Endless Time
Page 5
‘Ho. I have been insulted. You take me for a fence, is that it? Ha! That is good. I should tell your aunt that she is the associate of criminals. She will like that.’
Immensely relieved, Karen giggled with him. ‘I’m sorry, but that’s how it sounded to me – taking goods out of the country and not disposing of them here.’
‘My dear young woman, I simply act as a go-between for people who have no wish to advertise to the world that they are financially embarrassed. They come to me to dispose of their smaller, more portable family treasures. I have several discreet outlets on the Continent. The arrangement works well.’
‘But, Billie… My aunt…’
‘Is my friend of many years. She came to me one time when she needed money and I agreed to use her as a courier; and she continues to do it to oblige me.’ He poked a thick finger at the miniature, a jewel shining in the litter of his desktop. ‘If you take this to its original owner my reputation will be spoilt, you understand. Discretion is my business, all of my business.’
Karen thought rapidly. ‘I could say I bought it in Paris, or that it was bought there as a gift for me and brought to England. Oh, please! You don’t know how much this matters to me.’
‘And how do you explain your knowledge of its ownership?’
‘I’ll make up a story. I’ll say I went to Sotheby’s where they recognized the artist’s style and looked up his works. I’ll say that they know an expert in this artist who recognized the sitter’s family name – something like that. I could have had the silversmith’s work traced from the frame, and – ’
‘Enough! I am convinced.’ He shot back behind his desk and rummaged in a drawer, bringing out a ledger worthy of Scrooge’s counting house. It slammed down on the pile of papers, raising a dust cloud. ‘You are a veritable niece of your aunt. She, too, can talk her way through any situation.’ He ran his finger down a page in the ledger. ‘Here is the address – Ashbourne Manor, Ashbourne St. Mary, via Uplyme, Devon. Mr. Arnold Parton.’
Karen copied the details into her notebook and picked up the miniature, carefully rewrapping it in its tissue.
‘Thank you, Mr. Josephs. I’m very grateful to you.’
‘Ha. I did not give you anything. You wrung it out of me.’ He chuckled all the way to the door, ushering her into the lane. ‘Give my regards to M’selle. Carnot, and tell her she is not to do it again.’
Smiling and waving, Karen hurried off, her sore feet forgotten in her anxiety to be on her way to Devon and the answer to her quest. She hadn’t thought beyond the discovery of the man’s identity. How this would help her, what it would prove, remained a mystery. He might be long dead, but he had an importance in her life, and she couldn’t relax until she had discovered what it was.
*
Her plans for immediate departure had to be revised. The apartment appeared to be under siege when she arrived home, although in fact most of the disturbance emanated from Theodore Sampson, who was trying to rouse interest in the possibility that Karen lay dead, or at the very least in a dead faint, behind her locked front door. Her neighbors seemed unimpressed by his impersonation of a rescue squad. In particular, Lola, from next door, who worked a late night shift and was not at her best until six in the evening, had taken umbrage at the disturbance.
‘If you don’t shut up I’ll… I’ll set Dali on you,’ she shrilled from the stair landing. Hair on end, clad in a blowzy wrapper, she looked and sounded the complete harridan.
Theo turned from his impassioned plea to old Mr. Dobbs to phone for the police to break in, and retorted, ‘You can tell Dali, whoever he is, that I’ll have him up on an assault charge if he lays a finger on me.’
An interested spectator, a youngish man in jeans and sneakers, noticed Karen on the doorstep. ‘Hi there. I’m Smith from the Telegraph. Do you know the missing woman?’
‘What missing woman?’
‘A Miss Karen Courtney. I came to get some copy on her since she seems to have made an impression on our art critic; but now it looks like I might have an even better story. Do you know anything about her disappearance? I hear she spent last night in hospital.’
‘Sorry. I haven’t got time. I haven’t disappeared, either. Mr. Sampson, what are you doing here? And for heaven’s sake, why are you spreading this ridiculous rumor that I’ve gone missing, or died, or something?’
