The Stranger Diaries

by Elly Griffiths

  There were lights on in the row of cottages, buttery and warm, but behind them the factory loomed like some monstrous, manmade cliff in front of the real, chalk cliff. It may have been a trick of the light, or a glimpse of the moon, but suddenly I seemed to see a glimmer in one of the broken windows. It was like candlelight, an almost subliminal flicker. Morse code. On off, on off. I watched for a full minute but I didn’t see it again.

  Clare opened the door to me. She was obviously still wearing her work clothes (white shirt, black trousers) but she had those fluffy slipper socks on her feet. It suddenly made me like her more.

  ‘Thanks for coming,’ she said, stepping aside to let me in.

  ‘I was in the area,’ I said.

  The blue-grey sitting room was cosy. The wood-burning stove was lit and the only other light came from a fringed table lamp. The TV was off and I could see a book face down on the coffee table. The Woman in White by Wilkie Collins. I thought of Ella Elphick, sitting in the dark with her herbal tea. Someone really should teach these women about Netflix.

  Clare offered tea or coffee and I said yes to tea, if only to get rid of the taste of orange juice. It gave the whole thing a spurious intimacy, to be sipping hot drinks by the fire, keeping our voices down because Clare’s daughter, Georgia, was upstairs.

  ‘It might be nothing,’ said Clare.

  ‘But it might be something,’ I said, ‘otherwise you wouldn’t have called.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Clare. ‘It might.’ She stared into her mug (Harry Potter: Gryffindor) for a moment before saying, ‘I keep a diary.’

  I didn’t know what response she expected. Surprise? Admiration? In fact, it was entirely in line with my image of Clare that she kept a diary, like the heroine of a nineteenth-century novel. I was pretty sure that Clare saw herself as the heroine of her own life.

  But she was still talking. ‘When you asked me about Hythe, it made me want to look back and see what had actually happened between Ella and Rick.’

  I knew it. ‘I thought you didn’t know anything about that,’ I said.

  ‘You block things out,’ she said, blushing slightly. ‘Besides, it was their business.’

  ‘And this is a murder enquiry,’ I said. But I let it go. I wanted to know where this was leading.

  ‘I looked back in my diary,’ said Clare, ‘to see what I’d thought at the time and, when I found the page, someone had written something on it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Someone else had written in my diary,’ she said, sounding impatient. ‘Someone had found my diary and written in it.’

  I was still finding this hard to compute. ‘What did it say?’

  ‘Hallo, Clare. You don’t know me.’

  ‘Can I see?’

  She looked reluctant but she must have been expecting this because there was a pale blue book on the table labelled ‘Jan to August 2017’. She picked it up but before she handed it over she said, in a rush, ‘There’s something else too. I was working late tonight. I’ve got to take over the end-of-term play from Ella.’

  ‘Little Shop of Horrors?’

  She looked surprised. ‘That’s right. Well, I was waiting for the rehearsal to start and I decided to go up to the top floor. To R.M. Holland’s study.’

  ‘Is that still there?’ I said.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘though it’s out-of-bounds to students, of course.’

  ‘I’ve never seen the room,’ I said. ‘But I read the story, The Stranger.’

  ‘Have you?’ she said, sounding surprised. ‘Did you like it?’

  I shrugged. ‘Not much. It’s a bit melodramatic. All that “we waited and we waited and we waited” stuff.’

  ‘It’s the gothic tradition,’ said Clare. ‘Things happen in threes.’

  ‘What happened to you tonight?’ I asked, hoping to end the book group stuff.

  She looked away and then back at me, still doing the doe-eye thing despite there being no men present. ‘I went up to Holland’s study. I’m writing a book about him and I wanted to look at some of the photographs in the room. Anyway, when I got there — it’s up that spiral staircase at the end of the corridor — there was someone sitting at the desk.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ I said, despite myself. ‘Who was it?’

  ‘It was a shop-window dummy,’ she said. ‘It must have come from the textiles department. But it was all dressed up in Victorian clothes with its arms outstretched. I think it was meant to look like R.M. Holland.’

