by Sarah Rayne
‘And the notebooks.’
‘I’m not forgetting the notebooks,’ said Jan, ‘but let’s deal with the bloodstains first. Could your grandmother have cut her hand or had a nosebleed? Then been afraid the bloodstains on the sweater would be misunderstood if the police found them?’
‘She hasn’t got any signs of a cut,’ said Amy. ‘And I don’t think she suffers from nosebleeds. There were a lot of bloodstains, Jan. Really a lot. And I can’t think how bloodstains would get on the inside of a handbag.’
‘Fair enough. Neither can I, but we’ll look at all possibilities. How about the notebooks? They could be old ones she’s getting rid of.’
‘At two in the morning? When your husband’s in jug suspected of murdering your oldest friend? I know I’m sounding negative, but you have to admit it’s pretty flaky behaviour.’
‘They could be old diaries,’ said Jan, frowning as he considered this. ‘Again, it might be that she’s afraid of something being misinterpreted – something she wrote in the past, or something she didn’t want anyone to know. Not necessarily anything criminal.’
‘I know,’ said Amy. ‘And I could accept Gran getting rid of old diaries if they had scandalous stuff in them, though the handwriting didn’t look like hers. I could accept the bloodstains as well. But not the two things together on the same night.’
‘It is stretching it a bit.’ He paused, frowning, then said, ‘I think you’re going to have to ask your grandmother right out why she buried that stuff, and what it’s all about.’
Amy had been hoping he would not say this. ‘I’m not sure if I can,’ she said.
‘You can. Say you found the stuff because you saw her burying it, and you’re sure there’s nothing wrong – you trust her completely – but with everything that’s been going on you’d appreciate a bit of reassurance.’
‘I suppose that’s a reasonable way of putting it,’ said Amy, rather unwillingly. ‘That couldn’t upset her, could it?’
‘No. Do it as soon as you can, before you have chance to get cold feet. And . . .’ He paused, then said, ‘I’d like to say come down to the Red Lion and have dinner with me. But I think you’ll have to stay with your gran until this mess is sorted out – until your grandfather is let out. You can’t leave her on her own at the moment.’
‘I know that.’
‘But you could phone to tell me the results,’ said Jan, ‘because I’d like to stay until – well, until I know you’re all right. You’ve got my number, haven’t you?’
‘Yes.’ Amy glanced at her watch. ‘I should get back.’
‘If you can give it another five minutes, I’ll come back with you.’
‘It’s not far. And I’m not likely to get lost,’ said Amy, looking round for her tote bag.
‘No, but the ground’s slippery from the spraying and there’s rubble everywhere. Please wait for me. If you tripped over or slipped in the mud at least I could pick you up.’
‘Is that what you’ve done anyway?’ said Amy, who had not realized she was going to say this. ‘Picked me up?’
A sudden smile lightened his face. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Oh, Amy, no.’
‘Well, good.’
His hand came out to push a strand of hair back from her face. ‘You look,’ said Jan softly, ‘like a small Victorian ragamuffin, perched on that windowsill amidst all the rubble and dust. Amy, let’s have that dinner together when this is all sorted out.’
‘I’d like that.’
‘Good.’ He still did not move away, and the moment lengthened. Amy thought: he’s going to kiss me. I’m not sure if I’m ready for that. Oh hell, yes, of course I am.
But he did not. He merely said, ‘Give me another five minutes then we’ll go. I just want to see if the organ loft is still intact. I should think it’s somewhere through those stone arches.’
‘Where did you park?’
‘On that lay-by on Mordwich Bank. I wanted to walk down the bank and see what the village looks like from above.’
‘I parked on the edge of the street at the other end,’ said Amy.
He picked up his battered briefcase, which had been lying on a pew, and went towards the stone arch. Amy was wondering if he wanted her to follow, or if he would prefer to be on his own, when she became aware that someone was outside the church. There was the faint sound of footsteps and she turned to look towards the porch, not exactly apprehensively, but certainly a bit startled. The village had seemed deserted, but the police might still be around.