‘Karen! Thank God! I’ve been half out of my mind.’
She let him grasp her arm and lead her to her door, then unlocked it and managed to get them both inside before the enterprising Mr. Smith could join them.
Theo Sampson was not himself. Ruffled tail feathers hung figuratively in the air.
‘How could you leave the hospital like that without telling anyone? When I tried the apartment at lunchtime you’d gone, no one knew where. I thought you might have had another attack like last night’s. For all I knew you were at the bottom of the river.’
‘It never occurred to me that you would worry. I’m sorry. My aunt was here this morning and then I had to go out. I should have called you. I meant to, to thank you for helping me last night. I… I’m ashamed that I embarrassed you in front of your guests.’ She met his look with a certain bravado. If he chose to take offence there was nothing she could do. She would not excuse herself. Her fears and phobias were her own affair.
Oddly enough, he seemed to understand. ‘I shouldn’t worry about that. But you gave me a fine scare dear, and I’ll only forgive you if you make me a coffee, black and strong.’
He strolled after her into the kitchen, lolling against the bench while he watched her work. His slim shoulders were today encased in dark green suede and the pipe stem checkered trousers tucked into soft pointed boots, were clearly making some kind of statement. Outré, and a dismal failure at his age, thought Karen, smiling inwardly.
Mistaking the smile for approval, Theo preened for a moment, then said, ‘Did you bother at all to look at the papers? Have you seen what they are saying about your show?’
When she shook her head he looked disappointed. ‘They like you, for the most part. Quite a little pat on the back, considering the way they stress your youth and “future possibilities”. You should be pleased, dear.’
‘I am, for your sake as well as my own. Why did you do it, Mr. er, Theo? Why take a chance on a complete unknown and boost me up into the limelight?’
He stirred his coffee thoughtfully for a full half minute. ‘Didn’t Billie tell you?’
‘Billie? I didn’t know you knew one another.’
He shrugged. ‘We go back many years. It was Billie who suggested I look at your work with a view to a show. I’m glad she did. It’s done us both good.’
Karen controlled her voice with an effort. ‘How very kind of Billie,’ she said with creditable coolness, considering how she felt. ‘There’s seems no end to her interfer… interest in my affairs.’
‘You sound miffed, dear. Don’t be ungrateful, now. Everyone needs a leg up in the world sometimes, and I might never have known what a gifted painter I had on my own staff. Now, about an interview.’
Karen set down her coffee mug with a snap. ‘Don’t bother, thank you. I’m going out of town for a day or two. You did say I could have the week off.’
‘Yes, well, but…’
‘Besides, it will give the Mr Smiths of the news business time to dream up a really good disappearance story.’ Her smile glittered. ‘I’m sorry to be rude, Theo, but I must pack. I’m heading out in a few minutes. Please take your time finishing your coffee.’
Outfaced for once by a determination as smooth as his own, Theo drank up and left.
Having arranged for Lola to feed Dali, an hour later Karen boarded the train for Axminster, both keyed up and ready to fall down with exhaustion. Last night’s episode and the morning’s activities had all been a bit much, and she slept for most of the journey, deeply and dreamlessly, tucked into the corner of the carriage, the precious miniature in her pocket book under her arm.
It mentioned, briefly, the house known as Ashbourne Manor, an estate recorded since Elizabethan times, and set in a vale to the north of Uplyme. Its current owner had apparently chosen privacy with dignity, or in other words, it was not open to the paying public. Karen would have to bluff her way in.
Having booked in at The Bull, a cozy hostelry in the village, she unpacked her flashlight and told herself she would just take a stroll and get the lie of the land – in the direction of Ashbourne Manor.
The sun had dropped behind a bank of huge purple cloud. There would be a storm before morning. Karen heard several people in the bar voice this opinion as she set out. The village had retained its quaintness, to a degree, although several modern shops had found their way into the main square; and council had been careful with its development planning. There was still an old world atmosphere, aided consciously by the residents and shopkeepers. Karen liked the place.
