by Sarah Rayne
‘We’ll go hand in hand into the spook-ridden sunset,’ said Michael gravely.
‘You know, I’ve almost sometimes wondered if you and I together are some kind of catalyst for ghosts,’ said Nell. ‘Like two chemical elements. You mix them or blend them and you get – I don’t know – something explosive. Hydrogen or nitroglycerine, or something.’
‘You and I together are an explosive combination anyway, even without the spooks,’ said Michael, putting his hand over hers for a moment.
‘I know. We’re very lucky, aren’t we?’
‘I do think,’ said Michael as Nell withdrew her hand in quest of another sliver of cheese, ‘that Luisa would like me to find out what happened to Stephen. I almost feel as if she was handing me the ghosts, that last night. That sounds really way-out, doesn’t it? Do you think I might have had too much wine tonight?’
‘For you, it isn’t all that way-out. But you have drunk most of the bottle,’ agreed Nell, looking round for the waitress to request black coffee.
‘So I have. I don’t think I’m actually drunk, although I might be slightly light-headed with relief at being away from that house. You may have to carry me up to bed.’
‘How times change. Once it was the other way round,’ she said, deadpan.
‘Have you seen the stairs here?’ demanded Michael. ‘They’re the steepest and the narrowest I’ve ever seen, and the bedrooms are on the second floor.’
‘The sooner we set off, the sooner we’d get there.’
‘That’s true. Let’s not bother with coffee after all.’
Twenty-Three
Thin morning sunlight fell across the old timbers of Fosse House’s hall, but in the corners were thin spiked shadows, like severed spider legs.
Nell stood in the hall, looking about her. ‘I see what you mean about it being eerie,’ she said. ‘Is that the library through there?’
‘Yes. And that’s the main drawing-room where we saw – whatever or whoever we saw last night,’ said Michael.
‘Let’s save that for later. Can I see the Holzminden sketch? I’ve brought my camera,’ said Nell. ‘If the solicitor agrees, I could send one or two photos out for some tentative opinions.’
Michael would not have been very surprised to find the sketch had vanished from the half-landing overnight along with the rest of Fosse House’s chimeras, but it had not, of course.
Nell stood in front of it for a long time. ‘It’s remarkable,’ she said at last. ‘At first you think it’s just a charcoal sketch – quite a good one, I think – but nothing more. Only, the longer you go on looking at it, the more you see in it. I could wish Hugbert’s wife hadn’t destroyed the other one.’
‘I find it unsettling,’ said Michael, studying the sketch. ‘And that’s throwing roses at it.’
‘It’s very unsettling,’ she said. ‘I don’t think I’d want to be in a room with it for too long.’ She reached out a tentative hand to trace the outlines of the figure seated on the bed. ‘So that’s Stephen.’
‘Is it how you imagined him?’
‘Not entirely, but almost. He’s younger than I thought. It’s heartbreaking, isn’t it? War’s heartbreaking anyway, but that one took—’
‘The flower of England? “They went with songs to the battle, they were young; straight of limb, true of eyes, steady and aglow …” I can’t recall any more of it,’ said Michael.
‘Just as well. If you say anything about remembering them at the going down of the sun I shall dissolve in floods of tears. Is this the photograph from Word War Two?’
‘Yes.’
Nell studied it intently. ‘Yes, I see,’ she said. ‘You wouldn’t see anything strange unless you looked at the sketch at the same time. He’s just a man in the background. But there’s the impression that he isn’t quite in the photograph – that he’s not entirely one of the group.’
‘I wonder if any of those men saw him,’ said Michael. ‘Although it looks as if he’s in uniform, so they might have accepted him as another patient.’
Nell repeated the gesture of tracing the shadowy figure in the photo, then stepped back. With an air of closing one subject and preparing for the next, she said, ‘What now? There’s a good hour before the solicitor will get here. The underground room?’
‘Yes, but I don’t think you’d better come with me. Will you stay up here?’
‘No,’ said Nell firmly. ‘I’m coming with you. I want to know what happened to Stephen as much as you. And since we’re quoting anything that comes to hand on this trip, isn’t there a line about, “Follow thee my lord throughout the world”?’
