by C F Dunn
Students crowded the corridor as I left. The few I recognized said “Hi” as I wound my way through them to get to the lobby. A huddle of students blocked my path; there were times when my distinctive English accent came in handy.
“Excuse me, please.”
They looked around and all but one stepped aside.
I tried again. “Please excuse me?”
The man turned slowly and a feeling of disgust welled up as Staahl’s hooded eyes licked over me.
“Excuse me!” I repeated more sharply, and this time he stepped to one side. Several students snickered but a palpable tension ran between them, like a telegraph sent along a wire. I walked rapidly to the staircase, feeling his eyes on my back even when out of sight, even as I ran down the stairs and across the quad without looking behind me. The gentle rain became torrential, soaking my jumper in seconds.
Breathless, soggy and cold, I reached the sanctuary of the cloister. Less intrusive here, I could still smell the rain in the solid, damp walls that rose protectively into the arcaded ceiling. The door from the quad crashed open against the wall and I half-expected to see Staahl’s leer in front of me; instead, a group of students tumbled laughing out of the rain. They disappeared down the cloister hall, voices bouncing off the walls, growing fainter and then fading into silence as they went through the stair door one by one. My heart began to beat less ferociously and my breathing steadied.
I went through the heavy glass door to the atrium where the porters’ lodge stood to one side. Above, the rain lashed the great dome. No one sat at the waist-high reception desk, so I leaned over the polished wood surface to see if my parcel had been left there. Only a telephone sat on the empty desk behind it.
“Can I help you, ma’am?” The slow, cracked voice of the elderly porter made me jump, and I handed him the note. He shuffled over to a room to the right of the desk, returning a moment later with a long cardboard poster tube that rattled promisingly as he handed it over. “Excellent! Thanks,” I said and retraced my steps to the cloister.
It was clear that he waited for me by the way he watched the door as I pushed through it. Staahl must have known I would come to pick up the parcel. He must have known that I had a parcel to collect. I swore silently to myself, cursing the open pigeon-holes at the history fac. The door closed heavily behind me with a conclusive clunk, preventing retreat. I didn’t acknowledge him, barely hesitating as I began to walk hurriedly, hugging the right-hand wall of the broad stone passage and looking straight ahead to avoid making eye contact. Matching my pace for a few yards, he suddenly stepped in front of me, forcing me to stop abruptly to prevent a collision. Although not tall, he dominated the space around him. His voice coiled.
“Professor D’Eresby, how good it is to see you again. I must apologize for the confusion earlier, it was my mistake; I have so looked forward to meeting you properly.”
He hardly opened his mouth when he spoke and deep vertical creases between his eyes gave him the look of a wolf – unblinking, ever vigilant. His smooth-shaven face was oddly unlined; it dawned on me that there were no creases at the corners of his eyes or mouth, no smile lines, no laughter at all in his face. Damaged.
He took a step closer and I involuntarily backed away, glancing nervously over my shoulder. We were alone in the cloister and the porter couldn’t see us from the reception desk where he stood. In the distance, so faint that I could only just make it out although there were barely a dozen yards between us, the empty bell of a telephone rang. No escape.
He stood close – too close; I could feel the heat of his body.
“I found your lecture fascinating this morning, very much along the lines of my own research, especially with regard to the monster within – a subject close to my heart. We really must get together sometime.”
He spoke excellent English with only a hint of his Dutch origins. Had I not known, he would be difficult to place. I said nothing; there was nothing to say and I don’t think he expected an answer. What did he want? The lines between his eyes deepened as he peered closely at me in the weak light of the corridor. I flinched back and he smiled the same way he had this morning as he enjoyed watching me squirm. The smile didn’t touch his eyes, nor did it register in the history of his face.
“I was telling my students about your theory relating to torture and the Inquisition. Ties in so nicely with the literature of the period, don’t you think? I’m sure you are familiar with it. It has been a deep interest of mine for many years, an interest you share, I believe.”
A faint, stale odour hung about him, not helped by the wet, dead-dog smell of the wool coat he wore. It hung in my throat, making me queasy. I wanted to run, but he placed himself so that whichever way I went, he had only to move an inch and he would touch me.
The sound of a door opening at the far end of the cloister brought fresher air, and I felt a flash of relief. Footsteps and two low male voices came rapidly closer; Staahl’s head jerked up and his eyes narrowed as he registered the newcomers.
“Dr D’Eresby, good afternoon.”
A newly familiar and very welcome voice greeted me. I spun around to find Matthew Lynes standing behind me, looking over my head directly at Staahl.
“Staahl.” He acknowledged him with no warmth in his tone and a gaze that could cut ice. Staahl stared rigidly back for a moment before his lip lifted in a sneer, his eyes sliding towards me once again.
“I’ll catch you later, Professor D’Eresby – it’s a promise.” He emphasized the last word, his voice creeping down my spine. I shuddered. Matthew took a quick step forward and Staahl baulked. Turning abruptly, he left through the door to the quad without another word. Matthew watched him until he was out of sight, and then calmly looked down at me.
“Hello,” he said, and he smiled so that the warmth of it drove away any lingering fear.
