by Sarah Rayne
She was dazed and shocked, and the fire was burning up fiercely, but she struggled to her feet, because someone was trapped in the car. Whoever it was, was screaming – dreadful screams – and through the smoke and the belching flames and the sickening smell of petrol, she could see hands beating at the car windows as the flames engulfed it. Terrible. She could no longer see whoever had run towards the car, but she must try to help, she must try to get the person out.
As she struggled to her feet, hands grabbed her, and Donal’s voice said, ‘No! Don’t go any nearer. It’s too dangerous and you can’t do anything. Not now. Oh God, it’s too late now.’ It was the real Donal again, the one she had known all her life. His voice was shocked and shaking, but he was saying that help was on the way – he had phoned the emergency services. And this must be true, because already there was the sound of sirens coming towards them.
‘We don’t need to be involved any more,’ said Donal, pulling her towards his own car, parked a little way off. ‘It’s too late for anyone to help those people, and it’s more important that I get you home.’ He unlocked the car and half pushed her inside. In the light from the blazing car, his eyes were lit to red. ‘No one needs to know we were so close to all this,’ he said. ‘That we were at Tromloy. But remember, Jess, that what happened in Tromloy must never be spoken of. No one must ever know.’
FIFTEEN
The aunts flew into an instant fuss when Donal helped a limping Jessica into the house. They scurried around fetching bandages for Jess’s scraped knees where she had fallen and strapping for her twisted ankle. Aunt Nuala brought warm water and towels for them to wash away the smoke smudges. They both wanted to know exactly what had happened, and it was immediately clear to Jess that Donal had had time to think up a story.
‘Jessica was running down the track from Tromloy, and she slipped on a patch of ice and fell on to the side of the road,’ he said. ‘I had only just got there. And almost immediately a car crashed into the bank, just a couple of hundred yards away. It exploded into flames. A terrible thing.’
The aunts were deeply shocked and distressed. Had people been hurt in the crash? Had the driver been rescued?
‘I don’t think so,’ said Donal. His mouth twisted briefly and Jessica saw that he, too, had the memory of someone screaming from inside the burning car. ‘The paramedics were there within minutes, though,’ he said. ‘And the Garda. They were dealing with it all.’
‘Did you go along to help?’ asked Aunt Morna, but Donal said they had not, because by the time he had reached Jessica, the ambulances and the firefighters and everyone was already surrounding the car.
‘We couldn’t have got near it – it was blazing up like an inferno. And Jess was so shaken from falling down that steep track, and from seeing the crash, it seemed more important to get her home as soon as I could.’
‘We’d better call the doctor out to her,’ said Aunt Nuala.
‘Dear goodness, she doesn’t need a doctor,’ said Donal, forcefully. ‘I saw the whole thing. She’ll be right as rain in a couple of hours.’
‘But the child’s in shock.’
‘I daresay she is. I daresay I am, as well. Seeing that car burn, knowing there was someone – it looked like two people, in fact – inside it, is more than enough to send anyone into shock,’ said Donal.
It was Aunt Morna who suddenly said, ‘But why were you both out there? Tromloy isn’t far out of Kilcarne, but it’s all the way at the top of that track, isn’t it?’ Neither of the aunts had ever been to Tromloy, but everyone knew about it, of course, and how it was the last fragment of the old Kilcarne Manor.
‘Jess was sketching Tromloy,’ said Donal, at once. ‘She told you about that, she said.’
‘Well, not that she was going up to Tromloy exactly—’
‘Oh, yes, she was quite clear about having told you,’ said Donal, before Aunt Nuala could say any more. ‘She told you where she was going, and you said not to go too far off the road, because it was a bit lonely out there.’
‘We did say something like that,’ said Morna, a bit doubtfully.