  ‘That must have given you a fright.’

  ‘I nearly died,’ she said. ‘I screamed but, of course, there was no one to hear me. Then I realised what it was. But the point is, someone must have put it there to scare me. I’m the only one who ever goes up to the attic.’

  ‘Who else has the key?’

  ‘The caretaker, I suppose. He’s got duplicate keys to everything.’

  ‘Is that still Pervy Pat?’ I said without thinking.

  ‘Mr Patterson left about ten years ago, I think. Before my time,’ she added. ‘How did you know about him?’

  ‘I used to go to Talgarth High,’ I said. She would probably find out sooner or later. ‘I’m an old girl. Feeling older by the second.’

  ‘Does Tony know?’ she said. ‘Be careful or he’ll have you talking to the Year 10s on careers day.’

  ‘I haven’t told him,’ I said. I didn’t, strictly speaking, dislike the idea of talking to the students.

  ‘Who do you think could have put the dummy there?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I’ve been thinking and thinking about it.’

  ‘Is there anyone with a grudge against you?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  ‘What about Rick Lewis?’

  She sat up very straight and looked at me like I was a Year 7 who had asked what her first name was. ‘Why do you ask that?’

  ‘I understand that he once had a bit of a thing for you.’

  ‘That was ages ago. It’s all forgotten now.’

  That was the problem. The evening with Gary had taught me that nothing was ever really forgotten.

  ‘Tell me about it,’ I said encouragingly.

  She sighed. ‘Rick had always been very friendly. He’s a good head of department, really. Very approachable.’

  ‘I bet.’

  ‘Well, he didn’t approach me. Not at first. It started with him sending me little notes, quotations from books that we both liked, that sort of thing. Ella and I used to laugh about it. Then, earlier this year, we’d been out for a staff meal and Rick and I ended up walking back to our cars together. Suddenly he just lunged at me and started kissing me.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ I said again. She said it lightly but this was sexual assault.

  ‘I pushed him away, of course. Told him to pull himself together.’ She sounded just like a teacher then. ‘I mean, I assumed he was drunk. But, the next day, he turned up outside my house. He said that he’d fallen in love with me. “I’m ill with you”, that’s what he said.’

  ‘Charming phrase.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. I told him that I would never have an affair with a married man.’

  ‘Were you tempted?’ I said, idly. ‘He’s quite good-looking.’

  ‘No,’ she sat up very straight. ‘I wasn’t tempted for one second. I thought Rick seemed to accept it, but a few days later, I saw him sitting outside the house. It was weird. He was just sitting there. I thought he might be lost or on his way somewhere. But he was there the next day. And the next.’

  ‘He was stalking you.’

  ‘I didn’t really see it like that. ButI told him it had to stop. I mean, he was my head of department. He couldn’t carry on like that. People would start talking.’

  Everyone knows, I wanted to tell her. Because Gar
y is the sort of person who always hears gossip last.

  ‘And did it stop?’ I asked.

  ‘More or less. He still sends me the odd card with bitter little tags from Shakespeare. Farewell thou art too dear for my possessing. But mostly, yes, we’re just colleagues.’

  I thought of the card I’d seen on the mantelpiece when I’d first sat in this room. The one signed ‘R’. I couldn’t remember what was in it or, sadly, what the handwriting was like. I looked at the fireplace but the card was no longer there.

  ‘Would you recognise his handwriting?’ I asked.

  ‘I think so,’ said Clare. ‘He handwrites a lot of his notes to staff. He thinks it’s less formal.’

  ‘Can I see the writing in the diary?’ I asked.

  She handed over the blue book. I scanned through the entry — just taking in enough to register that Ella had slept with Rick and dumped him fairly quickly afterwards — and then focused on the tiny writing at the foot of the page.

  ‘Is that Rick’s writing?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Clare. ‘Rick’s is much bigger and loopier. This is almost italic. And it’s so small.’

  It was small but it was big enough for one thing to be clear.

  The writer was the same person who had written ‘Hell is empty’ and left it by Ella’s body.

