The Woman in Silk

by R. J. Gadney

  “I don’t know.”

  “Please—don’t leave me.”

  “I’m going outside.”

  “You can’t.”

  “I want to see who’s there.”

  “I can hear it. Listen: ‘Won’t someone help me?’ Please. Don’t leave me.”

  He sat down beside her and held her shaking hand.

  “Listen …”

  They listened to the silence.

  “There’s nothing there. It’s okay. Now, where was I? That Willow Pattern legend. It’s a Chinese legend. Not Japanese. Some people believe it was even invented by British pottery manufacturers as a sales gimmick. Be that as it may, did my mother say who the woman is?”

  “Someone your father loved. Someone he knew …”

  “Francesca, tell me the truth. You’re quite sure she was Japanese?”

  “Yes. Japanese. I saw her with my own eyes, Hal.”

  “What sort of age?”

  “In her thirties, maybe. Your mother said she’s a murderess who your father offered sanctuary to—right here, at The Towers. Did she never tell you? She stabbed her lover to death in 1936 in Japan. Same year as your mother was born.”

  “When was it you say you last saw her?”

  “About a month ago.”

  “What time?”

  “Nighttime. Be about eleven-thirty.”

  “Were you on your own?”

  “Yes. Priscilla was asleep. Mom had gone off to bed.”

  “You’re certain it wasn’t Teresa you saw?”

  “I know my mother when I see her. And she’s not oriental, is she?”

  “I know that. Did she say anything?”

  “The spirit? ‘Won’t someone help me?’ And then she started speaking in a language I didn’t know. She just stood there, very still, whispering…”

  She shook her head and nudged her plate of unfinished casserole to one side. “I asked her who she was. ‘Who are you?’ I said. ‘What do you want? I won’t hurt you.’ She was holding a handbag and very slowly she reached out.”

  Francesca raised her arm parallel to the table. “She stretched out her arm, see? As if, you know, she wanted to show me what was in the handbag. I backed off as far as I could, mind. I mean, I didn’t want her touching me. I was petrified.”

  “You didn’t run away?”

  He poured more wine. “Francesca, tell me, why were you wandering about the house at that time of night?”

  She shrugged. “Mom takes nighttime strolls. She’s trouble sleeping. Sometimes she takes a serious knockout sedative for insomnia. Other nights she prefers to go down to the Chapel and sit there and light a candle.”

  “Why did you leave your room?”

  “I was lonely. I wanted a chat. I wasn’t going to wake Priscilla. So I went to see Mom and she wasn’t in her room or in the Chapel. At least that’s what I thought. But after I walked away from the woman in the kimono I went back to Mom’s room and there she was. Mom, I mean, tucked up and sound asleep. I said to myself: ‘Francesca, get real. You’re seeing things.’” She gave a frightened laugh. “And I had been seeing things. Right in the face. You don’t want to hear the rest.”

  “I do want to hear the rest. What sort of movements did she make?”

  “Only her eyes moved. She blinked a lot. Like a newborn child or, you know, how an old woman blinks at a bright light; maybe because my being there in the first place baffled her. I felt she was as scared of me as I was of her. She shook her head side to side if she meant Yes. Shook it up and down if she meant No. I couldn’t tell what was going on inside her head. Hal, you don’t want to be hearing all this. We should cozy up and put on The Sound of Music.”

  “In a minute. Tell me, it must have been hard for you to make out the woman’s face. I mean, the landings above are poorly lit. How was the landing lit?”

  “There was this faint glow like, as if it was coming from behind a church altar. It looked to me that the light was sort of coming out of her head. Or coming from a lantern.”

  “What sort of lantern?”

  “Well, you know that painting of Jesus that’s up in the gallery. The Light of the World. Mom worships it. She’s got this postcard of it by her bedside leaning against a crown of thorns she made herself. That’s the sort of lantern she was holding. Who did the painting then?”

  “William Holman Hunt. The one in the gallery we have is a study for the versions in St. Paul’s Cathedral, an Oxford College and the Manchester City Art Gallery.”

