by Ben Cheetham
“Jumped,” corrected Ella. “She didn’t fall. Something in this house scared her so badly that she threw herself off those cliffs.”
Adam shook his head. “You don’t get it, do you? Nothing in this house scared her. She scared herself with a load of crap about rituals and demons.” A hitch of pain came into his voice. “And do you know why? Because it’s easier to believe in that stuff than to accept the truth that this–” he gestured at their surroundings, “what we can see and touch – this is all there is.”
Adam and Ella stared at each other for a moment. Tears trembled on both their eyelids. Ella gestured towards the front door. “You’d better get going.”
“I’ll be back as soon as I can and we can talk about…” Leaving. Adam couldn’t bring himself to say the word. The thought that by tonight they could be back in London lay like a lead weight in his stomach.
He headed down to the cliffs, this time going via the back gate whose frame was cracked and splintered from being jimmied open. He peered into the windswept chasm again. Pink fingers of dawn were creeping through the rock arch. His stomach clenched as he spotted a body spread-eagled across a boulder just beyond the reach of the waves. Faith’s limbs were bent at unnatural angles with bones protruding through the skin like broken sticks. Her skull was split open like a smashed egg. Blood masked her face. He swallowed hard, holding back nausea.
So much blood…
A dot appeared in the sky to the north, rapidly growing into a fat-bellied red-and-white Coastguard helicopter. He waved to it and pointed out the body. As a coastguard was lowered into Satan’s Saucepan on a winch cable, Adam turned away with relief and made his way towards the house.
One of the policemen who’d attended the break-in was coming the other way. “They’d better work fast,” he commented, looking at the helicopter then out to sea. “Weather forecast says there’s a fog bank moving in.”
Several police cars were parked in the driveway. Constables were milling around as if awaiting instructions. Ella was giving yet another statement in the kitchen. Henry was on her lap, head resting against her shoulder, eyes shut.
“I found Faith,” said Adam, dropping wearily onto a chair.
“Is she alive?” Ella asked without much hope.
“No.”
She lowered her eyes. Adam laid his hand on hers.
A dark-haired, forty-something woman in a suit that matched her Celtic blue eyes entered the kitchen. She glanced at Henry and introduced herself in a hushed voice, “I’m Detective Sergeant Penny Holman.”
“No need to whisper,” said Ella. “He’s spark out.”
Penny showed them a mugshot of a grim-faced girl. “Is this the woman who broke into your house?”
“Yes,” answered Ella.
Adam stared at the photo. When the sergeant repeated her question, he blinked and said, “That’s her.”
“Her name’s Faith Gooden,” said Penny. “She was twenty-one-years old and lived in Newquay.”
“Twenty-one,” Ella repeated with a shake of her head.
“I’d like your permission to do a forensic sweep of the property. I’d also like to take DNA swabs and scrapings from under your fingernails.”
Adam frowned. “Are we under some kind of suspicion?”
“Absolutely not,” said Penny. “It’s just procedure. From what I’ve read about Miss Gooden, I’d say the injuries you described were in all likelihood self-inflicted. She was a very troubled young woman.”
Adam threw Ella a See, I told you so look, before asking the sergeant, “Troubled how?”
“Her parents died in a car crash in...” Penny consulted a notebook, “2007. Faith was put into foster care. In 2013 she was arrested for using heroin. She spent a year in a juvenile detention centre, during which time she self-harmed and attempted suicide.”
Adam and Ella exchanged a sad glance at this brief tragic life story.
“Could you show me where you first saw Faith,” said Penny.
Adam took her to The Lewarne Room. Penny gave a little shudder at the cherubic baby being murdered in its mother’s arms. “It sends a chill through you to look at it, doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” agreed Adam, staring at the painting, his overwrought eyes taking in every detail as if for the first time – the mother’s knotted forehead, her helpless expression, the dagger piercing the child’s throat, the murderer’s grimly determined face. Perhaps as a small act of mercy, the murderer’s hand was covering the baby’s eyes. The knife wound was strangely bloodless. Adam knew only too well that in reality there would be streams of blood, spilling out faster than hands could stop it. His gaze moved to the words carved over the fireplace – ‘THEY ARE NO MORE’. A small sob forced its way out of him.
