House of the Lost

by Sarah Rayne

Theo had been typing at top speed, but when Mara realized she was imprisoned in the macabre old well-house indefinitely, he could not go on. He always identified closely with his characters, but this was far more than that. It was as if he was living through the whole thing with them. He could smell the sour darkness inside the well-house and if he half closed his eyes he could see the shadowy outline of the well cover. He could feel Mara’s terror as if it was his own.

  Had this woman, Zoia, actually existed? Annaleise had certainly existed – she was mentioned in Guff’s book as being a close associate of Elena Ceauşescu, and according to the book had met an untimely death. Matthew had existed as well – he might still exist – and at some time in his life he had been to Melbray. If he really had done that sketch of Charmery – if he had been the one to make her look like that – then there must have been a strong link between them. Perhaps a love affair. If Matthew was still alive, he would only be in his late forties now – fifty at the most.

  He took the sketch down from the wall and examined it yet again, deciding he needed to be sure that the hand who had created it had been the same hand that had drawn the convent pictures. He thought for a moment, then replaced the portrait, found his mobile and called the number of Lesley’s studio flat in Earl’s Court. It was a quarter to seven, a time when she might reasonably be expected to be at home. After she left the Slade, she had gone to work for a small auction house specializing in fine art, mostly helping with the restoring of paintings. According to Guff, who liked to send bulletins round the family, and who was Lesley’s godfather, she was enjoying herself very much.

  The phone rang for a long time and Theo was about to hang up when Lesley answered, sounding breathless.

  ‘You sound as if you’ve just run upstairs,’ said Theo.

  ‘I have just run upstairs. In fact I’ve just run almost the entire length of the street because it’s pelting down with rain – and then I heard the phone ringing two flights down, so I ran all the way up because there’s no lift here.’

  ‘Shall I call back in ten minutes?’

  ‘No, I’m fine,’ said Lesley. ‘I’m just ferreting for a towel to dry my hair… Wait a minute…’

  Theo waited, smiling at the endearing image of Lesley’s short feathery hair with rain clinging to it. When she emerged from the towelling, he said, ‘I’m at Fenn House for a couple of months. I don’t know if you knew that?’

  ‘Everyone knows it,’ said Lesley. ‘Guff was quite worried that you’d lapse into melancholy out there. He thought you might start communing with ghosts or something and he was planning on coming to see you.’

  ‘By himself?’ Guff was a gregarious soul who liked company when he travelled, and his journeys were always planned well in advance and with an attention to detail that would not have shamed a Victorian explorer bound for remote Tibetan peaks or the deserts of Araby.

  ‘Nancy said she would drive him. It’s all right though,’ she said quickly as Theo drew in breath to swear, ‘I headed them off. I said you had gone to Fenn to work and you wouldn’t take kindly to interruptions. You did go there to work, didn’t you?’

  ‘More or less,’ said Theo, knowing that by communing with ghosts, Guff meant Charmery. ‘Lesley, on the subject of interruptions, are you by any remote chance free for a couple of days fairly soon? Say this weekend? I want you to help me with something.’

  ‘What is it?’

  Theo hesitated, then said, ‘There’s a sketch here of Charmery and I’d like your opinion on it.’

  ‘I don’t think I’m qualified to give opinions yet,’ said Lesley doubtfully. ‘And I don’t remember ever seeing any sketch of Charmery at Fenn.’

  ‘Nor do I. But there’s one here now, and I’d like to find out a bit more about it. Just quietly and off the record.’

  ‘Off the family’s record, d’you mean?’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘I’d have to jiggle a couple of things – the twins were coming up for the morning, but I can jiggle the twins,’ she said.

  ‘Would they mind being jiggled?’

  ‘No, I can see them next weekend just as easily. I could probably take Monday as a day’s holiday.’

  ‘Could you? That direct train from Liverpool Street is probably still running,’ he said.

  ‘High noon on Saturday,’ she said, and Theo heard the smile in her voice and knew she was remembering how Charmery had named it the High Noon Saturday train, and how she and Lesley – later Lesley’s brothers – had made a small ritual about always travelling on it.

