by Sarah Rayne
‘Well, no, but—’
‘All I’ve got to do is wait for him,’ he said, looking back at the chained chest. ‘Then he’ll be safe.’ He was nodding to himself, murmuring the word ‘safe’ over and over again. But the dreadful thing was that he didn’t just nod once or twice, he went on and on nodding, as if he had forgotten what he was doing or how to stop. I moved towards him, and that was when I saw the Holzminden sketch propped up against the wall behind him. In the flickering lamplight it looked different – the eyes of the people seemed to have come alive.
I reached for my father’s arm, intending to take him back up the stone steps, and that was when the strangeness in his eyes erupted into something far worse, something that reared up and came towards me, hands clenched and curved into claws. I backed away and made for the stone steps, but my father came towards me.
‘You must never let anyone know about this room,’ he said. ‘I can’t let you go until I have your absolute promise, Luisa.’
‘I promise,’ I said, in a gasping sob. ‘I truly promise.’
‘Good.’ He stepped back. ‘I have to stay here, though. I must wait for him, you see. I must be here, ready to help him. Do you understand that?’
‘Yes, I understand.’
This time I managed to get away, and I scrabbled to get up the stairs, tumbling through the door in the hall. I was gasping and sobbing, and I had no idea what to do. Then I heard him come up the stairs behind me. He closed the door, and I heard a key turn from within.
The mind is a curious thing. At times it works at levels that we don’t understand. I didn’t understand my mind that night. I waited in the hall until I could be sure I had stopped shaking and I thought my voice would be firm, then I went along to the little sitting-room and called to Mother that I was going to bed early to finish my book.
‘Don’t lie reading too long. It’s bad for your eyes. Is your father still working?’
In a perfectly ordinary voice, I said, ‘Yes. He’s in the library. He said he might be there until late, and we aren’t to disturb him.’
I sat in my bedroom for a very long time that night. I didn’t even attempt to sleep.
My mind was filled with the thought of my father locked into that room, locked in with that oak chest, so like a deep, dark coffin. And Stephen …? Was it really possible that Stephen could be lured down there and that my father could chain him inside the chest and so save him from the German soldiers? Written down it looks utterly mad. In reality, mad is exactly what it is, of course. What I also know is that a lot of it is my fault. I let Stephen in – it didn’t matter that father told me to do it, I was the one who opened the window so he could come in. I fed my father’s madness. Perhaps I even caused it.
I lay listening to St Augustine’s church clock striking the hours. When the wind is in a certain quarter, you can hear the chimes quite clearly. It’s a cold, lonely sound at any hour, though, and on that night it was the coldest, loneliest sound I had ever heard.
At half-past six I got up and went down to the hall. The house was shrouded in early-morning light – thin and grey, not hopeful like the start of a new day should be.
For a wild moment I thought the door in the panelling might have vanished, like a door in a fairy tale that isn’t always there. It had not, of course. But it was still locked, so I tapped on it and called out softly. At first I thought he was not going to reply, but then I heard him come up the stairs.
‘Luisa?’
‘Yes. Please unlock the door.’ There was silence. I tried again. ‘Come out and have some breakfast. You can go back in there later. Please, Father.’
‘Bring my breakfast here,’ he said. ‘I must wait for him. If it takes months – years even, I must wait for him.’
Him. Stephen. The young man with soft hair and that beseeching hand-clasp who had been dead for more than a quarter of a century.
I thought if I could at least get Father to open the door, I might be able to reason with him. He might snap back to sanity, and we could go on as we had before, and no one would have to know about this. So I went along to the scullery and made coffee, strong and sweet, the way father liked it, and I made toast and spread it with butter and his favourite Oxford marmalade, and I took a small tray to the panelled door.
He opened it a very little, and his face appeared in the narrow gap. For a terrible moment I thought it was not my father – that it was some wild-eyed madman who had got into the house. Then I saw he was wearing the shirt and cardigan he had on last night, and as his hands came out to snatch the tray from me, I saw the signet ring he always wore. Before I could say or do anything, he retreated and I heard the lock turn again. Footsteps went back down the stone steps.
I had no idea what to do. I did not even know if anyone would believe me if I told them – I did not think Mother would. And without the key it would be impossible to open the door – no one had known it was there anyway. Even Mother’s cousin, my Uncle Charles, had never noticed it, and Uncle Charles liked exploring the house. He usually came for Christmas, and he was apt to organize boisterous games after Christmas dinner – treasure hunts and hide-and-seek and something called Sardines, which he always said was a corking game – they had played it when he was a young man and it would liven up our guests splendidly. Our guests were generally the vicar and his wife, and their two unmarried daughters, and none of them were the Sardines type, but that never bothered Uncle Charles.
Uncle Charles.
I took a deep breath and went into the library and picked up the phone.
Michael saw that someone – and presumably it had been Luisa herself – had folded a small piece of paper into the diary at this point. Unfolding it, he saw the familiar writing of Chuffy Chiffley. Luisa’s Uncle Charles.
Dear old Tommy,
I’m in need of a rather large favour. I know it’s a frightful imposition, but I’m wondering if you might be able to help us out over a cousin who’s become a trifle unhinged.
