“We need to find out who he…it…is,” she said, at last.
“I think I may know the answer to that,” Paula said.
A loud crash echoed from the kitchen.
“What the hell?” Paula raced out of the dining room, closely followed by Dee.
At first, it seemed everything was in order. No broken glass or plates. No upturned drawers.
“Over here,” Dee called. She stood in front of the basement door. “You’re not going to believe this.”
Paula started toward her and gasped. A massive gash ran from top to bottom of the door, as if someone had taken an ax to it. From the other side.
“What the…?” Paula stared at it.
Dee whispered, “Have you seen the padlocks?”
Paula hadn’t at first, because they weren’t where they should have been. Then she saw them. Side by side on the floor. Unlocked.
“I think something wants us to open that door,” Dee said.
“And all of a sudden, I really don’t want to.”
“Looks like we don’t have much of a choice.”
Paula grabbed her sister’s hand as, by itself, the door unlatched and started to creak open on hinges that sounded as if they hadn’t been used in decades.
A smell of decay and stale air hit them.
Dee whispered, “Dear God, how can that happen?”
Paula could only stare. At a 45-degree angle, the door stopped moving.
Dee nudged Paula. “What do we do now?”
“I say we go in there, but not unarmed.”
“You’re kidding me, right?”
“Dee, I can’t let this go. I have to find out why the count locked the basement up like this in the first place.”
Dee stared at her. “Aren’t you the least bit scared?”
Paula laughed. “Scared? I’m bloody terrified. Now, are you with me or not?”
“I’m certainly not letting you go in there alone. But what the fuck do you arm yourself with when your opponent isn’t…tangible?”
“I have no idea, but a couple of flashlights wouldn’t go amiss. If there’s any electricity down there, it’s probably ancient.” Paula opened cupboard doors until she found what she needed. A small collection of flashlights of different sizes had been stacked on the bottom shelf. She selected the two largest and handed one to Dee. They switched the beams on.
“At least the batteries are still working,” Paula said.
“For now, anyway. So what do we arm ourselves with? A rolling pin?”
“At least we’d be prepared if we ran into any rats or cockroaches or something.” She grabbed a heavy marble rolling pin out of one of the drawers.
Dee laughed a little too hysterically.
“What’s so funny?”
“You, brandishing that thing.”
Paula rummaged through the knife drawer and drew out a vicious-looking meat cleaver. “Your choice. Pin or cleaver, which do you want?”
Dee stared disbelievingly at her sister. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“Never more so. Rolling pin or cleaver.”
“I’ll take the rolling pin. I could probably bash something, but I don’t think I could chop it up.”
Paula moistened her dry lips. “Okay, let’s do this.”
She pushed the door open sufficiently to let them in, and switched on her flashlight. Dee followed her, and their twin beams swept around the bare, grubby walls.
“That smell…” Paula wrinkled her nose against the sickly, dank stench and breathed through her mouth. Her beam picked up an old-fashioned light switch. She turned it twice. Nothing happened. “Wires have probably corroded, or the bulb’s had it,” she said.
A steep staircase led down into the darkness. “This is it. Let’s go.” Paula grabbed the handrail and began her descent, closely followed by her sister.
At the bottom, their footsteps echoed off the walls. The smell grew stronger. A mixture of rotting vegetation and the sickly sweetness of lilies, mingled with the stench of something long dead and forgotten.
Dee whispered in Paula’s ear. “I really don’t like this. Let’s go back.”
“No, we’ve got to see what’s down here.” They shone their beams around a room. Copper pans hung on the walls, an old range took up half of one side of the kitchen, and a scrubbed pine table formed the centerpiece. “Let’s keep going,” Paula said.
They made their way out through an open door, along a narrow corridor, past a room that still contained a collection of dusty wine bottles on racks. Paula’s flashlight picked up a closed door directly ahead. When she reached it, she turned the handle and the door opened, as if it had been used regularly.