‘And I was along the road, because I met Niall Drury in Dunleary’s, and he was worried about a loose window catch at the cottage, what with him going back to England that very day. So I said I’d try to do a temporary repair job until Oona Dunleary gets someone out there. I’d only just parked the car when Jessica came pelting down the track. Running so fast she skidded.’
‘Why were you running, Jess?’ asked Aunt Morna. ‘That’s a steep old path from what I’ve ever seen, and it’d be icy on a day like this.’
Jess felt Donal turn his head and look directly at her. Never tell anyone … She shrank back in her chair, pushing her face into a cushion, still aware of the slight burning pain in her hand. All kinds of unpleasant things can happen …
She said, ‘I can’t remember.’ But she was aware of Donal and she could almost hear his mind working.
Then he said, ‘Jess, were you running away from someone? It’s all right, you don’t need to be afraid to say, if you were. Because there was someone lurking around – I saw him as I got out of the car. A rough-looking man, it was. A vagrant, I’d say.’
‘The tramp,’ said Nuala, pouncing. ‘That’ll be who it was. He’s been around here a while. Somebody said he’d been sleeping rough at the old Sexton’s House, but I wonder if he’d heard Tromloy was to be empty and thought he’d get a more comfortable few nights there instead.’
‘And went out to see could he get in?’ said Donal. ‘I’d say that was entirely likely.’ His eyes flickered to Jess again.
‘Did you speak to him?’ Aunt Morna asked Donal.
‘I did. I’d just got out of the car, and he was coming down the track from Tromloy. I nodded to him, then I asked was he here looking for work. He said …’ Donal frowned, as if trying to remember. ‘He said, “Ah, work, there’s a thing now, Father. Who’d give work to a rascal like me?”’
‘The impudence,’ said Morna.
‘I said I thought he looked perfectly capable, and he said, “Father, I’m capable of anything in God’s world or the devil’s. I know that today”.’ Donal looked across at Jessica again. ‘“Capable of God’s work or the devil’s,” those were the words.’
Jessica knew Donal had not spoken to the tramp. She knew those words about God’s work or the devil’s were Donal’s own.
She also knew that she would never tell anyone what Donal had done to her. Donal had said people would think she was mad and she might be shut away. That terrified her. The thought of what Donal might do to her if she told what had happened terrified her even more.
She would never dare to be alone with Donal again.
The memories were still spinning in a sick confusion as Jessica went down the track, turning to wave to Bea Drury halfway down.
She felt as if huge invisible hands had snatched her up and shaken her until she could hardly breathe, and then had dropped her with a painful thud on the hard ground.
Donal. Two years ago he had done that to her, there in that warm, welcoming house. Even now she could remember the sudden pain when he had pulled her hand close to the fire. She looked down at her hands, at the twisted scar tissue across the fingers and palms of both hands. Those scars had been caused by something far worse than the tiny burn that day. How had they happened? Had she told someone what Donal had done, and had he found it and punished her as he had threatened? If so, she had no memory of it.
There’s something more, thought Jessica. There’s another memory as well as the one I’ve found today. There must be. But whatever it is, it’s buried so deeply I can’t reach it. Then, with sudden determination – but I will reach it, she thought. Somehow I’ll find out what did that to my hands.
Bea had watched the small, strange figure, so like Abigail in so many ways, and yet so unlike her in others, walk down Tromloy’s track. Jessica seemed to hesitate at the curve in the path, then half turned, as if unsure of something. S
he’s coming back, thought Bea. Or is there someone there who’s meeting her? She leaned forward, thinking she had seen a figure come up the track towards Jessica, but after all it had only been the movement of a tree. Jessica had turned back, though, and she waved. Bea smiled and waved back, not knowing whether Jess could see her at the window, but doing so anyway.
It had been a curious afternoon. It had been clear that the sight of the fire screen had upset Jessica – she had tried to hide it, but she had recognized it and been disturbed by it. Bea sat down, staring at the screen, remembering how Jessica had asked about it when they first met. Was there an old fire screen at Tromloy, she had said. A screen with old posters and faces of people from the past. She had known about the photo in Abi’s bedroom, as well. A man on a stage, she had said. Old-fashioned clothes, and woolly hair like cotton wool on each side of his face. How had she known about that? How could she have known?
