by Sarah Rayne
They are both stamped with an extra mark, alongside the main hallmark, but separate from it. One of those marks is of three vertical lines jutting up from a horizontal line. I sketch it at the foot of this letter for you so you may identify that figure if offered to you.
Yours respectfully.
This letter bore the same scrawled, illegible signature. The sketched symbol was the one Nell had found on Professor Rosendale’s figure. The symbol Michael had also found inside Deadlight Hall. She looked at it for a long time, then turned to the next two letters.
Carbon copy of hand-delivered letter to Inspector Fennel
Ashby’s Auction Rooms
London
March 1944
Dear Inspector Fennel
We have received a further enquiry about the Warsaw golem figures. This, however, comes from someone with whom we have dealt several times over the years, and who we believe to be a genuine dealer in jewellery and objets d’art. He is a Jewish gentleman of Polish extraction, modestly known in his particular field, and as far as we know, entirely trustworthy.
It is, however, a curious coincidence, and in view of the contents of your last letter, we are hesitant about trusting this to the normal postal service, hence the special delivery.
Yours sincerely,
for and on behalf of Ashby’s Auction House.
City Postbox 2991
Prague
March 1944
Dear Sirs
I write to enquire whether you ever have for sale silver objects with a particularly Hebrew connotation. A well-established client who collects such things is interested in acquiring a golem figure, and has commissioned me to make tentative enquiries. I am addressing the same question to other auction houses and appropriate jewellery establishments, but having dealt with your excellent company a number of times in the past, am hoping you may be able to help.
If you were to find yourselves offering such an item, I should be most obliged if you would let me know. Postal services to my country are, of course, erratic and unreliable in these times, and my work necessitates a degree of travel, so I have provided a poste restante address. As an alternative, Drummonds Bank, Charing Cross, can be used.
Sincerely yours,
Maurice Bensimon
Ashby’s Auction Rooms
London
March 1944
Dear Mr Bensimon
We have to hand your enquiry re. a silver golem figure, but have to advise you that we have no such object at present in our catalogues.
This is something of a specialist area, as you will appreciate, although we do occasionally receive commissions to sell such objects. If we should be asked to deal with such a piece, we will inform you at once.
If you wish us to undertake a search for the figure, under the arrangement we have agreed with you in the past, we would be happy to do so. To this end, we enclose a note of our charges and commission fees.
Assuring you of our best intentions at all times, and with our very best wishes,
Yours sincerely,
for and on behalf of Ashby’s Auction House.
Hand delivered note to Ashby’s Auction Rooms
New Scotland Yard,
London
March 1944
Dear Sir
Thank you for letting me have sight of the letter from Mr Bensimon. I return it herewith for your records.
It now seems as if two sets of people are trying to trace either these silver figures or (more likely) the present owners of them. My department will continue to look into this.
Our initial investigation accords with your information, and suggests that Mr Bensimon’s enquiry is indeed genuine. Indeed, our intelligence hints that he is part of a certain discreet network in that part of Europe – a network which we have no wish to disrupt or endanger.
With kind regards,
Yours sincerely
Inspector Geo. Fennel.
The soft chimes of one of Oxford’s many churches broke into Nell’s absorption. Ten o’clock. She slid the letters back into their envelope, forced her mind into the present, and went through to the front of the shop to unlock the doors. She stood for a moment, looking out into the court.
She liked Quire Court at this relatively quiet time of the morning. Michael, when he was caught up in one of his romantical flights, sometimes said this was the hour when any lingering ghosts were whisking themselves back to their shadowy half-worlds, shamefaced and rather apologetic, like guests who suddenly realized they had stayed too long at a party. If you had opened your door a few seconds earlier you would have seen them, he said, spinning one of his stories for Beth, who loved them. And they were not ghosts you would ever have to be afraid of, he explained; they were all the people who had once lived in Quire Court, and who liked to occasionally pop back to see how it was getting on.
Beth, round-eyed, had wanted to know more about this. ‘Do dead people sometimes come back like that? Might my dad?’
Nell had paused in the act of serving out food, trying to think how best to answer this, but Michael had been ahead of her. He said, ‘Yes, certainly he might, Beth. Don’t expect to ever see him though, will you? But he could be around now and again. Just briefly, just to know how you’re getting on. And I’ll tell you something else. If he does, he’ll be so pleased to see you doing well at school and being happy. He’ll be really proud of you.’
‘Um, well, good,’ said Beth, with the awkward shrug she accorded to most emotional topics and particularly to anything to do with her father.
Without missing a beat, Michael had merely said, ‘Yes, it is good. Nell, is that casserole ready, because if so I’ll open some wine to go with it, if you want. Beth, shall we chunk up some of that French bread, as well?’
Nell, looking out at Quire Court, remembering that conversation, suddenly wished, deeply and painfully, that she could have talked to Brad about extending the shop into Godfrey Purbles’ premises. But whatever I do, I can make the decision myself, Brad, she said, in her mind. And if you do ever nip back, like the ghosts in Michael’s story, you’ll be able to see I’m doing all right. I really am.
