Property of a Lady

by Sarah Rayne

  ‘Where did you study all this?’

  ‘I’d like to say I did a Fine Arts degree, but I didn’t,’ said Nell. ‘I got on to a training scheme with one of the big auction houses. Not Christie’s or Sotheby’s, but not far off. A great piece of luck for me. It was quite intensive – a three-year apprenticeship, half working in the showrooms, half in a kind of training school. I do love working with all these old things.’

  ‘I can tell,’ he said, smiling.

  ‘I’m trying to think Brooke Crutchley did, as well,’ said Nell. ‘I find it a bit spooky knowing he worked here, and I’m not sure if I like the sound of him very much. But it’s easier if I can think of him enjoying what he did.’

  ‘I can’t see anything in here to give us any leads to him, can you?’ said Michael, shining the torch over the walls and up into the roof space and the rafters.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Is that the old stove? I don’t blame you for not trying to fire it.’

  ‘I hate it,’ said Nell. ‘It’s like a monstrous black toad crouching in the corner.’

  ‘I should think it dates back to Brooke’s time,’ said Michael, inspecting the stove, which was cast iron, with small doors at the front and a flue stretching up into the roof.

  ‘It’s Victorian design at its most florid,’ said Nell. ‘I’m going to have it ripped out when there’s enough money and the vent capped outside.’

  ‘There’s a door on one side. Here, where the wall is set back a bit. It doesn’t look as if it leads anywhere, but it’s too large to be a cupboard.’

  ‘It’s not a cupboard. It’s just a kind of alcove for cleaning the flue and raking out cinders and clinkers and things. In the days when they had cinders and clinkers.’

  ‘Can I take a look?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Nell came to stand next to him as he opened the door, which was set into the wall about eight inches higher than the floor level. It stuck for a moment, then opened with a dry, scraping sound. A shower of black dust cascaded out, and the stench of ancient soot and dirt came out at them like a clutching hand. They both coughed and backed away.

  ‘It’s a disgusting smell, isn’t it?’ said Nell. ‘It’ll clear in a minute, though. Hold on, I’ll prop the door open.’

  ‘Have you ever looked in here?’

  ‘Well, I did when I bought the place. I only glanced inside to see what it was, though. When the survey was done, the guy said everything seemed sound, but he didn’t think I should fire the stove.’

  ‘I shouldn’t think you’d ever want to,’ said Michael, glancing back at the stove, which jutted malevolently out into the room. He leaned forward into the recess, shining his torch over the walls. It was a small space, barely four feet square, and even with the door propped back against the wall it was still thick with the smell of dry soot and dirt.

  ‘It’s a horrible place,’ said Nell as Michael leaned deeper in and moved the torch’s beam over the walls, which were lined with sheets of cast iron. The wall backing on to the stove was pitted with centuries of heat. ‘It’s like a coffin standing upright.’

  ‘That’s an odd analogy to make,’ he said, moving the torch over the walls and floor. ‘There’s nothing in here, though, in fact— Oh!’

  ‘What?’ Nell peered over his shoulder. ‘Michael, what have you found?’

  ‘Down there.’ Michael moved back to allow her to see.

  ‘It’s a trapdoor,’ said Nell, puzzled. ‘I didn’t know there was a trapdoor.’

  ‘If you only glanced in that once, I don’t suppose you would. And the floor’s thick with soot and dirt.’

  ‘There must be an old cellar down there,’ said Nell, staring at the oblong outline of the trapdoor. It was wooden and very solid-looking, with an iron ring handle, flush with its surface.

  ‘Might it just be some kind of underground storage vault – something to do with the stove again? Only, I can’t think what,’ said Michael.

  ‘It’s a very large trapdoor for a storage area.’

  ‘It is, isn’t it? Do you want to see if we can open it?’

  ‘No,’ said Nell. ‘But if we don’t, I’ll have nightmares wondering what might be down there.’

  Michael climbed over the low section of wall and knelt down on the edge of the trapdoor. ‘There isn’t much room to manoeuvre,’ he said.

  ‘Give me the torch.’

  ‘Thanks. Shine it directly down, will you? That’s better.’ He reached for the ring handle. ‘It feels as if it’s rusted in place.’