At the southern end, in a little square of its own, sat the ecclesiastical sector – an Anglican church complete with Norman tower, rectory, church hall, and a row of almshouses which might have been there for centuries. Struck by the light gilding its slates, Karen paused, then pushed open the lych gate and walked up the path to the church.
She had no warning. One moment she stood in the doorway of an empty building, and the next she stepped into another world.
Light! Rich golden-white light pouring through the narrow windows in a flood that spilled over benches and aisles, bathing the congregation in visual benediction. Masses of flowers loaded the air with scent, summer field flowers, daisies, the splash of red poppies, peonies, roses. But above all, there was music. A choir of young voices rose and dipped then rose again to soar among the rafters, weaving a pattern of angelic sound that touched the heart and brought tears to Karen’s eyes.
Standing at the head of the aisle, she looked about her with blurred vision – seeing faces but not features, aware of rich textured gowns, coats and uniforms of an earlier era, but with outlines that were unclear. At the altar stood a priestly figure robed in white, and kneeling before him two vague forms, one wrapped in gauzy veils that trapped the light.
What was happening? Where had all this come from? The moment quivered on the air like a moth suspended in mid-dance, then it had gone. She blinked, her eyes cleared, and the church was empty of all but shadows.
Stumbling with haste, she fled. Outside the defeated day had painted a few last streaks of color across the sky. Stars had appeared in the east but were rapidly being swallowed into the maw of approaching storm clouds. It was almost like watching a battle between good and evil, with the forces of darkness gaining ground by the second. Both hands pressed to her thumping heart, Karen hurried away from the churchyard. Whatever the reasons for her sudden aberration, she was still determined to see the Manor before going back.
Fifteen minutes’ brisk walk brought her to two stone posts marking the place where gates had once stood. The drive was a black tunnel between giant oaks, its surface pitted and broken. Karen plunged in. Her flashlight soon showed itself to be pitifully thin armor against an almost palpable darkness. It pressed in on her, as if trying to push her away. She struggled on, her determination fueled by disgust at her own weakness. What was there to fear? She’d suffered a brief hallucination, that was all, probably induced by stress and lack of food. And only children were frightened of the dark.
The house rose up at the end of the tunnel, a silhouette rimmed against the western horizon, presenting a closed and hostile face. No lights showed. Karen halted. She strained to paint in the outline, to build a picture in her mind of how it really was. Then, as if in perfect timing, the clouds parted, like curtains on a theatre set and moonlight flooded through. At the same instant there came a drum roll of thunder in the distance.
Spotlight center stage, whispered Karen, almost in the expectation of three witches materializing, complete with cauldron, against the dramatic backdrop. She wanted to deny her strong feeling of impending tragedy. It was all pure theatre, she told herself. You could practically smell the greasepaint. Somehow she wasn’t convinced. The atmosphere of doom had a texture and reality more tangible than any mock-up. Without any reason she felt the first tremor of panic. She wished she hadn’t come.
The house frightened her. The expected warm brick façade of Tudor times had gone. In its place stood an example of the best Palladian style, white pillared portico curving gracefully out to a fan of steps, and a wide, stone-flagged terrace running the length of each wing, with elegant balustrades balancing the delicate matching roofline. She couldn’t rid herself of a feeling that she was observed, that the place had a malign intelligence of its own. The fantastic notion took root in her mind, and her flesh crept at the thought of all those blank windows watching, guessing at her next move. She wanted to run and hide.
Lightning flashed behind the house and again the thunder rolled, this time much closer. Karen’s nerve almost broke.
‘Why? What is it? What’s wrong?’ She screamed the words aloud, spinning about to face the tunnel of darkness, knowing that the thing she feared lay ahead. It was the house. It was waiting for her.