But the fire screen and the photo had both been at Tromloy for years – they had been there when Bea and Niall bought the house – and Tromloy was empty for long stretches at a time. Might Jessica have come up here sketching, and looked through a window and seen the screen? No, she could not have done. The screen had always – always – been upstairs in Abi’s room. It had never been in this room until three nights ago, the night of her arrival, when Bea had made that peat fire and it had got too hot. The photograph of the music-hall performer had always been in Abi’s room, as well. No one could possibly have seen them from the ground.
They had not been mentioned today – Bea had deliberately avoided doing so and Jessica had not referred to them at all – but it had been clear that the sight of them had disturbed her. Why?
It had grown dark, and Bea got up to switch on the lights. The small wall light on the side of the chimney breast fell directly on to the fire screen, lighting up the fragment of the theatre programme, with Maxim Volf’s name showing clearly on it. Maxim … She looked at it for a long time. She had not thought she would ever risk damaging the screen, but she suddenly wanted to know if that scrap of paper had any more to tell – if anything might be hidden under it. Before she could change her mind, she fetched a handful of DIY implements from the cupboard next to the garden door. There was a thin-edged chisel and a flat-bladed scraper that Niall had used for wallpapering, although he had been apt to get bored halfway through any kind of decorating job and give it up.
She unfolded the screen and laid it flat on the carpet, then began to chip at the old dry vanish. The scraper worked best; its edges dug into the surface, and praying not to cause any major damage, Bea began to edge the programme cover away from the base. It resisted, and she thought it was going to disintegrate, but then a corner came free, and within five minutes she was able to lift it out. It came up with only the smallest tear on one corner.
It was absurd to suddenly feel excited. There would not be anything on the back of the programme that would give any more details about the enigmatic Maxim Volf. But someone called Maxim Volf had tried to save Abigail that day and he was still living here.
The programme cover was not a single sheet after all. Whoever had incorporated it into the screen had folded it in half. The folds had split, of course, but Bea spread it carefully on the dining table, placing the edges together. Some of the corners were missing and some of the lettering was faded beyond legibility, but she was able to read the majority of it.
‘Grand opening of the splendid new Genesius Theatre on 23 November 1921. A wonderful programme of music, arranged and directed by the famous English music-hall performer, Mortimer Quince – known to audiences as “Quality Quince, the man with the Quicksilver voice”. National favourites of song and music performing on stage. Concert commences at 7.30 p.m. Supper bar open during interval for refreshments.’
The Genesius. Bea and Niall had been to that theatre several times over the years – it was a lovely, beautifully restored old place and it staged some very good plays and concerts. Niall had taken Abi to a pantomime matinée there on the day before they died. They had had lunch beforehand, and Abi had phoned Bea that night, describing it all. It had been brilliant, she had said. And she and Dad would be home tomorrow night, and she would tell Mum all about it then, and Mum could draw the people from the pantomime. ‘You can do that, can’t you? Aladdin and the cave and the genie coming out of a lamp?’
Bea had laughed, and when she put the phone down she had already been reaching for her sketchpad to rough out a few of the images Abi wanted so they could discuss them when she was home. Only Abi had never come home. Bea had found the sketches weeks later, and burned them.
It was ridiculous to be so suddenly knocked out by a wave of grief after two years, but grief did that. It ambushed you when you were least expecting it. Bea took a deep breath, dashed the tears away impatiently, and studied the programme again, trying to be dispassionate.
After Mortimer Quince’s name was a list of the people who had been involved in The Genesius’s opening night. She did not recognize any of the names, except for Maxim Volf’s. There was no indication anywhere to suggest what part he had played in the evening – he might have been a performer, an organizer, or a sponsor. He might even have sold programmes, or served behind the bar at the interval.
