Death Notes (A Phineas Fox Mystery)

by Sarah Rayne

  She can’t have produced that alibi, of course. Or, if she did, she was not believed. Which leaves me with the question – why was Antoinette so strongly convinced she would be believed? Who was she?

  Yesterday I said, ‘Why here? I mean, why did you decide to buy a house out here?’

  ‘After the Revolution I wanted to leave Russia. The shape of life had changed for ever.

  ‘It changed with the butchery at Ekaterinburg. The botched, clumsy shootings of the Romanovs. Those young girls – the poor, lame Alexei …’

  ‘You were part of the Revolution?’ I said.

  ‘I recorded much of it for newspapers,’ he said, and brushed a hand across his eyes, although whether to conceal emotion or indicate the skewed eyes I have no idea.

  I wanted to ask if the out-of-line eyes were the result of an injury received during the Revolution, but I did not quite have the courage. Instead, I said, again, ‘Why here, though?’

  ‘A lady knew of it. A lady whose judgement I trusted. Her family had travelled here – her grandparents, I think. She remembered how they had spoken of it as a place of tranquillity. So, when there came a time when she needed such a place – a place of healing – she came here. The great manor house where her grandparents were once guests was long gone, but she found this remaining fragment. The housekeeper’s cottage, I believe. She said it possessed serenity. That it had a feeling of sanctuary.’

  ‘Did she – this lady – did she need sanctuary?’

  ‘For a time,’ said Feofil, the shuttered look coming over his face. ‘Shall we walk along to O’Brien’s for supper later?’

  Feofil and I have been in Kilcarne for more than a month now.

  I have explored the area – I have particularly explored the land surrounding Tromloy, and it’s tantalizing to come across remnants of the vanished Kilcarne Manor. There’s a pair of wrought-iron gates that might once have led to it, but that now lead nowhere except to a wild orchard and weed-choked paths. And a tumble of old stones that could have been part of pillars and walls. Traces of servants’ quarters, the print on the ground of outbuildings – a buttery or a dairy, perhaps.

  I am starting to know the local people as well – there are the O’Briens at the wine bar, of course, and the local doctor, the priest, the schoolmaster and a lawyer. Sometimes we have dinner with them at O’Brien’s, and twice Feofil has invited them to Tromloy. On the evenings at O’Brien’s the food is very good and the wine flows. After dinner the whiskey flows even more copiously than the wine, and everybody gets very drunk, even the priest – especially the priest, in fact. Feofil, though, remains apparently sober and entirely in control, no matter how much he drinks.

  I’ve never known people like the Irish. They smile at you from the corners of their eyes with a sly charm, and not for nothing are they known as ‘silver-tongued’. They will talk fluently and entertainingly about anything under the sun, and they appear to have a relationship with Christ and the saints which is as friendly as if they all had supper together once a week. ‘And would you just pass the wine now, Peter, and if it’s getting low won’t Himself stir up a bit of a miracle anyway.’

  On Friday nights in O’Brien’s the men solemnly remind one another that isn’t it confession tomorrow morning, and even while they’re trying to remember that week’s tally of sins, they’re downing whiskey, and wondering can they get the barmaid into bed. It’s fine, you see, to give way to drunkenness and fornication on a Friday night as long as you confess to having done so on Saturday, and then make sure not to commit either of those sins again until after Mass on Sunday.

  Feofil is accepted in the community, although it’s a cautious kind of acceptance, and I suspect the local people regard him as something of a rara avis. He appears to be perfectly content with this life. He is often out – he does not tell me where he goes, so I do not ask. A small motor car has appeared and Feofil sometimes drives it into Galway, bouncing it down the narrow track. I have tried my hand at driving and I believe I am becoming quite adept. It’s an exhilarating experience.

  Last week I talked to the schoolmaster about helping at the local school and he says wouldn’t that be the finest thing ever. We are going to put on simple plays which the children can act out for parents and the surrounding communities. Nativity plays at Christmas, of course.

