Halton Cray (Shadows of the World Book 1)

by N. B. Roberts

  Taking the pen, he arranged it under my thumb and spun it over the back of my hand. As the pen moved in the first spin, he turned my wrist gently one way to guide it and quickly back the other to make it roll over my palm, and back again, keeping the balance of the pen. It glided smoothly enough in circular rhythmic movements. It wasn’t as stunning a display as I’d seen him do alone, but it still looked remarkable. Overall, I didn’t feel like the one in control. He caught the pen in his other hand and let mine go.

  ‘Thom, what is it?’

  His head had risen. He stood there motionless, staring straight ahead towards the wall, abstracted, fixated on the nothingness in-between. He stood in front of me, but he was not there. I couldn’t say where he was. His eyes had glazed over, blacker too than ever. It was as if he’d heard something. Though it might be more accurate to say he had sensed something that I had not, and could not. He didn’t stare out the window but I twisted round to see if anyone stood there. I saw nothing. I turned back and Thom was now looking at me.

  ‘You’ll have to excuse me,’ he apologised, pulling away towards the door. ‘I have to be somewhere.’

  He grabbed his coat and raced out. Though he hurried back and walked right up to me, placing his hands either side of me on the desk.

  ‘Stay here, if you like, Alexandra,’ he spoke softly and stared warmly into my eyes. ‘But I can’t say how long I’ll be.’

  He angled his head and brought his face close to mine, before clenching his jaw and leaving the room.

  Fifteen

  THE ATTIC

  ‘Beware!’ spoke the amorous voice to Psyche in the darkness. ‘Beware, my beloved! Seek not to discover my true face or shape, lest thou shalt meet with a very great sorrow. For love cannot dwell where there is no trust.’

  I didn’t wait around. I had to get back to work, principally before Mrs Evans returned from her appointment. It was dark out. I sat at the quiet front desk for half an hour before a cloud of smoke appeared on the pathway. Mrs Evans finished her cigarette before heading to the shop. I paid her no attention because I was absorbed in what I was doing – a new sketch, one of Halton Cray, using a brochure for the basic outline.

  A creak on the stairs made me look up. I couldn’t see anyone there but the wood creaked again. I looked over, but saw nothing. It was only in the reflection of the window, just on the turning of the staircase, that I caught sight of a figure. It was waiting there. I became alarmed and thought of the pregnant-bellied man hanging around in the house again. The figure moved to climb another step, slowly and deliberately. Once I could no longer see him in the glass, I got up for a closer inspection.

  From the first step, I looked up and confirmed it was the stranger with the muddy eyes. He was about to mount the next staircase from the first floor to the second, which was off limits to the public. What was he after? From my sightline below, I noticed he carried something under his long coat. It was a long, possibly curved, suspicious looking implement. In another movement I saw it glimmer. Debating whether to follow him, I decided against it. The idea of being up there alone with him had shivers coursing my spine. I heard him now ascending the top staircase. Perhaps I should let Mrs Evans know so we could go together? Before I turned away, I heard a sudden thump from the top floor, from the attic. Another great thump followed, louder this time. A cracking sound accompanied this, of something solid like timber. It was so loud and deep that I thought the house would shake, or the roof cave in. Then a smash. I saw out the window a waterfall of glass as it descended into the main courtyard. It crashed loudly to the flagstones. I heard words spoken above, one voice so barely I couldn’t be sure it was the American. Then I distinctly heard Thom’s voice retort in a sentence or two, though I had no idea he’d returned. I wasn’t sure what he’d said, but it propelled me up the stairs to see. I’d never been up to the attic on this side of the house before. They were the oldest, nearly five centuries. Even in my early teens I never dared sneak up the top flight, which was roped off. It was just too dark and disturbing.

  It wasn’t quite as I’d imagined, having seen the attic at the other end of the house. This was twice as large, of sepia colouring, and speckled with dust. The stale airless space darkened into blackness not far ahead of me. Sheet-covered furniture stood within a labyrinth of timber beams. The lights being off I saw it only by the courtyard lamp, bleeding an orange glow through the broken window behind me. To my right was a wooden staircase, which I believe led up within the White Tower. The noises continued; the thumps and breaking of wood. I saw figures – silhouettes – clamped together in some scrimmage, hurling furniture about. They were fast. By the looks of it strong. By the sounds of it irate.

