Meanwhile, at the Dernstrum Institute

by Catherine Griffin

  Quarterly Report

  The typed words sprang out black and crisp from the white paper, as neat and professional as anyone could want. I had most of the report finished already and it just needed these front pages to be complete. When I handed it over to Langstone, he’d be impressed, and Bentley would know he’d been right to give me the job.

  I returned to the handwritten draft to puzzle out the next sentence. Cold air tickled the back of my neck. I hammered out the next few words with the nagging sense that I had made a mistake, though I saw nothing wrong. The back of my neck itched. I felt Professor Dernstrum’s portrait staring at me. The more I ignored it, the worse it got. Then the keys jammed with a clunk.

  ‘Oh… bother,’ I said out loud.

  An inky smudge marked the pristine paper. I tore out the unfinished sheet, crumpled it into a ball, and threw it at the wastepaper basket. It missed.

  Sighing, I got up. The paper had rolled into a corner. As I retrieved it, the bookshelf caught my eye.

  Encyclopedia Britannica volume 27 (Tonalite to Vesuvius) and 28 (Vetch to Zymotic diseases) were in the wrong order. It was a small thing but it bothered me, so I switched them round. But now that I looked, the whole shelf of books seemed untidy. They weren’t lined up. Small books were jammed between large books and collections were scattered. On every shelf, something was out of place.

  I’m not the most organised person, but I like books and had been working in the library for over a week. I would certainly have noticed if it had always been like this.

  I peered at the shelves. The dust didn’t match the placement of the books. I sat back on my heels, thinking hard.

  While I was out at Bridgwater, someone had entered the library and rearranged the shelves. The evidence was clear, but why would anyone do such a thing?

  ‘Well, I don’t see why you’re so upset. I told you a colleague…’ Hack’s voice came from just outside the door.

  ‘I’ve nothing more to say on the matter.’ Mrs Jones pushed into the room. ‘Miss Wright, can I speak with you for a moment?'

  I remembered the commissions she had given me. ‘Of course. I have your shopping here.’

  ‘Thank you. Very helpful.’

  She remained standing there, rigidly ignoring Hack, who had followed her in.

  ‘Nice room, this,’ he said. ‘Ideal for a seance.’ He smoothed his moustache with his thumb, as if checking it was still attached to his upper lip.

  ‘Mrs Jones,’ I said, ignoring him. ‘Have you or Molly been cleaning in here today?’

  ‘I haven’t. And Molly doesn’t dust, ever.’

  ‘She wouldn’t have come in here to clean without mentioning it to you?’

  ‘As if.’ Mrs Jones sniffed. ‘The slattern works little enough when I tell her.’

  I looked at the shelves again. ‘Some books have been moved. Do you recall anyone coming in here, while we were out?’

  She frowned. ‘No.’

  ‘How mysterious.’ Hack grinned. ‘Perhaps we have a poltergeist.’

  ‘A what?’ Mrs Jones glared at him.

  ‘Poltergeist. It’s German for noisy ghost.’

  Mrs Jones’ eyes widened. ‘A ghost? A German ghost?’

  ‘Oho, no. The name is German, that’s all. But then…ahah.’ He glanced at the portrait of the Professor with a wry smile. ‘Who knows. Maybe the Professor is still with us.’

  Mrs Jones almost ran from the room. Hack chuckled.

  ‘The Professor wasn’t German,’ I said.

  Hack waved his hand. ‘Let’s not be pedantic. Did you see the old witch’s face?’

  I suppressed a smile. ‘I don’t believe in ghosts, noisy or otherwise. Someone has been in here today.’

  ‘And rearranged books?’ Hack shrugged. ‘Hardly worth worrying about.’

  He was right. Nothing was missing, as far as I could tell, and the safe hadn’t been disturbed. Not that there had been anything in there worth stealing. It was just odd.

  ‘What have you done with Madame?’ I said.

  Hack jumped. ‘Heavens, she’s waiting in the car.’

  He scurried out. I sat down, puzzled by the little mystery. The library wasn’t exclusively mine. Anyone might come in to borrow a book at any time. I didn’t mind that someone had been in here, but not knowing who, or why, made me uncomfortable. I got to my feet again and circled the room, searching for a pattern to the disturbances.