‘There is, but I’m a bit old for Romeo.’
‘I don’t care if you’re the ghost of Hamlet’s father, I’m not staying up here while you chase shadows in the cellars.’
‘I’ll leave the main door open, I think,’ said Michael. ‘Because if Pargeter turns up early, we mightn’t hear his knock while we’re down there.’ He propped the door open with a small chair, then produced the key Luisa had given him.
Even seen halfway through the morning, the underground room was daunting. Nell shivered and thrust her hands into the pockets of her jacket as Michael shone the torch around the walls.
‘It’s like a shrine,’ she said in a low voice. ‘But a shrine for who?’
‘Stephen, I should think. Luisa certainly seems to have had a bit of a romantic feeling for him.’ The torchlight came to rest on the oak chest, and Nell gave a sharp gasp.
‘So that’s it.’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s much bigger than I was imagining,’ she said. ‘And much deeper. It’s almost waist-high, isn’t it? It looks like a dower chest. Young ladies often brought them to their new homes when they were married – they were intended to hold bedlinen, mostly. They can be quite valuable. Can I have the torch a moment? Thanks.’ She knelt down, shining the torch directly on to the chest. ‘It’s oak,’ she said, ‘and it’s probably English. Oh, and there’s ebony inlay – can you see? Here and here. Some of it’s chipped, which is a pity. Those dreadful chains probably did that. But the carving is lovely, isn’t it? I should think it’s early eighteenth-century, which would make it very sellable. It’s a pity about the scratches and the chipped ebony, though, because that will devalue it, and—’
‘What is it?’ said Michael as Nell broke off abruptly.
She was sitting back on her knees, staring at the chest. ‘Listen,’ she said, very quietly.
‘I can’t hear anything. If it’s footsteps, it’s probably Mr Pargeter arriving early—’ Michael stopped, his eyes on the chest.
‘Can you hear it?’ said Nell in a half-whisper.
‘Yes. It’s something scratching. It might be mice,’ said Michael, looking about him. ‘They might be at the back of the chest, or—’
Nell said, ‘It’s not coming from the back of the chest.’ She turned to look at him, her face pale. ‘It’s coming from inside it.’
They stared at one another. ‘It can’t be,’ said Michael at last. ‘It simply can’t. Nothing could have got in there. Or if something did – if something gnawed its way through the wood, it would be able to get out the same way. At worst, it’s mice.’
‘How strong do you think that padlock is?’ said Nell. ‘It’s very rusty. I should think it would snap off pretty easily.’
Michael stared at her. ‘You want to open it?’
‘It’s the last thing I want to do. But there’s something in there, Michael. And whatever it is, it’s alive. Can you really walk away and pretend you didn’t hear it?’
‘It probably is a mouse.’ Michael was looking round the stone room. In a very quiet voice, he said, ‘Nell, I think we have to walk away anyway.’
‘Why?’
‘Because there’s someone in here with us.’
Nell stood up slowly, automatically brushing the dust from her skirt. She looked about her, and her eyes came to rest on the corner behind Luisa Gilmore’s writing table.
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In a very gentle voice, she said, ‘Stephen?’
The shadows moved slightly, like smoke uncoiling. Nell reached for Michael’s hand. Neither of them moved.
There was a sound like a faint sobbing – the faraway, long-ago resonance of something sad and somehow pleading, and then he was there, indistinct and blurred, like a photograph or an early ciné film not quite in focus. But recognizable. The young man with the leaf-blown scar and the nightmare-filled eyes.
Half to himself, Michael said, ‘Of course he’d come in. We left the main door open.’
‘I’ll never believe you didn’t leave it open deliberately,’ said Nell, her eyes on the figure. ‘Does he see us, do you think?’
‘I don’t know.’ Michael had forgotten about beating a retreat. He said, ‘Stephen – it’s all alright. We’re friends. We’ll try to help you.’
There was no way of knowing if Stephen Gilmore heard or understood or knew they were there. His eyes were on the chest, and as he moved towards it, Michael was aware of Nell stepping back. But she’s not frightened, he thought, and was grateful for her understanding.
