The picture had doubtless inspired nightmares in generations of Uggley children.
The rest of the walls were filled with plaques of various periods recording the lives and deaths of local notables. Mostly these were male members of the Anglepoyse-Smythe family, who had apparently specialised in dying overseas in the service of their country. The most recent, a shining brass panel, recorded the death at Ypres of Captain Michael Anglepoyse-Smythe, aged 22. A wooden plaque underneath listed the nine other men of the village who died on the same day. Chunleys and Mudds and Keevers, the oldest 30, the youngest 16 years old.
Uggley was a tiny village. The ghost-town air now made awful sense. I made myself turn away.
The dished stone flags under my feet were carved with inscriptions. I realised I stood on graves. In the past, the better-off residents had preferred to be buried inside the church, avoiding the risk of being flooded from their resting places.
There wasn’t much else to see. The rest of the pamphlet expounded Reverend Templeton’s theory that the ancient inhabitants of Uggley had practised a pagan religion of more than usual gruesomeness. Maidens bloodily sacrificed at the spring equinox and suchlike; probably the result of a vivid imagination and too much time on his own.
Where was the journal hidden? It had to be somewhere no one would stumble upon it, somewhere safe. I peered under the pews and stared up at the beams until I grew dizzy, then reeled outside for fresh air.
After the dimness of the church, the green graveyard dazzled me. Only the mournful cries of seagulls broke the quiet. Once my eyes had adjusted to the daylight, I drifted to the Professor’s gravestone.
‘Hello, Professor,’ I said, and felt foolish. I looked around, but there was no one to see or hear me. Just the restless murmur of the sea and the gulls crying.
This was the last piece of the puzzle. I needed to think like the Professor. That was the test he’d set me. He’d wanted his legacy to go to someone who saw the world as he did. The child of his mind, not necessarily the child of his blood. But maybe I am, came the traitorous thought. I might be. I can’t be sure.
It didn’t make any difference one way or the other. Joseph Wright had loved and raised me. The Professor could never mean so much to me, even if he gave me all his wealth.
It began to rain again. Cold drops hit my face and shoulders. A leaking gutter dribbled down the wall of the church. My feet had sunk into the sodden turf, and each depression was filling with water. They had floods here, didn’t they? The gardener had mentioned floods. The graveyard flooded, and the bones of the dead rose untimely from the grave. I shivered.
Bones. The word struck me as significant, but why? Then I remembered. The gardener leaning on his spade, asking me if I wanted to visit the ossuary. The ossuary, where old bones are stored.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
THE OSSUARY WAS a crude stone lean-to against one wall of the church, with an iron-banded oak door. I tugged at the handle. It was locked. John the gardener had the key. Most likely he was still in the village, but I could nearly get my hand into the cavernous keyhole. It would easy to open if I had my handy lock-picking tools. Or anything, really. I cast around for a pointy bit of metal.
Almost at once, I found a very suitable piece of metal. A rusty key as long as my hand hung on a nail by the door. So much for the gardener. The key slotted into the lock, turned halfway, then stopped. I leaned my full weight on it. Metal grated on metal as it rotated.
The door opened in a series of jerks, sticking against the uneven flagstones. Inside was darkness and air thick with damp dust. I wished I had brought a light, but since I had none, I pushed the door open as wide as it would go, and went in.
I hadn't known exactly what to expect of the ossuary, and in my excitement I had forgotten any squeamishness at the prospect. The light from the open door revealed a single narrow room. Along the wall were deep shelves piled floor to ceiling with bones.
Long bones were stacked together like firewood, grey and brown, not seeming like anything belonging to a human. The upper shelf was packed with skulls, whole and partial. The arrangement seemed driven by the most efficient use of space rather than respect for the dead. I supposed it had been considered important that the bodies of the faithful be available for resurrection on the Day of Judgement, but not necessary for all the bits to be in the same place. Which brought to mind a comical picture of the unfortunate resurrected having to sort out their appendages from the pile.
