I can’t give up now, I just can’t.
‘He buried the strongbox in the garden,’ I say. ‘And a jar by the Bee Boles, so it’s more than possible that the novel is hidden somewhere on the land.’
‘Back then, when Robert died,’ Ma reminds me, ‘the Heatons owned hundreds of acres. He could have buried it anywhere out there, and we’ll never be able to find it.’
‘No,’ I say and shake my head, ‘that’s not how this ends. It can’t. After all of this, after everything we have discovered and experienced, if I don’t find Emily’s novel, or what happened to Agnes, then … then I’ve let them both down.’
Ma walks over to my side, putting her hand on my shoulder as we look around the sunlit room. Outside the open window I can hear Will in the garden, teaching Mab tricks.
‘That’s the last thing you’ve done. Maybe it’s enough that you’ve uncovered her story, and the notes you’ve found from Emily and Robert. The title page, Trudy – that’s going to change the Brontë world. I know it’s not the whole novel, but it’s more than anyone has ever dreamed of, and Agnes is part of that too; people will know that there was this scrap of a kid that fought everything that life did to her to tell her story. That’s not letting either of them down.’
‘Maybe.’ I feel my shoulders slump, the adrenalin of the chase that has kept me on my feet for the last few days seeping away. And then I think of Will, and my promise to him. Never give up hope.
‘Robert might have hidden more in the Ponden books. I only went through a little over half of them, Ma. I need to go back to Castle Ellis and check the rest, and the rest of the library. I’m sure there will be more there, and maybe even the location of the novel. If I find nothing there, then … well, then I’ll think again.’
‘I know you aren’t going to rest until you’ve done everything you can,’ Ma says.
‘Well, if Agnes hasn’t rested for four hundred years, a couple of hours more won’t hurt me, will it? Can you keep an eye on Will?’
‘Yes, of course. And you come back safe.’
‘It’s a library, Ma,’ I say, mentally crossing my fingers, ‘Officially the least perilous place on earth.’
Putting my phone on speaker and resting it on my lap, I call Marcus as I start the short drive to Castle Ellis. He picks up on the second ring.
‘Ah, Trudy,’ he says, speaking up when he hears the sound of the car engine in the background. ‘I wondered what happened to you. I looked in the library and it looked as if you were in the middle of something, but I haven’t seen you for a few days.’
‘I know, I’m sorry.’ I make sure I sound bright and light-hearted. ‘I got caught up in the big clear-out at the house, trying to get it ready for the work being done. Actually, I was wondering if it was OK to come over now for a few hours?’
‘Oh, not really,’ Marcus says, his voice cutting out for a moment.
‘Oh … OK, then,’ I falter, not sure what to say next. ‘Marcus, are you there?’
‘Only because I’m not there. I’m on my way back to Cumbria, restoring a house built by two weird old Victorian sisters. Not nearly as lovely as Ponden, but interesting. But of course, feel free to go over. I might see you if you are there in a few hours?’
‘Hope so!’ I say. ‘OK, take care. Bye!’
It’s a bright afternoon, the trees aflame with every possible autumnal colour. Flurries and showers of jewel-like leaves fall across the windscreen and there’s something crystallising in the cold, clear air, something that tells me that something is about to happen. One way or another, I will uncover the secrets still held hostage in Marcus’s library.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
As I let myself into Castle Ellis, the daylight is slowly dwindling. Still, the glass rooms are bathed in a rose-gold warmth. The house is silent and tranquil as I walk through the building to the library; there is no sound at all.
It occurs to me, as I walk around Marcus’s home, that there is very little of his personal stamp here. Everything is beautiful, utterly tasteful; but there is nothing at all that tells me what he likes, what makes him feel comfortable and safe. Despite the modernist structure, all the antiques are of the highest quality, each pieced picked out to complement its modern surroundings perfectly.
And then, at the very heart of the house, the square hallway from which both the library and the games room lead off, everything changes. I never really stopped to look before, but here, in this rare private space, I see a little bit of the things that really matter to Marcus.