  ‘Try it anyway.’ Nell was kneeling just outside the recess, directing the torch on to the oblong of solid oak. Cobwebs brushed against her face like ribbons of dead skin, and she shuddered.

  ‘It won’t budge,’ said Michael, after a moment. He sat back on his heels. ‘It feels as if it’s brass or iron, and it’s stuck fast.’

  ‘Try turning it. Both ways. It might be a twist mechanism.’

  ‘No good,’ he said, after a moment. ‘I don’t think it’s locked, though. I think it’s just bedded in with rust and age. The same goes for the hinges.’ He tugged the handle again, using both hands, turning first left and then right. ‘It’s absolutely solid,’ he said, sitting back on his heels and wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of one hand. ‘Damn. Nell, it’ll take dynamite to get this open. Or an axe.’

  He looked so crestfallen that Nell smiled. ‘You really are the scholar in the ivory tower, aren’t you?’ she said. ‘There are more ways than one of skinning a cat or opening a cellar. Stay here – I’ll see what I can find.’ She put the torch down and went across to the back section of the workshop, to the tool box.

  ‘Try this,’ she said, setting down two large chisels and a can of oil. ‘We drench the handle and the hinges in oil and let it soak in for a few moments. It might free the handle enough for it to turn. If it does we’ll tie my scarf round it – that’ll make it easier to pull the door up. If we can raise it even a little way, we can put this larger chisel in as a wedge so it won’t bang down again.’

  ‘Do you know,’ said Michael, ‘you constantly delight me.’

  ‘Do I?’ said Nell, absently. ‘That’s nice. Here’s the oil. Just slosh it straight on. You’re nearer to the handle than I am.’

  ‘Are you coming in here with me?’ asked Michael, taking the oil and sprinkling it liberally over the handle and the hinges.

  ‘Yes, I’m going to scrape out some of the accreted dirt around the edges of the trap,’ said Nell, climbing over the low wall. The recess was as unpleasant as she had expected: hot and slightly claustrophobic, and when she knelt down she felt the crunch of the old, dried cinders from the stove under her knees.

  ‘Are you sure you’re all right about all this?’ said Michael, reaching for the other chisel to help.

  ‘Not really. But let’s do it. There’s probably nothing down there except years of dirt.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ He scraped diligently for several moments, then said, ‘I think that’s got most of the dirt out. Let’s see if the handle will move now.’ He grasped it firmly, and this time it lifted slightly. Michael looked up, his eyes shining. ‘You clever girl,’ he said. ‘The oil’s worked. Where’s your scarf – thanks.’ He knotted the long woollen scarf tightly round the handle and stood up, moving to the edge of the trapdoor, his back almost flat against the stove wall.

  ‘Be careful the handle doesn’t snap off or it really will be an axe job,’ said Nell, moving back to give him room.

  ‘You couldn’t swing a cat in here, never mind an axe.’

  At first they both thought that, after all, the door was too tightly wedged to move at all. ‘And the wood has probably warped over the years as well,’ said Nell, frowning. ‘That won’t make it any easier.’

  ‘It’s moving,’ said Michael suddenly, and with a dry, scraping sound the trapdoor began to lift. It did so slowly and with a screech of splintering wood and protesting hinges that tore through the quiet workshop like a soul in torment. A t
hin black line showed around the edges of the door.

  ‘Is it heavy?’ said Nell anxiously. ‘Let me help.’

  ‘It’s all right – it’s nearly there. Put the chisel in place in case the scarf slips.’

  But the scarf stayed in place, and the door, once freed, came up relatively easily. Dry, foetid air gusted out from the black gaping hole, and Nell gasped and backed away.

  ‘The smell’s even more disgusting than this recess,’ Michael said.

  ‘At least it doesn’t smell of damp.’

  ‘That’s about all it doesn’t smell of.’

  They pushed the trapdoor back against the stove wall. It clanged against the pitted iron sheet, and Nell saw there was a deep indentation where the door must have rested many times before.

  ‘There’s a corresponding handle on the underside,’ said Michael.