On the floor in the corner stood a large glass jar of the sort used for boiled sweets. In fact, it still bore part of a faded label, indicating that it had once contained cough lozenges. Now it seemed to be full of grey dust. I picked it up and held it to the light. It was full of small bones and fragments, crumbling into dust. The churchwarden had evidently decided this was preferable to leaving the small pieces to clutter up the floor.
I put it back down hurriedly and wiped my dusty hands on my skirt. The journal must be here, but where? I couldn’t unstack all the bones on the off-chance of finding it. I needed another flash of inspiration.
I stood with my back against the rough stone wall, visualising the Professor standing in the same place, thinking, deciding where to hide the journal. No ideas arrived. I shivered. The masonry was cold and damp.
Paper doesn't like damp. The notebook would be inside something, to keep it dry. With a grim sense of fatality, I picked up the sweet jar again. I peered into the dusty glass. To shake it seemed wrong, somehow. Setting it on the floor, I unscrewed the rusting metal lid.
There were only bones and dust to be seen. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and reached in. The bones were dry and light. My fingers probed, pushing further, until I felt a hard smooth edge. I gripped and pulled. In a shower of bone dust, I lifted the book out. Under a thick layer of grey dust, the cover was red.
I tried blowing the dust off it, but it clung.
‘Sorry,’ I muttered to the sightless stares of the skulls.
I flicked through the thin pages, recognising the Professor’s close-packed writing and drawings. There wasn’t enough light to read it. I tucked the precious notebook under my coat as I left the ossuary. Wind ruffled the grass between the graves and drops of rain stung my face. With the storm on my heels, I hurried back to the house.
I trotted across the hall with my coat tight about me, leaving a trail of muddy footprints across the black and white tiles. The hard edge of the book dug into my side. Mrs Jones appeared suddenly from the dining room as if she’d been lying in wait for me.
'Been for a walk?' Her hard eyes took in my half-drowned appearance.
'I went to the post office.'
She sniffed. I passed her, aware of her stare drilling into my back. She is wondering why I didn’t leave my wet coat in the entrance lobby, I thought. And why I’m not carrying any mail. Heat rose to my face.
‘Dr Langstone would like to see you.’
‘Now?’ I ran my fingers through my wet hair.
‘Yes, now.’
She followed me up the stairs. When I hesitated on the landing, she gestured me towards the lab. At the first knock, the door jerked open. Langstone blinked in the light of the hallway. His eyes were bloodshot.
'Miss Wright. Do come in.' He opened the door wide for me to enter.
The curtains were drawn, the room lit only by the wavering orange flames of the gas burners. The atmosphere was damp and clinging, smelling faintly of burnt rubber. Murky liquid burped and dripped in a complicated series of retorts and tubes. It looked like a distillation process.
On the workbench lay a manilla file, and on top of it, a red-backed journal.
Langstone picked it up. ‘You recognise this?’
I couldn’t stop myself flinching. It was the one I had taken from the lab. But how did Langstone have it?
‘It was under her mattress,’ Mrs Jones said smugly.
I stared at her. ‘How dare you search my room? You can’t just take my belongings.’
&n
bsp; 'All the Professor’s papers are owned by the Institute. You had no right to it. Any more than you had a right to the small items of silverware Mrs Jones found among your belongings.'
'What are you talking about? What silver?'
‘Where is the other journal? The Professor’s last. If you give it to me, there will be no need to mention the matter of theft. Otherwise…’
‘What?’ My mind raced. ‘I don’t know where it is. How could I?’
He drew a hand over his face. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Wright, but I don’t think I can believe you.’ He nodded to Mrs Jones. ‘Search her.’
I was too shocked to react. Mrs Jones’ hard hands rifled through my clothes. I pushed her away, but Langstone held me. It didn’t take her long to find the journal. She handed it to Langstone.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I really didn’t know where to find it, so you’ve done me a great service.’
‘You won’t get away with this,’ I said, shaking off his grip. I hardly knew what I meant.