“Are you OK?” asked Penny.
Adam nodded. “It’s been a difficult night.”
The sergeant looked at him intently. “When I showed you the photo of Faith you seemed thrown by it.”
Something about the photo had bothered Adam, but he couldn’t nail down what it was. “It took me a moment to recognise her, that’s all.”
Penny peered through the secret panel. “I understand my colleagues already searched these passageways.”
“Twice.”
“Then Faith must have been hiding somewhere else. I’m told you don’t have access to the tower?”
“That’s right. The door’s locked. I don’t have the key.”
“Is there a basement?”
“No.”
Penny cocked an ear towards the tiled floor. “Is that water I can hear?” She dropped to her haunches and pressed a hand to the floor. “These tiles are really cold. Are you certain there isn’t a basement?”
Adam felt a sudden proprietorial protectiveness towards the house. Yes, a woman was dead, but that didn’t give the police the right to pry into the old place’s secrets. Next thing they would be pulling up floors and knocking holes in walls. Maybe they’d even force entry to the tower. Booted feet tramping up to the top of the tower could put the entire house at risk. “You should speak to Rozen Trehearne or her solicitor Niall Mabyn. They know a lot more about this house than I do.”
They returned to the kitchen. “I’m afraid you’ll have to stay in here until Forensics have completed their sweep,” Penny informed them.
When the sergeant left the room, Ella asked Adam, “So what do you want to do?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know full well what I mean. Are we going back to London?”
Adam’s gaze strayed out of the window to the garden and the sea. How could he leave all this behind? “The newspaper said this place was too good to be true. And it was right.”
Ella released a relieved breath. “Thank god you’ve seen sense. As soon as the police are finished, we’ll start packing.”
Adam shook his head. “You misunderstand me, Ella. I’m not saying I want to leave. I’m saying that if you want something good you have to fight for it.”
Ella frowned, but before she could make a reply a Forensic officer entered the kitchen. The officer ran a cotton-wool bud around the inside of Adam’s mouth, sealed it in a plastic tube, then took some scrapings from under his nails. When it was Ella’s turn, Henry stirred and let out a low moan. Ella shushed him.
“How much longer will you lot be here?” Adam asked the officer.
“We’ll be a while yet.”
“Can I take my son up to his bed?”
“I’ll find out for you.”
The officer left and Ella said, “I don’t want Henry up there alone.”
“He’ll be fine. The police–”
Ella cut Adam off with a shake of her head. “There’s nothing the police can do that will convince me we’re safe in this house.” Her voice took on an imploring tone. “There’s something going on in this place... Something... I don’t know what, but we’d be stupid to stay here. Surely you see that, Adam?”
“What I see is that we’d be giving up a cha
nce at a real future because of a girl who was mentally ill long before she came here.”
The Forensic officer poked his head back into the kitchen and told them it was OK to take Henry to his room. Adam made to lift Henry off Ella’s lap. She tightened her grip on him. They eyeballed each other over their son. With a little wrench, Adam prised Henry free.
“Adam,” Ella hissed as he turned away.
Without looking at her, he headed for the stairs. He paused on the landing as a sound as deep as a whale’s mating call resonated through the windows. Several miles out to sea the newborn sun was being extinguished by a bank of pea-soup fog. In the bedroom, as he tucked the duvet around Henry, the horn blared its doleful warning again. Henry opened his eyes. They looked almost black in the gloom. The realisation of what had bothered Adam about Faith’s photo stiffened him like a cold wind. Her eyes were blue. The eyes in the painting had been dark brown. At least, that was how they’d appeared. It could have been a trick of the shadows.