The spoiled hands were reaching for the thick old chains around the chest.
‘He’s guarding it,’ said Nell in a whisper. ‘He thinks we’re going to open it, and he’s trying to prevent us.’
Michael had not taken his eyes off Stephen. He said, ‘No, it isn’t that at all. I think it’s the other way round. He’s trying to get it open. He’s trying to get at what’s in there.’
‘Are you sure? Because if so, let’s help him,’ said Nell at once. ‘Let’s get the thing open. We both heard something in there – I don’t care if it’s dead or alive or something between the two – let’s smash that padlock and break this bloody haunting wide open.’
But Michael was already halfway to the stairs. ‘Hammer,’ he said. ‘In the kitchen. Come with me.’
He grabbed her hand, and together they half ran up the stairs. It was Nell who found a sturdy-looking hammer and a wooden mallet.
‘This should do,’ she said. ‘If it won’t, we’ll have to call in a safe-breaker.’
They ran back through the hall and down into the cellar again.
‘Is he still here?’ said Nell, hesitating at the foot of the steps.
‘I don’t know. Let’s just do this anyway.’
‘Yes.’ Nell went purposefully across to the chest. ‘Hold the padlock away from the wood, will you? I don’t care if the entire spirit population stands around gibbering at us, I’m not causing any more damage to this beautiful oak if I can help it.’
‘Like this?’ asked Michael.
‘No, see if the chain’s long enough to lay the padlock flat on the floor. Then I can bash it against the stone.’
The chain was just about long enough. Nell said, ‘Good enough. Here goes. But be careful – stand clear of it in case it shatters.’
The padlock did not shatter, but the sound of the impact as she brought the hammer smashing down tore through the enclosed room and reverberated round the walls. Dust, dry and pale, clouded up from the stones.
‘The lock’s still holding,’ said Michael, peering through the debris. ‘Damn. Let me try.’
‘No, you’ll end up bashing your thumb or your foot or hitting the mains water supply.’
‘I do love you,’ said Michael, with sudden irrelevance, and she sent him a startled look.
‘Well, good. But stand clear this time.’
This time, as the hammer impacted, the padlock cracked and the lock flew open.
‘Got it,’ said Nell with satisfaction. ‘Now for the chain.’
Between them, they unravelled the chains from around the chest. It was necessary to tilt it slightly forward at one stage to drag the chains from beneath. It was heavy, but not as heavy as Michael had expected. But as the chest moved, there was the sensation of movement from inside, as if something had slithered from one end of the chest to the other. Nell shivered, but shone the torch on the lid, and Michael understood she was focusing on practicalities in order to ignore anything that might be watching from the shadows.
‘I can’t see a lock anywhere,’ said Nell. ‘I think we should be able to just lever it up. I can’t hear the scratching now, can you?’
‘No. But something shifted when we tilted the chest,’ said Michael.
‘I know. Let’s try lifting the lid.’
She placed the torch on the floor so that its light shone directly on to the chest, then she and Michael each took a corner of the domed lid.
‘It’s stuck. Or even locked, after all,’ said Michael after a moment. He glanced uneasily at the shadows in the corners, but nothing moved.
‘I think it’s just stuck down with dirt,’ said Nell. ‘We need something to scrape it out— Something that won’t damage the wood. A nail file would probably do it – pass my bag, would you, I think there’s one in there.’
By dint of scraping at the seam, the accreted dirt of the years came free in minuscule flakes and filaments. Nell worked her way round the rim of the lid with infinite patience, and Michael watched, feeling vaguely useless.
‘I think that’ll do it,’ said Nell, straightening up at last. ‘Let’s try again.’
This time when they pushed at the lid, it moved, and at the third attempt a faint line of blackness showed under the lid.
‘Be careful,’ said Nell. ‘The hinges could be rusted almost to nothing, and we don’t want to send the lid smashing against the floor.’