It’s nothing too serious, I shouldn’t think – probably down to the war, you know – but he’s taken to locking himself away in a cellar and refusing to come out. Awfully upsetting for the family – there’s a wife and a young daughter. I’m anxious to help, but I don’t mind telling you I was absolutely at a loss until I remembered you and that you treated a few chaps who’d been in Intelligence in the 1940s, and who’d come out of it a bit battered mentally. I remember how grateful they were. Also, I think you were at that Scottish place – Craiglockhart, wasn’t it? – during the Great War. I’m sure you once told me you’d helped look after those poor blighters who suffered shell-shock.
My cousin has been looking into the life of one of his relatives who went through all that grim 1914–18 stuff, and it’s my idea that he’s got a bit fixated on it all – I think that’s the right word. So if you’ve got a spare room in one of your nursing homes where he could be kept quiet and safe, with a few trained people on hand to help sort him out, the family would be most awfully grateful. I don’t know how these things work, but I can give you my personal assurance that the wherewithal will be forthcoming.
How are things with you? I wish you’d toddle along to join us at the next regimental reunion. They always put on a pretty good show, and it would be splendid to see you again.
Hoping to hear from you soon,
Affectionately,
Charles (Chuffy) Chiffley
It was like meeting an old friend. Michael thought Chuffy’s anxious generosity came off the page vividly and endearingly.
He reached for his drink and glanced at his watch. It was quarter past six. Nell would probably not be much longer. There seemed to be only a brief entry left in the journal, so Michael took a sip of his drink, and read on. Luisa’s next entry sounded just a short while after the previous one.
Today Mother was more angry and snappish than I have ever known her. At lunch she talked about inconsiderate people, and how some men become so caught up in their own concerns the
y have no thought for others. She added the usual comment about wishing she had married her cousin Charles.
I wish she had married her cousin Charles as well, because Uncle Charles is a cheerful person, and that morning when I phoned him, he drove out here the same day. My life might have been a lot different if Mother had married him.
The doctor has been again. He gave Mother a bromide to help her sleep. He offered me a half-measure of it, as well. It was important I remained strong and calm, he said, to help my poor mother. I accepted the pills he gave me, but later I threw them away. If I let my mind be taken over by pills, Leonora might find a way in. She’s dead of course, I know that. The Palestrina Choir is dead as well, it died in 1914 …
But I can’t rid myself of the feeling that Leonora is still here.
Everything is so quiet, and there are long, empty hours to fill. Ordinary activities don’t seem to be thought suitable. Mother keeps saying things like, ‘I would have thought you’d have found something better to do than read those rubbishy books, Luisa.’ And, ‘Turn off the wireless, those droning voices make my head ache.’
Late last night, after she was in bed, I got an electric torch from the scullery and went to open the panelled door. The broken lock has been repaired after they broke it down – Uncle Charles had a carpenter here within two days – and there’s a new key in the drawer of the hall desk.
‘Best leave that room locked up,’ Uncle Charles said firmly. ‘No need to go down there. Unpleasant places, cellars, anyway. Best forgotten altogether.’
But I couldn’t forget it, so last night I crept through the house, which was dark and silent – at least, it was as silent as it ever is, which is to say it was filled with odd whisperings and creakings.
The new lock turned with a slight grating sound, then the door swung open. The steps were in darkness, and it was like facing a climb into a deep old well, but I went down them and shone the torch cautiously around. Everything was exactly as I remembered it.
The oak chest was exactly as I remembered it as well. Without realizing what I was going to do, I knelt down and placed my hands on the domed lid. Oak is a lovely thing – oak trees are beautiful and friendly, and furniture made from them is beautiful as well. Solid and sturdy and with a satiny gloss. But the oak of the ancient chest felt dull against my skin, as if it had been torn from the tree, and left raw and untreated. I laid my cheek against it.
Stephen, are you there? Did my father succeed in hiding you in there? I think I even held out my hand, hoping – longing – to feel those poor sounded fingers close around mine again. But there was nothing. If Stephen or that strange fragment of him still lingered in this house, it did so invisibly and soundlessly.
The Holzminden sketch lay against the wall, and I had the curious impression that it did not like being down there in the dark— No, that’s absurd, I shouldn’t have written that.
I’ve brought it back upstairs, that sketch, and I’ll find a space to hang it on a wall somewhere. In the meantime, I’ve left it in Father’s room.
Going into his room upset me, which I hadn’t expected. I don’t think I love my father, and I don’t think he’s ever loved me. But entering his bedroom, I smelled the bay rum he rubbed on his hair and the wintergreen he used for his chest in cold weather. And I remembered that he was shut away in a place where the smell of sickness and insanity is everywhere, and where there are long, bare corridors that need painting, and that ring with people’s hurrying footsteps, and scrape-wheeled trolleys bearing nameless pills and injections for all the poor bewildered people who will never again see the outside world. I don’t think my father will ever see the outside world again, either.
I stood there in his bedroom, and I thought: I’m the cause of him being in there. His mind cracked because of Stephen, and I was the one who let Stephen in. Then I sat on the edge of his bed and cried for a long time over the pity of it all.