  ‘That’s unusual in a cellar. Or is it? Maybe somebody was frightened of being trapped at some time,’ said Nell, shining the torch down into the cellar itself. The light sliced through the thick blackness, showing brick-lined walls with a floor at the foot that looked as if it was black brick or stone. ‘How safe do you think the steps are?’

  ‘They look like solid stone, but they might have crumbled in places.’

  ‘I should think this was part of the foundation of an earlier building,’ said Nell. ‘Or these workshops could have been an old scullery wing or something like that.’ She looked at him. ‘What do you think? Do we go down there?’

  ‘As you said, if we don’t, we’re going to wonder,’ said Michael. ‘Shall I do it while you stay here?’

  ‘No fear,’ said Nell, getting up and stepping out of the recess. ‘Let me get another torch, and I’m coming down there with you.’ She darted back to the toolbox and found the spare torch kept for power cuts. When she came back Michael was wedging the trapdoor more firmly against the stove wall.

  ‘I’m making sure the hinges aren’t about to disintegrate and bring the door crashing down on our heads,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t trust this handle to open from beneath, would you?’

  ‘No, but let’s not even think about being trapped down there.’

  ‘Let me go first – no, I’m not being masculine and protective. Well, yes, all right, I am. But if I go head over heels down a section of crumbled stone, you’d still be up here to go for help.’

  He started warily down, shining the torch as he went. Nell, peering anxiously over the edge saw the light sweep over ancient walls, crusted with soot and grime.

  ‘I’m at the bottom,’ he said. His voice echoed slightly and eerily. ‘There are ten steps, and they all seemed sound, but they’re very worn so make sure you don’t slip.’

  ‘Here I come,’ said Nell. ‘The smell’s clearing a bit now, I think. That’s something to be grateful for.’

  But descending the stone steps was a grim experience. Once, thought Nell, someone lived here or worked down here – maybe was even held prisoner here – and whoever it was suffered such agonies of black and bitter despair, the feeling’s soaked into the walls. She remembered how Harriet Anstey had said Brank Asylum made her think of people drowning in the dark. That’s what it feels like down here, thought Nell, and for a moment she had to resist a compulsion to bolt back up the steps. But she reached the bottom of the steps and was grateful when Michael put an arm round her.

  ‘For warmth,’ he said.

  ‘Was I shivering?’

  ‘No, I was,’ said Michael.

  The cellar was bigger than they had expected – a narrow but fairly long room that must stretch under the whole workshop and even extend under part of the courtyard. Nell had been expecting to see a traditional underground room, perhaps with a stone floor and walls, bare of anything saved the accumulated dirt of decades. But the room, although it was certainly stone, was not bare. It had been lived in. Standing against the walls were the remains of bookshelves – rotting and splintering with age, but recognizable.

  ‘There are still books on them,’ said Michael softly. ‘Dear God, look at them.’ He moved the torch, showing up rows of old yellowing books, many of them crumbled beyond retrieval, but some still with the leather or calf spines intact. Here and there a vagrant glint of lettering, perhaps once gold leaf, caught the light.

  ‘An underground study,’ said Nell in a whisper.

  ‘A secret library,’ said Michael. ‘Forbidden works, I should think.’

  The torchlight moved again, and Nell felt as if something had slammed a clenched fist into her throat. She gasped, and in the same moment felt Michael’s hand tighten around hers.

  At the far end of the cellar was a large writing desk, with a chair drawn up to it. Seated in the chair was the partly-mummified figure of what had once been a man. His head had fallen forward on to the desk, near an elaborate inkstand, and in the sweep of the torchlight it was possible to see the fragments of dried skin that clung to the rounded skull. Hands – not quite fleshless – reached across the desk, and Nell took a step backwards, because it was dreadfully easy to imagine the hands would suddenly move and reach out . . .

  Michael said, very softly, ‘I think this is Elvira Lee’s nightmare man. Remember what she said to Harriet? That he had learned spells from the black marrow of the world’s history.’ He indicated the shelves. ‘I think these are those spells,’ he said. ‘This is where he studied them. That’s why he had to shut himself away down here.’

  ‘Brooke Crutchley,’ said Nell, unable to look away from the dreadful figure. ‘It must be. It can’t be anyone else.’

