Shadow Music

by Elisabeth Rose

  “I gather you’re not going to share your secrets with me,” said the doctor.

  Martin turned. “Thank you for your help, Doctor. Please give me your account. Nina will be fine now.”

  The doctor gave them both a penetrating stare and withdrew without another word.

  “Wasn’t that a bit rude?” asked Nina.

  “Do you want to explain it to him?”

  “No,” she admitted.

  “Come on, let’s get you dressed. Jessica brought over some more clothes.”

  Ten minutes later they thanked the doctor, paid his bill and stepped out into the bleak morning.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To the vicarage,” said Martin. “We’re staying there with Giles until this is sorted out.”

  ****

  The vicarage teapot squatted solidly in the centre of mugs and plates and the remains of breakfast. Nina pushed a crust of toast around the rim of her plate. A tide of frustration and exasperation had built slowly since she’d finished eating. Relief at feeling something as normal as being hungry had worn off as her body regained its energy from the pile of scrambled eggs, toast, and bacon Giles had virtually shovelled into her.

  The longer they sat, the stronger the annoyance grew. They’d been talking for an hour and got nowhere. They had to do something positive soon or she’d get up and…No!

  Nina dropped the piece of toast onto the plate and balled her fingers into fists. That was Piers talking, Piers’ frustration and anger, Piers’ selfish manipulation. She had to regain control of her mind or she’d never function as Nina again. Already the demarcation was blurred, frighteningly blurred between her reality and the tragic nineteenth century girl.

  She had to fight Piers with every last ounce of strength she had. She’d never tried to deny him before but yesterday’s experience was too terrifying, filling her with a deep and nameless dread which chilled her soul. She not only felt Miranda’s love and pain and fear but when she travelled to that other world she was Miranda with all Miranda’s heightened emotions and desires. But most terrifying of all she was still Nina when she returned, with all Nina’s knowledge of Miranda’s life and Miranda’s hideous and painful death. And that far outweighed the love she felt for Piers. It had to or Nina would be consumed. Her rational mind told her this.

  Her rational Nina mind therefore told her to resist Piers, to save herself, salvage her own identity. Her irrational Nina emotions told her to love him and help him every way she could. Rational Nina was in danger of being swamped by both irrational Nina and innocent, lovelorn Miranda.

  “This is how I see it,” said Giles. “We can’t destroy the music so we have to make this Piers character realise that Miranda is dead and that he is as well. He must realise that Nina is not Miranda. The only problem is how do we do that?”

  “I think I’m becoming Miranda,” blurted Nina. “Or Miranda is becoming me.” She couldn’t prevent the tremor of fear in her voice.

  “Rubbish!”

  “Nonsense!”

  Both Giles and Jessica burst out so vehemently in denial Nina was astonished.

  “I can’t tell anymore,” she wailed and covered her face with both hands.

  “We can and you’re Nina,” said Giles so firmly Nina was almost reassured. She lowered her trembling hands and looked at Martin who’d remained silent. He knew Piers’ strength. He knew far better than Giles or even Jessica, what they were attempting to overcome. The slight reassurance Giles had provided trickled out like air from a leaking balloon.

  “Can you do an exorcism?” asked Jessica.

  “I can, but of what? He doesn’t inhabit a particular place, does he?”

  “Our heads,” offered Nina glumly. “My head in particular.”

  Martin reached out and squeezed her fingers. “And mine sometimes.”

  “If we knew where he died it might help. Or where he’s buried,” said Jessica.

  “I don’t think it will,” said Martin. “And I don’t think an exorcism will help either. We’re not dealing with a normal ghost.”

  “He’s a lost soul,” said Giles. “A wandering soul.”

  “What’s a normal ghost?” asked Jessica. “I thought they were all supposed to be lost wandering souls.”

  “We have to go to the Hall.” Nina pushed back her chair and stood up. “I want this to finish. I want it stopped now. I can’t stand to be like this anymore.” A wave of panic crashed through her body. “Are you coming? We have to do it now before he comes to get me again. I’m scared.” She stopped, struggled, failed to prevent the tears which broke through in a flood and poured down her cheeks as she gripped the back of the chair.