  ‘I’ll meet you in Norwich,’ said Theo.

  After he rang off he returned to the computer. It was starting to look as if he might have to read up on Romania’s grim prison system from those years, and he contemplated this prospect with mixed feelings because it would be the darkest kind of research. It had better be done, though. He could try the library in Norwich when he drove out there to meet Lesley on Saturday, but although he could probably get the basics on Ceauşescu and the revolution, he wanted first-hand accounts of places, lists of names and dates, archived newspapers, communist-slanted articles as well as objective ones. The internet would provide some useful leads, of course, but there was nothing quite like handling and reading the real thing. Still, the worldwide web would be a good start. It was quarter past seven – was that too late to phone BT? He only needed to know how soon they could reinstate the landline to Fenn House so he could link up to the internet. Surely they had 24-hour call centres.

  The call was not very satisfactory. The phone line to that address could certainly be reinstalled, said the BT operator. But since the connection had lapsed more than three months ago there would be a small delay.

  ‘How small?’ said Theo, suspiciously.

  ‘About ten days. Perhaps two weeks.’

  ‘Damn,’ said Theo. ‘Can’t you make it any sooner?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Well, all right. Will you set it up, please?’

  He rang off, then on a sudden thought, hunted out the local phone directory and called St Luke’s. The Bursar answered, sounding exactly as Theo remembered her, practical and down to earth. She expressed herself pleased to hear from him – they were still discussing his visit and the excellent talk he had given, she said. They hoped he would visit them again while he was in Melbray.

  No plotter ever had a better opening. ‘As a matter of fact, I would like to do that very much, but there’d be an ulterior motive, Bursar.’

  ‘Quid pro quo,’ she said. ‘What can we do for you, Mr Kendal?’

  Theo said, ‘Do you suppose I could have a brief session on your computer? Say an hour or so?’

  ‘I don’t see why not. Has your own broken?’

  He remembered her saying none of them were very well versed in modern technology, and smiled at the choice of words. ‘No,’ he said. ‘But I need a connection to the internet for some research, and I can’t get one set up here for a couple of weeks.’

  ‘I’d need to clear it with Reverend Mother,’ she said, ‘but I’m sure it will be all right. Sister Catherine’s the one who really knows about the computer so you’d probably need to have her around when you come in.’

  Catherine, thought Theo, and found he was smiling at the memory of that cool irony and those direct eyes, and the hint that there might be a rebel held in check beneath the surface. He said, ‘Well, if she could spare the time…’

  ‘We’ve got a visit from several nuns from our sister house in Poland over the weekend so she’ll be a bit caught up with that. What about Monday?’

  ‘Monday would be fine,’ said Theo. Then, as if suddenly remembering, he said, ‘Oh, wait, I’ll have a cousin staying here until Monday evening.’ Lesley had phoned back to say she would come to Melbray early on Saturday morning and would not need to return until Tuesday if Theo could put up with her until then.

  ‘Bring him with you,’ said the Bursar.

  ‘It’s a her,’ said Theo.

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nbsp; ‘All the better. Would you like to come along about twelve, and we’ll give you both lunch before your computer session.’

  ‘I’d love to. I’m sure my cousin would as well.’

  ‘Don’t get too enthusiastic, Mr Kendal, Monday is shepherd’s pie day,’ said the Bursar caustically.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Saturday morning brought a post delivery, which was a sufficiently rare event at Fenn House to be modestly exciting.

  There was a card from Theo’s mother who had just got back from Paris, and wrote that it had been hot and indolent and she hoped he was enjoying Melbray and not working too hard. There was also a pamphlet inviting him to have solar heating fitted to his house, a leaflet reminding him that Jesus Saves, and a note from his agent wanting to know if he was still enduring the rigours of East Anglia, reporting some pleasantly high sales figures from a Dutch edition of his last book, and ending with a question as to how the ex-paratrooper’s exploits were coming along.

  Lesley’s High Noon train was delayed and by the time they had collected provisions in Norwich, and Theo had negotiated the traffic, it was five o’clock before they reached Fenn House. Lesley paused in the hall, staring about her, and Theo tried to gauge her reactions.

