?’

  ‘Can’t say.’ Annis sniffed. She didn’t approve of Juliana, who she considered flighty and spoilt. ‘She’s in’t chamber, anyhows, and in a right old state. Nowt new there.’

  ‘I’d better go to her.’ Jane tried not to sigh as she pushed the stopper into the oil jar. She had been enjoying the tranquillity of the still room and whatever mood Juliana was in, it was never tranquil.

  ‘Where have you been?’ Juliana pounced as soon as Jane pushed open the door to the chamber. ‘Didn’t Annis tell you I needed to see you straight away? I told her it was important! She hates me, I know. She dawdled off as if I had all the time in the world to wait. You should keep your servants in better order, Jane.’

  Juliana’s eyes were feverishly bright, and there were hectic spots of colour in her cheeks. Jane smoothed her apron down. She had learnt to keep her voice very calm when dealing with Juliana in this state.

  ‘Annis doesn’t hate you, Juliana. I was in the still room and it took her some time to find me. Now, come, sit by the fire and tell me what is so important.’ She steered Juliana over to the turned chair and plumped up the cushions. ‘You’re cold,’ she said. ‘Would you like some wine to warm you?’

  ‘Yes . . . no . . . I don’t know!’ Juliana threw herself wretchedly into the chair. ‘I am too unhappy to know what to do!’

  ‘Come now.’ Jane sat on the stool beside her sister and took her hand. ‘What is wrong? Is it our father?’
>
  ‘No, he is interested only in his grazing,’ said Juliana bitterly. ‘You do not know what it is like for me, Jane, in that house on my own. You live in luxury here with your fine husband, and you have no idea how wretched I am.’

  Jane thought of the silent meals, of her lonely bed. She thought of Robert on his knees in front of Margaret, and she said nothing.

  ‘I am lonely,’ said Juliana, her beautiful mouth downturned in a petulant curve.

  ‘You could visit the neighbours,’ Jane suggested, but Juliana dismissed the local gossips with a bitter twist of her hand.

  ‘Butchers’ wives!’ she said, her beautiful face curdled with contempt.

  ‘You are a butcher’s daughter,’ Jane reminded her in a mild voice. ‘As am I.’

  ‘You have left the Shambles far behind,’ said Juliana jealously. ‘Why can my father not arrange a great marriage for me too? And why do you not make me a connection, you with all your fine kin now?’

  ‘I have little influence,’ Jane said quietly. ‘Marriage is not always what we expect, Juliana.’ More than that she could not say. ‘I am sure our father will find you a good husband. He loves you dearly, you know that. He will want only the best of husbands for you. You must be patient.’

  ‘I cannot be patient!’ Juliana leapt up in a whirl of skirts. ‘I need a husband now, and not some sweaty butcher!’

  Jane watched, a frown in her eyes, as her sister paced furiously. She hoped Juliana wasn’t working herself up into a full-blown tantrum. It could take hours to coax her round from one of those, and there was still the meal to be prepared.

  ‘I will talk to our father,’ she promised. ‘I will tell him you are ready for marriage.’

  ‘It is too late!’ Juliana swung round with an anguished cry and threw herself down on the floor to bury her face in Jane’s lap. ‘Oh Jane, you have to help me! Promise me you’ll help me!’