  Martin sprang to his feet. “We will stop him. I promise. We will.” Gentle firm fingers stroked her hair and held her tightly until she drew a couple of deep shuddering breaths and said in a voice muffled by his woollen sweater clad shoulder, “I’m sorry, everyone.”

  “No need to be sorry,” said Jessica. “I’m terrified too. For you. But we won’t give up, Nina. We won’t desert you. Be strong.”

  “We’ll drive shall we?” said Giles briskly. His chair scraped on the tiled floor as he stood up.

  Jessica held out Nina’s blue coat. “Put this on. It’s freezing out.”

  Nina managed a watery smile and released her hold on Martin. Jessica slid the coat onto her outstretched arms like a mother with a child. She fussed with one of her tissues and wiped Nina’s cheeks.

  “Don’t worry, we’ll fix his wagon,” she said firmly. Nina gave a little spurt of laughter.

  ****

  Broome Hall was a medium-sized country house, Jessica told them. Two stone gate posts and a small lodge marked the entrance and they drove between towering oaks, bare and gaunt in their winter hibernation, along a gently curved drive to reach the rambling three-storey building. A rounded portico with Roman style columns protected the front door and gravel crunched under the tyres of the Saab as Martin drew up and pulled on the brake in the sweeping circular driveway.

  Lawns stretched away in front of the house down to the trees lining the driveway. The rain had held off so far but a stiff breeze whipped the clouds about the sky and darker masses loomed in the distance. Shrubs and greenery still dripping from yesterday’s downpour grew close to the grey stone walls of the house and ivy climbed up toward the second floor windows along one corner. The gravel drive continued around to the rear where, presumably, lay garages, stables, and other outbuildings.

  Nina stood in the biting winter wind and gazed at the house. She knew the others were watching her closely for any sign of distress or recognition but there was nothing. She smiled at their worried faces.

  “Nothing,” she said in relief. “I feel nothing at all. He’s not here. What a beautiful old house.”

  “Yes, wait till you see the interior,” said Jessica. “Costs an absolute fortune to maintain, of course. The roof alone put Rupert back as much as some folk earn in a lifetime.” She pulled her pale blue woollen cap further down over her ears.

  “What does he do that he can afford to live here?” asked Martin.

  “He owns a bank. International. Very high power. Rupert and Georgina have an apartment in Manhattan as well.”

  “Owns a bank?” repeated Nina incredulously.

  “Well, not exactly owns it but he’s a director. George always used to joke that Rupert owned a bank.”

  Jessica strode to the imposing front door and gave the bellpull a vigorous tug. A faint jangling sounded from the depths of the house. They waited, shivering in the wind, shuffling their feet about and rubbing their hands against the iciness.

  “Hard to imagine a heat wave,” said Giles. The ends of his permanently escaping scarf flapped over his shoulders and his nose had turned rosy pink.

  “Hard to imagine summer in Sydney.” Martin smiled at Nina. She smiled back.

  The door opened suddenly and a grim-faced woman in a dark blue dress regarded them sternly.

 
“Hello, Mrs. Turner,” said Jessica. “How lovely to see you again. Thank you for allowing us to visit.”

  “Mrs. Harrow, Vicar.” She inclined her head in greeting. Tight little rows of grey ripples on a springy mat of hair, thin angular face with a prominent nose. She studied first Nina then Martin but her unnerving gaze returned to Nina. Her brow creased in a frown.

  “This is Nina and Martin, visiting from Australia,” said Giles.

  “How do you do,” said Martin. “Actually, I’m English. Nina’s Australian.”

  “Hello,” said Nina.

  “Good morning.” Mrs. Turner stepped back to allow them access.

  They crowded into a vestibule with a checkerboard marble floor and continued on through a doorway to an open hall area. On the right a broad polished wood staircase rose gracefully to the floors above and closed doors indicated rooms leading farther into the house. Double doors, also closed, were to the right of the stairs and a corridor went off to the left. A magnificent chandelier hung above their heads and a couple of small hallstands furnished the area holding either potted plants or ornamental vases.