Filled with sudden overwhelming anger, she began to run, anxious to meet her fear head on. She’d dropped her flashlight, but she didn’t stop to look for it. Clouds scudded across the moon and the light began to fade. By the time she reached the steps to the long stone gallery darkness had descended once more. Pools of blackness lay before and behind. It was like being blindfold. She began feeling her way along the balustrade, all her instincts telling her she was headed in the wrong direction. The answer she sought, the end to her search that filled her with black terror, lay waiting just a few steps onward.
At the end of the gallery she paused. Right on cue, lightning flashed once more, one brief jagged flare that was more than enough. It showed what lay ahead – a tower, or the burnt out ruin of a tower, attached like a rotting stump to a healthy mouth – a place of decay, of death and destruction.
Shock held her paralyzed. She stood balanced on the edge of time, seeing, feeling, hearing the past roll over her. Visions of terror and despair filled her mind. Phantom figures beckoned, a childish voice screamed in her ears, backed by the crackle of flames and the lurid dancing light of fire on stone. She breathed scorching air into her lungs and smelled her own flesh burning. In a dream she knew the final rending of her spirit from her body and a sense of utter, total loss.
Rain came lancing across the terrace, driving into gaps between the stones and pouring over the edge in a continuous sheet. For brief instants lightning turned the world to platinum, the flashing laser beams too dazzling to watch. Thunder reverberated between the towers. Like a part of the balustrade, Karen stood fixed, oblivious to the theatrical display going on around her. She was looking at another reality far away in time. The present could not touch her.
The storm rolled on inland, much of its energy spent, and at last Karen seemed to waken to the present. Drenched and shivering she moved, blindly, drifting down the steps and across the gravel, through the mouth of the oak-tunnel drive.
Here was total darkness, except for a pinpoint of light ahead. She began to walk towards the light. Soon it separated into headlamps coming towards her at speed. The motor was a powerful one. It surged through the night, its lights twin blades tearing aside the darkness at it came. With sightless gaze, Karen walked into the glaring pathway.
The driver tried. Wheels locked and screaming, the big Daimler went into a skid on the wet surface. Light beams spun at crazy angles through the trees. A wing tore away, gouging deep into the bole of an oak. The rear end swung in an arc, carrying the momentum of a ton of metal with it. She
saw it coming in slow motion, inexorable as a locomotive on track, slamming her high into the air.
Hot metal hissed on the wet gravel. There was a smell of burnt rubber and engine oil spilling over. The driver sat in shock, staring at the place where his windscreen used to be, staring at the bundle lying in the roadway just touched by one light. The bundle did not move.
*
Karen’s broken body arrived at the county hospital with just the barest spark of life in it, and that was flickering, on the point of going out. When Billie came several hours later, she found her niece alive, but in coma. Her bruised form lay quietly breathing with the help of support systems. Her spirit had gone elsewhere.
CHAPTER THREE
LONDON – 1810
Sounds nibbled at the edge of her consciousness, voices that muttered just below the threshold of understanding. It irritated her that she couldn’t make out what was being said. Who were these people? Why wouldn’t they speak up? She had an absurd desire to lift her weighted eyelids and accuse the speakers of deliberately concealing something from her. And what on earth was wrong with her eyes that she couldn’t seem to open them?
Gathering her will she made a huge effort to move the stiffened muscles. Useless! Her lids must be glued together in some way. She tried to call out and nothing happened. The word paralysis flashed across her mind, leaving a trail of cold terror. It spurred her to greater effort. By the time she was ready to admit defeat sweat beads clung to her hairline and her vocal chords felt irreparably strained; and still she hadn’t moved.
Frustrated beyond bearing, she lay in the grip of whatever forces held her inert, tears oozing from the corners of her eyes and slipping down into her hair. She had never before felt so helpless.
Someone spoke nearby. ‘Ah! My lord, quickly. Your lady emerges from her swoon.’
Startled out of her self-absorption, Karen opened her eyes quite easily and looked into a man’s face. All she noticed were his eyes - green as new young leaves, yet with a subtle gray shadowing beneath, and at present icy as an alpine stream. They glowed with a chill brilliance, as if they had lamps behind them. Very peculiar.