Incantations

by SIMS, MAYNARD

  ‘Oh no,’ Michael said, ‘I do paint, yes, but it’s not usually with gloss and emulsion.’ He explained about his plans to establish himself as an artist and illustrator. Throughout she nodded appreciatively. ‘But,’ he finished, ‘this kind of work is second nature to me. My father was a builder by trade. I spent a lot of time as a child, at his yard and on site with him, watching, learning. I can turn my hand to most things practical.’ It wasn’t a boast, just a statement of fact.

  ‘Then you must meet Mrs Delacourt. She runs this place and has been looking for someone to do some odd jobs and repairs for months.’

  He was less than enthusiastic. Being an odd-job man did not fit in to his grand scheme. ‘I don’t know…’ he began.

  ‘She pays well,’ she said, cutting him off. ‘And that way we could perhaps spend more time getting to know each other better.’

  They were magic words. Suddenly all his reservations evaporated like water on a hot plate.

  ‘Come back tomorrow about ten o’clock. She’ll see you herself then.’ She stood up and Michael realised he was being dismissed. ‘I must get on,’ she said apologetically.

  He hurriedly drank his tea. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘So must I.’ And smiled.

  That evening he tried a sketch of Jenny Boswell. He had studied her face for long periods during that morning’s conversation, and was sure he had a clear mental picture of her. But for some reason the image in his mind was lost on its journey to his hands, and the pencil refused to capture her likeness.

  After three futile attempts he gave up and went to watch television in the lounge. Before the end of the first program, he had fallen asleep in his chair, exhausted by a day of hard physical work.

  Mrs Delacourt’s office was on the first floor of Senice House. Jenny greeted him at the door with a small peck on the cheek, and then led him up the stairs. At the door to the office she left him, entering a room a few doors down. With a backward glance at him and a wave she was gone. He knocked on the door. After a short pause a voice said, ‘Come.’

  The woman seated at the desk in the sparsely furnished room was elegantly dressed in a cream linen suit. Her fine blond hair was swept away from her face and folded into a sleek French pleat. The rimless spectacles she wore suited her delicately boned face, and so fitted her overall persona, she might have been born with them. The eyes that appraised Michael Thomas as he stood before her were a cool grey, not hostile, but neither were they overly friendly. A professional bearing for a professional woman.

  She got to her feet and came round the desk to greet him with a slender, outstretched hand. She was tall; a good two inches taller than he, and he noticed she was wearing flat shoes; not needing the extra height heels would have afforded her.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Thomas,’ she said, her voice cool and efficient. ‘I take it Jenny has outlined the kind of work you would be required to do? Please, take a seat.’

  He sat facing her across the desk. ‘Well no, not really. She mentioned odd jobs, nothing really specific.’

  She opened the desk drawer and pulled out two sheets of paper, filled with small, neat writing. She handed them to him. ‘These are the kind of jobs I had in mind. The place is in a state of disrepair. In fact I can’t remember when some of those jobs were last done. It’s hard to get reliable workmen.’

  He perused it briefly. ‘Quite a list,’ he said. He did some swift mental calculations. ‘I would say, about six weeks work, perhaps a little less.’ He handed the papers back to her.

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘I would have thought longer…but if you’re sure...’

  He nodded and smiled.

  ‘Well, it only goes to show how little I know about such practical matters.’ She paused and wrote something on the list with a gold fountain pen. ‘I pay well above the going rate,’ she said, and gave him a figure that, to him, seemed over generous. ‘But I’m something of a perfectionist. I expect quality workmanship for that kind of money.’

  ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘When would you like me to start?’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t want to step on your aunt’s toes. I understand from Jenny you have a lot of work to finish there.’

  ‘She’s away for another two months yet. I could finish the work here and still have time to complete her job. I’ll start tomorrow, if that’s all right with you?’ He was anxious to fan the flame of the relationship he had begun with Jenny.

  ‘Tomorrow it is.’ Mrs Delacourt stood up and walked across to the door. ‘Thank you for coming, Mr Thomas. I’ll see you in the morning.’