  “Yes, well, Mom says Jesus is about to open a long-closed door and he’s saying: ‘Behold, I stand at the door and knock; if any man hear my voice, and open the door, I will come in to him.’ That’s what the woman looked like a bit. Like a woman Jesus standing by a locked door.”

  “You say your mother saw the woman too?”

  “She saw her. Cross my heart. So help me God.”

  “Where did she see her?”

  “By the entrance. When it was locked. As if she was trying to get in through the door. Mind, I thought, if she were a spirit she’d have no need to open it. She’d just, like, go through it. Mom says that the woman wanted her to open the door. So Mom unlocked it, heaved it open, and these sort of shafts of sun came in and when she turned the woman had vanished. Mom said the weirdest thing was that the sunshine was nice and warm but the woman left behind this eerie space of cold, cold, cold: where she’d stood like, there was a tomb of cold. Same thing happened another day, this time, by the doors to the Chapel and then again, by the doors down to the Turkish baths. And not just inside the house—outside too, in the gardens.”

  “What did you mother do?”

  “She mentioned it to Ryker and he wanted us to have an exorcism. Mom said she wasn’t having anything to do with exorcists. She said you couldn’t exorcise a real thing.”

  Momentarily the blood seemed to drain from Francesca’s cheeks. “Between these four walls—Mom and I held one or two séances with Priscilla, that’s before your mom grew too weak. Did you ever take part in a séance with your mother?”

  “No. I don’t like tampering with mechanisms I don’t understand.”

  “You don’t believe in the spirit world, do you?”

  “Let’s be straight. It’s not a matter of belief, Francesca. Put it like this—I don’t jump off a fence unless I can see that I’ll land safely on the ground. I don’t dive off a rock by the seaside unless I know how deep the water is. The risks I take in life are calculated risks. Ones that involve getting my fingers in contact with real things, not ghosts.”

  He leaned back in his chair. “Watch out for people who think they can explain them. Ghosts can frighten but they can’t harm.”

  “But Mom and I have a psychic aspect to our natures. Your father spoke to us.”

  “And what did he actually say to you?”

  “He said he was looking forward to being closer to Priscilla. It was very beautiful. Mom burst into tears. And Priscilla wanted her to communicate with my father.”

  “Did she?”

  “No. My dad died at sea, off of Africa’s Atlantic coast. He was a seaman with A. P. Moller-Maersk. They buried him at sea. That’s what he wanted. Mom didn’t want me to know about him. Things were bad between them. He could be abusive toward her, very violent. To me too. It was boiling cooking fat. Across my legs.”

  Hal flinched. “I’m sorry.”

  “She’d always known he could be an animal. Perhaps it was what attracted her to him. She can be pretty strong herself. I’ve seen her restrain a paranoid schizophrenic. A bloody great unmedicated railway worker with rolling eyes to match. Mind, Mom does like to think she’s, you know, a bit grand. The main thing is we’re very close.” She crossed her fingers. “Tight as a knot—see? I know what’s she’s thinking in that head of hers even before she thinks it. Same goes for her with me. It’s strange but true. And the truth is often too hard to stomach. You must know that, Hal.”

  “Perhaps. The truth always hurts. When people
say they’re going to tell you the truth what they mean is that they’re going to hurt you. That’s truth.”

  “Mom and I can deal with it—that’s what we do twenty-four-seven, we handle hurt. Not like the people who’ve died hereabouts. Ryker says this place has a history of distress and hurt and misery and madness and demons. They’ve brought pain here each time there’s been building works, even minor repairs to old pipes and electric wiring. You tell me why the workmen don’t want to come up here. Are they telling the truth?”

  “You should ask them yourself.”

  “I have, Hal. And this place scares grown men shitless. They hate coming here. Too many people have died here. And the last one, just a day or two ago … your mom, right? Upstairs in her bed. D’you want to know the details, like what it was like when she died?”

  “Another time perhaps. But I meant to ask—what happened to her things … in her room?”

  “Mom and I cleared it out.”

  “But what happened to her clothes and personal things?”

  “We burned her clothes. To save you the pain. The Vicar advised us. Said you wouldn’t want to handle your mother’s intimate clothes, nighties, underpants and girdles and hats and stuff.”