  So far I have no regrets, no longing, for my former life. I do not miss the stage or my raggle-taggle London life the smallest bit. It’s good to have the memories of all that, though, and in the intervals between organizing concerts I daresay I shall finally get around to creating my memoirs.

  Last night, the nightmare came. And this time it began from the moment when I ran into the corner of the stone courtyard, desperately trying to shut out the sights and the sounds before me.

  That was when someone lifted me up and carried me through one of the low archways. I could not see very much, because tears were still clouding my vision, and I was pressed against a soft-scented shoulder. But the air was cooler, and the screams of the crowd were behind us. The woman carrying me murmured something about being safe, about soon being beyond the fortress. Even as she said it, guards sprang forward, barring our way, and I flinched.

  But she rapped out a sentence and even in the dream it seemed to be an order and a reproof. The guards hesitated, then stepped back and we were allowed out.

  There was a carriage waiting – the fact that it was a carriage, not a motor car, emphasizes for me the passage of the years, for motor vehicles were rare in those days. But a carriage it was, drawn by two horses. I was bundled into it, and something was said – was it in Russian? I don’t know, I only know that in the dream I could understand the words.

  ‘We must get the child away.’ That was the woman’s voice. ‘Because now it is over.’

  ‘Roman Volf is dead.’ A man’s voice, this time.

  ‘Yes. He died inside the fortress.’ She half turned her head as if to look back. ‘I shall never forget it.’

  ‘You must be so careful.’

  ‘I shall be.’

  Then the carriage moved off, and we were jolted across cobbled streets. Night had fallen, and lights reflected in a long, wide river.

  The woman looked down at me. She was dark-haired and she had wide, high cheekbones. The child that I was in that dream had no idea of age but, looking at it now, I think she was probably around thirty.

  She said, ‘I am to make you safe. We go to England, you and I.’

  England. The word did not mean very much to me. I rubbed my tears from my eyes with both hands. ‘Please – I don’t know who you are.’

  There was a pause. Then she said, ‘It is better – safer for both of us – if you call me Antoinette.’

  Antoinette.

  I’m wide awake in the bedroom of Tromloy, and the name is still exploding through my brain. Antoinette. How reliable was that dream? Had my mind simply remembered Antoinette’s letter and woven her into the nightmare? Or had it really been Antoinette who got me away from the Peter and Paul Fortress and to England? Because somebody did do that.

  Feofil might know, but I am not sure if I can ask him. We live in the same house with the unavoidable intimacies that involves, but there are times when he retreats behind that invisible barrier.

  Despite the nightmare’s reappearance, I still believe I can be happy in Kilcarne. If only …

  If only I did not know with absolute and utter conviction that Maxim will eventually find me.

  I lost Maxim on the day Roman was executed. I have always known that, just as I know that one day he will find me. The strands of memory from the past are too strong for there to be any other outcome.

  SEVEN

  Jessica had known, ever since the aunts had said the name of the house – Tromloy – that she would have to find it. She needed to see it – to see if it really was the place of those nightmare images, of that firelit room.

  Today would be a really good time for her to go out, because Nuala had to be at
the dentist in Galway, and Morna would drive her there. Tormod could be left in his study for a couple of hours, although Nuala would put a flask of coffee on his desk, and the phone was at hand if he needed anything. Jess would look in on him, of course.

  Jess did not really like being in the small study with Tormod, although she was not sure why this was. So she nodded, and said vaguely that she might take a walk just before lunch. This appeared acceptable, although she was not to go far, said the aunts, and she was to be back for her lunch, was that clear?

  After the aunts had set off, Jess put her sketchbook and pencils in her bag, called out a goodbye in the direction of the study, and walked along the little main street. Going past Dunleary’s shop, she hesitated, then went inside. They had a small book section, and today there was a new edition of one of Lady Gregory’s collections of early Irish myths. It was a paperback so it was not illustrated, but Jess could draw her own illustrations of the stories. And at the end of the week she would have her pocket money, so she might come back then. Mrs Dunleary said she would put the book to one side.