  On his way down the stairs to the front door, he looked out for Jenny, but she was nowhere to be seen. As his fingers closed around the door handle, an old, withered hand grabbed his wrist. Michael turned with a start to find he was looking into the watery, bleached out eyes of Billy, the old man who had been so upset at his arrival the day before.

  The old man opened his mouth to speak, but footsteps on the stairs behind him froze his tongue. Michael felt something being pressed into his hand; a folded piece of paper. He clenched his fist around it and opened the front door, not turning to see who was descending the stairs. The door closed behind him and he heard Mrs Delacourt’s muffled voice through the door, then silence.

  He walked down the steps and out through the front gate and, only when he had reached his aunt’s house did he open his fist and unfold the piece of paper the old man had pressed into it.

  Scratched across the paper in shaky pencil script was a sequence of letters, that he recognised immediately as a URL, a website address for the Internet. Taking a pen from his pocket he copied it down neatly underneath the scrawl, and stared at it for some time. After the www prefix, the name was ‘willmarch’. It was obviously important to the old man; the expression in his eyes as he had passed it to him was beseeching. He desperately wanted to pass this message on. Unfortunately he had passed it to the wrong person. His aunt didn’t possess a computer, let alone Internet access, and without these things the address was useless. Michael folded the paper along its original creases, and slipped it into his wallet.

  Over the next week he developed a timetable that allowed him to do the work at Senice House, and gave him time to do the occasional job at his aunt’s place. Despite his assurances to Mrs Delacourt that the work would only take six weeks, he knew he was under-estimating; and the thought of his aunt returning from her cruise to find her house not finished appalled him.

  Despite Jenny Boswell’s assertion that him working there would allow their relationship to develop, the contact he had with her was minimal.

  He was met each morning by Mrs Delacourt and taken to the area that needed attention. When he finished a job, the woman would reappear and either escort him to the next piece of work, or, if it was late in the day, accompany him to the front door and see him on his way.

  After a few days he was beginning to feel despondent. He rarely saw Jenny, he rarely saw the guests, and by the end of his first week he decided that Senice House was a place of hushed voices and closed doors.

  On the Monday of the second week he was met at the door as usual by Mrs Delacourt, and taken to the second floor. She wanted him to replace a lock on a bedroom door. She left him unpacking his tools. He waited until her footsteps had faded into the distance, and then followed her down, in search of Jenny.

  He found himself on the first floor landing, a long linoleum clad passageway containing several doors. He tried the first two rooms, but they were empty – not only empty, but unoccupied, their beds stripped down to the blue and white striped mattresses, the rest of the furniture covered by dust sheets.

  He paused at the third closed door, pressing his ear to it. There were faint sounds coming from within; a lilting, melancholy song, sung in a soft feminine voice, gentle but unutterably sad.

  He tapped at the door. There was no response, but the song continued. He turned the handle and pushed. The door swung open a fraction. Sitting in a chair by the window of the room, looking ou
t onto the street was an old woman, her face heavily lined, crowned by a halo of wispy white hair. In her arms was a small bundle that she held to her chest, and she sang softly as she rocked the bundle gently.

  He entered the room. ‘I was looking for Jenny,’ he said. ‘Have you seen her?’

  The old woman didn’t look around at the sound of his voice, but gathered the small bundle tighter in her arms, and sang slightly louder. Michael walked across to her and crouched down at her side. There was something vaguely familiar about her, though looking at the liver-spotted wrinkled face he couldn’t pin down the recollection. He stole a peek at the bundle in her arms, but could see nothing except rags. As he moved his hand to peel away the layers of cloth, the old woman flinched away, making a keening noise in her throat. He hushed her, but the noise increased. He got to his feet and backed away from her.

  The old woman turned in her seat, twisting around to put her body between Michael and the bundle of rags. As she moved Michael noticed her hand. In the creased, leathery fold of skin between her thumb and forefinger, was the unmistakeable tattoo of a bluebird. He gasped and moved around to get a better view of the woman’s face, at the eyes that were regarding him fearfully.