  “And her necklaces, bracelets, rings, her watches?”

  “Mr. Warren made an arrangement with a security storage firm.”

  “Including the wristwatch she always wore?”

  “What watch?”

  “Her platinum and diamond watch with blue steel hands. A cocktail watch with a solid platinum case. What about her engagement ring?”

  “I never saw a watch or an engagement ring.”

  “She wore them all the time, Francesca. Don’t lie to me.”

  “Excuse me? I’m not lying.”

  “You couldn’t have missed the ring.”

  “What’s it like, then?”

  “A fourteen-diamond cluster ring made by Cartier. The gemstone: a 3.96-carat maroon-red Burmese star ruby.”

  “How would I know? Mr. Warren saw to everything. He discussed things with the Vicar. Always particular about doing the right thing. If you’re so worried about your mother’s old stuff you should ask them. It gave off forces. You don’t wear a dead woman’s shoes. You cuddle the dead. Like Mary in the statue in the gallery. By Michelangelo, isn’t it?”

  “It’s a copy.”

  “Same thing, though. Tell me about it.”

  “The Pietà. The original’s in the Vatican, in St. Peter’s. Mary holds the body of Jesus in her lap after the Crucifixion.”

  “Mom says it’s cursed. People have tried to obliterate it. Like the brave and sainted man who belted it with a hammer forty years ago shouting, ‘I’m Jesus Christ. I’m risen from the dead.’ Mom says he was right to break the Pietà. He didn’t like what the Pope was doing about Our Lady of Fátima. She’d seen the truth. Demons and souls in fire in clouds of smoke. Like they’d been struck by a bomb in the desert. Crying out in pain. Like animals. Dead dogs and cats. So Mother had me cradle and cuddle Priscilla in her lap. Like she was Jesus. And she says there needs to be another death, another hanging from the bell. The Bell Tower being a place of execution. It’s prophesied. It’s Holy Writ. There’ll be a sacrifice to rid the demons here.”

  “It’s bullshit.”

  “Pardon? It’s not.” She wrinkled her nose. “Mom believes in poltergeists as well. She’s heard these rattlings, knockings, felt them mucking about with the telephone and light switches. Unexplained puddles in the corridors. Lingering smells. It’s like they’re feeding on our fear and dread. That’s why she keeps The Light of the World next to her bed and her crown of thorns and lights a candle before she goes to bed. She used to keep the BBC World Service going on the radio through the night. Now the signal’s gone crappy. You must have felt, when you were stressed, I mean stressed right out, that fear was crippling you. Haven’t you ever felt that?”

  “Perhaps.” He got to his feet. “You make yourself comfortable, keep warm, and settle down and watch The Sound of Music.”

  “Aren’t you going to watch it with me?”

  “I’m going to wash up, make a few telephone calls.”

  “I thought you said you’d lost your cell,” Francesca said shortly. “And the main phone’s still down.”

  He slid the DVD into the TV set and started The Sound of Music for her.

  “You know what, Hal? I feel safe with you. Now …” She wiped the palms of her hands on her apron, took hold of his hand and led him coquettishly to the door. “Look up, handsome,” she said. “Mistletoe.”

  She raised her hand to his chin and turned his mouth to hers. Her tongue lingered in his mouth. She was stroking it against his teeth.

  “Merry Christmas,” she sang. “Nothing Francesca need worry about now she’s got TV.”

  21

  He left her in the Library, pushing the trolley along the darkened corridors in the direction of the kitchen.

  He lifted the telephone handset.

  Dead.

  He took it from its usual position on the largest of the kitchen dressers and set it on the table.

  The instrument was an ivory-colored touch-tone, one of the models BT used to allow subscribers to buy outright. Hal took the assembly apart. He reflected, ruefully, this was the first device of any kind he’d investigated since Helmand. It was, as it were, a device that wouldn’t blow up in his face and he wanted to put it to peaceful use. Even so, he couldn’t help himself searching for any telltale signs that Terry Taliban might have paid a visit to this neck of the Cumbrian woods and put together a dirty little booby-trap.