  There didn’t seem to be one. I hadn’t looked seriously at the books before now. A lot of them were old and perhaps valuable. Fat encyclopedias sat alongside slim editions of poetry and novels, in no discernible order. Most seemed to belong with the house, the worn leather bindings matching the wood panelling. Modern reference books on science and bound collections of journals occupied separate shelves. These must have been the Professor’s. The mystery book-mover hadn’t mixed science with novels, or old books with new ones. As far as I could recall, the encyclopedias were on their usual shelf, just out of order.

  I ran my hand along the spines, enjoying the feel of the bindings. Some of the books were old friends. I pulled out ‘The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes’, a favourite of mine since childhood.

  With a little shock, I realised this was the same edition I had read then. The gilt lettering and worn royal blue cover were freighted with memory. In fact, it might have been this self-same book. I sat down at the table. The weight of the book in my hands, the tooled binding, the smell of the pages were so familiar, it felt like I was transported into the past.

  I was ten years old. Mother was sick. I remember the scent of gardenias in her room, her face pale against the white pillows, her gentle smile and breathless voice. She had been ill for so long, I wasn’t worried for her. Father looked so worn and old though. I did my best to be quiet about the house, not to bother him. When he asked me if I would like to stay with the Professor for a little while, I was happy to go. As Father’s business partner, I knew him well. Though he wasn’t married and had no children of his own, he clearly liked children. He always had a penny or a little toy for me when he visited, and spoke to me seriously, like a grown-up.

  In the end, I stayed at his London townhouse for a couple of weeks. The Professor asked me how I liked to amuse myself. I said I liked to read. It was a quiet activity which didn’t disturb Father or Mother. Between the pages of a book, I could be transported to other times and places. I could be free. The Professor pointed out he didn’t have many books suitable for a young girl, but gave me the run of his library.

  The book I found was ‘The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes’. The stories opened a whole world of excitement and adventure. The Professor humoured my enthusiasm. I think he was fond of Holmes himself.

  Returning to the here and now, I flipped through the pages, greeting the stories as long-lost friends. The Naval Treaty, the Greek Interpreter, the Musgrave Ritual. That one had been a particular favourite. The idea of hidden treasure, found by unravelling cryptic clues, had captivated me. When the Professor found me drawing treasure maps of the shrubbery, he began making up puzzles of his own to keep me amused. He hid cheap trinkets all over the house and garden, and devised ever more complex clues, working in little bits of mathematics and science so I was educated as well as entertained.

  My heart stopped. I forgot to breathe. Reginald Musgrave. Reginald Musgrave, of course. How could I ever have forgotten? I took several shaky breaths, trying to force my racing thoughts into order.

  A new job, new people and surroundings, had pushed the Professor’s mysterious letter from my thoughts. Now everything rushed in on me at once, a helter-skelter of ideas all clamouring for attention.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CLUTCHING THE BOOK to my chest, I dashed up the stairs to my room. In my excitement I didn’t trust myself not to miss something important. I sat on the bed and read the story immediately.

  Sherlock Holmes is consulted by Reginald Musgrave after his butler disappears. The butler has been taking undue interest in an ol
d Musgrave family document, an obscure piece of doggerel that every member of the family learns by heart. As is quite obvious to everyone except the Musgraves, the poem describes the location of a hidden treasure. The butler finds the treasure but comes to a sticky end in the process. Holmes duplicates the butler’s logic to unravel the mystery.

  The letter from the Professor directed me to Reginald Musgrave. Clearly, the mention of Musgrave in the letter was meant to remind me of my childish treasure hunts. The Professor had hidden something he intended me to find. What could it be? If he wanted to give me something why hadn’t he just sent it? Or simply told me where to find it? For some reason, he had wanted to make it difficult. And he had wanted me to remember the time I had visited him.

  I searched my memory. The visit had extended to about two weeks. I enjoyed myself. Father dropped by every day or so to see me. The end was memorable because Father argued with the Professor. I was sent out of the room but I couldn’t help hear the shouting. I had never heard Father so angry. And then he took me home. He was silent, white-faced and tense. I didn’t speak to him. I thought I had done something wrong.