  Michael took a cautious step towards the desk. Nell, who could not have approached that figure for all the money in the world, watched him.

  ‘Look at this,’ he said, in the same soft voice.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘An oilskin packet. Sealed as well as anything could be sealed down here.’ He lifted it up gingerly. Showers of dust came away, and Nell shuddered.

  ‘Handwritten pages,’ said Michael, cautiously unwrapping the oilskin.

  ‘A diary?’

  ‘Some kind of record, at any rate. The top page is dated January 1880. Let’s take them upstairs and close this place up again. We can report what we’ve found in the morning – although I’m not sure who we actually report it to.’

  ‘I’d better phone Inspector Brent. He’d know the procedure.’ Nell’s eyes were on the oilskin package. She said, ‘But before we even attempt to look at those papers, let’s go back upstairs to the ordinary world and have a wash and a drink – oh, and something to eat.’

  They were both so covered with dust and dirt that Nell suggested they took turns to shower.

  ‘And let’s eat your casserole before we even try reading those pages,’ said Michael. ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m ravenous and it smells terrific. I didn’t know it was such hungry work exploring subterranean rooms.’

  For a moment there was an echo of Brad’s expression – I’m extraordinarily hungry – but it was a soft and benign echo. There was an intimacy in finding clean towels for Michael, then leaving him to open the wine while Nell showered after him. While she was doing so, he called through the bathroom door that he would check on the casserole if that was all right.

  ‘Give it a stir if it needs it,’ shouted Nell. ‘There’s a wooden spoon on the work surface somewhere.’ She pulled on clean trousers and a loose shirt, and padded down to the kitchen. Michael had stirred the casserole and had poured her a glass of wine. His hair was slightly damp from the shower, and Nell wanted to reach out to touch it. Instead, she ladled out the casserole and passed him the bread.

  ‘I think,’ he said, between mouthfuls, ‘that we might have found the – the core of the problem, don’t you? Down there in the cellar, I mean.’

  ‘The unhallowed spirit?’ said Nell, smiling. ‘The troubled soul that can’t rest until it gets Christian burial – or burial according to whatever it believed in?’

  ‘Don’t mock me, you heartless wench, it’s in
all the best traditions of ghosts, in fact you said that yourself.’

  ‘I’m not mocking you. I still don’t believe it all – not logically and sanely. But then I remember what happened to Beth – and Alice’s journal and Harriet’s.’

  ‘And Elvira talking about the man who tried to find her – the man she said must never find Harriet or she might lose her sanity,’ said Michael.

  ‘Yes.’ Nell realized they were both looking across the room, to where the oilskin package lay on a low table. She said, ‘Can you eat any more casserole? In that case, I’ll dunk everything in the sink and bring the cheese and fruit over to the fire.’

  Between them they carefully peeled away the oilskin covering and drew out the sheaf of papers. The writing was legible, although the ink was faded in places, and here and there the paper was spotted with brown mould.

  With the fire burning brightly in the hearth and the curtains drawn against the night, they sat together on the sofa and began to read Brooke Crutchley’s journal.

  TWENTY-THREE

  December 1880

  I never expected to become entangled quite so violently with a lady. But anyone reading these pages may be familiar with that sudden lightning-sizzle of emotion that sears through the mind so that one is unable to think of anything else.

  I must qualify that statement, because for some of the time I have certainly managed to think of other things, although that may be because I must. The poets talk about counting the world well lost for love, which I dare say is all very well for poets, who seem able to live on about half of nothing and appear to have no responsibilities, and who think nothing of starving in garrets where they usually end up with a galloping consumption. I see no benefit in any of that, and certainly not in wasting away for love’s sake. I enjoy my food and think of myself as a robust figure of a man with a healthy appetite. (Only the unkindly-disposed would call me portly.)

  Nor do I have any family responsibilities. (I do not count the distant cousin living in Staffordshire.) But there are other responsibilities in life, and mine are towards my customers. Clockmaking is a very precise craft, and my father would have been proud of the way I had carried on the business I had inherited. ‘Brooke, my boy,’ he would have said, ‘you can be proud of what you have achieved.’ Although he would have added: ‘Not too proud, mind.’ He was strict on self-pride and the vanities.