But no one seemed to be there. Amy thought she might have heard a stray dog or an inquisitive cat. What else prowled round ruins? Oh God, don’t let it be a rat. She went towards the door and called out, ‘Hello? Is anyone there?’ But this sounded so ridiculously like the hammy old question people asked at séances that she followed it up at once by saying, ‘I’m just having a look round. We were told it was OK to come in.’ The ‘we’ was deliberate, meant to indicate she was not on her own. She was about to call out to Jan when she heard his voice.
‘Amy, come and look at this.’
‘What is it? Where are you?’
‘In the old organ loft. Through the archway near the window and there’s a flight of steps. They’re a bit battered but perfectly sound.’
Amy abandoned the quest for the footsteps and went over to the arch. There was a smallish alcove beyond it, with half a dozen narrow steps, enclosed by stone walls. She went cautiously up, and as she reached the top, light poured in from a tall glass-less window. After the dimness the brightness, even on such a dull morning, was unexpected and Amy blinked, momentarily dazzled, but through the brightness aware of a curious feeling of loneliness. When her eyes adjusted, she made out a towering structure with a bench drawn up to it.
‘What—’
‘It’s the church organ,’ said Jan, softly. ‘The one donated by the unknown Cadence. We still don’t know who he was, and I’m not sure we’ll be able to find out, but I think this is where he found his still, sad music of humanity.’
Amy stared at the remains of the instrument. Parts of it had rotted, and in places had fallen away from the main structure, but a metal frame with what looked like a couple of dozen tubes was still in place. It was inexpressibly sad, like seeing something that was not entirely dead, something that had lain quietly here for half a century, determinedly clinging to its hold on life, hoping all the time that it might be found and rescued. She shivered, and became aware of how desolate and cold the old church was.
Jan was kneeling in front of the frame, the briefcase open, a sheaf of rather untidy notes half spilling out.
Amy said, ‘What are those lengths of old drainpipe?’
He smiled. ‘They’re the organ pipes – the ones that have survived. The wooden ones have almost entirely gone, but these are some kind of alloy and pretty much indestructible.’
‘They’re all different sizes.’
‘Yes, of course they are.’ He reached up to tap one of the pipes, and a faint sound thrummed through the small space. Amy had the impression that something within the ruined organ shivered slightly.
‘Would they still play properly?’
‘If the pump was working, they might,’ said Jan. ‘They work on the principle of any wind instrument. I can’t see the pump anywhere – it was probably one of the old bellows kind, though, and it’s most likely rotted away altogether. But if I took a couple of the pipes down and blew through them they’d produce a musical note. Like a flute or a recorder. Didn’t you play a recorder in a school orchestra when you were small?’
‘I bashed the drums,’ said Amy, and he smiled.
‘See these pipes with the wide diameter? If I blew through those they’d produce a flute tone. The narrow ones would sound more like strings. Over there are the reed pipes and . . .’ he looked at her and smiled, ‘I’m getting carried away. But in layman’s terms, these would sound like the pipes of Pan and those larger ones would be more like the QE2 coming in to dock or the Last T
rump on Judgement Day.’
‘Well, if you’re going to try any of them, don’t make it those in case the graves start opening up and disgorge the walking dead.’
‘You’ve been watching too many late-night horror films.’
‘I’d rather have the QE2 than the walking dead. They’re pretty cobwebby, aren’t they?’
‘Cobwebs can be cleaned.’ He reached for the organ pipes again, and began to wipe them with a handkerchief.
‘Jan, they’re filthy,’ said Amy in horror, as he selected three and peered at them more closely.
A look of unmistakable mischief showed on Jan’s face, making him suddenly look much younger. ‘I’ll risk it,’ he said, and before Amy could say anything, he raised the two small pipes and one slightly larger one to his lips and blew softly through them.
The sound that tore through the ruined church was like the wail of a creature in its death throes, but Amy had to admit it was recognizably a musical chord.
Jan lowered the pipes and looked at Amy. ‘That wasn’t exactly the still, sad music of humanity, was it?’ he said.