Both the worn black Victorian sofa in the hall at the bottom of the central staircase, and the silk-covered upright piano that stands opposite it, are exact replicas of furniture from the Brontë Parsonage. More than that, they are items specific to Emily.
The sofa is the identical twin of the one that she died on, where she wrote her last-ever words, perhaps including The House at Scar Gill. The piano is a copy of the one that she played. Above it, is what I can only describe as a forgery of her portrait by her brother Branwell, painted in 1833. But what a forgery! Every crack in the canvas, every missing flake of deteriorated paint, has been reproduced so accurately that if I didn’t know the original was in the National Portrait Gallery I might think that this was it.
Grace wasn’t wrong when she said that Marcus was an obsessive collector, especially, it seems, when it came to Emily. The money and time that must have gone into these items represent a considerable investment, and maybe that’s why I don’t see any Brontë books on the shelves in the library. Perhaps Marcus keeps them locked away in his secret attic room, a gilded prison for the true loves of his life.
For a moment I stand outside the games room, then pushing the door open, I look at the blank, panelled wall and think of the staircase that leads behind it to the room at the top. I’d love to see inside that room.
But for now I have to focus on the matter in hand.
Leaving Emily’s portrait behind, I let myself into the library.
My books, because I do think of the Ponden Books as mine, are just as I left them, the note I wrote, asking for them not to be moved, still in place. I’m fairly sure I left the neatly tucked-away chair pulled out, but still, it’s hardly surprising that, if Marcus was in here, he straightened his own chair. He’s not the sort of man to leave anything out of place.
The right-hand edge of my note was aligned with the first of the remaining Ponden books that I hadn’t examined for signs of Agnes, the last ones of the collection which, judging by the titles, would be as dry as a mouthful of dust to read. Long-outdated property law, seasonal almanacs, political treatises, all of which seem to me to be the very last place that Agnes or Robert would hide something so important and so full of life as her story, whether told by her or Emily. And yet, maybe it was the least-looked-at volumes that would make the best hiding places.
As the sun warms the back of my neck, I pick up The Rise and Progress of Religion in the Soul: illustrated in a Course of Serious and Practical Addresses and begin.
Despite their subject matter, each book I look through is a genuine treasure.
So often, from the feel of the leather, you can almost make out the fingerprints of a hundred readers pressed one over the other into the patina of the bindings. The scent of these elderly books is something else too; a little acrid, a little like smoke and old ink. And the feel of the paper – the irregular pages are thick and oh-so-slightly tacky to the touch, every page turn leaving its mark. Trapped within every page is a lost world, captured moments from ages past that hardly mean a thing to modern life, with ideas and concepts so alien to our own that we might as well be reading words written by aliens. And yet, only within the pages of books like these and others rare and special, can we find what cannot be found elsewhere: the exact contents of the minds of people who lived hundreds of years ago. Each book is a miracle to me, deserving of study and love, and I mourn the loss of every one of the Ponden volumes as I set them back down on the table, even the most hum
ble and dull. This was a collection of books that defined a family, that illustrated their lives, their needs, their interests, for generations, and now they are imprisoned here, in a place where no one cares for them or the people that once handled them. Nobody but me.
Painstakingly, I study each one for traces of Agnes or Robert, and move on from one to the other in turn, until the last traces of the afternoon have turned into evening and I have run out of books.
I was so certain that I’d find something here.
Sitting back in my chair, I tune myself into the air, into my own Heaton blood as it pounds in my ears, searching for traces of Agnes. But there is nothing. It is possible that there are other Ponden books in that great wall of pages that rises above me, but to check every single volume will take days, which means coming back here time and time again, and inevitably seeing Marcus with all the jangling discomfort that brings. I can’t give up, I won’t, but I have to resign myself to the fact that I won’t find an ending to this story today and it stings more than I expected it to.