  ‘What are you waiting for, a tip?’

  The words echoed in his head, a recollection of the other day when he had helped the young woman with her pram.

  ‘My God, it is you,’ he whispered.

  ‘You have no business in here!’

  He spun round to see Mrs Delacourt framed in the doorway, her face pale, fire in her eyes. He looked back at the old woman, who was now hunched over her bundle, whimpering softly, not daring to look at the woman in the doorway.

  Mrs Delacourt entered the room and took him by the arm. ‘What on earth do you think you were doing?’ she said fiercely as she pulled him from the room. ‘We are very strict at Senice House about our guests’ privacy.’ Once out on the landing she pulled the door closed. ‘I’m very disappointed with your behaviour, Mr Thomas. Snooping around’

  ‘I was looking for Jenny,’ he said.

  ‘Well, I would suggest to you, that if Jenny wanted to be found, she would let you find her soon enough.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ he said. The woman was marching towards the stairs; Michael had to jog to keep up with her.

  ‘I would have thought that was obvious. She’s avoiding you, Mr Thomas. Your attentions are unwelcome.’ She started to descend the stairs. He made a grab for her arm.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘That’s not good enough. If Jenny doesn’t want my ‘attentions’, as you call it, then I would like to hear it from her, not you.’

  She plucked his hand from her sleeve and let it drop. ‘You will gather up your tools and leave this house,’ she said coldly. ‘I am terminating your employment.’ She descended the stairs and looked back at him. ‘I will be waiting by the front door.’

  He sat at his drawing board nursing a large scotch, thinking about the events of the day. Explanations filtered through his mind, only to be quickly dismissed. He pictured the old woman in his mind, sketched her briefly, and then did the same with the young girl with the pram. When he had finished he placed the pictures side by side. The similarities were obvious and striking. Yet the conclusion he was reaching – that the old woman and the young girl were one and the same – was absurd and irrational.

  The other thought nagging at him was that of Jenny. He desperately wanted to see her again. He would not, could not believe Mrs Delacourt’s assertion that Jenny wanted nothing more to do with him.

  He swore out loud and slammed down the glass on the drawing board. He needed a walk, some fresh air to clear his head, and perhaps force some sense into it.

  Half an hour later he found himself standing outside the town library. He opened his wallet and took out the piece of paper Billy had passed to him and studied it again.

  ‘What the hell,’ he said to himself.

  He explained to the librarian what he wanted and she took him to a room at the back of the building. Four long bench-like tables occupied the room; on each were five computer screens and accompanying keyboards, each keyboard partnered by a mouse. The librarian led him to one of the screens, showed him how to log on to the Internet and, after assurances that he had surfed the net before, left him to it.

  He laid Billy’s paper on the table in front of him and typed in the web address. Within seconds a page appeared on the screen before him. He read the title of the page and shook his head in disbelief.

  Witchcraft in the South of England. A study by William H. March

  The page was neatly laid out with various menu buttons, including one called ‘About the Author’. He clicked on the button and a familiar face appeared on the screen. He read the text quickly. There was a box at the bottom of screen for the user to type in words in order to search the website. He typed in the word ‘Senice’, and waited. He didn’t have to wait long.

  The evening was damp but warm. A soft drizzle fell from the sky, borne on a mild breeze coming in from the south. Despite the mildness of the summer evening Michael Thomas shivered as he stood in the shelter of a hedge inside the grounds of Senice House.

  That the author of the website and the wretched Billy were the same man was not open to debate. The photo on the web page showed a good looking young man with a floppy fringe of fair hair falling onto his forehead, and the biography about William H. March gave his age as thirty one. The fact that the Billy he knew was at least twice that age didn’t persuade him otherwise.

  There was something horribly wrong with Senice House and its residents.

  There were lights shining from the window of Mrs Delacourt’s office, and occasionally shadows moved across the drawn curtains. The kitchen was lit, as were a few of the rooms. There was a window at the back of the house with a broken catch – repairing it was on the ‘to do’ list given to him by Mrs Delacourt. It gave onto a small storeroom. He had brought a wood chisel with him and used it to lever open the window. He was through it in seconds and flicked on the light.