But there was one thing that did give a clue. The programme was decorated with one of the elaborate vine-leaf, curlicue borders so typical of the era. At the top of the page, set into the centre, was a small oval photograph. It was smudgily reproduced, and it had faded considerably, but when Beatrice took it over to the main light, she recognized it. It was the same photograph hanging on the wall of Abi’s bedroom.
She ran back upstairs again, and unhooked the photo, turning it over. The backing had come loose already, probably from age, and it was easy to peel it back. On the reverse of the photograph, in old, spidery writing, were the words, “Mortimer Quince on stage at Shepherd’s Bush Empire, 1910.”
It was impossible to know what connection there might have been between Mortimer Quince and Maxim Volf. But to add to The Genesius and the 1921 concert, Bea now had a second date and a place: 1910 in London, and the Shepherd’s Bush Empire. Was that a line of enquiry she might follow when she was back in London?
But for the moment, another theatre was closer. The Genesius in Galway. A theatre she knew and had visited. Could she bear to go inside that theatre again? Would there be any point? Would it bring her any nearer to the truth about the chimera that was Maxim Volf?
SIXTEEN
Mortimer Quince’s diary
I’m becoming aware that Maxim is getting closer. It’s difficult to describe how I know this, but it’s as if the knowledge is trickling into my mind in tiny threads and whispers. As if Maxim is saying, I will soon be with you again … I am not very far away …
This looks completely mad, written down, but this is my private diary, so I don’t see that it matters if I sound like a raving idiot at times, babbling, like Lear, of green fields. I have no idea what to do about this feeling regarding Maxim. I don’t know if there is actually anything I can do about it.
Feofil has never mentioned Maxim since that day he said I should be out of his reach in Ireland. But I am very aware that the knowledge of Maxim – of what he was – is strongly between us.
Dare I write how much I still miss Maxim? It’s something I’ve never admitted or acknowledged to myself. I do miss him, though.
Today I have had a request to undertake some very prestigious and interesting work!
It came in a letter, couched in flattering terms, sent by the director of a theatre in Galway City. He was sure I had a very busy life, he said, but he and his fellow directors wondered whether I might see my way to the organizing and presenting of a musical concert at a newly restored theatre. They had heard of my London successes and also the work I had done with the children in Kilcarne, and were very much hoping I could accept the commission.
(I feel that ‘successes’ is something of an exaggeration, but I shall no
t correct it.)
Feofil says the offer is no more than I deserve.
‘The Kilcarne school work you have done has been excellent and professional. I should not have expected anything less of you, though.’
‘But this is a big professional theatre. A newly launched concern. Am I equal to it?’
‘I’m surprised you even ask the question,’ said Feofil. ‘Do not forget who you are.’
It’s sometimes difficult to live up to being Roman Volf’s son.
I shall chronicle the Galway theatre exploits in these pages, in as much detail as possible, since it is certainly something that must form part of my memoirs – if ever I have time to create them!
This Galway theatre has an unusual history. It was originally a church, but it has been falling to pieces for centuries – all the way back to the seventeenth century to be precise, because, like Marie Lloyd’s song, it was one of the ruins that Cromwell knocked about a bit.
Dear Marie. We were once on the same bill. Foresters Music Hall, in the Mile End Road, it was. She sang an extraordinary version of Lord Tennyson’s drawing-room ballad, ‘Come into the Garden, Maud,’ making it so risqué and suggestive I’m surprised Tennyson didn’t rear up from the grave in horror. The management was stunned. I was stunned. The audience decamped, as a man, to the bar in disgust, which was a pity since I was next on the bill, and I had to perform to a virtually empty house. But these are the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or, in this case, of outrageous misfortune, and in Miss Lloyd’s defence I have to say she stood me a large port and lemon afterwards by way of apology; well, actually she stood me three.