  Nina shivered involuntarily and Mrs. Turner, whose disconcerting grey gaze had focussed itself on her face again, said, “It’s a bit chilly. I don’t heat the whole place when the master’s away.”

  “No, I can understand why,” said Jessica.

  “What was it you were wanting to see?” asked Mrs. Turner.

  “Well, we were wondering could we…” began Jessica.

  “The garden,” interrupted Nina. The thought sprang into her mind from nowhere. “The rose garden.”

  “The rose garden,” repeated Mrs. Turner. “Not much of a rose garden now. Used to be more. In the old days. No roses, of course. It’s winter.” In case they hadn’t noticed. “This way, please.”

  She turned and strode to the closed double doors, Nina and the others following like an untidy flock of sheep. Mrs. Turner stood aside holding the door to let her little tour group pass.

  “Straight on to the windows,” she said.

  Jessica led the way across the vast empty room with its polished wood floor and wood panelled walls. Heavy curtains of a deep red fabric were pulled back from a set of three French doors in the far wall letting in the weak winter light.

  “This is the main hall,” Jessica told them. “Where the Summer Ball would have been held.”

  Nina gazed around trying to imagine the cavernous room filled with happy, laughing people dancing to Piers’ musicians. Miranda dancing with her fiancé Ethan and seeing Piers for the first time. She couldn’t. The whole place felt cold and lifeless as if it harboured a deep and implacable sorrow.

  Martin touched her arm and she turned to him.

  “Do you feel it? The sadness?” she murmured.

  He nodded. “There’s no energy left. It’s completely empty—drained. Weird.”

  “This must have been where Piers and his friends played.” Giles came across to where they stood in the centre of the room. “Amazing.”

  He stared around with his head cocked slightly to one side as if straining to hear some faint refrain still echoing in the air.

  “I feel nothing in here except sadness. Not the extreme grief of Piers, though, it’s duller and emptier,” said Nina. “Strange isn’t it? You’d think Piers would be at his strongest.”

  “Perhaps because this wasn’t his house,” suggested Giles. “His influence is diluted by the family who lived here perhaps. And they would have been very antagonistic after Miranda’s death. His spirit is not welcome here. He doesn’t belong.”

  “Anything wrong?” Mrs. Turner was watching them speak quietly to each other, her eyes narrowed in suspicion, one hand resting on the handle of the central of the three French doors.

  “No. We were just saying what a big room it is,” said Martin.

  Nina exclaimed brightly. “It’s enormous. I can’t imagine cleaning this place.”

  “They used to have an army of servants in the old days, these houses,” said Jessica. Mrs. Turner sniffed but offered no comment.

  “You must have help, surely?” said Nina as the housekeeper opened the door.

  “Mr. Turner does the grounds,” she answered. “And a girl comes in from the village to help clean. Not much to do when they’re away on their holidays or in America.”

  The cold wind bit again as Nina stepped outside onto a long stone terrace which followed the wall to the right and then did a ninety degree turn on the inside of an L-shaped corner in the building. The garden was thus partially enclosed by the house.

  “The rose garden is to the left,” said Mrs. Turner. “You can come back into the house through the drawing room. You know your way, Mrs. Harrow?” She looked at Jessica who nodded.

  “Yes, thank you Mrs. Turner.”

  “I’ve a few things to do indoors. Just ring the bell when you come back in and I’ll show you the upstairs if you like. You mentioned a painting?”

  “Splendid, thank you very much,” boomed Giles.

  She turned and went back inside. The glass door closed firmly behind her.

  “Down here.” Jessica stepped down the flight of shallow steps leading to the garden.

  Even in winter bareness it was plain the garden had been beautifully designed and laid out. Two paths curved gracefully away through flower beds now dormant but evergreen shrubs gave colour to the otherwise bleak vista. A fountain rose from the centre of a small ornamental pool but it too was lifeless. The rose bushes were in abundance despite Mrs. Turner’s remarks to the contrary about neglect. Reduced to leafless branches and waiting for the annual pruning, they filled the garden beds on either side of the path leading to the left.