  The storeroom was lined with well-ordered shelves, filled with brown-paper wrapped parcels. He pulled a parcel from the shelf nearest to him and with a penknife sliced through the string and paper. He wasn’t sure what he expected to find inside the parcel, but baby clothes hadn’t featured highly in his expectations. Not only clothes but also a feeding bottle, pacifier and a brightly coloured plastic rattle spilled out from the open parcel.

  He reached to the back of the shelf, took another parcel and opened it. More clothes, this time adult; a man’s grey suit, together with a neatly folded shirt, an expensive silk tie, a pair of black brogue shoes, a matching leather belt and a calfskin wallet. He opened the wallet. There was money and credit-cards in the name of Raymond Morton, together with a railway season-ticket which had expired more than five years before.

  He suspected that the other parcels would hold similar contents. Peoples’ lives wrapped up in brown paper, stored away in this dusty room. He looked about the room and shivered. There were hundreds of parcels lining the shelves; some thick with dust, tied with yellowing string, others pristine and crisp, as though wrapped just hours ago.

  He opened the storeroom door cautiously. It opened onto the main corridor through the house. To the right of him was the kitchen, to the left, the stairs. Moving slowly and silently he headed towards the stairs.

  He reached Billy’s room and paused at the door, listening for any sound from inside. Hearing nothing he opened the door silently and stepped inside. The room was in darkness, but in the moonlight he could see a figure outlined on the bed. He approached and called softly, ‘Billy? Billy.’ The figure on the bed didn’t stir.

  There was a lamp on the bedside table. Michael flicked it on. The old man was tucked beneath the covers; only his grey hair visible, flopping across the pillow. Michael reached down to shake the old man but drew back his hand sharply. There was no weight there, no resistance. He took a breath and pul
led back the covers.

  Billy stared up at him with milky, opaque eyes; eyes that had sunk deep into their sockets. The body of William H. March, aged thirty-one, author of the website that told the dreadful story of Isabella Senice, was little more than a husk. White leathery skin stretched taut over a skeleton; cheeks no more than depressions in the skull, lips pulled back to reveal long gumless teeth in a mouth open in a perpetual scream.

  Michael gasped and fought down the nausea that rose from his stomach, then froze as a voice behind him said, ‘You really do have a habit of being where you shouldn’t be, don’t you, Mr Thomas?’

  He turned to see Mrs Delacourt standing in the doorway. The unflappable Mrs Delacourt, beautiful and serene, cold and aloof.

  ‘You did this?’ Michael said to her, pointing at the corpse on the bed.

  ‘No, Mr Thomas, this is not my doing,’ she said. ‘Poor Billy, such a meddler. He really should have learned to mind his own business. He came here to destroy Isabella. Unfortunately for him, he badly under-estimated her.’

  ‘So everything I read on his website was true?’

  ‘Ah, the website, the wonders of modern technology. Isabella was quite amused when I told her she was on the Internet. Yes, much of it is accurate. Of course there are huge gaps. I don’t think he covers the eighteenth century at all. But then she was in Rome for much of that time. And he didn’t once mention the fifty years she spent in France, but then so much happens in the space of four centuries.’ She laughed, a cold, hard, brittle sound. ‘Anyway, I’m sure you didn’t break in here just to talk to me. You’ll want to see Jenny. I’ll take you to her.’ She walked from the room. With a backwards glance at the bed Michael followed.

  The attic room was huge, covering the entire area of the house. Mrs Delacourt paused at the door, twisted the handle and pushed it wide open.

  The whole room was bathed in a sickly yellowish glow, and the heat that wafted out from the room was almost tangible. The room was sparsely furnished. A large circular table covered in a red velvet cloth occupied space in the centre of the floor, surrounded by six chairs. To the left was a solid oak desk, and beyond it an area curtained off behind heavy brocade drapes. In front of the drapes was a chair, and sitting on the chair, head bowed was Jenny Boswell.