by R. J. Gadney
“We’ll worry about that later,” Hal said.
“I’ve asked her to get here fast,” Warren said. “God knows where she’s been. Someone said they’d seen her leave the cathedral. Did you see her, Hal?”
“Why should I have?”
“You were in Carlisle?”
“Things to do.”
“Not in the cathedral?”
“At the pharmacist’s. Why d’you ask?”
“Never mind,” said Warren. “We must get the survey done fast, old thing. Sophie will have to start work as soon as she gets here.”
“Tonight—what can she do to help tonight?”
“Help. That’s what she can do. We must all help. With respect, including you. For your mother’s sake. Do you have any objection to her staying here overnight?”
“Of course not,” said Hal. “If she wants to. Have any of the farms been damaged?”
“How the hell would we know?” said MacCullum.
“I’m asking Mr. Warren.”
“One thing at a time,” Warren said.
MacCullum levered himself to his feet and wiped away the slime dripping from his gauntlets. “Howlbeck and Cramfell were flooded this afternoon. Good job there was no sad bastard in the shafts.”
“Or for that matter,” Warren said, “down here in this shit.”
41
They gathered in the kitchen’s warmth. MacCullum and Warren went elsewhere to clean up. Pale with shock, Francesca offered to unload the groceries and wine from Hal’s Range Rover.
Warren must have already told Teresa that Sophie was staying the night. The doorbell sounded and Teresa went to receive her.
“I’ve made up a room for you,” Teresa said. “The suite next to Hal’s. There’s a fire and an electric heater. If you’re frightened in the night you can leave your door open and the landing light on.”
“I don’t mind the dark,” said Sophie.
Teresa gave her an unblinking stare. “And,” she said, “there’s a nice fire in the Library for later if you wish to watch TV. I want Francesca to take her mind off things. I fear for her peace of mind.”
“I think she’ll survive,” Sophie said.
“I feel it in my bones, don’t you?”
“Perhaps.”
“Some things I know,” said Teresa shortly.
*
Teresa came into the kitchen and looked at Hal with a vacant smile. “You’ll be wanting to catch up with the news from Afghanistan. There’s talk of our lads moving out of … where’s it?”
“Helmand.”
“Yes,” she said. “The TV said what with so many of our boys getting blown up there’s a shortage of bomb disposal experts. I expect you’ll back on duty there in the New Year.”
“We’ll see. I have my hands full here.”
“And we’ll be conducting a séance in your mother’s bedroom. Tonight. At eleven. We need her help.”
“Does your séance have to be in her bedroom?”
“Why not? That’s what she prefers. We wouldn’t want to disappoint her, would we? I know her little foibles, Hal.”
“So do I,” he said glancing at Sophie.
She looked at the floor.
Teresa asked her: “You’d like to join us, wouldn’t you, dear? Priscilla will be able to answer questions for you.”
“How do you know?” Sophie asked.
“She told me.”
“Good for her. There’s a lot I need to know about The Towers. Perhaps you can ask her some questions on my behalf?”
“No, I can’t. Priscilla wants to talk to you, Sophie. It’s you she wants to talk to.”
“Sister Vale—this isn’t why I’ve come here.”
“The Towers asked you.”
“Think so?” said Sophie, disguising her incredulity.
Teresa looked wide-eyed at Hal. “It’s what your mother says, isn’t it?”
“I’ve no idea, Teresa.”
“Sophie will show us the courtesy of attendance at our séance—can I rely on you?”
“If Sophie and I get through our business uninterrupted.”
“Your chairs will be at the table.”
Spruced up, yet still stinking of sewage, Warren and MacCullum rejoined them and gulped down Scotch before leaving. They disappointed Teresa by declining to stay for supper.
She announced that she and Francesca would have theirs in front of the TV in the Library and implied it would be best that Hal and Sophie finish their business on their own before the séance began promptly at eleven.
“Did you remember,” Teresa asked Hal as an afterthought, “to get your medication from the pharmacy?”
Yes, he had.
It was in the Range Rover.
She told him not to forget to store it in the kitchen fridge.
42
Sophie’s draft survey of The Towers was extensive.
“How long did this take you?” Hal asked her over supper and a second bottle of red wine in the kitchen. He lit a candle.
“Not long. My predecessor at Warrens, Beaumont the Memory Man, was a natural archivist. Right up until his death he was devoted to The Towers. He surveyed the roofs and upper floors. The photographic records and his written reports are here in detail. The East Wing’s the one area where things have obviously changed for the worse since his day. As soon as the weather allows, the basic fabric needs securing. Some areas are problematic. Swimming pool. Turkish baths. Crypt and Chapel. Bell Tower. And the cellars. Everywhere’s addled with wet rot and worse. The paintings, silverware, ceramics, the valuable rugs and furniture need properly storing off-site. Also, the rare books in the Library. The catalogs and inventories—hopelessly out of date. The last full-time librarian was employed fifty years ago. The entries are in copperplate. Hundreds are illegible. As to the problematic areas—the doors are locked. No one seems to know who’s got keys. Do you know who last had them?”