  ‘D’you know,’ she said, ‘I was a bit frightened of coming to Fenn again. I suppose I was expecting to sort of sense Charmery’s presence. But I’m not sensing anything. I’m just remembering how much Charmery loved this house.’

  ‘We all loved it,’ said Theo. ‘After Helen and Desmond died, Charmery used to come here on her own for long stretches.’

  ‘I know. I always hoped she’d ask me to stay but she never did.’

  ‘I don’t think she asked any of the family,’ said Theo. ‘I think she liked to be on her own sometimes.’

  ‘If she was on her own,’ said Lesley, with a brief grin. ‘You know Charm.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She did like being on her own here, though,’ Lesley said thoughtfully. ‘The family never understood that – they never really understood her, did they? You were the only one who did. Everyone used to wonder why you fell out.’

  ‘We didn’t fall out. It was just a cousin thing,’ said Theo lightly.

  ‘Was it? My mother once said it was because of Charmery that you stopped smiling.’ She was not looking at him and Theo was glad. ‘It’s so good to be here again,’ said Lesley. ‘I’m going to walk into the village tomorrow, I think, just to re-visit a few old haunts. But…’ She looked back at him.

  ‘But it’s sad, as well, isn’t it?’ said Theo, gently. ‘Coming back to Fenn like this, without her.’

  ‘I miss her so much,’ said Lesley, and then, as if shaking off the memories, said, ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to go all Gothic and gloomy on you. I’ll go up and unpack. Am I in my old room? Oh good. I’ll only be ten minutes.’

  One of the nice things about Lesley was that she never expected people to fuss or run round after her. Charmery, arriving at Fenn, would say haughtily, ‘Could someone take my case up to my room? And I’ll have a bath before supper.’ She would come down to supper just as it was being put on the table, freshly bathed and shampooed, while everyone else had been peeling potatoes or looking for the corkscrew or dashing into the village for milk because the fridge had stopped working.

  Lesley simply picked up her case and carried it upstairs before Theo could forestall her. He heard her opening doors and running the taps in the bathroom, then she came down again. She had on what looked like an Elizabethan tabard over purple tights and pixie boots. Theo thought she looked like a Tudor pageboy and wondered whether she would wear this outfit for the convent visit, and if so what the nuns would make of her over the shepherd’s pie.

  ‘Come and see the sketch before we eat,’ he said. ‘It’s in here.’

  ‘Why are you so interested in it?’ said Lesley, following him into the dining room. ‘You sounded really mysterious on the phone.’

  ‘Because whoever did it must have known Charmery quite recently,’ said Theo, noncommittally. ‘And I don’t think it’s an angle the police followed up.’

  ‘Isn’t it signed?’

  ‘No. And I’d like to know a bit more about the artist,’ said Theo. He switched on the light and stood back, seeing her eyes widen as she saw the portrait. After a moment, he said, ‘It’s extraordinary, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, it is. Not just the sketch, but – Theo, it’s almost as if a whole new persona took her over when that was done,’ said Lesley.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘It’s good,’ she said.

  ‘I thought it was. There are a couple of similar ones at St Luke’s Convent and I think it’s the same artist, but I’m not sure.’

  ‘Someone local,’ said Lesley. ‘Yes, that might make a link to Charmery, mightn’t it?’

  ‘I’m hoping you can tell if they’re by the same artist,’ said Theo. ‘We’re invited to the convent for lunch on Monday, mostly so I can steal an on-line hour with their internet connection.’

  ‘And so I can prowl round the sketches. That’s fine, as long as I get the six o’clock train back.’

  ‘I’ll give you a spare key to the house anyway,’ said Theo, hunting out the extra keys the locksmith had cut and handing one to her.

  ‘Thanks. Can I have a closer look at the picture?’

  Theo took it off its hook and Lesley studied it carefully, then turned it over to examine the back. Her expression was serious and absorbed and for the first time Theo saw her not as the small cousin who liked drawing pictures, but as someone who had studied art at the Slade, no less, and who might not be an expert in the accepted sense, but had considerable knowledge and also talent.