  I heard a scream echoing through the corridors of the deserted house and I realised that it was mine. My friend, Gudgeon, lay dead at my feet. Wilberforce was a few yards away. I felt both their necks for a heartbeat but I knew that there was nothing to be done. Someone, or something, had fallen on these men like a beast from hell and slaughtered them. Gudgeon’s chest was red with blood where he had been stabbed again and again. His arms were spread wide and I could see on his palms — oh horrible sacrilege! — gashes which resembled the stigmata of Our Blessed Lord. I thought at first that Wilberforce had been stabbed to death too, but, looking closer in the flickering light from my candle, I saw that he had been garrotted, a white cloth pulled tight around his neck, making his appearance ghastly in the extreme. However, the assassin’s knife had not escaped him. The handle of a dagger was embedded in his chest.

  I was shaking, my candle making wild shapes on the wall, and, for several minutes, was frozen with fear. Because the fiend that had killed my companions was surely close at hand. Would he now descend on me, knife and hands incarnadine?

  But the ruined house was still. I could hear nothing except the rats scuttling on the floor above. Then, from outside, I heard a cry. ‘What’s happening in there?’ Then Collins, Bastian and the third man came running up the stairs. I still held the candle and their first sight must have been my ashen face, illuminated by the spectral light, before the true horror of the scene unfolded itself.

  I will draw a veil — no, not a veil, a heavy curtain — over what happened next. I wanted to inform the college authorities but Lord Bastian pointed out that we would get in trouble, perhaps even be sent down. Besides, he said, the Hell Club would not be happy if the news got out. This opinion seemed to carry great weight with the other two, and they were all senior men, you must remember. To cut a long story short, I was persuaded that the best course of action would be to leave the dread house and return to college as if nothing had happened. The bodies would be found, of course, and there would be an enquiry, but we would deny any knowledge of the events. We would never speak of this night again.

  ‘We must swear,’ said Bastian and, to my horror, he knelt down and, in a horrible echo of Doubting Thomas testing Our Lord, put his fingers into the wound on Gudgeon’s hand.

  ‘Swear,’ he said. ‘Swear on his blood.’

  Can you imagine the scene? The candlelight, the wind outside now rising to a crescendo, Bastian standing there with Gudgeon’s blood on his hands. We were all half-mad, that’s the only way I can explain it. Bastian pressed his bloody thumbprint to our foreheads as if he were a priest administering the ashes. Remember, man, that thou art dust and to dust thou shalt return.

  ‘I swear,’ we said, one after another. ‘I swear.’

  What happened next? Ah, my dear young man, there’s no need to look so alarmed. Time passed, as it must always do. The bodies were discovered. There was a police inquiry but no murderer was ever found. No one ever asked me about my movements that night. The Junior Dean made a point of consoling me over my friend’s death and I said, truthfully, that I was devastated. He sympathised but quoted a chilling little epithet from Homer, doubtless intended to foster a stoical spirit. Be strong, saith my heart; I am a soldier; I have seen worse sights than this. And it was over. Consummatum est.

  Or so I thought.

  Part the third

  Georgia

  Chapter 16

  It’s almost dark when I collect Herbert from Doggy Day Care. We walk back along the main road, cars whirring past, their headlights illuminating the flying leaves. Herbert whimpers and shrinks as close to the hedge as he can. He’s a wimp, that dog. Eventually I have to carry him. He’s only little but he’s surprisingly solid and heavy. I’m exhausted by the time I get home. Perhaps Mum is right and I should do more exercise. ‘Exercise releases endorphins, prevents teenagers from becoming depressed or obese, encourages healthy routines, and allows you to join sports teams at university instead of getting off your head on drugs . . .’ etc., etc., etc. This is one of Mum’s favourite lectures, second only to: ‘You’ll regret it if you don’t work hard for your exams. University is the best time of your life but only if you go to a Russell Group uni or, better still, Oxbridge. I didn’t get into Oxford but I’m not bitter . . .’