“I suppose my mother did.”
“Unfortunately, Teresa can’t lay hands on them.”
“It was never her job to do so.”
“That’s not what she thinks,” said Sophie, adding without a trace of humor, “maybe we can raise the matter at the séance. She said she thought your mother kept them in her bedroom desk. But they’re not there. Don’t you really have any idea where they are?”
“No idea. Along with a lot of other stuff … You have to understand there’s a great deal I don’t know about the family possessions. It wouldn’t surprise me if the nurses have been scuttling around for valuables.”
Sophie doodled rats’ faces on a notepad. “My father used to say The Towers is a repository of hidden riches. He told me your mother said one day you’d be the guardian of national treasures.”
“She was prone to exaggeration.”
“So was my father. Pour me some more wine—mostly he exaggerated the achievements of the Association for Psychical Research. He was obsessed with the idea that the Stirlings might endow professorial chairs for the encouragement of Psychical Research at Oxford and Cambridge. Both Vice-Chancellors chucked the idea in the bin. Your mother invested an inordinate degree of trust in my father’s schemes, just as she trusted Teresa’s obsession with the life beyond. I hope you don’t mind me saying this, Hal, but your mother’s trust in Teresa was misplaced.”
“You don’t need to tell me.”
“Whatever. It’s not for me to judge—but sometimes Teresa seems seriously unhinged. This addiction to the spirit world … it’s sickly. Minti and Schadzi think she’s dangerously possessed. A bomb waiting to go off.”
Hal thought: IED.
“And Warren,” he said. “What does your boss think?”
“He’s a solicitor. What isn’t down on paper on his desk staring him in the eyes doesn’t exist.”
“What about him and Teresa? Afternoons in Carlisle, at the Hallmark? I saw them there. They’re an item, aren’t they?”
“They are. He’s frightened of her. The fear excites him
. They’ve been lovers since Teresa first came here. She gives him sexual favors in lieu of fees. Francesca’s let him have his way with her too. He’s spellbound by them, mostly Teresa. All three can be violent. There’s S & M abuse involved.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he made a vague proposal to me—to see if I might be interested. He keeps a supply of sex enhancement drugs in the firm’s safe. Along with photographs of him with Teresa.”
“That means there’s a third person in on the sessions?”
“Of course. Warren and Teresa like Francesca to watch what goes on.”
“Does Warren’s wife know?”
“Not as far as I know. She’s a magistrate. Pillar of the church. In and out of the cathedral every day. You saw her. Runs a choir. The Choir of Lakeland Angels. She’s blind to her husband’s weaknesses. Her preference is for the Holy Spirit. The other spirits are her husband’s business.”
“She must know he’s a member of the circle.”
“You don’t need to tell me. He spends a fortune on painkillers at Carlisle’s favorite pharmacy. Guess which. For Warren the law of the land’s one thing, the law of the spirit world’s another. Didn’t you understand me? The spirits aren’t registered citizens of the United Kingdom. They aren’t answerable to the criminal justice system.”
“Warren is. I seem to remember he had sets of duplicate keys.”
“So did Beaumont. The firm still has them in the safe. They’re out of date. Any number of locks were changed before your mother died.”
“By whom?”
“MacCullum. On your mother’s instructions.”
“He must have keys.”
“He gave them to your mother.” Sophie was leafing through the handwritten inventories. “D’you have any idea what may be in the storage areas, in terms of valuable items?”
“She never told me. Even her jewelry’s vanished.”
“Then, d’you mind me asking, why she was so firm about no one having access to the rooms? What’s so significant about these problematic areas? What’s hidden there?”
“It’s to do with my father. The single overriding reason must be that the cellars house his biomedical research material into the supernatural. Archives. Specimens. He gathered biological samples and medical data. Much of it morbid. Most of it unfit for tender eyes. Mother was privy to it, though to what extent, I don’t know. She was secretive, more often than not unreasonable. Who knows?”
“She’d taken leave of her senses, Hal.”
“I know. I don’t expect you to understand, but I feel, well, responsible for her pain. It’s inside me. I have to put her first.”
“No you don’t. Put yourself first. Get her out of your system. Get on with your own life.”
“Which is what I was doing until Afghanistan. I wasn’t here to care for her, was I? That’s why we got in Teresa and Francesca. No one could’ve foreseen they’d get so close to her and vice versa and then steal her soul. You believe in the malignity of souls?”
She shrugged. “Souls? I’m skeptical. Like you, I try to keep an open mind. I’ve got enough problems of my own. I’m not sure what the soul is. Does anyone? Let the soul look after itself. That’s what ninety-nine percent of the population does. Did you ever hear someone say: ‘I’m worried about my soul’? People say the soul is precious. The truth is, they don’t give a shit about it. My so-called soul’s been to hell and back.” She paused. “Look at me. Closely.”
She edged toward him.
“What do you see?”
“You’re beautiful.”
“You can see I’m not. Tell me the truth. I want to hear you say it.”