Comforted by the sight of his dad, Henry slid back into sleep. Adam leaned in, studying every curve, crease and freckle of his son’s face. So beautiful. If any harm came to him… He shook his head. No harm will come to him because you won’t let it. You’re going to find out what’s going on in this house and sort it out once and for all. He kissed Henry’s forehead and straightened to leave.
Catching sight of himself in the mirror, he huffed out an annoyed breath. Someone had moved the sodding wardrobe again. Had it been like that before the police came? As he pushed it back across the mirror, Rozen’s voice seemed to echo in his ears – When you get back to the house look in all the mirrors. Look as closely as you can. He frowned in thought. The cryptic remark held some deeper meaning. He knew Rozen well enough by now to be sure of that. But he’d looked in every mirror in the house and seen nothing out of the ordinary. The lines on his forehead sharpened. No, he hadn’t looked in every mirror.
Leaving the bedroom door ajar, he returned downstairs and entered The Lewarne Room. He scrutinised the photo of Walter, looking past the industrialist’s disgusted face into the tall arched mirror. It reflected a wall of large stone blocks. His finger traced a thin, dark line down the wall. Was that a crack?
He glanced towards the spidery crack in the external wall. Was it a continuation of the one in the photo? He lit a candelabrum, ducked into the secret passageway and descended to the damp, mossy corridor that passed under the entrance hall. He examined the granite block wall. The blocks looked to be about the same dimensions as those in the photo. Was the arched mirror on the other side of them?
He went up to the entrance hall, rummaged through his coat pockets and found what he was looking for – a beermat with an address and telephone number written on it. He turned to the front door.
“Where are you going?” asked Ella, appearing from the direction of the kitchen.
“To speak to someone.”
“Who? Rozen?”
“I won’t be long,” Adam replied evasively.
“What if Henry and I aren’t here when you get back?”
He glanced at Ella, his eyes half-apologetic, half-imploring. “Just give me a couple of hours.”
Chapter 25
Drizzle dampened Adam’s face as he hurried to the car. He started the engine and manoeuvred past the police vehicles. The helicopter was gone. The fog bank was a mile or so out to sea, advancing steadily. It seemed that the coastguard had beaten the fog to Faith’s body. Unease lined his forehead. What answers – if any – would the body give up?
Adam followed the winding lane down into Treworder. A fishing-boat was swaying shoreward over choppy waves. Heavy steel links clanked as a tractor hauled a boat up onto the shingles at the back of the beach. He pulled over outside a small bungalow perched on the valley side high above Rozen’s cottage. A gusting wind ruffled his hair as he knocked on its door. It was opened by a bleary-eyed, unshaven figure in a tartan dressing gown and slippers. The sleepiness departed Doug Blackwood’s eyes at the sight of Adam.
“Mr Piper. What can I do for you?”
“Sorry if I woke you,” said Adam. “I’d like to speak with you about Fenton House.”
“Oh.” The surprise in Doug’s voice was supplanted by an eager, “Come in, come in.”
He ushered Adam to an armchair in a little living room. A coffee-table was cluttered with the familiar detritus of a writer’s workplace – laptop, coffee-stained mugs, scribbled notes, an empty wine glass, an overflowing ashtray. Doug swished open the curtains, revealing the blue half-moon of Treworder cove and a view, partially obscured by bushes and trees, of Fenton House. Satan’s Saucepan was disappearing into fog. “Tea? Coffee?”
“No thanks.”
“It’s no bother. I’m making coffee. I had a late session last night.” Doug peered over his glasses at Adam. “Looks like you did too.”
Adam confirmed the observation with a heavy sigh. “OK, I’ll have a coffee.”
Doug went back into the hallway. He returned with two mugs and handed one to Adam. He seated himself on a shabby sofa and lit a cigarette. Settling back, he puffed on his cigarette and waited for Adam to speak.
Now it came to it, Adam found once again that he was reluctant to talk about Fenton House. If Rozen or Mr Mabyn caught wind of him having spoken to Doug, it could render moot any decision about whether or not to remain living there. “You have to promise not to put what I tell you into your book.”