  Nina took Martin by the hand and walked amongst the roses. They passed under an arching trellis. The path continued on between taller evergreen shrubs which screened the house from view. Giles and Jessica had taken the path which curved right and their voices carried on the cold, blustery wind.

  She stopped and gazed around. There was something vaguely familiar about this spot—a quivering in the air, tension. Martin waited, watching her face, she knew for any sign of a relapse.

  “I think…” she murmured.

  A burst of music and laughter rang out from the direction of the house. Bright lights shone through the branches of the trees, soft night air caressed her cheek. The wind was warm and gentle suddenly and the scent of roses hung heavy on the air. Excitement surged through her veins. He would come to her, here. Piers would come, she knew it.”

  Nina gasped and shivered as the chill of winter daylight crashed in.

  “Did you hear that?”

  “What did you hear?”

  “Music. And people laughing. It sounded like a party.”

  “Anything else?”

  Nina closed her eyes and remembered. “It was hot again. Night time. And the roses were in bloom, all around. They smell wonderful.”

  “Was he there?” His voice was harsh with loathing.

  Nina shook her head and opened her eyes.

  “No, he wasn’t but I think this is where she waited for him. The first time.”

  Feet crunched on the gravel. Nina and Martin both spun about in shocked anticipation then relaxed as Giles and Jessica joined them.

  “There aren’t any roses around the other side,” said Jessica. “It’s wonderful in spring and summer, this garden.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Martin. “Nina just heard music and people having a party. She thinks this is the spot where Miranda first spoke to Piers.”

  “I don’t think, I know, Martin,” snapped Nina. “I was there. I mean I was here. Right here.”

  Piers’ rage grew inside her like a thundercloud making her body tremble with the violence of his anger. She glared at Martin and the almost overwhelming desire to strike him made her fingers clench into fists. She stepped forward with her arm raised, her gaze fixed on a face which wasn’t Martin’s but was for an instant, a familiar, square
face with a bewildered expression under a thatch of blond hair—a moustache.

  Martin shouted, “Nina. Stay with us. You’re Nina not Miranda. Fight him!”

  Nina blinked. Fight Piers? But Piers was…She was Nina. She had to resist. He must not be allowed to act for her. No! She was Nina. The anger subsided leaving her with ragged breath and a faint residue of his passion, like a stain after a spill has been wiped away, and mild surprise at how easily it had been quelled. Something about this place—Broome Hall. Ethan. The name popped into her head.

  “Yes,” she said vacantly and then stronger, “Yes. Martin, there was another man. I think it may have been Ethan. He loved me too. I wanted to kill him.” She put her hands over her face and pressed the fingers tightly against her eyes. “I really wanted to kill him. Or Miranda did. Just for an instant.”

  Martin flung his arm around her shoulders and peered into her face as she clung to him. “You didn’t. Miranda didn’t. Ethan was her fiancé. It was Piers. I hate that evil bastard.”

  “Let’s go inside,” suggested Giles. “And have a look at that painting I mentioned. I’m sure Mrs. Turner noticed the resemblance to Nina. Did you see how she looked at her?”

  “I sure did. Her hair is like one of those steel wool pads.” Nina gave Martin a tiny smile and tucked her hand into his arm as they walked toward the house. “She’s just like that housekeeper in that book. You know, Mrs. Something in Rebecca.”

  “Mrs. Danvers,” said Jessica and then added reprovingly, “Mrs. Turner is an absolute treasure even though her manner is a little stern.”

  “Wonder what Mr. Turner’s like?” murmured Martin in Nina’s ear so his warm breath tickled her cheek.

  “Terrified,” she replied softly. He gave a little spurt of relieved laughter and intertwined their fingers. And the image flitted across her mind that it was just the way she’d done all those years ago at the Summer Ball with Ethan by her side.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The two paths converged at a set of steps further along the terrace on the longer side of the L. More French doors led to different rooms. Jessica pulled one open and ushered them inside.