  As they fought I beheld something lifted. It shimmered in the darkness, bouncing off whatever light it caught. It was the shape of a crescent moon, held aloft, as if in a night sky. It fell fast as lightning to reap nothing. For a split second the two figures separated and the larger – with rounded belly – fell onto the floor, creating that deep thump. The taller figure, of which I presumed to be Thom’s, then dove violently onto the former. At that moment I heard Mrs Evans bellowing from the ground floor. Her footsteps sounded up the stairs. Instinctively I ran down to meet her, perhaps to stop her witnessing as much as I’d seen. I suppose because she had a bad enough opinion of Thom. I don’t believe she heard what followed from above, on account of at that moment shouting (to Susan I presumed) ‘Call the police!’ repeatedly. But I had distinctly heard fierce growling. By the time I met her on the first floor, the noise from the attic had ceased completely, with the swiftness of turning off a tap. I noticed powder on the floor where the heavy thumps above had caused dust to part from the ceiling.

  Mrs Evans got to my side. ‘What the hell’s going on up there? Do you know who it is?’

  I shook my head, but she didn’t look at me, just hurried past bellowing that Susan was calling the police.

  ‘There’s no need,’ came Thom’s voice from above, his tone incredibly calm. He stood static at the turning on the stair, against the window, as if he’d been standing there all along. His posture was that of guarding something. Mrs Evans stopped still.

  ‘And what can they do anyway?’ he slammed. ‘It was kids! Got up into the attic, made a mess. They smashed a window before I chased them out.’

  ‘No kids passed me!’ she exclaimed. ‘Did you see any kids, Alex?’

  I felt lost as how to answer. Thom was looking at me intently. I noticed a little blood on his lip – was he hurt? He stood with his hands behind his back. Mrs Evans was staring at me, too.

  ‘Yes, they ran downstairs,’ I lied robotically, ‘just before you came up. I just thought they got scared. They must be gone now.’

  I felt shame. Not just for lying, but also because I’m sure she could tell. I knew that whatever had gone on up there, it had been between Thom and the stranger. But what, and why?

  Mrs Evans instinctively leaned over the bannister to look for the kids that never were. In this time I signalled to Thom to wipe his mouth, so that Mrs Evans didn’t see it – because it was hardly likely a child could have bloodied him. Thom wiped his lip, looked at his fingers and back to me awash with dread.

  ‘But I could still hear banging when I came up!’ she insisted.

  ‘Guilty!’ Thom broke in. ‘That was me picking up fallen furniture.’

  She put her hands on her hips. ‘Right, we’ll need security cameras installed.’

  ‘Over my dead body,’ Thom declared fiercely, as he came down a step. ‘If anything there should be a decent guardrail here to replace this rope.’

  ‘I’m going to report it anyway, Thomas. The police can search the house in case any kids are still–’

  ‘I’ve already checked,’ he interrupted. ‘Anything more is a waste of time. If you’re going to report it to anyone it should be to the estate manager – much use even that would do – for insurance purposes.’

  ‘I’d better assess the damage first.’
She passed me and mounted the stairs. Thom didn’t move and she hesitated at passing him, despite there being room.

  ‘Mrs Evans,’ he attempted a lighter tone, ‘I’m in no humour to have anyone tell me my job, just as you would likely object to being reminded of yours. Now, there’s broken glass, upended furniture, and the lights aren’t working up there. You could get hurt.’

  From her face, she seemed to take this as a kind of threat. Though Thom on saying it produced one of his hands to show he’d cut himself on something. A deal of thick blood ran across his knuckles and dripped off his little finger onto the stair runner.

  Mrs Evans began believing him.

  ‘Could it be the same kids I told off for luring the geese into the courtyard?’ she muttered to me. ‘But that was a while ago!’ She shook her head and looked back to Thom. I saw that new idea exit her mind and the original re-establish itself there.

