by Sarah Rayne
A soft, sour breath of age and dirt and darkness gusted out, and Olivia flinched, then pulled the door all the way back, and forced herself to step through. So far, so good. She went cautiously down the steps, holding onto the rail with one hand, shining the torch with the other. There was the brief feeling that the darkness swirled like silt in a pond being disturbed, and for a wild moment she thought hands with impossibly elongated fingers reached out. Then she realized that of course it was only the cobwebs, disturbed by the ingress of light and air, floating forwards in the torch’s beam.
The outline of the bricked-up alcove was just about visible, but it did not look peculiar. No one would ever realize what was behind the bricks. But both of them were there. Imogen and Ginevra. Walled up in this grim place. Olivia looked at the alcove for a long moment, and then she looked up at the door at the head of the stone steps – the door that had the heavy bolt on the outside. I can’t do this, she thought, in sudden panic. I can’t see how to do it, and even if I could, I haven’t got the strength – the courage.
You did it before … You did it twice before …
But that was different! cried Olivia, silently.
And again came the whisper deep within her mind.
It was only different because of the music … The music was there when you murdered Imogen to stop her from spoiling the plan about The Martyrs … It was there again on the night you murdered Gustav … It could be there again to silence Arabella Tallis … Use the music, Olivia …
The music. The Lemurrer. It had been sung on the night Imogen died – Olivia had heard Gustav sing it. And it had been there again when Gustav himself died on hearing Imogen’s recording.
Imogen’s recording.
Olivia had never destroyed the recording or thrown out the old cassette player; they were both still in the rosewood box in her bedroom. Was it possible that the player still worked? She went back up the stone steps, and foraged in the kitchen drawer for batteries – she made sure always to have several sets of them, because the cottage’s wiring was so old it was apt to cut out in thunderstorms. There was a pack of batteries that were the right size, and she took them up to her bedroom, and slotted them into the machine.
And then, on an impulse, she took the player down to the cellar and placed it at the top of the steps. Then she pressed Play. Incredibly, the machine still worked. Imogen’s voice came into the dim cellar, as clear as it had been all those years ago. As clear as it had been on the night she was murdered, and on that other night, much later, when Gustav was murdered.
Inch by measured inch, the light is being shut out … The words were taking hold of her mind again. And now she had the second verse, the verse Phineas Fox had read out, the verse he had said was called the murderer’s chant.
‘Step by measured step with murderer’s tread …
Inch by measured inch with murderer’s brain …’
Olivia played the recording twice more, and after the third time she knew she could do what had to be done.
‘Brick by careful brick with murderer’s hands …
I make the layers of death …’
The Lemurrer was about walling somebody up. But there were more ways than one of walling up.
It was a quarter to twelve, so she quickly washed the cellar dust and cobwebs off her hands, then went to stand at the sitting-room window. From there she could see the forest path – she would see Arabella coming towards the cottage.
The minutes ticked agonizingly away. Five past twelve. Ten past. Olivia’s stomach was churning with apprehension. But Arabella had probably only been delayed at the printers. Or by traffic. Or she might have had a puncture. But on the other hand, she might be talking to people about what she had found.
No, it was all right. Here she was now, walking jauntily through the trees, swinging her shoulder bag as she came.
Olivia went to open the front door, forcing a smile, calling out a greeting.
‘How were the printers?’
‘Dire. But I got it sorted out, I think. I left that book up at the school for Phin. No one was around and I didn’t want to interrupt whatever he was doing, so I left it on the kitchen table for him with a note.’
‘Good.’ It was actually very good indeed, because clearly Arabella had not told anyone she was coming here.
Arabella said, ‘Are we ready to plumb the depths of the ancient cellar? It sounds beautifully gothic, doesn’t it?’
‘Well, I’m ready,’ said Olivia. ‘I’ve found a couple of torches, so we ought to be able to see quite a lot.’