Dee tugged her arm. “There’s something very wrong here, can’t you feel it?”
“Yes,” Paula said. “That’s why we have to do this.”
Inside the room, the smell of rot almost overpowered them. Paula and Dee gagged. “God, that’s disgusting,” Paula said. “What the hell is this place?”
They shone their flashlights around and Dee gasped. “The walls. They’re covered in blood.”
Paula peered more closely. “Possibly. Maybe red paint. I think it’s a bit too bright for dried blood. They’re hieroglyphics, or at least they look like them.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a movement. An indistinct shadow flashed across the wall. Her heart thumping, she nudged Dee. “Did you see that?”
“What?”
“I don’t know what it was, but I don’t think we’re alone.”
“Oh, Paula, let’s go. I’m going to throw up in a minute, I can feel it. The stench and this atmosphere…”
“I’m certain there’s something down here. It may be important. If we could just get to the bottom of why that door managed to open itself… Maybe something is trying to help us.”
“By scaring us half to death?”
Paula couldn’t think of a suitable reply. She flashed her beam around, picking up broken furniture and other debris. “There’s nothing.” She shone her flashlight farther to the left, illuminating a small portrait. “Wow, look at this,” she said.
Dee joined her.
Paula moved in front of the picture and shone her flashlight on the profile of the woman. “She looks like Cleopatra. Or pictures I’ve seen of her, anyway. The eye makeup and the black, braided hair. Different to the one upstairs, though. If anything, this one looks more alive. She shone the beam around the edge of the figure. “It’s got to be another Klimt with all that gold. There should be a signature.” She peered closer. “There it is. Gustav Klimt. But why would someone keep a Klimt original locked away down here?
Dee shook her head. “I don’t know and, frankly, right now, I don’t care. Let’s get out of here.”
Paula ignored her. She had spotted something else. “Looks like someone’s had a fire here at some time. Look at the ashes.”
The beam picked up an untidy heap of gray ash scattered across the floor under the portrait.
“Paula, please. This place is giving me the creeps. Let’s go. You’ve seen what’s down here. I need a drink.”
Paula nodded. She reached up for the portrait and wrenched it off its hook.
“Whatever are you doing? That’s not yours to take.”
“I’m not taking it. Not stealing it. I’m sure the family must have forgotten it’s down here. I’ll take it up to the library. It’ll look great in there. It’s far too beautiful to hide away down here.”
“I don’t think you should move it.”
“Why not?”
Dee shivered. “I don’t know. It bothers me.”
Paula laughed. “It’s a painting, Dee. And I thought you were the skeptical one.”
“I used to be. Not anymore. Not since I came to this house. Don’t forget the
painting in the library. Only we see the girl holding a dagger. There’s something wrong there, and I get a similar feeling about this one.”
“Okay, I admit I can’t explain that. Yet. But this is a valuable Klimt portrait and I would guess, given the subject matter, our old friend Emeryk Quintillus commissioned it. It deserves to hang where it can be admired. I can’t stand for art of such quality to be hidden from view.”
“Even if it’s evil?” Dee shuddered. “Didn’t you feel that?”
“Feel what?”
“When you said his name. A cold…not exactly a draft. More like extreme cold. It touched my arm. Icy cold.”
Paula touched her sister’s arm, surprised to find a patch so cold, it felt as if an ice pack had been applied to it.
Another shadow flitted across her line of vision. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled. Thankfully, it didn’t appear Dee had seen it. Her sister was jumpy enough for both of them as it was.
“You’re right,” Paula said, keeping her voice steady. “Let’s take this and go. I think we’ve seen all there is to see and we’re still none the wiser.”
Paula tucked the painting under her arm and the two of them retraced their steps back up to the kitchen. Once Dee had come through the door, Paula shut it. “Will you look at that?” She pointed to the door. “Not a mark on it now. Did we imagine that huge gash?”
Dee shook her head. “No, it was there all right.”
Paula heard a click and tried the handle. “It’s locked from the inside. Don’t ask. I can’t explain that, either.”