Across the court, Henry Jessel, the silversmith, was unlocking his door. He waved to Nell, and pointed skywards, turning up his coat collar and miming a shiver. Nell grinned, and went back inside to hunt out soft cloths and beeswax to give the curled and carved walnut frames of the Regency sofas an extra buffing before the Japanese customers arrived. There was a small inlaid table of around the same date: she would set that alongside the sofas with something tempting on it. There was a really beautiful Feuillet workbox with enamelled painted panels, which might be sufficiently unusual to attract them.
She might bring one or two things in from the small workshop at the back of the shop as well, in preparation for the weekend. Saturdays were often busy in Quire Court.
But her mind was still filled with the 1940s, and that strange, sinister enquiry about the owner of the silver golem.
There was no point in wondering, all these years later, if the anonymous person had been successful.
EIGHT
There were three emails in Michael’s in-box on Monday morning. The first was from Owen Bracegirdle in the History Faculty, responding to Michael’s request for help in tracing Deadlight Hall’s past.
‘A good source would be Land Registration documents and Searches or Transfers of Title, at the Rural Council Offices,’ wrote Owen. ‘They’re publicly accessible documents, and it’s a legitimate request to look at them – particularly if the place is being chopped into flats and sold off piecemeal. Tell me you aren’t chasing spooks again – no, on second thoughts, don’t tell me that at all, because I love a good mystery, and you and Nell do seem to get into such intriguing situations.’
Michael replied suitably to Owen, then consulted his diary, and found that apart from the weekly meeting with his faculty head, he was free until late afternoon. This meant he could spend most of the morning tracing Deadligh
t Hall’s past. Professor Rosendale would certainly not be expecting him to spend so much time delving into the subject for him, but Michael was curious. There was something strange about the place, and he wanted to find out more. If he could uncover anything that would help or reassure the professor, all to the good.
The next email was from the photographer, who had called the previous day to take the publicity photographs of Wilberforce for the new book.
Hi Michael
Great to meet you yesterday – just love the shots we got of your fantastic rooms.
I’m sure we can get the camera stand and the light meter repaired – again, please forget about paying for that, I’ve got oodles of insurance, and if I haven’t your publishers will probably stump up the dosh, although don’t tell them I said that.
I hope Wilberforce’s tail hasn’t suffered too badly. My word, he can yowl when he’s annoyed, can’t he? And I hope you can get the curtains mended and the cushion re-stuffed.
I’ll come back early next week to photograph him properly. It would be good if you can actually get him to sit down this time. Have you thought about trank pills – most vets do them. I’m sure they’d help.
Best,
Rafe
The third email was from Michael’s editor, who was hoping to hear that the photographer had got some fabulous shots of Wilberforce.
Michael would be pleased to hear they were going to set up a separate fan page for Wilberforce on their website, inviting the cat’s many young fans to write in. Perhaps Michael might dash off a few words telling the eager young readers a little about Wilberforce’s background? A sort of potted biog, only not too potted. Around 750 words would be good. There was no real rush, but it would be nice if they could have it by midweek.
Michael sent a polite note to the photographer, and then, ignoring the claims of several essays on the metaphysical poets which were waiting for his critical attention, sat down to write a background for the fictional Wilberforce. In the event, he rather enjoyed creating several colourful ancestors, which included various piratical gentlemen, a fruity Thespian personage whom family legend credited with having written most of Shakespeare’s plays, and a Tower of London cat who had unintentionally foiled a Gunpowder Plot shortly before Guy Fawkes’ famous conspiracy. (‘And Master Wilberforce forgot to bring the matches, so the City of London and the King were saved.’)
He reread this, frowning. Were Guy Fawkes and Shakespeare too advanced for the seven- and eight-year-olds who devoured Wilberforce’s adventures? No, surely they would have heard of both gentlemen, and it would probably please a number of parents to think their offspring were picking up odd snippets of history. It would also allow the illustrators to have a field day. Michael emailed the biography to his editor before he could change his mind, and went off to his faculty meeting.
His return was greeted by the vet’s bill for de-turpentining Wilberforce, which had been brought up to his rooms by the porter on the grounds that it was marked ‘Urgent’. The porter pointed out that it was not part of his duties to hand-deliver missives, but you could not ignore an ‘Urgent’ letter, could you, so here it was, Dr Flint, and begging pardon for being so out of breath, but climbing those bloody stairs played havoc with the tubes of a morning.
‘It’s very good of you,’ said Michael, reaching for his wallet. ‘Have a drink on me to help the tubes out.’
By the time the porter had departed, his tubes considerably appeased by the tip, and Michael had recovered from astonishment at the amount requested by the vet, his editor, who had the uncanny ability of reading most things at the speed of light, had emailed again. She liked the Wilberforce biog so much she wanted him to expand the Gunpowder Plot idea, with the aim of starting a spin-off for a set of children’s historical tales. Michael could doubtless dash off one or two books on this theme, could he? Not too teachy, but underpinned by accurate historical information.