‘Good. I’ve got a torch on my phone – oh, and it’s got quite a good camera as well. If it looks worth it, we could take photos to show to the Firkins.’
‘Let’s take a look ourselves first,’ said Olivia. ‘Oh – you’d be better to leave your bag up here, because the steps are quite steep. There’s a bit of a rail, but you’ll probably need both hands to hold on to it.’
It felt strange to be following Arabella down the cellar steps, almost exactly as – over ten years earlier – she had followed Imogen. Olivia let Arabella get ahead of her, then remained on the bottom step, shining the torch around.
She had more than half expected Arabella to squeal with delight at such an eerie place, to clasp her hands in an affected, over-the-top way, to say she could absolutely feel the vibes from the past, and even to start spinning one of her stupid stories about the monks.
But Arabella did none of these things. She stood very quietly at the centre of the cellar, looking about her. Once she shivered, and hunched her shoulders as if against something cold, and dug her hands into her pockets.
‘It’s a remarkable place,’ she said, after a moment. She spoke softly, almost as if she did not want to be overheard. ‘And I see what your uncle meant about it being part of the old monastery – that arch going across the ceiling – and those alcoves. I wonder what they were for. Shine the torch on them, can you, Livvy? They’re somehow eerie, aren’t they? But if this really is a bit of the monastery, I think you’d have a really good weapon to use against the planners, Livvy.’
‘Do you?’ said Olivia, eagerly. ‘Let’s do those photos, then.’
‘Good idea. My phone’s in my bag upstairs—’
This was what Olivia had wanted her to say. Before Arabella could move, she said, ‘I’ll get it. Stay there, and I’ll fetch your bag.’
She had moved back up the stairs before Arabella turned to speak, and she was already through the door and into the hall. She slammed the door shut and slid the bolt across. Only then did she realize she was trembling violently.
Arabella’s voice came from beyond the door. ‘Livvy? What’s happened? Where are you?’
The door shuddered. Arabella must be pushing against it. She had found her way to the top of the steps in the dark much faster than Olivia had expected. It was a good thing that she had acted fast and had bolted the door so quickly.
The door shook again. ‘Livvy?’ shouted Arabella. ‘What’s going on? This door’s stuck or something. Let me out will you? Livvy!’ This time she hammered much harder against the door, and Olivia glanced nervously at the bolt. It held, but it was an old bolt, and it might easily snap.
‘Will you say something?’ shouted Arabella. ‘I know you can hear me – you must be able to. Listen, if this is some kind of joke, it’s not a very funny one. I hate underground places, and it’s pitch black down here. Let me out.’
Olivia forced herself to stay calm. The next move was worked out, but she would have to move fast; once it was realized that Arabella was missing, people would search for her. Phin Fox, of course. Harriet Madeley and probably Dilys Davy. At some point the police would be called in, and they would search the school and the immediate grounds. They would certainly come to the cottage to talk to Olivia. She would display concern, of course; she would say that Arabella had called briefly, but she had not seen her since. But they might well want to search the cottage in case there were any clues. And if
they saw the cellar door … If they heard Arabella yelling … Which meant that the cellar door had to be hidden, and in such a way that sounds from beyond it would be blotted out.
Olivia darted along the hall, to the oak blanket box standing near the front door. The box was only about two feet in height, but it was quite wide – certainly wide enough to go across the bottom of the door – and it was solid and heavy. It was not too heavy to move, though; she had tried it earlier, and it had moved a few inches when pushed hard. She pushed harder now, and managed to shunt it along the tiled floor and into the side hall. Once there, it was easy to push it firmly against the lower part of the door. Arabella was still yelling and hammering on the door, but Olivia tried to shut her ears to the sounds.
Now for the next part. The walls of Gustav’s study were lined with books, from floor to ceiling – most of the shelves were fixed to the wall, but under the window were three freestanding units, side by side. Gustav had bought them years ago to house his growing collection of books, and had never bothered to have them bolted onto the wall. They were inexpensive DIY units, and although there had not been time to test their weight, there had been time to take quick measurements. Piled on top of the blanket box, they would completely hide the cellar door.