  ‘I’ve already started cleaning up,’ he said to her, noticing this change in her expression. ‘So it makes sense that I continue. They stole nothing and are gone now, but broken glass litters the courtyard.’

  Mrs Evans huffed loudly. She took a deep breath and hurried past Thom, avoiding physical contact as much as possible. Thom turned and followed her up without a glance at me.

  ‘Alex!’ she shouted back. ‘Follow me! There must be a flashlight around here somewhere?’

  There wasn’t and Mrs Evans complained ‘She couldn’t see a thing’ just as she was warned.

  I anticipated many of the would-be responses from Thom, but he was remarkably quiet. He followed her every step to the exact across the attic floor, as if it was a minefield to which only she knew the layout.

  She looked round what she declared to be a dresser, then an old bathtub, and an overturned wardrobe, before uncovering chairs, wooden units, and so on, finding nothing to keep her much longer. It was a graveyard up there. Once she caught a glimpse of the broken window she announced going down to clear the courtyard.

  Thom followed her until she descended the stairs. He waited at the top for me to follow, but wouldn’t look at me. I didn’t move for the time being. I was trying to make out the dark space where I’d seen them fighting. It was useless with no light and I could see nothing there now.

  ‘Are you badly hurt?’ I whispered.

  ‘Not in the least,’ he said lugubriously, with his head bent down.

  ‘And is he badly hurt?’

  ‘He whom?’ he bit, wrinkling his nose.

  ‘The man you were fighting with!’

  He shook his head and descended the stairs quickly to avoid quarrelling with me, and probably as an indication for me to leave the attic. I scoped the room once more, and, seeing nothing, left.

  It felt like a long while I’d been sitting back at my desk with these events replaying in my head. Not a sound could I hear from two floors above. I knew Thom must be up in the attic, doing whatever he needed to do without anybody’s interference. I knew very well that he could get by in the dark, or at least, he knew familiar places well enough.

  Mrs Evans was back and forth, from kitchen to courtyard, clearing up, but mainly gossiping with anyone she met along the way. Each time I heard the story related she’d added a new suspicion or attraction to it. I knew that in her eyes I was in league with Thom; and I suppose, in a sense, she was right.

  I laid awake most of the night for thinking it all over. It would be impossible to speak to Thom again without throwing some questions his way. I needed answers.

  On my next shift I sat at the front desk unable to keep still, undecided on what exactly I would ask him. I didn’t set off to find him – I didn’t venture near the attic. I just wanted to wander and distract myself from the mounting questions. It seemed ridiculous to suspect that a murder or something serious had taken place upstairs, under our very noses. It was more likely I had invented seeing any fight at all, taking into account I knew of no motive and it was so dark up there. But I was still going to ask him of it, if opportunity presented itself.

  I walked down the corridor on the eastside of the courtyard, farthest from the gift shop and Thom’s office. I wandered into the West Gallery, which was situated in the South East Wing. It was a large oddly shaped room and very unlike the other galleries. Each of its main four walls were painted in different shades: white, red, black, and an almost sickly pale green. It held a mixture of replica and authentic antique weaponry, including a great sword and a bow, as well as a large pair of weighing scales on the farthest table. This held imitated old coins, such as crowns and shillings. A beautiful painting on one wall depicted Cupid resurrecting his mortal wife.

  Perhaps it was just by chance that Thom was also in here, fixing something heavy to the wall. It was a scythe, made of a dark wood. Its blade more curved than is regularly seen, almost like that of a sickle. It resembled a crescent moon. I guessed that this was the missing artefact now miraculously found, just as I guessed I’d seen that blade before. Thom’s dark grey shirt, I noticed, highlighted the pallor of his skin.

  I made no sound upon entering the room, but without turning to look at me –

  ‘Would you mind handing me those loose screws on the table?’

  They were within his reach, but I went and picked them up anyway, passing them to him and saying nothing.

  ‘I barely heard you enter the room, Cassandra. Are you shod with velvet, you spy!’ He took the screws from my hand, smiling. It was clearly his way of making peace with me.