  Coming out of the shop, she glanced back to her own house. The postman was just coming out of the gate. Or was it the postman? Wasn’t it too tall for him? Jess narrowed her eyes to see better, but the house was just around a slight curve and she could not see properly. But the curious thing was that for a moment the figure had had exactly the same hunched-over stance as her Uncle Tormod. It could not be him, though. He walked around the house with a stick, and outside the house he had to be wheeled everywhere.

  As she went past O’Brien’s she stopped thinking about Tormod, because she had suddenly realized that she was not having to wonder how to find Tromloy. I know the way, thought Jessica. I’m not even having to stop to think.

  Here was the narrow lane, and here were the untidy hedges and the low-hanging branches that had to be pushed aside in places, a bit like the approach to Sleeping Beauty’s castle, through the 100-year-old thick thorn and brambles. Jessica knew the path, just as she had known the way here. The dreamlike quality of everything deepened. In another few yards was a chunk of stone by the side of the track, with the single word, Tromloy, engraved on it. Yes, there it was, the stone: grey and weather-beaten and old. Recognizable.

  And in another moment she would see the house, in just another few steps—

  And then it was there. Quite small. A bit neglected, but not so very much so, although a piece of guttering had broken away and hung down over a window, and the grass all round the house was overgrown. Jess would not go any nearer than this, because a car was parked on one side of the house, which meant somebody was likely to be in. But she could stay here, and see if drawing the house would take the flickering images out of her head and trap them on the paper. If she leaned against the piece of stone with the house’s name, she would be able to see anyone coming out of the house, and she could be running down the path and out of sight within a minute.

  She sat down against the stone, and pulled out her sketchbook. But it was difficult to make the first lines on the page, because the impression that she had seen Tormod walk out of the house unaided was still with her. Supposing he was just pretending to be so helpless, and letting everyone wait on him and push him to places in the wheelchair? Supposing when no one was around, he walked about by himself? It was ridiculous to find this possibility slightly frightening. Jess would not think about it any more, although while she sketched, she would do what she often did when she was worried or confused – she would whisper her favourite bits of poetry. Poetry was the best company in the whole world.

  As Beatrice ate her breakfast in Tromloy’s little kitchen, she was deeply grateful that no nightmares had slid through her sleep like sly serpents, and that no mysterious gentlemen had disturbed the makeshift frying-pan security system the Garda had arranged across the broken window catch.

  The power was still off, though. In London Bea would have cursed this state of affairs, but, somehow, in Tromloy’s other-worldly atmosphere, mundane things such as electricity did not seem to matter very much. She had orange juice and bread and honey, followed by an apple, which was perfectly acceptable and sufficient. After this she phoned the electricity company who assured her the power would be on by mid-afternoon by the latest.

  A local builder rang shortly after nine to say he had the Garda’s message and he would be at Tromloy by lunchtime. Deal with the troublesome window in a gnat’s eye-blink, Mrs Drury.

  ‘That would be fine,’ said Bea.

  While she was waiting for builders and power suppliers, she could do some work on the commission for the fantasy book illustration. Blue and purple misty forests, the editor had said. Nothing too bland or Victorian Gothic; in fact even a faint flavour of boy-band modernity if that could be managed.

  Bea spread out the preliminary sketches she had brought from London, and worked without stopping for an hour, absorbed in the images taking shape on the page. Here were the watchful trees, each with a faint suggestion of a gnarled face within the trunk – spooky but not too macabre – and there was the beckoning woodland path, along which the feckless heroine would trip to her doom. On the right-hand side, far enough down to leave space for the title and any strapline, could be the anti-hero. Bea paused. Did young teenagers like anti-heroes? Should he be Byronic? An American beefcake or cheesecake or a fit, beach-blond boy-babe? She tried several of these out, liking best the image of a brooding, low-browed, dark-haired figure. Not blatantly sinister, but you suspected his grandmama might secretly have harboured a reprehensible taste for human blood, or that great-grandfather, in an absent-minded moment, might sometimes have howled at the moon when it was full. There had better be a smoky-eyed damsel in the picture, as well. Gothic-clad? – no goth-clad! But with the suggestion that she probably had a smartphone and tablet in her pocket.