  He found that both the dialing and transmission circuitry were on the same microchip. The wiring was simplicity itself. Nothing had been damaged. Damaged: No. Disabled: Yes. Someone’s fingers had disconnected the wiring.

  Outside the entrance to the kitchen was a high cupboard, its shelves filled with old newspapers, shoe-cleaning equipment, small cardboard boxes containing a variety of nails and screws, pliers, screwdrivers and blunted chisels. He removed a battered Quality Street Christmas tin filled with still more screwdrivers, old plugs, fuses and balls of string, some PVC insulation tape, a pair of electrician’s pliers, and took it back to the kitchen.

  A chill had replaced the warmth generated by the kitchen range since Francesca had finished cooking dinner. The wind had risen and there was a whistling in the chimney breast.

  He closed the kitchen door in case she made an unwanted reconnaissance and returned to the makeshift workbench, reconnected the telephone, and dialed.

  Sumiko picked up. “I’ve been trying to reach you,” she said.

  “Same up here. Guess why I’m ringing? Yukio’s Jack Russell is fast asleep here in a special box and badly wants to meet his new owner.”

  “Hal! She’ll be thrilled.”

  “Only thing is that she’s got to come up here and collect him and she has to bring you with her.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure. Will you get here in time for Christmas?”

  “We’ll do our best. If we have to … we’ll break the journey in Leeds.”

  “If the snow puts paid to the trains, then I’ll drive down overnight and bring you here.”

  “We’ll make it somehow. Expect me when you see me.”

  The dilemma remained.

  He didn’t want Teresa or Francesca to know he knew that anonymous hands had tampered with the telephone’s wiring. The knowledge gave him a certain power. All in good time, circumstance would doubtless reveal the guilty party.

  He left the kitchen and returned to the cupboard to put the tin back where he’d found it. As he placed it on the shelf he felt it nudge an envelope. It was addressed to Captain H. Stirling, Stirling Towers, Moster Lees, Cumbria.

  Originally it had contained an issue of The Sapper, the Corps of Royal Engineers’ bi-monthly magazine dispatched to him from the Regimental Headquarters Royal Engineers.

  He recognized it
at once as the envelope containing the photographs of Sumiko both dressed and naked. The envelope had been removed from his room and placed here. By whom?

  He hurriedly wrapped the envelope in an old copy of the Cumberland News, took off his jacket and wrapped the whole thing inside it. Who was the snoop? The same person who’d disabled the telephone?

  He returned to the kitchen, to the dirty dishes and the sink.

  “Hal?”

  He spun around. “How long have you been standing there?”

  “I heard voices.”

  “You’re imagining things.”

  “You were speaking to someone on the phone.”

  “Well, I hate to say it, but it’s none of your business.”

  “You’re my patient. You’ll do what’s good for you.”

  He considered her order for a moment. Then feeling a rising spasm of anger, with a tone of pointed reasonableness, he said: “I don’t want to quarrel with you. Why don’t you just go back to the movie—or has it finished?”

  “No,” she said, “it hasn’t finished. I’m tired. I’m going to bed. First I want to know who you were talking to?”

  “Go to bed.”

  “But the phone. It doesn’t work.” She stomped to the telephone and lifted the receiver. “Dead.”

  “I know it’s bloody dead. Now for God’s sake go to bed.”

  She moved to lift up his jacket from the chair.

  “Leave it,” he snapped.

  “You should hang it up properly.”

  “Is that so, nurse?”

  She stared at the jacket, then at Hal. “You’d better know something—I couldn’t help hearing your conversation. Mom isn’t going to let you have a visitor at Christmas. No way José. Oh, no. Not that Japanese friend of yours.”

  “What the hell are you saying?”

  “Mom promised Priscilla that Japanese woman of yours would never set foot in this house ever again.”

  “Did she just? Well, you—and your mother—better remind yourselves who pays your wages and if things aren’t done my way it’s the one-two-out-you-go.”

  “You wouldn’t dare. You’d have to deal with Mr. Warren.”

  “Get this straight in your head. Warren deals with me. You can tell Mister bloody Warren, you can tell Lord God Almighty what you like. Listen to me.”