  When we got home, the servants were speaking in hushed voices. Mother was asleep when I visited her. She died the next day.

  Why Father had argued with the Professor, I never knew. Father wouldn’t speak of it though in later years he often complained vaguely that he’d been robbed. They dissolved their business partnership soon after Mother’s death. I never saw the Professor again.

  Sounds from downstairs prompted me to look at my watch. Nearly 8 o’clock. I tucked the letter into the book, and the book under the bed. No time to wash or change before dinner. A quick hair brush had to suffice before I ran downstairs.

  When I entered the dining room, Hack cornered me.

  ‘Miss Wright, would you care to see my photographs?’

  Madame wasn’t at the table. ‘Is Madame not joining us?’

  ‘She felt a little tired.’

  Round one to Mrs Jones, I thought. I sat down. Hack pushed his photographs in front of me.

  The black and white tiled floor of the hall was immediately recognisable. And floating in mid-air on a fluffy cloud was the faint but equally recognisable face of the Professor.

  I jumped, colliding with Mrs Jones, who stood right behind me with the soup tureen. Brown soup splattered my blouse and the tablecloth.

  ‘Heaven preserve us!’ she said.

  Rickett rounded the table to look at the source of the commotion. ‘Rubbish,’ he said. ‘Spirit photography, my eye. It’s a trick.’

  Now I’d got over the surprise, I was inclined to agree. The Professor’s face looked like it had been clipped from the label of an old patent medicine bottle.

  ‘Not at all,’ Hack said. ‘I just exposed the plate and developed it. Well-known natural phenomenon. Spiritual entities impress images on the plate through the action of… ahah… fluidic substance.’

  ‘It isn’t Christian, that’s what I say.’ Mrs Jones wagged the soup ladle. ‘Horrid faces floating about. It shouldn’t be allowed.’

  ‘Please put the photographs away, Mr Hack. I hardly think it’s appropriate for dinner.’ Langstone said.

  Dinner resumed. I tried to join in the conversation normally, but was increasingly distracted as I thought about the letter and the Professor’s mysterious treasure hunt.

  ‘Did a parcel come for me today?’ Rickett said.

  Belatedly, I realised the question had been addressed to me. ‘Uh. No, I don’t think so.’

  He grunted. ‘I need the parts for the leg assembly. Without delay, or I’ll be set back.’

  ‘When I put the order in they said it would arrive this week. If it’s not here tomorrow, I’ll telephone the supplier.’

  The men fell into a general discussion, leaving me to deal with my rissoles in peace.

  ‘What do you think, Miss Wright?’ Enfield said.

  ‘What?’ The conversation had been flowing over my head for some time. ‘Sorry, I was miles away.’

  ‘The League of Nations,’ Langstone said. ‘Do you have an opinion?’

  'Umm. It's a good thing?' Enfield looked disappointed. 'I'm sorry. I don't take much interest in politics.'

  'An impractical organisation.' Langstone stepped into the breach. 'But they've done good work. Look at slavery...'

  The League of Nations thankfully carried us safely through pudding, and I made my escape as soon as I decently could.

  After a night of little sleep and much thought, I had formulated a plan of action.

  Straight after breakfast, I collected the mail to be posted and set off to the village. It was one of those beautiful February days that fool you into thinking spring is near. The frost on the grass was fast disappearing in the gentle warmth of the sun. Unusually for Uggley, there wasn’t a breath of wind.

  I soon spotted the tall figure of Enfield ahead of me, pushing a wheelbarrow. He noticed me and slowed down, so I had little choice but to join him. We fell into step, my faster paces matching his longer stride.

  ‘I’m going to collect seaweed,’ he said, answering a question I hadn’t asked. ‘Useful stuff, seaweed. I use it as a soil improver. Do you know there are over a hundred native species?’

  ‘Uh. Fascinating.’

  Arriving at the church, we both stopped. The tower of the church rose above us, backed by the grey-brown mass of the sea. A wicket gate in a low stone wall marked the entrance to the churchyard where gravestones punctuated the grass in irregular rows, each leaning at a different angle. The church itself was squat and small, a patchwork of different stonework and repairs. A sign announced: Church of St. Ux.

