by Sarah Rayne
‘What?’
‘The attic at Charect House.’
Michael was pleased to find, when he reached his room at the Black Boar, that a phone message had been put under his door. It had been carefully written out by the receptionist.
‘Dr Flint – phone message from Dr Jack Harper in Paris. Apologies for not being in touch – his cellphone was stolen at Charles de Gaulle airport. He will get another one when he reaches London tomorrow so he can use a UK network while he’s here. Will contact you then.’
So Jack’s long silence was explained as easily and as ordinarily as that. Michael was immensely relieved – he had been visualizing all manner of things happening to Ellie. But it looked as if they could come to Marston Lacy for Christmas as planned, and Ellie would be perfectly all right. As he got ready for bed, he was smiling at the prospect of introducing Nell to Jack and Liz, and of seeing Beth and Ellie together.
It had been difficult to get the builder to come out to Charect House again so near to Christmas, but Inspector Brent had added his persuasions to those of Michael and Nell, and a lorry and a couple of men had finally trundled along Blackberry Lane.
Charect House was silent and still. There’s nothing here now, thought Michael, standing in the hall with the scents of new timbers and paint around him. Whatever was here – some lingering fragment of that strange, unhappy man who loved Elizabeth Lee beyond sanity, and who saw her die that night – it’s gone.
The builder went up to the attics, admiring the renovations along the way.
‘Nice piece of oak for that banister,’ he said. ‘And that coving on the landing – you wouldn’t believe the problems we had putting that up. High ceilings in these old houses, see.’
He stood in the attic, which had been opened up for Ellie’s playroom and which was due to be papered with bright wallpaper chosen by Liz, and looked disapproving.
‘Crying shame to disturb all this,’ he said. ‘Still, if it’s police orders.’ He tapped the wall and nodded. ‘Be a breeze to break that down. I’ll get the sledgehammer.’
As he clattered down the uncarpeted stairs, Michael stood for a moment in the attic room with the views towards the smudgy Welsh mountains. Ellie would love this room – it would be her hideaway, and she would make up so many stories about the people who had lived here. But let them be happy stories, thought Michael. Because this house must have had happy times. He looked back at the wall that the builders were going to demolish and hoped he was doing the right thing. But I think you’re still here, Harriet, he said in his mind. I think you’ve been part of whatever’s lingered here.
The builder and his assistant came noisily back up the stairs, and Michael stood back as the sledgehammer swung through the air. It landed squarely on the centre of the wall, and this time it gave way almost immediately. Huge sections of old, dry plaster fell away, and there were several confused moments when the entire attic was a mass of whirling dust. Fragments of plaster and shards of brick seemed to go on and on cascading down, catching at Michael’s throat, making him cough and stinging his eyes.
Then, little by little, the dust cleared and began to settle, and it was possible to make out what was beyond the huge, jagged hole. Huddled against the inside of the wall was something that might, at first glance, be household debris. But as the dust cleared—
‘Jesus Christ,’ said the builder. ‘Oh, Christ Al-bloody-mighty, it’s a sodding body.’ He turned to Michael, his face, beneath the plaster dust, patchily red and white with shock. ‘A corpse,’ he said, his lips flabbering over the word.
‘Yes.’
Michael had hoped very strenuously that she would not be here – that he would be able to think of her escaping, returning to Cheshire, perhaps becoming involved in some interesting, useful war work. Even that she might have met someone to replace her beloved Harry.
He brought his mind back to the builder who, white-faced, was asking if the police should be called. ‘Will I go down to phone them?’
‘I think you’d better. Ask for Inspector Brent, if possible. But tell him there’s no frantic rush.’
‘You don’t mind staying up here with – with that?’
‘Not in the least,’ said Michael, and he turned back to the jagged hole and to what lay just inside it.
Harriet Anstey’s bones were small and fragile, and Michael found them unbearably sad. The hands were stretched upwards as if the last act might have been to bang vainly on the wall for help. Clinging to those hands were shreds of what might once have been striped cotton.
‘Oh, Harriet,’ said Michael softly. ‘I’m so sorry no one found you.’
It seemed incredible there had not been a search for her. But perhaps there had. Perhaps people had tried to find her, but been unable to do so. And it had been 1939 – the lights were about to go out all over Europe for the second time that century and England stood on the brink of chaos.