Sighing, I sweep my tools into my bag, and switch off the library lights. Then, just as I’m about to leave, I hear the faintest of noises in the games room. Is Marcus back? Pushing the door open, I see that the secret panel is ajar, and as I stand on the other side of the room, the motion-activated lights splutter on.
Biting my lip, I drop my bag by the door and go over to the entrance; after the light of the lobby the spiral steps are dark and very cold.
‘Marcus?’ I call a little hesitantly. ‘Marcus, are you up there?’
I wait for a response, but there is nothing except the flow of the wind over vacant window frames.
‘Oh, what Hell, I’m only looking,’ I say aloud, launching myself through and onto the icy steps. ‘It’s not like I’m robbing the place.’
I expect more lights to come on as I walk up the spiral steps, but it seems there are none, and after a few steps the light in the lobby turns off. It seems to take an age until gradually my vision adjusts to the dark and I see the lighter stone of the steps glowing faintly ahead of me, a starlit cut-out arc of sky showing through the window at the twist of the spiral above me.
My phone is still in my bag on the other side of the room, so I can’t use its light to guide me. I could go and fetch it, I suppose, but if I turn back now, I don’t think I’ll have the courage to come this far again. So on I go, taking each step one at a time, feeling my way along the constant curve of the inner wall. Twice I pass a treacherously open doorway leading to nothing but thin air and a deep drop, and then at last I’m standing outside the top-floor door, and this landing is lit by an emergency light and the faint glow of a keypad lock.
The appearance of the door does nothing to dissuade me from the idea that this room is a kind of safe. Made out of what appears to be thick steel, it has been tailor-made to fit the Gothic arched entrance.
Leaning against the wall, I examine the keypad, as if simply looking at it might give me some clues. How many attempts will it let me have before setting off an alarm? One can’t do too much harm, surely, so I try putting in the code that Marcus gave me for the front door. I’m not surprised when it doesn’t work. What would Marcus use? I don’t know how old he is, so guessing his birthday isn’t an option. If he is obsessed by Emily Brontë, then perhaps it’s her birthday; but that seems a bit obvious. And then I think of that black sofa downstairs in the hall, and suddenly I know exactly which date he will have chosen: the date of her death, 19 December 1848.
I key in 191248 and at once I hear a clunk deep within the mechanism of the door. Taking hold of the steel handle, I press it down. And the door swings open.
Inside is a world of wonders.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
This time it’s me who is activating the lights as I enter, especially designed museum-quality lights, too, bright enough to clearly display the artefacts that are on show in the series of specially made glass cases that follows the curve of the turret room, but with a low UV band to minimise damage to the documents. There is also a state-of-the-art humidity control unit on the wall, a temperature gauge and a non-water-based sprinkler system. I haven’t seen a better equipped room anywhere in any museum I’ve ever worked in. So what has Marcus Ellis got locked away in here?
I’m holding my breath as I go over to the first cabinet. Inside is a first edition of Wuthering Heights, of which less than two hundred copies were printed. In monetary terms it’s worth tens of thousands of pounds – one sold to a private collector over ten years ago for £114,000, maybe even this one. But when it comes to its real value, it is priceless to someone like me, who would willingly give their right arm to own such a thing.
Also contained within the cabinet, resting on its own bespoke plinth, is a loop of hair plaited into a bracelet and ended with a silver clasp. Though it is lighter than shown in her portrait, I’m sure that it is Emily’s hair, and to be so close to this remnant of her moves me much more than I could have imagined. As I lightly rest my fingers on the cabinet lid, it shifts just a fraction under my fingers, and I realise it’s not locked.
Why would it be, when this room is so secure? I lift the lid, hesitating for a moment before I pick up the bracelet and hold it in my hand, feeling both guilty and thrilled at the same time. It seems morbid and ghoulish to us, in this twenty-first century world, to keep such personal relics close by, but not to the Victorians. They loved to live with reminders of their lost loved ones, from woven hair to post-mortem photographs, and so it seems does Marcus Ellis. Gently laying it back on its velvet pillow, I close the lid and move to the next cabinet.