‘Not even close, in fact it was nearer to the QE2 after all.’
‘I’d like to have made it the opening chords of The Deserted Village,’ he said, rather wistfully. ‘That would have been really appropriate, wouldn’t it?’
‘You’re a closet romantic,’ said Amy, as Jan tried another set of chords. ‘I tell you what, though, I’ve still got Gramps’s camera in my bag. We’ll have a shot of this before we go, shall we? Because—’ She broke off and they both turned sharply at the cry of unmistakable fear from beyond the church.
‘Someone’s out there,’ said Jan, going to the head of the stair and peering down.
‘Oh God, yes, I thought I heard footsteps a few minutes ago, only then you called me up here and I forgot about it. It was probably only a forensic police guy or a curious local, but whoever it was I bet you’ve spooked him for life.’
‘I’d better go out and explain,’ said Jan, starting down the stairs.
‘OK. I’ll go and get the camera from my bag. I left it by the altar. You go ahead and I’ll catch you up. After that I really must get back to Gran.’
Ella had not paused in her headlong flight to Cadence Manor.
The trees surrounding it had the same diseased look as the trees in the churchyard, and in places the high brick wall had fallen in. Through the gaps the house looked stark and unprotected. Ella glanced across at the lodge and hesitated, wondering if it would be a better place to hide. For a moment, threads of the present came to the surface of her mind and she remembered the police investigations. Were they still working here? They were not in the lodge, that was clear, but might they be at the manor? No, everywhere seemed quiet and still.
He would find her if she hid inside the lodge but he might not do so in the manor. She went down the once-smooth carriageway. This was the way they had come all those years ago, she and Veronica and Clem. Were they with her now? No, of course they were not: they were dead. But people who were murdered walked, everyone said that. Ella glanced nervously over her shoulder, but nothing disturbed the brooding stillness.
Here was the house. She picked her way through the rubble, grateful she was wearing boots, but frowning for a moment, because hadn’t she come out in her good sandals? No, that was for school. And it was in the past. She must keep the two things separate. But ever since that painful struggling music had brawled out of the old church she had had the feeling that something had been torn and that the past was spilling out.
She had reached the terrace and saw the opening in the walls of the manor where the big French windows had been. Ella looked over her shoulder again. There was nothing to see, but he was out there, of course. He was stalking her, she knew that. She took a deep breath and stepped inside. Everywhere was cool and dim, and there was a faint sound of water dripping somewhere. One of the marble columns had collapsed, and lay in great splintered sections on the ground. Beyond it, near what was left of the staircase, was what looked like the remnants of a chandelier.
Even though Ella did not believe in ghosts, she knew there were ghosts here. Old Lady Cadence with her ravaged face, dead in the dim, over-scented room. She was here, all right, pointing an accusing finger at Ella. ‘Get that bastard out of my house,’ she had said. That bastard, that bastard . . . The ugly shameful word still resonated on the air, just out of hearing, and with it the sound of the faint scratchy gramophone with the needle that had stuck and played the same few chords over and over . . . Someone had played that exact music just now in the church.
Here was the room directly beneath the bedroom where she had hidden with Veronica and Clem, and where she had pushed the man to his death. She stood in the doorway, thinking it was a smaller room than she remembered. The sound of water dripping was louder in this part of the house; it was a desolate sound, but it was also slightly annoying in the way a dripping tap was annoying. After a moment the drips formed into a series of horrid jabbing words: I’m not dead, Ella . . . I’m not dead . . .
‘I know that,’ whispered Ella. ‘You’re still here – I heard your music in the church. I saw you coming towards me.’
He had stayed in the shadows of the church today, just as he had always done, but it did not matter because she knew it was him. His face was etched on her mind like acid. Distorted features, with mad eyes . . . The terror and fury she had felt all those years ago welled up, and at the same time she heard a faint footstep outside. She turned sharply. His footstep? Of course it was.