  ‘Have you seen it before?’ he said.

  ‘No, but I haven’t been to Fenn for years. Could I remove this backing paper? Only a corner of it. I’ll be very careful and I should be able to put it back intact.’

  ‘You can dismantle the whole thing if it’ll do any good.’

  ‘I don’t really think there’ll be a hidden signature,’ said Lesley. ‘But there might be a clue as to when it was done. A framer’s stamp or something.’

  ‘It must have been done in the last couple of years,’ said Theo. ‘It can’t be any older than that. Charmery looks at least twenty-five.’

  ‘Yes, she does.’ Lesley sounded puzzled, but she fetched a very thin palette knife from her case and with extreme care began to lift the backing. At first Theo thought it would not come away or that it would tear, but eventually it came free and she laid it carefully to one side. Then she loosened the frame so the sketch itself could be removed.

  ‘This is odder and odder,’ she said, staring down at it.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because this is old,’ said Lesley. ‘Everything about it is old – the paper, the ink, even the glue holding the backing paper – you saw when I removed it how hard and dried out it was. Whoever he was, this artist, he used a medium-soft pencil, then a very thin sepia ink for outlining. No fixative. Most people use some kind of fixative now, but it’s not a given.’ She ran a fingertip experimentally over the paper’s surface. ‘Theo, this can’t possibly have been done in the last two years. It’s at least twenty years old – probably more.’

  Theo stared at her. ‘Are you sure? I thought it was just cobwebby. Everything in the house was cobwebby and faded when I got here.’

  ‘I’m not absolutely sure, but I’m reasonably so. Restoration – the dating of old paintings – were subjects of their own at the Slade so I know the theory. And I’ve been working at the gallery for the last four months and we do quite a bit of restoration work. That doesn’t make me an expert though, so don’t take what I’ve said as gospel.’

  ‘But this can’t be twenty years old,’ said Theo. ‘That would mean—’ He stopped.

  ‘Say it.’

  ‘That would mean it can’t be Charmery,’ he said, slowly. ‘Twenty years ago she would only have been seven or about six.’
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  They looked at one another.

  ‘But if it isn’t Charmery,’ said Lesley, ‘then who is it? Because it’s very similar.’

  ‘Could it be Helen?’ said Theo. ‘If Charmery found an early sketch of her mother after Helen died, she might have decided to have it on show. No, of course it isn’t Helen. The bone structure is completely different. Could it be a modern sketch on old paper?’

  ‘I don’t think so. There are tests that can be done on the actual ink but there wouldn’t have been any reason to use old paper. It’s not as if we’re in the Middle Ages where starving artists couldn’t get materials and had to recycle. I think the ink’s old anyway. If I make a very tiny scratch here – it’s only in the corner, it won’t show – it flakes. The new inks don’t do that – at least, not for a good few years they don’t.’ She sat back, still looking at the framed face. ‘Would you like me to take this back to London and see what my boss thinks of it? He’s very knowledgeable, and I’d take great care of it.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Theo. ‘Yes – would you do that? I’ll pay whatever fee’s involved.’

  ‘No, you won’t. I’ll parcel it up now – I expect there’s brown paper somewhere.’

  ‘And then we’ll have an early meal,’ said Theo.

  ‘Good. It’s hungry work, trying to solve mysteries.’

  They wrapped the sketch up, then grilled the steaks Theo had bought in Norwich, companionably drinking a glass of wine as they did so. They ate at one end of the dining table, but several times Lesley glanced through the uncurtained window to the dark gardens, and Theo saw the faint glint of tears in her eyes. He had been thinking he might tell Lesley about some of the curious things that had been happening – it would have been a relief to talk about it – but seeing the sadness in her expression as she stared at the smudgy blur of the boathouse, he knew he could not.

  Instead, he got up to close the curtains, and said, ‘More wine?’

  ‘Yes, please. You only gave me about a quarter of a glass while we were cooking the meal.’

  ‘And you already look like a naughty twelve-year-old who’s been at the plonk.’