The seams of the old oak creaked loudly as the lid came up, and the hinges shrieked like a soul in torment. As the air within was released there was a sighing sound, and something dry and infinitely sad seemed to breathe outwards.
The faint whispering came from the shadows, and they both paused.
‘Stephen?’ said Nell softly, scanning the darkness.
‘I don’t know. I expected – I don’t know what I expected,’ said Michael. ‘But I thought that opening this would trigger something.’
He thought they had both been trying not to think about what might be inside the chest, but at first sight it looked as if there was nothing more than a yawning blackness, with a length of cloth folded at the bottom.
Then Nell reached down into the deepness of the chest and moved the cloth. There was the pale blur of bone, the impression of a human outline lying quietly beneath the cloth, and the glint of something bright. Nell recoiled, dropping the cloth over the bones, and straightened up.
‘Stephen,’ she said. ‘It’s his body. Oh, Michael—’
But Michael had reached down and, careful not to touch or disturb what lay partially covered by the cloth, drew out a small crucifix on a thin gold chain.
‘I don’t think it is Stephen,’ he said. ‘You’d know better than I do, but this looks like a very feminine thing.’
‘Yes.’ Nell took the small crucifix and looked at it. ‘Yes, it’s the kind of thing a lady would wear.’
‘A lady who had spent her formative years inside a convent?’
They look at one another. ‘Leonora?’ said Nell.
‘I think it might be.’ Michael looked back at the dark well of the oak chest. ‘Let’s not move anything,’ he said. ‘We’ll have to report what we’ve found, but for now let’s quietly close the lid and leave it to the professionals to lift her out.’
‘The annoying thing,’ he said as they sat in the library, waiting for John Pargeter to arrive, ‘is that we still don’t know what happened. We’re still only seeing shadows; we still haven’t got down to the reality. “Shadows inside the rain,” Stephen said somewhere in Luisa’s journal – or Luisa thought he said. And that’s what we’re getting.’
‘We probably won’t ever see or know what the reality is,’ said Nell, sadly.
But they did.
Pargeter and Associates
Solicitors and Notaries Public
Walsham
November 201—
Dear Dr Flint,
&nb
sp; RE: ESTATE OF LUISA GILMORE (dec’d)
It was very pleasant to meet you at Fosse House recently, although the circumstances, of course, were sad. However, my colleagues and I are very grateful for all your help over this somewhat complex matter.
We are also very grateful to Mrs West for her excellent advice and assistance over the selling of some of the more valuable furniture, china and glassware, and we are delighted that we have now been able to confirm the arrangements for her to handle the sale of the items discussed. (A separate extract regarding this has been sent to Mrs West at her Quire Court shop.) The sketch referred to as the Holzminden sketch is, I understand, already attracting some interest, and we will probably accept the suggestion that it is sold at auction by a specialist firm.
I am extremely sorry, however, that you and Mrs West had the distressing experience of finding human remains in the house. As you know, the police had to be notified of the discovery – any dead body has to be reported, no matter how long it might have been dead – and a post-mortem was conducted. I do not yet have the results, but hope to let you know when I do. I can tell you, though, that the small crucifix you found in the oak chest is thought to be around a hundred years old, and possibly French in origin.
However, knowing your research into the Gilmore family history, I think you will find this next information of interest. Found beneath the body, at the very bottom of the oak chest, was a small sheaf of papers. They are handwritten and in English – very good, even colloquial English, although the writer appears not to have actually been English. I have taken photocopies and am enclosing them with this extract. They raise a number of interesting possibilities, and certainly suggest the identity of the body.
The funeral for Miss Gilmore is to be next Thursday, at the local church. Do please let me know if you, or anyone from Oriel College, would care to attend.
Kind regards,
John Pargeter
Michael read John Pargeter’s extract twice. Then he read the opening lines of the enclosure. After this he reached for the phone to ring Nell.
Twenty-Four
‘We ought to read it together, I think,’ said Michael, having provided Nell with a drink and seated her on the small sofa, where the light of the desk lamp fell across her hair. Wilberforce, who liked Nell, but would not admit it sufficiently far to actually sit on her knee, had positioned himself on the sofa arm.