‘I have done nothing wrong,’ he said mildly. ‘And now, Miss Wright, I’m afraid I must inform you that your employment here is terminated. Your work is sloppy and your attitude to the researchers off-hand and unhelpful.’
I gaped at him.
'You will accompany Mr Rickett when he leaves this evening. I don’t think he’ll mind taking you as far as Bridgwater. If you don’t kick up a fuss, I don't think the police need to be involved.'
'I won't go.'
'You will.' He stepped towards me, pushing me back towards the door. 'I don't know what stupid game Bentley put you up to, sending you here. But it's over. It took me a while to see through you, I admit. Dernstrum told me once about his partner, Wright, but I’d forgotten.'
He grabbed my arm.
'Let go of me.'
'You have no place here. Will you go quietly or must I drag you?' He opened the door. 'Mrs Jones will help you pack.'
I shook off Mrs Jones’ hand. There was nothing I could do. The notebook did belong to the Institute and I had no proof Langstone had done anything wrong. Clearly, he meant to paint me as a thief if I didn’t go quietly.
Mrs Jones escorted me back to my room. ‘Not so high and mighty now, are you?' She smirked down at me. 'I always did think you were up to no good.'
I snatched up an armful of loose clothes. 'I’ve done nothing wrong.'
'That's what they all say.'
‘Oh, go away. Haven’t you done enough, you vicious old hag?’ I fell onto the bed.
‘Well!’
I heard her walk away. Tack, tack, tack, went her shoes on the floorboards, every step like a nail through my heart. I had lost. Langstone had won. The Professor had told me: don’t trust Langstone. And like a fool, I had fetched the journal and run straight back to him. I sobbed into the blanket until my face hurt.
My father had been a fool and so was I. I’d had one chance, one precious chance to secure my future. And I’d done everything wrong. If only I had understood then what I did now.
I dragged myself to my feet. In the cold stillness of the bathroom, I washed my face. A stranger stared at me from the mirror over the basin. Older and uglier, and not much wiser.
Trying hard not to think, I packed my bags. This did not take long. I stripped the bed and checked every corner for anything forgotten. Lunchtime passed. I went downstairs and tidied up the library. It seemed important, somehow, to leave things in good order. No one would say I hadn’t done my best.
I didn’t want to face the others, the inevitable sympathy and questions, but having missed lunch, I was too hungry to skip dinner. Even Mrs Jones’ baleful, knowing stare couldn’t keep me away.
‘What’s happened?’ Enfield said.
My attempt at a brave face obviously wasn’t good enough. ‘I’ve been sacked.’
‘That’s awful. What on earth for? Has Langstone lost his mind?’
‘He doesn’t think I’m doing the job well enough.’ I smiled for his benefit. ‘It’s all right. I can get another job.’
‘I’ll talk to him. He should give you another chance, at least.’
‘Please, don’t. I’d rather just go, now.’ His concern warmed me. A little of the ice in my stomach melted.
Though I felt hungry, the sight and smell of food sickened me. I forced myself to eat a few mouthfuls.
‘I’ll speak to Dr Langstone too, if you like,’ Sam said. His bruises were distinct and red now. ‘If we all speak up for you, he’ll have to listen, won’t he?’
‘Oh, gi’over, boy. It’s none of your business. So what if she loses her job? It’s not the end of the world. People lose their jobs all the time,’ Rickett said.
‘Thank you, Sam,’ I said quickly. ‘I appreciate it, really, but I was thinking of leaving anyway.’
‘We’re off straight after dinner, if you want a lift to Bridgwater,’ Rickett said. ‘No delay, mind. Highest tide of the year tonight, and the wind’s onshore.’
Unasked, Enfield helped me with my luggage.
‘What will you do?’ he said as we stood waiting in the hall.
‘Go back to London. Look for another job.’
I thought he was about to say something, but he remained silent. Then Rickett arrived and the moment passed. We said our goodbyes stiffly. Mrs Jones watched from the sidelines, a silent, malevolent presence.