Dee pointed to the painting, still tucked under Paula’s arm. “I wish you hadn’t brought that up.”
“Don’t be daft. Let’s have a proper look at it. She laid down the flashlight and the cleaver and placed the portrait on the kitchen table. In the bright fluorescent kitchen light, the colors were revealed in all their vivid freshness.
Dee touched it and immediately withdrew her hand. “Weird texture. Not like oil paint. It’s grainy, powdery even. Has any of it come off on you?”
Paula examined her sleeve. “No. It can’t still be wet. Not after all these years. Maybe it’s the damp down there.”
“Maybe.”
Paula touched the surface. Dee was right. Not a pleasant experience. Grainy, powdery and almost sticky, except that nothing actually rubbed off.
“I’ll get a picture hook and hang it now. You fix us another couple of drinks.”
Paula watched as Dee seemed to drag her heels to the dining room. In all the years she had known her, Paula could not remember one time Dee had been this anxious. She was normally so practical, down-to-earth, nothing fazed her. This house had really affected her.
Paula opened a drawer she knew contained various tools, nails, screws, and a small hammer. She found what she needed. A packet of picture hooks lay among the detritus that had accumulated there.
She picked up the painting, picture hook and hammer. Dee emerged with a bottle of cognac and two glasses and followed her sister into the library.
“Here, I think,” Paula said.
Dee stared up at the ceiling painting. “That dagger looks brighter today,” she said, her voice not much more than a whisper.
Paula paused in the act of hammering in the picture hook and joined her.
“Surely her hand wasn’t raised like that?” Paula wished she hadn’t spoken her thoughts out loud. Dee would be bound to be even more unnerved.
“She looks like she’s ready to strike. To kill someone. Cleopatra maybe.” She stepped back and looked away. “Paula, this house…it’s not right.”
“I think we’re letting our imaginations run riot.”
“Oh? Just how much of this has been our imagination and how much actually happened? The gashed door? The open padlocks? The stench? This…” She jabbed her finger up at the painting. “You say everyone else sees her clutching at reeds. Photographs show her clutching at reeds, even when we’re staring at that fucking dagger.”
Her voice grew higher until hysteria set in. Tears streamed down Dee’s face. Shocked, Paula lay down the hammer and rushed to comfort her. “Come on, sit down, have some more brandy.” Dee allowed herself to be steered toward an armchair. She sat on the edge and Paula placed a glass, lavishly charged with Courvoisier, into her trembling hands. She guided it up to her sister’s lips and Dee took a large gulp, coughing as it burned her throat. She took another sip. Gradually the trembling ceased.
“Sorry,” she said. “I don’t know what came over me.”
“Don’t apologize. It’s everything that’s been happening.”
“I don’t know how you can remain so calm.”
“I’m not, but I’m your big sister, aren’t I? Not allowed to fall apart.”
Dee managed a wobbly smile. It left her face almost as soon as it had arrived. “You’re not going to stay here, are you? I mean, when Phil gets back. Before, maybe. You’ll find somewhere else to live? Somewhere…safer?”
Paula hammered the picture hook in and picked up the painting before replying, “That’s not so easy, I’m afraid. We signed a three-year lease.”
“Surely you could get out of it in the circumstances.”
“What circumstances? I can see the look on that smarmy estate agent’s face when I tell him, ‘Sorry Stefan, the place is haunted, we have to leave and terminate our lease forthwith.’ He’s going to love that.”
“But this house…”
Paula positioned the portrait on its new hook and stepped back. “There. That looks gorgeous.”
“Gives me the creeps. Her expression.”
“You can only see half of it. She’s in profile.”
“Even so. It doesn’t take a great deal of imagination to picture the rest of her face.”
“Maybe you should take up painting, too.” Paula changed the subject. “Tomorrow, let’s go round the Schönbrunn Palace. I’ve heard it’s amazing.”