“Hi,” I replied, shakily, although nothing tangible had happened to warrant the shiver that went through me now. His eyes cast over me and he frowned.
“You’re soaked, you must be cold, here…” He took off his dark-blue coat, wrapping it around my shoulders before I could protest about getting it wet.
“Thanks,” I murmured, and I meant it doubly because he seemed to understand, although he made no reference to what just happened, instead turning to the young man standing behind him in the diffused light. I barely noticed him until that moment.
“I would like to introduce you to Harry. Harry, this is Dr D’Eresby.”
The boy took a pace towards me, close enough for me to see him clearly for the first time. He must be his nephew – he was the right sort of age. Good-looking and startlingly like his uncle, he extended his hand, his smile open and friendly.
“Dr D’Eresby, it’s good to meet you.”
“Harry’s been helping me with a research project this afternoon,” Matthew explained, indicating the box the boy carried under one arm. I looked shyly at the pair of them, not at all sure what to say next.
“Perhaps, Harry, you would kindly take the box to my car.”
Harry looked swiftly at his uncle then back at me, and took the set of car keys from Matthew’s hand.
“Sure,” he said. “Dr D’Eresby, please excuse me; it was a pleasure to meet you.”
“Are you on your way back to your room?” Matthew asked as the door closed behind his nephew. I nodded.
“Might I walk with you?”
I nodded again. I didn’t want to ask him if it was out of his way because I knew that it must be and then what excuse would I have for his company? The rain eased but a light wind drove it periodically against the glass. We walked slowly along the cloister. Although fair, even under the yellow light his complexion had the look of someone who enjoyed robust good health. Not yet recovered from the first smile, I swallowed, pulling his coat closer around me. I tucked the poster tube under my arm.
“Your lecture was very interesting this morning – thought-provoking – and well attended. I believe your audience c
oped well with the subject matter.” A smile ghosted and I couldn’t tell if he teased or not. I remembered his abrupt absence.
“Did you think it gratuitous? I know that I said that it wouldn’t be and I really thought that it wasn’t, and all of the material was entirely relevant.” I gabbled self-consciously, not letting him answer. “I’m sorry if you were offended – I really didn’t mean to… I mean, it wasn’t that bad, was it?”
He looked at me in surprise. “Why do you think I found it offensive?”
“You left suddenly; I thought that perhaps… um, well… some of the references were quite gory…” I couldn’t finish, and I felt my face flare scarlet; facing Staahl had been less awkward than this.
He shook his head slowly. “I had to get back to a departmental meeting. I’m sorry if you thought I left because of anything you said. You were very good, you know – despite the graphic detail,” he added, now definitely suppressing a smile. I stopped and buried my head in my hands. “What’s the matter?” He sounded concerned, which made me feel even worse. I took my hands away from my face, but couldn’t look up at him.
“I feel a complete idiot,” I muttered.
“Hardly,” he said. “By the way,” he continued, helping me out, “I’ve finished the book you kindly lent me. Can I return it sometime this week?”
Grateful for the diversion, my skin cooled and I felt my high colour gradually fade to normal. I recovered enough to smile at him.
“Yes, of course. I’m in tomorrow and Friday morning, if they are any good?”
“Fine – I’ll bring it around.”
I wanted to ask him what he made of it, but I didn’t trust myself not to put my foot in it again, so thought it better to keep quiet.
We reached the end of the cloister and stood at the foot of the stairs to the first floor, waiting to let the person pass, whose rapid steps came hurrying down the stairs towards us.
Elena’s flushed face came into view. “Emma! I’ve been searching for you everywhere!” She stopped suddenly as she caught sight of Matthew, looking from him to me and back again, uncertainly.
“What’s the matter?” I asked, apprehension rising.
Her Russian accent choked her English as she panted, “You have a telephone call from England; it is urgent. I have looked for you but I could not find you.”
“Who was it from? What’s happened? Did they say anything?”
“I do not know – the porter came to find you but you had gone. I have been looking for many minutes now. Why don’t you have a cell phone? Come on, I will take you and you can phone them.” She tugged at my arm urgently.
Turning to Matthew, I hesitated, my mind in turmoil.
“I’m sorry, I have to go. Thanks… for earlier. Thank you so much.” I started to take off his coat, but he stopped me.
“No, keep it; give it back when I next see you. I hope everything is all right… at home.” He looked directly at me, and for a moment I saw a depth of compassion in the sadness that haunted his eyes, and I remembered that he might have been through something similar before.
“Thanks,” I said again.
“Emma, come on,” Elena said as she looked again at Matthew before pulling me back in the direction of the porters’ lodge and the telephone call home.
It was so brief I thought I had dreamt it. Woken to a night still black and heavy with sleep, I strained to listen through the darkness, only hearing the rapid thump of my startled heart. I reached out and found my alarm clock: just past four in the morning. My eyes closed, ready to sleep, when I heard it again – distinctly this time – a scream – muffled then silenced – but definitely a scream. I sat bolt upright, listening. The clock ticked in the empty space the sound left.