None of this feels real; it’s like walking through my very own dream, caught up in a bubble of fantasy where there is only me and these books. I catch my breath as I see one of the items I’ve been searching for, even though I didn’t know it until I set eyes on it. It’s a letter from Emily, a letter to my great-great-uncle, Robert Heaton.
19 December 1848
Dear Robert, it is done.
Here is the third volume of The House at Scar Gill. I have asked for a doctor to be sent for, now I have laid my pen down. For I am weary.
You know all my wishes, you are a true friend.
EJB
So short and so frail, the words almost seem to tremble off the page, but now at least I know that Emily finished her novel, and I am certain that it was the will to complete it that kept her alive for so long, for this note was written on the day that she died.
There is something more to consider, too. Marcus Ellis knows about The House at Scar Gill. For how long he’s known I can’t be sure, but I’m certain this letter was discovered in one of the Ponden books that have been in his family since 1898. Perhaps he’s known since he was a teenager, trying to steal into the house behind Ma’s back to search the box bed, but certainly he knew before he took such an interest in me and my house. He wanted access to Ponden so that he could look for Emily’s hidden novel, I’m sure of it. My stomach lurches at the thought that he might have already found parts of it, and the idea that something so important might be kept prisoner here is almost as unbearable as knowing that it could be lost forever.
Under Emily’s letter is a note written by Robert; I recognise his hand at once. He has painstakingly copied out Emily’s last poem, ‘No Coward’s Soul Is Mine’, written just before she died, and at the very end added his own line.
‘For it will always be you as long as I live and long after.’
Poor Robert, suffering so deeply from a love that would never be requited, not in life, not in death. And yet he never failed her, never let her down. He was true to the last. After all, it was only after his death that these fragments, concealed in his library, were stolen away.
Pulling myself out of the moment, I rush to check the other cabinets for signs of Agnes or The House at Scar Gill – and can’t believe what I see.
In the first cabinet I see a Shakespeare’s First Folio.
My heart almost stops as I
lift the book and turn it to the title page. On the opposite page to a line portrait of the bard, and the words Mr WILLIAM SHAKESPEARES COMEDIES, HISTORIES, & TRAGEDIES. Published according to the True Original Copies, pasted just under the famous message ‘To the Reader’, lies a Ponden bookplate.
This is the Heaton First Folio that I am holding in my hands. I close my eyes for a moment to feel the weight of it, to consider that I am holding around £3.5 million worth of book in my hands. I place it back and move to the next cabinet. This one is bigger, presenting its contents face out, and I recognise it at once. John James Audubon’s The Birds of America, one of the rarest and most precious books on the planet. Double Elephant sized in paper terms, it stands at around three feet tall, resplendent and in incredible condition, staring out of the glass at me. I don’t need to touch it to know it is the Ponden edition; of course it is. When this book was published in 1838 it cost £1,000, a small fortune back then, but my ancestors, in one of the family’s wealthier times, snapped one up at once, and kept it, largely unread, it looks like, until it was stolen from them.
Rather than feeling angry or bitter, laying eyes on something that was thought of so permanently and irrevocably lost, spurs me on. There are more mysteries waiting to see the light of day, waiting to be solved.
In the other cabinets there are more treasures, but none that belong to me: Charlotte Brontë’s signature in a guest book, some envelopes and letters with her handwriting, a pair of minuscule slippers, Anne’s stockings, and, in its own small case, one of the miniature books they made as children.
I stop for a moment and look at it, my heart caught up in its every dimension.
These were the first things that captured my heart in their thrall when I was a child, these tiny books, just like the ones I made at home. And now there’s one here, close enough to hold in the palm of my hand. This is what he took away from the public, what he shut away from the eyes of other ten-year-old kids who might have seen it and been transformed. And now I know why I don’t feel at ease around Marcus Ellis. He wants to keep all this beauty and brilliance to himself; he wants to imprison it. And if he treats books this way, God knows how he treats the people in his life.
The Girl at the Window Page 27