“You’re beautiful.”
She toyed with the stem of her wine glass. The red varnish on her long fingernails sparkled. She gazed at the wine in the glass, then at Hal. They held each other’s gaze. Her green eyes were tender. Hal knew she was beautiful.
“What if,” she said at last. “What if I was to say I want you?”
43
“What do you think?” She stretched for her wine glass on the table and knocked it over.
He reached for the glass. He kept his focus on his grip, his handhold steady, staring at his hands before he moved them. He was watching for any involuntary twitch.
“It’s all over me.”
“I’ll get some salt and water.”
“I shouldn’t wear white silk.”
“I’m glad you do.”
“You like white?”
“Particularly silk.”
“Me too.”
“More wine?”
“Just a little.”
He refilled her glass.
Suddenly her body shook. She burst into tears, covered her eyes with her hands and sobbed.
He moved his chair beside her and gently stroked her back, then held her close.
“Don’t cry. It’s okay. You’re my friend.” She pressed her face against his chest. “Do you want to tell me what the matter is?”
“I’ve told you,” she said softly. “I want you.”
“You want me?”
“You heard.”
“Yes. I heard. You know I have a girlfriend.”
“Yes. It doesn’t stop me wanting you.”
“She’s about to come up here for Christmas.”
“I know. Married, isn’t she?”
“She is.”
“Do you love her?”
“Yes.”
“But?” she said.
“No buts about it.”
“Except you made love to those two.”
“They made love to me.”
“Takes two,” she said. “In your case, if my arithmetic’s right, three.”
“Is that a criticism?”
“No,” she said. “It’s an observation. You either love Sumiko or you don’t.”
“I love her.”
“You don’t sound convinced.”
“It isn’t easy.”
“That’s what all men say.”
“Let’s change the subject.”
“Suppose she doesn’t get here?”
“She will. Do you want to join us?”
“No, thanks. I’ll be with Minti and Schadzi.”
“Then why don’t the three of you come here for Christmas dinner?”
“It’d be too painful.”
“It needn’t be. I’ll make sure it isn’t. I’d like you to join us. Why don’t you?”
Tears formed in her eyes.
“What’s the matter? Please tell me, Sophie. How can I help you?”
She pushed the chair back from the table and looked into his eyes. “Look at me. Tell me what you see.”
“A beautiful woman who’s very sympathetic. Someone I trust.”
The candle was burning low.
Maybe it was the candlelight that induced the adrenalin rush. Or even fear. The gambler’s excitement. Or the mountaineer’s … climbing some Alpine rock face without a safety harness. Or knowing that he did want her but making love to her would change their growing friendship.
“Don’t be frightened of me,” she said.
“Why should I be?”
“Because I frighten myself.”
“Why?”
“Okay. Look. I’m touched, more than that, I’m moved that you can’t tell.”
“Can’t tell what?”
“What I have to do every morning, every night. That I have to ask myself: ‘Sophie, are you a man? Or are you a woman? Or are you both? Or are you neither?’ You can be grateful at least you don’t have to suffer that. What questions could be more cruel? To survive what Fate’s handed me you need a calm and supportive world wrapped around you. Ask me.”
“Ask you what?”
“Ask me who I am.”
“Who are you, Sophie?”
“Pretend you’re a police officer. Ask me who I am.”
“What do you want me say?”
“Try ‘May I see your driving license?’�
��
“May I see your driving license?”
“‘Madam.’”
“Madam.”
“‘Please.’”
“Please.”
She took her driving license from her handbag.
He read:
1. CHAPE
2. PHILIP JASON GOLDEN
There was a small mug shot of Philip Jason Golden Chape in a shirt and tie. He was gazing straight into the camera lens.
“Why were you named Philip Jason Golden?”
“My mother was from Corfu. That’s where I was born. My father was a travel agent with Thomas Cook. Mommy named me after the Duke of Edinburgh and Jason Golden after the Golden Fleece. Now you know what I am, I want to know what you think. Because I want you.”
44
The sheets were warm and clammy with their sweat.
Her long fair hair awry and propped up on the pillows, a blanket around her shoulders, she kissed his neck and ran her fingers through his hair. “Tell me more about the work your father did.”
He told her about his clandestine exploration of the workshop of the spirit, the secret sanctum. She listened to him without comment or interruption. And once he’d finished for some time they remained silent.
Finally she said: “Do you honestly believe your mother’s still alive?”
“Both Yes and No. It’s that I can’t believe she’s dead.”
“I’m sorry to speak ill of the dead,” she said gently. “The truth is, as I understand what you’re saying, that your father and mother had dead hearts. They put you through a lot of pain. And believe me, I know about pain. Just as people can be good-hearted so they can be evil-hearted. Just as the heart can nurture the finest feelings so it can harbor the worst and wreak havoc. Let’s prove it. Visit the remains of your father’s sanctum. Take a look at the verboten areas.”
“Later?”
“Later.” She drew aside the blanket. “Scratch my back.”
He ran his fingernails across her shoulder blades.