  Back in the house, I feed Herbert and light some of my favourite candles. I don’t think I’ll get any trick-or-treaters because our house is quite a long way from the village but I’d bought some Haribos just in case. Mum has a serious sweet tooth but she only eats dark chocolate made from cocoa beans hand-crafted by the Aztecs. I’m pretty sure that little kids prefer their sugar more mainstream. So I light the candles, recite the incantation that Miss Hughes taught us and open The Stranger.

  For the past four years I’ve read The Stranger every Halloween. Mum doesn’t know and I don’t think she would approve, despite always using the story on that course of hers. She reads it aloud to them as well. She can’t have candles because of Health and Safety but she puts an open fire app on her laptop and has that crackling away in the background. I’m sure it’s spooky as hell. I used to love Mum reading to me when I was little. We progressed from picture books and Noel Streatfeild to Agatha Christie and Georgette Heyer. Devil’s Cub is still my favourite book and Dominic is my perfect romantic hero. I told that to Ty and he was actually quite jealous. ‘Read the book,’ I told him, ‘and you’ll understand.’ But I don’t think Ty would ever read anything that has a crinoline on the cover. Why are Georgette Heyer’s covers so naff? When you think of all the exciting things that happen — abductions, false identities, wild horseback chases — the front of the book nearly always shows a woman in a ballgown, simpering sweetly up at a man. Venetia loves GH too ,after all, she was named after one of the books.

  ‘If you’ll permit me,’ said the Stranger, ‘I’d like to tell you a story. After all, it’s a long journey and, by the look of those skies, we’re not going to be leaving this carriage for some time. So, why not pass the hours with some story-telling? The perfect thing for a late October evening . . .’

  It’s such a good beginning. My book has had three different beginnings. One from the protagonist’s point of view, one from the antagonist, and one omniscient narrator that I was just trying on for size. In some ways, I think I’ll only know how to begin it when I’ve finished the thing. Miss Hughes says that most writers could scrap their first chapters and their books would be better for it. But it’s different with a short story like The Stranger. There, every word counts.

  Mum doesn’t know that I’m writing a book. She
doesn’t even know about the creative writing class. She thinks I’m just hanging around at Tash’s, watching girlie movies and painting my nails. She likes this version, despite the nagging and the lectures, because it makes me seem like a ‘normal teenager’, whatever that is. Even Ty, the ‘unsuitable boyfriend’, fits into this narrative. She and Dad worry that I was traumatised by them getting divorced. That’s why they made me go to that god-awful St Faith’s when we first moved down here. ‘A protective environment’, Dad called it. Jesus, only in the sense that Strangeways is a protective environment. I couldn’t bear it. All those prissy girls talking about their ponies and whether their bum looked big in their jodhpurs (short answer: yes). And they were obsessed with boys because they hardly ever saw a live one. When the window cleaner came round I was embarrassed for them, I really was.

  When I moved to Talgarth everything changed. It was Ella — Miss Elphick — who started it off really. That’s why I was so sad when she died. Was killed. I hate euphemisms. Miss Elphick liked my essays and she suggested that I join Miss Hughes’ creative writing group. I met Tash there and Patrick and Venetia. My best friends in the world. Miss Hughes teaches at the sixth-form college so we go there on Mondays after school. Tash and Patrick are at Talgarth like me but Venetia is from St Faith’s. Vee says that she used to not like me at Saint Faith’s but that was probably because I was busy hiding my true aura. I don’t really remember Vee at all, to be honest. She says that she has learned how to be almost invisible at school, which is surprising considering she has about a metre of bright red hair. Natasha — Tash — is my ‘official’ best friend, recognised as such by all the family and approved of by Mum for the usual, subtly snobbish reasons. Tash’s parents are professionals who went to university. T herself speaks nicely and has only the regular number of piercings. They live in a nice house and shop at Waitrose. We don’t see much of Patrick at school because he plays rugby and hangs around with all the meatheads. Tash and I have discussed it and, although we both love Patrick, we would never date him because it would ruin the energy in the group. Besides, he has a girlfriend called Rosie. A nice little thing.