How long had it taken her to die? Had she died in darkness or had it at least been when a few threads of light were coming in through the small, round window – the window at which she had stood, trying to attract attention? The window where Michael had seen her that day . . . ?
In the same soft voice, he said, ‘I don’t know if I can arrange for you to be buried next to Harry, because his body’s probably in France. But if I can, I’ll find out where he is, and if there’s any way of ensuring you lie alongside him, I promise you shall.’
With the words, he had the vivid impression that a small, soft hand slipped into his and held it firmly for a moment. He stood very still, wanting the sensation to go on, willing there to be more.
But there was not. The feeling melted, and there was only the dusty attic.
Brooke Crutchley’s body was cremated in a brief, private ceremony one week after Christmas. Michael and Nell attended, together with Inspector Brent.
‘Unusual case,’ said the inspector as they walked away from the crematorium. ‘Very distressing for you to find a thing like that in your house, Mrs West.’
‘Yes, it was. At least we can give him an identity, though,’ said Nell.
‘Forensics confirm he died from a blow to the skull,’ said Brent. ‘We’ll never know the truth, but I expect some kind of long-ago local feud was at the heart of it.’
‘I expect so,’ said Michael, in an expressionless voice, and Brent glanced at him.
But he only said, ‘I looked in the files for the account of the William Lee case, as you asked.’
‘I got interested in some of the area’s history,’ said Michael, sounding slightly defensive. ‘And there were all those stories about William Lee still walking—’
‘People like a nice ghost story,’ said Brent indulgently. ‘As long as they don’t actually have to meet the ghost themselves, of course. But in the main, Lee’s case seems straightforward enough. He was arrested on the thirtieth of November, 1888. There was one odd thing, though—’
‘Yes?’ said Michael again.
‘The arrest took place in the old asylum – Brank Asylum. One of those grim old Victorian institutions from all accounts. Long since gone, of course. But seemingly Lee had gone there to visit his daughter, and the attendants heard her screaming. When they got to him, Lee was cowering in a corner of the room, flailing at the air with his hands as if he was trying to hit someone who was attacking him.’
Michael and Nell exchanged a quick look, then Nell said, ‘Was someone trying to attack him?’
‘What? No, there was no one there except the child, and she was lying on the ground, her face covered in blood. Lee had assaulted her. They arrested him, and once he was in custody he confessed to the murder of his wife. Open and shut case. They hanged him soon afterwards.’
Charect House, January 20—
Michael—
I knew you’d get Wilberforce into print! It’s terrific news about the publishing deal, and I hope you screwed a huge advance out of them. We’ll want signed copies next November, of course. Good date to brin
g out a kids’ book as well – exactly right for Christmas. And I don’t know why you’re worried about balancing Wilberforce with Oxford. If C.S. Lewis and Tolkien could do it, so can you.
Liz and I are knocked out by Charect House. It’s the most beautiful place ever, and we don’t know what persuasions you used on the builders to get the work done, but they’ve made a great job of everything.
We loved being with you at Christmas and staying in the Black Boar, and we think Nell is one very cool lady. How is the hunt for antique premises in Oxford getting on? Liz says when Nell finds a shop, she should expect us to be the first customers. Ellie is wringing promises out of us that we will bring her to Oxford to meet Wilberforce, so you’re both likely to be invaded.
Ellie is entirely fine now. The nightmares have vanished, and she loves England. There’s been no more mention of ‘Elvira’, I’m relieved to report. Although Ellie does seem to have found another imaginary friend – can you believe that? This time it’s an English gentleman who likes to walk round the gardens here and sit in the orchard. I swear that kid’s mind is so full of stuff . . . There’s no man, of course – we’ve made sure of that. The gardens are perfectly secure, and Liz keeps a watchful eye.
But an orchard, for pity’s sake. There might once have been an orchard at the far end of Charect’s garden, but there certainly isn’t one now. But Ellie insists that tomorrow she’s promised to help this man dig up some old apple tree.
We’ll let you know what happens!
Jack
Table of Contents
Cover
Recent Titles by Sarah Rayne
Property of a Lady
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