  Bea leaned back to stretch her aching neck muscles. She was pleased with what she had done, and she would start to rough out the goth female later. For the moment she would walk down the track as far as the road to clear her head. Perhaps she would meet the builder on his way up to repair the window catch, and perhaps when she got back the electricity would have been switched on and she could cook some lunch.

  She pulled on a jacket, dropped her phone into a pocket, and set off. It was a sharp, cold morning; the leaves were crunchily gold, and there was a bite of coldness in the air. Walking down the steep, narrow track, Bea’s spirits lifted. Whether it was Tromloy’s influence or not, she was deeply grateful that she was able to work properly again, and since she had left London she had not heard Abi’s cries.

  And then, cruelly and shockingly, out of the bright sharp morning, she did hear them.

  It was not Abi’s voice exactly, not the way Bea heard it in the nightmares, when Abi called for help. ‘Help me … Burning … Can’t get out …’

  But there was no panic in the voice she was hearing now – it was quiet and soft. Might it even be a bird calling somewhere? No, it was undoubtedly a human voice, and soft as it was, there was something that brought Abi back. Bea stopped, halfway down the path, listening intently. The sounds came again, and this time she was able to make out the words.

  ‘Her chariot is an empty hazel-nut …’

  It was as if a giant invisible hand had closed around Bea’s body, squeezing all the breath out.

  ‘… Made by the joiner squirrel or old grub,

  Time out o’ mind the fairies’ coachmakers.’

  It was the Queen Mab speech from Romeo and Juliet. Abigail’s favourite, the one she had loved to hear Niall reciting, even though she had not really understood it. Bea had drawn for her images of a hazelnut carriage with Mab at the reins, and wild, Rackham-esque fairy creatures streaming along behind. Abi’s quick, bright little mind had seized the concept and understood the words, and after that she had sung the speech to herself often, fitting it to snatches of music – different kinds of music, according to her mood and whatever caught her imagination.


  And now, within a few yards of Tromloy, someone was half reciting, almost half singing that very speech. It was not quite how Abigail used to chant it, but it was nearly the same – so much so that Beatrice ran down the track and around the sharp curve.

  A figure was seated on the ground, leaning against the old stone with Tromloy carved into it, the trees and the thick brambles framing her. Whoever she was, she was very young, and she was absorbed in a sketchpad on her knees. And she was half singing the lines of the speech very softly, as if for company. Exactly as Abigail used to do.

  But it could not be Abi, of course it could not. And yet, just supposing—

  Just supposing that fantasy Bea had spun turned out to be real? Supposing Abi had escaped in the final moments, that someone else lay in her grave, that Abigail, the real Abigail, had been here all the time, close to the house she had loved, not knowing who she really was?

  Don’t be ridiculous, Beatrice.

  She began to walk towards the figure, trying not to make any noise, fearful of shattering the spell. The chanting came again.

  ‘And sometime comes she with a tithe-pig’s tail …’

  The memories stirred afresh. ‘What’s a tithe pig, Dad? Is it different to an ordinary pig?’ And Niall’s patient explanation – he had always been so patient with Abi, that was one of the things that had hurt so much afterwards.

  ‘Sometime she driveth o’er a soldier’s neck,

  And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats,

  Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades …’

  The chanter seemed to like this last line, because she repeated it, lingering over the words. Ambuscadoes, Spanish blades … (‘What’s an ambuscado, Dad …?’ ‘An ambush, Abi … And we’ll get Mum to draw a brigand with a Spanish blade for you, and he’ll have dark flashing eyes and a scarlet sash …’)