Dee nodded, slowly. “Anything to get out of this house.” She held out her glass and Paula poured more brandy.
“That figure I saw,” Dee said.
“Yes?”
“I’m sure he’s at the heart of this. We’re slap-bang in the middle of something that’s as much a part of this house as the bricks and mortar.”
“Maybe.”
“It’s got to be Quintillus, hasn’t it? Oh God, there it is again.” She rubbed her arm.
“What?”
“Like cold fingers gripping my arm.”
“I don’t feel anything.”
“It’s the same feeling I got in the basement. And you’d just said his name then.”
Paula touched Dee’s arm, but unlike earlier, it felt warm. Normal. She shook her head.
“Look, I’m telling you. Something just grabbed my arm.”
“I don’t disbelieve you, Dee. Honestly I don’t. Some crazy stuff is happening.”
“We need to find out more about him.”
“Don’t think I haven’t tried. There’s total Internet silence on him. It’s as if he never existed.”
“But we know he did. We know he worked at Oxford University, and we know approximately when. They’re bound to have records.”
“We only know through hearsay and local legend but, yes, it’s not a bad place to start. Not tonight though, please. It’s been quite a day. Tomorrow, before we go out, I’ll find an email address.”
A thump sounded from the upper level of the library. Dee and Paula jumped.
“What the hell was that?” Dee asked.
Paula raced over to the spiral staircase. She made her way carefully up it. Once at the top, she saw a large leather-bound volume lying haphazardly on the walkway. She made her way toward it and bent to pick up the book, which had fallen open on a new chapter heading—“Arsinoe.” Keeping her finger in the page, Paul
a turned it so that the spine faced her.
Dee called from below. “What is it?”
“Lives of the Ptolemies, by Professor Jakob Mayer. That’s the same name as on that note I showed you. The one addressed to Adeline.” Paula brought the book downstairs. She showed Dee where it had fallen open.
“She keeps turning up, doesn’t she?” Paula said.
Dee made a harrumphing noise. “Are you going to tell me it was just coincidence that this book should fall off the shelf at that moment?”
Paula didn’t reply. She had turned to the frontispiece. “Professor Jakob Mayer was at the University of London. This book was published in 1903, and if the local gossip has any basis in truth, this makes him a contemporary of…” Paula didn’t say his name. It clearly affected Dee. “Our friend.”
“He’d be long dead now, though.”
Paula nodded. “But maybe there’s a link there somewhere. I’ll mention him in my email. Perhaps they knew of him at Oxford.”
Dee yawned. “Sorry, I think it’s the brandy. I can’t keep my eyes open. Can I bunk down with you tonight? I’d rather not be on my own in that room after what happened.”
“’Course you can. It’ll be like old times.”
Dee smiled. Paula wished she didn’t look so pale. A pang of remorse hit her. Why had she asked her to come and stay? But then, Dee had basically invited herself. She had always been a law unto herself, and even if Paula had tried to dissuade her, she’d probably have come anyway.
Dee stood, yawned again and picked up her glass. Paula laid the book down on the coffee table and drained her brandy. She followed Dee out to the kitchen where her sister rinsed their glasses in the sink.
Paula switched off the kitchen light. “Damn, I forgot. I’ve left the book I’m reading in the library. I’ll see you upstairs in a minute.”
Dee started up the stairs and Paula hurried into the library. She went to switch on the light and stopped short.
A greenish glow pulsated around the ceiling, illuminating the girl on the riverbank. Paula shut her eyes, pressed the switch and flooded the room with light. When she opened her eyes, the greenish glow had gone.
Her heart thumped painfully as she retrieved her latest book, The War of the Worlds, and avoided staring at the painting. A movement out of the corner of her eye made her glance at the portrait. The gold shimmered. As Paula watched, she could swear a tiny spark lit up the one visible eye of the portrait’s subject. Paula snapped the light off, closed the door firmly and, with trembling hands, mounted the stairs.
Waking the Ancients Page 6