  I was about to say, ‘now it’s my turn to ask how your hand is?’ yet I could see it clearly from here. It looked healed beyond recognition. He didn’t look as though he’d been in a fight at all. So instead, I blurted out, ‘So this was the missing scythe?’

  ‘So this was the missing scythe, sir,’ he repeated triumphantly.

  I had forgotten all about our bet. I wasn’t in the mood for this now, but no doubt I’d live to regret it if I didn’t get it over with.

  ‘Very well, sir, that’s what I asked.’

  ‘The very one.’

  He fixed the last screws into the brackets to hold the thing up.

  ‘Where was it, in the attic?’ I was sarcastic; the loss of the bet – no, the forfeit itself gave me nerve to be so.

  He made no reply to this, just as I expected. I now had the greatest opportunity to get as much pleasure from teasing him as he’d gotten from me over months past. Adopting a casual tone, I went on –

  ‘How’d it get up there do you think? Oh, by some ghost of the Cray I presume?’ – I saw the side of his face rise to evince a smirk as he dismounted the ladder. – ‘Because it couldn’t have been kids could it, sir? You know, I never saw anyone running out of here.’

  ‘Then why did you say you did?’

  ‘I thought you wanted me to.’

  ‘Why would you think that?’ He turned around but didn’t make eye contact, keeping his eyes low.

  I shrugged.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said uneasy, in a sort of whisper. ‘It saved a lot of nonsense from the old woman.’

  Since he said this sincerely, I continued in a serious tone –

  ‘You know, there’s an American guy who’s been hanging around the Cray lately. A creepy looking, rather well fed man. I saw him go up into the attic that evening, just before I came up myself and Mrs Evans followed. He was carrying something, and now I have seen it, it could have easily been that scythe.’

  ‘How remarkably something becomes a scythe!’ He looked me full in the face. ‘What a vivid imagination you have! – Excuse me, Officer! But I have just seen a man going into the bank with something under his arm, and I suppose it could’ve been a gun!’

  I sighed irritably.

  ‘So you’re sure about that then?’ he pursued.

  ‘Of course I am. And I’m sure I didn’t see him leave either.’

  ‘It seems I’m being interrogated! Would you like me to sit down for this?’

  ‘I’d like you to tell me the truth.’
/>
  ‘And you think you can deal with it?’

  ‘I already know he was up there with you, Thom! I saw you fighting wi–’

  ‘You must have excellent night vision, Cassandra!’

  ‘I heard a man’s voice up there, which wasn’t yours.’

  ‘I suppose I may have cursed when I cut my hand on some broken furniture. Perhaps my voice changed with sudden pain – will that do?’

  I shook my head resolutely. I knew this strategy; the best defence is attack.

  ‘There were two people up there, Thom. One of them was you. The other I’m convinced was the same strange man I’ve seen around here lately. I saw him go up there. You know I did! Look, if he was brandishing that scythe as a weapon then I’m sure you had good reason to defend yourself. I just don’t see why you can’t say so. I also saw him fall in the attic, and I heard it. Everybody did!’

  He edged towards me.

  ‘What do you think, I’ve killed someone and stowed the body away in the attic? That I’ve committed a murder, concealed it in front of you and in earshot of Mrs Evans? Isn’t it more likely you’ve added up two and two and come up with five? In a place like this, Cassandra, I can’t blame you. It’s a strange old house. It plays with the mind! And your mind is quite special, my sweet– sweet natured anomaly! I wouldn’t be surprised it’s conjured up these imaginings as reality! But if it takes a tour of the attic to satisfy you then let’s go?’ He looked over my face. ‘No, of course not! I’d have already taken the body outside, in the dead of night, and buried it somewhere safe. I did it the moment everyone left the grounds!’ He huffed a laugh.

  ‘But I bet I’ll never see him around again, will I? And that would be weird, wouldn’t it? It would confirm what you’ve just joked about to be nearer the truth!’

  He looked thoughtful. I wondered in that second if he thought me brave or stupid to be asking him straight out.