She would have to hide from him as she had done before. Where? She looked frantically about her. The chimney breast was still there, a tangle of police tape across it, but little different from how it had been all those years ago. The hearth was a gaping hole, full of broken bricks and mud, and Ella darted across to it. A breath of sour dank air met her, but the chimney shaft looked more or less intact. She hesitated; then, as the footsteps came across the cracked terrace she stepped inside the chimney shaft, trying not to breathe in the black bitter-smelling darkness. She stood absolutely still, listening for his footsteps, just as she had listened for them in this very house more than fifty years ago, together with Veronica and Clem.
Whoever he was, that man, this time she would kill him properly.
Chapter 39
Jamie Cadence’s Journal
The strange thing about Crispian’s death in France was that I hadn’t expected him to be killed. I thought he would come home, adorned with any number of medals for bravery, and that he would still stand between me and Cadences.
But he didn’t. He died in the Somme, along with Gil Martlet. A few years earlier that would have solved the entire thing and Cadences would have passed to me. But now there was another obstacle in the way. Saul.
No one actually came out and said it, but it was clear to anyone who could count that Saul was conceived shortly before we all left England, at the time when Julius had entered the final stages of his loathsome disease.
‘Saul’s free of it, though,’ said Crispian to me once, on a brief leave from France in 1915. ‘Dr Martlet is definite about it.’
Dr Martlet would have sworn away his immortal soul and told every lie known to man if it would inveigle him a little more into Serena Cadence’s good graces. I’ll acquit those two of ever embarking on anything physical. Serena was the original ice maiden, and Gillespie Martlet was one of those bloodless, sexless men. It was one of nature’s quirks that he had fathered a son like Gil. But Martlet’s one aim in life was to surround Serena with whatever fictions and fantasies made her feel safe and pampered, so for the first few years of Saul’s life the fiction was maintained that he had escaped the taint that had killed his father.
He had not escaped it at all. I knew it, and everyone in Cadence Manor must have known it. By the time he was two his face showed definite signs of lesions – scar tissue radiating around the mouth – and his nose was developing into what I later learned was call
ed saddle-nose. It’s as if the bone and gristle have collapsed and apparently it’s a classic symptom of congenital syphilis. I don’t remember if there was ever any formal arrangement or agreement that I should take over Saul’s care, but somehow, with Crispian in France and Serena becoming more of a recluse every month – and Colm already a recluse anyway – it’s what happened.
I never had the stomach to kill Saul, though. I’d like that understood. I’d like whoever reads this to know it’s the absolute truth. I’m a dying man, for God’s sake (twenty-four hours left), and I’m hardly likely to lie in these pages while death’s gibbering at me from the shadows. In any case, killing Saul would have been too risky. There were too many people around, constantly watching him: Mrs Flagg, the sour old witch Crossley, who looked after Serena, and the two maids. They all flapped around him constantly. I always thought they were trying, consciously or unconsciously, to make up for Serena’s indifference, because it was clear to me that Serena could hardly bear the sight of Saul. So I didn’t dare attempt anything. Also, if Crispian came back from the war I would still have to kill him, and the death of the two brothers, no matter how carefully I staged it, would raise everyone’s suspicions.
But once Crispian was out of the way for good I took over Saul’s upbringing completely. I was subtle about it. I recall I even demurred at one point, suggesting there were people better qualified to undertake the task. But to have control of him was what I intended all along. History’s chock-full of wicked uncles and rascally cousins and illegitimate heirs (ha!) scheming to get their hands on the riches of their wards. I promise you, Richard III had nothing on me, and if I could have walled up that child without fear of discovery, I would have done it.
But there are more ways of getting control of a fortune than by committing murder.
By the time Saul was four, with the dogs of war still ravaging Europe, Martlet and Serena finally admitted that Saul had inherited the disease my mother had brought into the family. They all agreed it was so tragic. (Tragic was a word used a good deal about my family.) But in Saul’s case the illness need not necessarily be fatal, they said firmly. There were things that could be tried. Medicine had made great strides since the war. War was a forcing house for all kinds of discoveries. There was a very good chance that Saul Cadence could beat the disease.