Outside the front door, the headlights of Rickett’s Ford made a pool of light in the midst of driving rain and darkness. Sam drove. Rickett sat in the front passenger seat and I got into the back. Enfield loaded my trunk. Through the window and the streaming rain, I watched him watching me go.
The car pulled away. I stared out through the windscreen down the beam of the headlights. My hair was wet again. Water dribbled inside my collar. The car bumped steadily through Uggley village, past The Hanged Man. The sign swung wildly in the gusting wind, the death’s head grinning at me.
What was I going to do? I could speak to Bentley when I got back to London. He might be willing to do something once he knew the whole story.
I shivered. The cold burnt through me, joining with an anger deep and dark as the sea.
We came to the causeway. Waves pounded against the embankment, sending clouds of spray across the road. As the car bumped forwards on the uneven surface, a man on foot passed us in the opposite direction. The headlights caught his face briefly.
'Stop the car,' I yelled at Sam.
'What?'
'Stop the car, now!'
He braked.
‘What is it?’ Rickett said, ‘Can’t you see the water? We need to get across now.’
'Go then. I'm getting out.'
I wrestled with the door. The gale wrenched it from my hands, slamming it behind me. Sam stuck his head out of the window.
'Where are you going? We can’t leave you like this.'
‘We can. Let her go if she wants,’ Rickett said.
'Just go. I'll be fine.' I strode away. After a moment, the car moved off slowly across the causeway. Horizontal rain sleeted into my eyes and mouth as soon as I raised my head. I was alone and blind, with only the hard road under my feet to guide me. The man who had passed us had vanished into the storm, but he couldn't be far off. I strode into the night. When my feet sank into wet grass, I knew I had strayed from the road and bent my path in the other direction.
In a minute, I made out a darker shadow ahead of me.
'Hey! Excuse me.' I splashed forwards. He did not notice me until I drew level.
'What? Who are you?'
I stood close to him so he could hear me above the wind.
'I know you. I saw you at Bentley's offices. You're Mr Jones, aren't you? What are you doing here?'
'I'm going to the Institute. If that fool Bentley won't listen, I'll take it to Dr Langstone instead.'
I pointed to the distant constellation of lights.
'It’ll be quicker across the park. The road goes the long way round.'
He stared at me. 'Who are you?'<
br />
'Miss Wright. I have something to say to Dr Langstone too.'
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
THE WIND BUFFETED me like a giant hand, snatching my breath and voice. The sodden ground sucked at my feet. Leaning into the gale, I focused on following Jones as his back disappeared into the darkness. I was having second thoughts about the shortcut. It was half the distance, but with no road it would be easy to get lost.
I walked into a solid object which turned out to be Jones. He had stopped, waiting for me to catch up.
'Are you all right?' He had to repeat himself before I understood. 'Take my arm.'
He looped his arm through mine, offering his support. I held on, grateful for his solid strength, and we went on together, hauling each other out of unseen bogs and puddles. Minutes stretched like hours in the endless night. I was too cold to think. Each step was a strength-sapping battle.
Lightning flashed, back-lighting the storm clouds purple and blue. I counted my heartbeats until the thunder answered.
'What's that?' Jones said.
'What?'
He dragged me forward, and I felt the wind and rain lessen. A dark bulk to our right loomed over us. I reached out and touched rough stone.
'It's a barn.' From my room in the house I had seen several decrepit stone buildings dotted over the sheep pasture. I didn’t know what purpose they served but it offered welcome shelter now.
We felt our way round the building. The door was on the lee side, logically. I stumbled inside, glad for a moment’s respite from the wind. Water washed over my feet. This barn had at least a partial roof. Rainwater poured in a continuous stream through a hole, splattering down to join the flood.
'We'll rest a minute, then go on,' Jones said, still shouting.
Taking off my hat, I tried to wring the excess water from my hair. On the other side of the barn, something moved, splashing in the shallow water. Three pairs of red eyes stared at me from the blackness.
Meanwhile, at the Dernstrum Institute Page 15