Mind and body working at top speed, Olivia tumbled the books onto two hearthrugs, and folded the edges over, making a couple of makeshift parcels. Then she carried the first shelf-unit out to the hall and lifted it onto the oak chest. The muscles of her shoulders protested, but that could not be given any attention, and she went back to drag the first hearthrug-parcel of books out. Arabella was still yelling her head off – Olivia thought she ought to feel shocked at some of the language Arabella was using, but it did not really matter. Soon she would not be able to hear Arabella at all.
Once the first batch of books was in place, she carried the other two units out. It was necessary to fetch the small stepladder to lift the third one on top of the other two, and climbing up with the unit in her hands was awkward. The ladder teetered perilously, at one point almost overbalancing, but in the end she managed it. Adrenaline was coursing through her, and she ran back for the remaining books. She had to climb up and down the stepladder several times, but once all the books were in place, she could barely hear Arabella’s yells and hammerings. Anyone coming to the cottage, sitting in the study or the sitting room, would certainly not hear them. And anyone glancing casually at these shelves would simply think that a niche off the hall had been utilized to house bookshelves. Even with the hall light switched on, the side hall was dim and shadowy. Nothing would look odd or out of place.
As for Arabella, she might tear her hands and arms to shreds trying to get out, but even if the bolt snapped, she would never be able to force the door open with the weight of all the books and the oak chest holding it in place.
She would be trapped down there until Olivia had worked out how to silence her in a way that would not risk suspicion falling on this cottage or on Olivia herself.
It was not until she had finished tidying up the study that reaction set in. Olivia realized that she was shaking violently, and that every muscle in her body ached. Her shoulders and arms were spasming with pain from all the carrying and lugging back and forth of furniture.
But the only emotion she felt was a deep, exasperated anger. It was infuriating to have been put in this position – to have been forced to act quickly and even clumsily. But she had not been clumsy; she had, in fact, been swift and clever and resourceful. She had bought herself time to work out how best to deal with Arabella, because it was beyond question that Arabella must be dealt with, and she must be done soon. She could not just be left down there in the cellar.
Or could she?
Again the thought came to her that there were more ways than one of walling somebody up.
Breakfast at Cresacre at half-term was, it seemed, a casual affair.
‘The kitchen staff only come in for an hour or so in the afternoon,’ Harriet Madeley had said to Phin and Arabella the previous evening. ‘There aren’t usually many people here at half-term, though, and we tend to forage for ourselves for breakfast and lunch. So just wander along and help yourselves to whatever you want.’
Arabella’s wandering and foraging had unearthed eggs and bread, and Phin scrambled the eggs while Arabella made toast.
‘Our first breakfast together,’ said Arabella, sitting down at the pine table in the corner of the large kitchen. ‘It’s not quite how I imagined it.’
‘It’s not quite how I imagined it, either,’ said Phin, rather dryly, and forbore to say that his image of the first morning he would spend with Arabella had included details such as a silk-hung bedroom, a balcony looking out onto somewhere like the Aegean Sea or a Florentine fountain where they would eat a hazily romantic breakfast, following on from a hazily romantic night. A school kitchen did not quite match up to that vision. The Black Boar’s chintz and oak-beamed dining room would have been just as good as the silk-hung bedroom, in fact.
Dilys Davy came in as they were finishing the eggs and toast, hunted for wholegrain muesli, helped herself to coffee from the percolator, and sat down to hear Arabella’s plans for the day.
It appeared that these included visiting Olivia Tulliver; ‘Because I ought to see her, and being friendly might help smooth over any angst about Gustav and his opera. Actually, I’ve got an idea that might help her solve this compulsory purchase thing. After that, I’ll head for the printers.’
Drinking his second cup of coffee, Phin suddenly said, ‘Miss Davy—’
‘You don’t need to be so formal.’