“I’m not sure I can promise that.”
“My family and I could get kicked out of our home.”
“You said you’re not permitted to allow anyone like me into Fenton House, not that you can’t speak about it.”
Adam gave a flick of his hand as if to say, What’s the difference?
“If I’m reading this rightly, you’re here because something out of the ordinary has happened and you want my advice,” said Doug.
Adam nodded cagily.
“Well I’d have to be a real bastard to exploit a fellow writer in need,” continued Doug. “So how about this? You can read my manuscript before I send it to my publisher, and if there’s anything in there that could get you in trouble I’ll remove it. Does that put your mind at rest?”
“Not entirely, but it doesn’t make any difference,” admitted Adam. “I need to find out what the deal is with that house and you’re the only person I can think of who’ll give me a straight answer.”
“I’ll do my best. I’ve dug up a lot about Fenton House, but obviously I’m limited by lack of access to the house itself.”
Doug took a drag on his cigarette, looking expectantly at Adam. Adam puffed his cheeks as if unsure where to begin. He’d only intended to talk about Faith, but when he opened his mouth he found himself giving Doug a play-by-play account of everything unusual that had happened since moving into Fenton House. It felt good to get it all out, especially the shame he felt for suspecting Henry of killing the robin. The only thing he didn’t mention was Jacob. His tongue diverted around his dead son as automatically as water flowing around a rock.
Doug broke in several times, digging for details – particularly about The Lewarne Room and the secret passageways.
When the story reached the present moment, Adam fell silent and waited half-expectantly, half-anxiously for Doug to speak.
Doug stubbed out his cigarette and lit another. “I was a psychologist for twenty-one-years before I…” he paused for the right phrase, “fell from the true faith. I’m going to speak to you as a psychologist first, then as a parapsychologist. You’ve told me a lot, but not everything. You and your son are clearly carrying a heavy burden.”
Adam grimaced, his gaze falling away from Doug. “Henry had a twin brother – Jacob…” His voice faltered. He cleared his throat and, struggling to keep tears out of his eyes, he told Doug about the accident.
Doug nodded as if he’d expected to hear some such thing. “You blame yourself of course. But part of you also blames Henry.”
“
That’s not true,” Adam said vehemently.
“Yes it is.” There was no judgement in Doug’s tone. It was a simple statement of fact.
“I...” Adam trailed off, hanging his head as he recalled Ella’s angry response to his manuscript – The boy’s the killer, isn’t he? The boy who just happens to have curly hair and freckles like Henry.
“What you’re feeling is completely normal. Over the years, I saw numerous patients who were struggling with similar feelings.”
Adam raised his eyes hopefully. “And how did they get past those feelings?”
“Some of them never did. Others came to an acceptance that sometimes terrible things happen that are no one’s fault and there’s nothing we can do about it except try to move on.”
“That’s why we came here. To move on.”
“It’s not a matter of geography. You can’t run away from what’s in here.” Doug touched his temple.
“So what do I do?”
“You talk to your wife and son as openly as possible.”
Deep furrows formed on Adam’s forehead. “How do I tell my son that part of me blames him for his brother’s death?”
“I know it’s hard, Adam, but if you don’t confront this it will eat away at you for the rest of your life. Neither you nor your family will ever find real happiness. Not here. Not in London. Not anywhere.”
Both men were silent for an extended moment. Adam’s face twitched with uncertainty, then he gave a sudden nod. “I’ll do it.” His voice was tense with resolve. “Even if it breaks apart my family, I’ve got to try.”
“There’s always that risk, but I don’t think it’ll happen. It’s clear you love your family. And as my mum used to say, love finds a way of getting us through.”
“Love finds a way,” Adam repeated to himself.
“OK. I’ve spoken to you as a psychologist. Now comes the part where I speak to you as a parapsychologist.” Doug leaned forwards. A sudden intensity came into his voice. “I advise you to go back to Fenton House, pack your belongings and leave there today.”