But later I hung the sketch on the small landing. It feels as if it’s a little piece of Stephen, and for that reason alone I’d like to be able to see it each day.
It looks quite nice. I think I’ll hunt out some of the photographs of Fosse House from the war, to hang with it – some of the nurses took photos of the men who were here convalescing.
Next week we have one of our permitted visits to see Father. They seem to think it’s unlikely that he will ever improve. He has created a hiding place in his room – a wardrobe – and he sits in front of it, watching and waiting. Sometimes he crouches on all fours, like an animal waiting to pounce. The doctors say they can’t find out what he waits for. I know, of course, but I can’t bring myself to tell them. I can’t bear to think of them discussing Stephen, analysing his life, making judgements about him. It wouldn’t make any different to Father’s treatment if I did tell them, so I shan’t.
Mother says she does not know what we will do for the fees of the nursing home, but Uncle Charles says we are not to worry about that; he will see everything is taken care of. Dear Uncle Charles.
When we get home from the visit, I think I might go down to the stone room again. I feel close to Stephen there – I feel Leonora would like prayers to be said for him. I can do that. Leonora grew up knowing about prayer, and I know about it as well.
The more I think about it, the more I think I shall go down there from time to time.
Michael turned the page. There were a few more entries – brief notes about ordinary day-to-day life at Fosse House. Luisa, having recorded the traumas and tragedies of those years, seemed to have lost interest in keeping the journal.
But there was one entry right at the end, and although Michael thought it was in Luisa’s hand, it was no longer the writing of a fifteen-year-old girl. This was something she had written very recently.
I had not thought I would want – or need – to write in this private book again. But once, all those years ago, Leonora said I might one day meet someone I would feel I could trust with the contents of these pages. I never thought so myself, but I was wrong …
Because yesterday I believe I met that person, the one I can trust with the truth—
The final word trailed off, and Michael, staring at it, thought: that’s when she had the heart attack. His mind presented him with a picture of Luisa writing that entry, then feeling the heart pain, and falling. But at least I heard her, he thought. At least I could summon help. He reread the last sentence. Yesterday I believe I met that person, the one I can trust …
He closed the diary and put it into his jacket pocket. He was scarcely aware of the modern surroundings – the buzz of conversation from the drinkers at the bar, preparations at the far end for what looked as if it might be a pub quiz.
Nell’s train had probably reached the local station now. He would try phoning her to find out. He felt in his jacket pocket for his phone, then realized with annoyance that he had left it up in the bedroom. He was just getting up to fetch it, when the barman called out to ask if he would be having dinner there that evening.
‘Because if so, I’ll reserve you a table, Dr Flint. It’s a quiz night, and we get fairly busy.’
‘Yes, please,’ said Michael. ‘There’ll be two of us. At least, if the trains run to time there will be.’
At this a man who had just come in and was helping with the tables for the quiz, looked sharply round.
‘Dr Flint?’
‘Yes.’
‘The same one as booked a taxi at the station earlier?’
‘Yes. You were going to pick up my partner and bring her here. Was the train delayed or something?’
‘As a matter of fact, it was early,’ said the man. ‘Which is a miracle these days. But your lady wanted to be driven past Fosse House, and we saw lights on, and we thought you were in there, so— You were in there,’ he said, half accusingly, half puzzled. ‘We both saw you. So your girlfriend said she’d go in and drive out here with you.’ He was starting to look more than puzzled. ‘I saw her go up to the door,’ he said. ‘I waited
and saw her knock on the door.’
Michael said, ‘I’ve been here since about half-past four. I locked up the house and switched off all the lights.’
‘Then,’ said the man, ‘who was it I saw at the window?’
Twenty-Two
Nell thought Michael was taking a long time to come to the door and let her in. She had seen him cross the room on the right-hand side of the front door, and she had heard him walk across what was presumably the hall. Then nothing.
She tried the knocker again and heard it reverberate in the house. Surely no one could have missed hearing that? She pressed her ear against the door, to listen, and for a dreadful moment had the feeling that someone was standing on the other side, listening to her. This was absurd. Probably the house and the darkness was affecting her. She delved into her bag for her phone to ring Michael’s number, but it went straight to voicemail. Clearly, Michael had switched it off for some reason and forgotten to switch it back or he had let the battery run down. Either of these would be like him. Nell left a message on the off-chance he would pick it up, then walked to the lighted window and tapped on it.
‘Michael? Are you in there? It’s me – Nell. For heaven’s sake let me in, it’s freezing out here.’
Still nothing. She stood close up to the window, trying to see inside, but the curtains were drawn tightly and there was no chink. She thought the room was empty – the silhouette she had seen earlier was no longer there, that was for sure.
A tiny beat of apprehension began to tap against her mind. She was not going to recognize, even for a second, any thoughts about spooky goings-on. What she was going to think was that Michael had not, after all, heard her knock. He could have had a radio on – headphones plugged in, maybe. He might, by pure coincidence, have walked across the hall just at that minute. She would walk round the side of the house; there was bound to be another door at the back. Tradesmen’s entrance. And very suitable too, thought Nell.