‘Dilys, where did the Tulliver Scholarship come from? I mean – when was it created and who set it up? Where did the money come from?’
‘I’m not sure of the precise details,’ said Dilys, adding milk to the muesli. ‘Harriet might know. But I believe it goes back a good couple of hundred years. Some ancestor of Gustav’s set it up – he had an interest in educating people who couldn’t afford to educate themselves. Bit of a philanthropist, I think.’
‘The scholarship sort of evolved over the years,’ said Arabella, eagerly. ‘I read it up when I was nominated. I thought I’d better know as much as I could because I was positive I’d fluff the whole thing and be flung summarily out on my ear. There’s an exam and an interview. That’s the part I wore glasses and pinned up my hair for,’ she added in an aside to Phin.
‘Why an interview? Wasn’t it just on academic prowess?’
‘They like to make sure people awarded the scholarship won’t squander the opportunity,’ said Dilys. ‘If they think there’s any risk of that, they don’t make the offer.’
‘Is there some kind of … of committee or a managing board?’
‘Oh, yes. Some solicitors in Worcester run it these days. I think one or two businessmen or accountants are part of it. And Olivia Tulliver, of course; although what she brings to the table, I can’t imagine. But the deed specifies that someone from the family – preferably bearing the actual name – has a seat on the board.’
‘Might the solicitor agree to see me, do you think? Just to tell me the broad outlines of the scholarship?’
‘He probably wouldn’t tell you much – you know what legal gentlemen are – but I could try to fix something up.’
‘It’s worth trying. Research is full of cul-de-sacs, but you don’t know they’re cul-de-sacs until you’ve actually been along them. Thanks, Dilys.’
After Arabella left to visit Olivia, Phin took Sister Cecilia and The Martyrs with him to the library. He was going to make copious notes from the memoirs, and then to replace Cecilia on her shelf, but for the moment he wanted to finish Gustav’s opera. When he had done all that, he would begin the search for Chimaera. Phin was aware of a twist of excitement at this prospect. He thought the Tulliver Scholarship might provide a starting point for the search. If it had come into existence more than two hundred years ago, its creation could have been before the nuns
and Chimaera left Cresacre. Phin thought he could see that long-ago Tulliver involving local landowners and dignitaries in his educational scheme, and it was not such a great leap of imagination to think that Sir John Chandos might have been one of those landowners. If the dates coincided, Chimaera could have been drawn in. He had held what, in those days, would have been regarded as a menial position at Chandos House, but if Cecilia could be believed, he had been an opera performer, musically knowledgeable, and, of course, fluent in Italian. Had the Tulliver plan included music or the learning of languages?
He had already searched for Chimaera online, but he had not been surprised when there was nothing to be found. The internet was rich with myths and legends about monstrous creatures known as The Chimera or The Chimaera, most of them with astonishing qualities and a habit of breathing fire and mating with unlikely partners. But Phin assumed that the Chimaera who had come to Cresacre had latched on to the other meaning of the word for his pseudonym – the elusive, phantom, difficult-to-pin-down dream aspect. The thought just hovered as to whether it might actually be a real name, but he thought it unlikely.
He took a chair in the deep bay window of the library. It was a bit of an effort to return to the world Gustav Tulliver had created, because it was by no means a well-plotted or particularly imaginative world. But as Phin read, he started to realize that, although it was nearly all bad (no, not bad, he thought, but certainly mediocre and dull), it had remarkable flashes of what might almost be called brilliance. Like sudden blinding zigzags of lightning against a dark sky.
Several times he caught himself thinking that it was almost as if someone else had had a hand in this opera. But who? Olivia? But Olivia could only have been quite a young teenager when Gustav was writing this. Someone at the school, then? Phin toyed briefly with the idea of one of the teachers – Harriet Madeley, even? – being involved, but neither Harriet or Dilys Davy had seemed to have much of an opinion of Gustav, or much musical knowledge either, so he dismissed this as well.