Climbing out of bed, I padded barefoot across the cold floor to the dormer window and, opening it, leaned out as far as I could. It took a minute for my eyes to adjust to the inky night. A thin crescent moon ghosted behind the patchy cloud, giving a little more light now and again to the darkened world. I made out the shape of the trees but little else and no sound other than the faint shhhhh of the wind in the pines. I listened to the silence for a moment or two longer then stiffened as something moved quick and sly against the ground beyond the tree. A fox. Relieved but awake now, I went back to bed to churn over the previous day’s events.
My father had phoned from England; my grandmother – my dear, dotty Nanna who sang me songs from our favourite musicals in the sunshine of our summer garden – had suffered a stroke. She wasn’t dead, but it could only be a question of time.
“Mum must be devastated; I’ll come home straight away.”
His reply was instantaneous so he must have been expecting my response.
“No, she doesn’t want you to leave; there’s nothing you can do, and besides…” he quickly intercepted my next argument, “Nanna isn’t aware of anything or anyone at the moment. Stay there; I’ll let you know if there’s any change.”
I pressed my lips together; Dad didn’t cope with tears very well.
“Tell Mum I’m so sorry and please… tell Nanna that I love her, even if she can’t hear you.”
“I’ll do that,” he assured me gruffly. “And you, are you all right, Em – at the college? Is all in order?”
He didn’t quite ask me if I behaved myself and worked hard, but it was there in his tone.
“It’s brilliant, Dad, everything’s fine. Work’s going well. No problems.” Except the weirdo, perhaps. “And everyone’s very welcoming.”
It’s what he wanted to hear. “That’s good. Take care. Work hard. Everyone sends their love.” Over and out. The phone went dead. I placed it back on the receiver, aware of the curious gaze of the few visitors who waited in the atrium and wishing I had replaced my lost mobile. Elena put her arm around my back and looked questioningly.
“It’s OK,” I reassured her and explained. She nodded and took me back to her apartment to make tea while I dried off in front of her fan-heater clutching Matthew’s coat to me. She noticed, but unusually didn’t say anything until at last, she could restrain her curiosity no longer.
“That is Dr Lynes’ coat, no?”
“Yes,” I confirmed, not wishing to be drawn into man-talk at this juncture.
“He lent you his coat; I think he must like you. You like him – this is a good sign.”
I tucked his coat to one side of me so that it wasn’t so obvious.
“Not now, Elena, I’m not in the mood this minute.”
“OK, OK, I understand. But we must talk, yes? We have a girls’ night together and we talk about Sam and Matthew and we drink wine and eat chocolate. It will be good fun.”
I smiled at her, at the effort she made to cheer me up and her deep desire for gossip.
“The chocolate sounds good.”
“Then it is a promise, da? Sometime soon.”
“Yes, all right, it’s a promise; we’ll have to set a date later. I’ll drop you a note in your pigeon-hole.”
The clock ticked, steadily beating out the seconds of the night and I continued to lie restlessly awake. What of Staahl? His unfortunate manner and appearance might just be that, and no more. Could his sudden manifestation in the cloister be coincidental, because I felt certain I had not imagined that his words were laced with menace.
But why?
It was all very well understanding the motives of others in a historical context, but in everyday life? Historical sources often revealed motives unwittingly and, reading between the lines, they usually fell into four categories: the Mad, the Bad, the Hopeful and the Resourceful. The Mad were self-explanatory and they dotted history as the syphilitic pox marked out the faces of the infected. The Bad were less easy to identify and were more subjective – a mixture of expediency and ambition without the restraining hand of conscience. The Hopeful financed the building of churches, commissioned masses and altar-pieces; they built almshouses, wrote love poems and nursed the dying: they looked to nurture their souls. Then there we
re the Resourceful – opportunists who might or might not tread upon the backs of others to get what they wanted, and who walked hand in hand with the other three.
Staahl, I thought, belonged to one of the first two categories – or perhaps both. That he posed a threat I felt almost without doubt. What he might do about it was another matter. Almost certainly Matthew had picked up on it; he warned Staahl off in the look he gave him and in the tone of his voice. I turned over, unable to sleep, the image of the doctor and his nephew bright in my mind.
And Matthew Lynes? What could I make of him and where – in my panoply of motives – would I place him? Whereas I thought it crystal clear why Sam sought my company, I couldn’t fathom Matthew and, while he was neither mad nor bad and didn’t seem to be an opportunist, of what could he be so hopeful as to want to talk to me?
Chapter 5
Maelstrom
I DEVELOPED A STONKING HEADACHE by the next morning.
“But you had only one glass of wine,” Elena said sceptically when I opened the door to her, shielding my eyes from the sun. Her voice rattled around my empty head and, outside, the birds yelled from the branches of the cedar tree.
“Yes, but I hardly ever drink so when I do, it really counts.” I put my aching head in my hands; they felt cooler than my banging skull. “Anyway, what brings you here so bright and early?”
“It’s not early, it is nearly 8.45 and have you heard the news?” She hardly contained herself, but I couldn’t cope with that level of excitement at this time of the morning.
“Good grief, is that the time? I’m late.” I grabbed a towel and made for the bathroom. “What news?” I said, stopping at the door and looking round as her words filtered through the alcohol-induced fug.