  ‘I go this way.’ He rested his hand on the weathered wood of the gate. ‘There’s a path down to the shore.’

  I bit my lip. I wanted to go into the churchyard, but I had no ready explanation to give him. ‘I’m going to the post office.’

  ‘Right. I’ll see you later, I expect.’

  ‘Yes. Enjoy your seaweed collecting.’

  He watched me walk away. With my goal in sight, the delay was almost physically painful, but it would take only a few minutes to visit the post office. On the way back I could spend as much time as needed in the graveyard while Enfield messed about on the shoreline.

  A substantial Victorian villa stood next to the church. Peeling paint hung in tatters from the woodwork and several tiles had slipped from the roof. Cobwebbed curtains blocked the view though dirty windows. If this was the vicarage, it seemed unlikely the vicar was in residence.

  The village's one shop, which was also the post office, stood on the right-hand side of the street, almost facing the public house. In the grubby, small-paned window were a half-full jar of cough sweets, curling fly papers, and a selection of mummified flies. A bell jangled as I pushed the door open and ducked in.

  The postmaster emerged from the back room, wiping his hands on an apron.

  'Art’noon, miss, can I help you?'

  I deposited the mail on the counter. 'Just these to send, please.'

  He sorted through the letters, casting curious glances at me as he worked. 'How’s things up the big house? My darter says there’s ghosts now.'

  'Your daughter?' It took a moment to make the connection. Ignoring the bald spot, potbelly, and double chin, there was a slight family resemblance. ‘Oh, Molly.’

  He chuckled to himself. 'Tis a small place, Uggley.'

  'There aren’t any ghosts,' I said firmly.

  'Anglepoyse-Smythe family had the house afore the Professor. Big local family, Lord of the Manor, magistrate. All dead now. Wouldn’t be surprised if there were ghosts.'

  ‘Has Mr Rickett’s parcel arrived?’

  He shook his head. ‘Thar’s letters though. Since you’re going, you can save me the walk.' He offered me a handful of envelopes.

  'Oh. Yes, I suppose so.'

  I glanced at the mail. Two for Rickett, one on heavy paper, official looking. One for Enfield, the address
written in a neat, round hand, suggesting a female writer. Two for Langstone. On one of them the address was written in red ink with such force the pen had punched through the envelope in places.

  ‘Come to that, that old Professor could be a-haunting the place.’ He leaned on the counter. ‘Molly tells all sorts of odd stories.’

  ‘Has she worked there for long?’

  He shook his head. ‘Her got took on last year, when the last girl disappeared.’

  ‘Disappeared? What happened to her?’

  ‘Just up and went. Yer one day, gorn the next.’ He leaned closer. ‘Wed a man in Taunton, they say. But what I heard is that Doctor Langstone was a bit too free with his hands, if you know what I mean.’ He chuckled, an oddly high-pitched noise from a big man. ‘The old dog, eh? You wouldn’t think it.’

  Having escaped the postmaster, I hurried back to the church. Most of the graves were low and grey, inscriptions almost lost to erosion and lichen. Ellen Mudd, wife of… Harry Chunley and Margaret his wife… It was easy to find the one I was looking for. A slab of glistening black marble told the world that here lay the mortal remains of Professor Dernstrum, scientist, businessman and philanthropist. Underneath was inscribed ‘Seek and ye shall find’, and below that, ‘Trust in God alone.’

  Visit my grave, the letter had said. I had expected to find a clue. I stared into the black marble, hoping revelation would fall on me like lightning, but only my own dim reflection looked back at me. The Professor’s message, such as it was, seemed clear, though unhelpful. Could there be a hidden meaning? There must be something here, a clue to point me in the right direction.

  I turned away, almost walking into a man who had been standing silently watching me.

  'Scuse I.' He touched his cap. 'Didn't want to trouble ee. Did ee know the old man?'

  The cold air had brought tears to my eyes. 'Yes. No. Not really. I'm just looking round. Churchyards are always so sad, aren't they?'

  He met my gaze levelly. Rough clothes and a spade suggested he was doing some work in the churchyard.