Michael wrote a cheque for the vet, smacked a stamp onto the envelope, then sent a deliberately non-committal email to his editor, saying he thought the Gunpowder Plot book was a very good idea.
These annoying interludes and interruptions dealt with, he set off for the Rural Council offices, encountering the Bursar as he crossed the quad, and spending ten minutes listening to the Bursar’s discourse on the unreliable nature of modern workmen. The decorators, it appeared, could not finish the painting that day as arranged, because they’d had to order an extra twenty litres of paint which would not arrive until Thursday. College would therefore have to continue in its present dust-sheet and stepladder disarray for at least another week. The Bursar found it all very annoying and did not know what things were coming to if a firm of decorators could not calculate how much paint was needed for a few perfectly ordinary stairways.
Michael’s request at the Rural Council offices for a sight of the Deadlight Hall records was received as an everyday occurrence. Certainly he could be given sight of Searches and Land Registrations and Transfers, said the helpful assistant. They had had quite a few people asking to see them recently, what with the place being renovated. The records might not be as complete as they would like – there had been some bomb damage to the old Council offices during WWII – and she believed there were a number of ‘lost years’, which sounded rather romantic, didn’t it. There was, however, still a fair amount of stuff, and everything was scanned on to hard disk, all the way back to 1800. The viewing room was just through there, there was a coffee machine in the corridor, and if he needed any assistance of any kind, please to let her know.
Michael always found it vaguely wrong to use a computer screen for this kind of research. If you were going to make an expedition into the cobwebby purlieus of history, it ought to be by means of curling parchments with crabbed writing penned by long-dead monks and scribes, or through faded diaries chronicling forgotten loves and hates and wars and friendships. It had to be acknowledged, though, that computers were more efficient and a great deal faster than the parchment/diary method. Michael collected a cup of coffee from the machine, sat down at the screen, and waited for the past to open up.
At first he thought there was not going to be anything of any interest about Deadlight Hall. There was the original land purchase which showed the Hall had been built in the early 1800s, but it then seemed to vanish into what the assistant had called its ‘lost years’.
There was an apology on the home page for the incomplete state of some of the documents, and the total absence of others, but explaining that the ravages of time, not to mention mice, damp, and the attentions of the Luftwaffe, had all wrought substantial damage. The main archives department in Oxford might, however, be able to fill in any gaps.
Michael scrolled forward patiently, and was relieved to see that Deadlight Hall sprang back into being in 1877, when a worthy-sounding organization called the Breadspear Trust had acquired it. He made a note of this, and moved to the next entry, which dealt with the Trust’s obligations and administration. It seemed to have been partly governed by a philanthropically minded Mr Breadspear, and partly by the Parish and the Poor Relief Committee. He was rather intrigued to discover that the present Welfare State descended from the original Vagabond Act of the 1400s, a fearsome-sounding law that had required the arrest of vagabonds and persons suspected of living suspiciously. The legislation had apparently been repealed a great many times, and it was probably as well that an original clause requiring these hapless (or perhaps they had been merely feckless) souls to be set in the stocks, pierced through the ear, or handed the materials to build a house of correction, was no longer in force.
The next page opened up a series of letters, which had apparently been attached to the transfer of title to the Trust, and which had been scanned in as being of possible interest to students of local history. At first sight they were so indistinct as to be almost illegible, but letters were always promising, so Michael zoomed up the viewing, which helped, and began to read.
The letters commenced with t
he appointment of one Mrs Maria Porringer (widow of this parish), to a slightly ambiguous-sounding role at Deadlight Hall. It appeared to be a combination of housekeeper, superintendent and general factotum, and required her to be responsible for:
The well-being and moral behaviour of all children placed in Deadlight Hall … To ensure such children are brought up to be honest, sober, God-fearing and grateful … To ensure that, as soon as the said children are of sufficient age, they are sent to places of work where they must be obedient, punctual, diligent, and honest.
Remuneration to the said Mrs Maria Porringer to be as agreed and set down in correspondence with her dated the 10th day of August in the year 1878.
Signed, for and on behalf of, the Parish Council.
Augustus Breadspear, Salamander House.
Salamander House, thought Michael. Dragons and elemental fire-creatures, and a Victorian gentleman with a name that might have come from the pages of Charles Dickens.
At first sight, the documents struck a benevolent note, as if the young persons in question were being housed and schooled by kindly mentors or teachers. ‘Brought up to be honest, sober and God-fearing’ was fair enough, particularly given the era, but Michael did not like the sound of ‘grateful’. The places of work might mean apprenticeships in the old and good sense of the word – the indenturing of boys and girls to skilled masters to learn a useful trade. But the nineteenth century had had a grim habit of employing young children from poor backgrounds, and forcing them to work impossibly long hours in mills and manufactories. The literature of the time was filled with brutal places that had housed children, from Dotheboys Hall to the baby farms of Oliver Twist, and it was peppered with Mr Creakles and Daniel Quilps. All fictional places and people, but based on grim reality.
Michael scrolled on to the next set of letters.
Deadlight Hall
September 1878
My dear Mr Breadspear