Obediently David helped him clean the floor, and finish it off with a spray of disinfectant from the bottle under the sink. Only when order was completely restored would Edgar, his hands washed and dried, go back to his unpacking. David stood close to him, wishing the sun would come out again. He was finding the darkness of the room oppressive in spite of the lights. ‘Shall I find some candles?’ He had expected to find them part of Edgar’s kit.
The other man nodded. ‘It would be helpful.’
They were, David remembered, in the cupboard under the gallery. He walked over to it and pulled open the door. A toy car fell out at his feet. He stared down at it, feeling suddenly rather sick.
Sammy
The call was from the opposite doorway. He swung round.
‘Take no notice.’ Edgar’s voice was calm and steady. ‘Bring the candles over here.’
‘I can’t. There aren’t any.’
‘Look in the kitchen then. I saw some candlesticks on the dresser.’
David walked towards the doorway where the voice had come from. To his shame he was feeling a little unsteady. He took a deep breath and went out into the long passage which led from the front door back to the kitchen. It was very cold, the draught from the door as bad as ever. The kitchen was a haven of warmth and brightness. He collected the two candlesticks from the dresser, and rummaging in the drawers, found two new blue candles. Putting them in place he carried them back to the great hall.
Edgar frowned. ‘Were there no white ones? It’s stupid of me. I should have brought them. I usually keep them in my case.’
‘They’re the only ones I could find.’ David put them reverently on either side of the cross. ‘What now?’
‘I’m going to bless the house and cleanse it with Holy Water. Then I’m going to pray for the banishment of evil and I’m going to celebrate communion here at this table.’
Sammy! Come and play! Sammy? Where are you?
The plaintive voice was very clear. The scuffle of feet on the stairs and the giggle as if someone was running away echoed across the room. ‘Take no notice,’ Edgar repeated calmly. He was lighting the two candles. ‘They are just what they seem. Two innocent mischievous children.’ He shook his head. ‘I conducted their funeral services. Both of them.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Sweet Jesus, bless this place. Look on us now and give us your strength to vanquish all evil from this house. Release and bless the souls of the children who have died in this house. Remove and cleanse the evil and the hatred which have trapped them here.’ He opened a leather case which proved to contain a set of small bottles and silver topped pots. ‘What Dot calls my travelling picnic kit,’ he said quietly. ‘Oil. Water. Wine. Salt and wafers.’
There was a resounding crash upstairs. David looked up. His mouth had gone dry with fear. ‘Should we go and look?’ he whispered.
Edgar shook his head. He had opened his prayer book. ‘Concentrate on the prayers. Stand here. Close beside me.’
Somewhere a child had started crying. David clutched at Edgar’s sleeve. ‘We ought to go and look.’
‘We know there is no one there, man.’ Edgar’s fingers had tightened on his prayer book convulsively. ‘Concentrate.’
The candle flames were flickering wildly; as David watched a splattering of blue wax fell across the table. ‘They should be white,’ he was muttering to himself. ‘You’re right. The candles should be white.’ He found he was shivering violently.
Edgar frowned. He was having difficulty finding the right page. ‘Our Father,’ he began, ‘which art in Heaven. Hallowed be Thy name – ’
Another crash, this time from directly overhead. In the hearth the ash was blowing about, a fine mist above the fire dogs. With a puff of wind a cloud blew out into the room, scattering across the floor to their feet. Edgar gave up trying to turn the fine India pages of his prayer book and put it down. His fear was making him angry. ‘Enough!’ he suddenly bellowed. ‘Get thee hence! Out of this house, do you hear me? In the name of Jesus Christ Our Lord, leave this place. Now! Take your evil doings and your malice and your hatred out of this house and leave the people who live here in peace.’ He raised his hand and made the sign of the cross in the air. ‘Out!’ Seizing his bottle of water he tucked it into his arm. Taking one of his small pots he struggled to remove the lid. ‘In the name of the Lord!’ he cried through gritted teeth. The lid flew off and salt spilled all over the table. David stood back, shocked, tempted to dive forward and throw some over his shoulder, but Edgar had already scooped some up into his palm, and was putting it into the water, blessing it with the ancient words: ‘Commixtio salis et aquae pariter fiat, in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti,’ words which seemed to him more fitting for their purpose than the plain English he had been about to use.
Upstairs the little boy was crying. Involuntarily David took a step away from the table, unable to stop himself, his heart wrung by the misery of the sound. Edgar, without taking his eyes off the ritual he was performing shot out a hand and grabbed David’s jacket. ‘Don’t move,’ he muttered. ‘Stay right here. There’s nothing up there, I promise you. She’s playing with us. We can defeat her. If only we believe hard enough.’
He lifted up the cross. ‘Here. Carry this and follow me.’
Slowly they processed around the room, Edgar in front, flicking the Holy Water into every corner, David behind clutching the cross. For all his fear David could not help giving his own small prayer of gratitude that his head master could not see him at this moment, and unbelievably a small gurgle of laughter rose in his throat. Edgar stopped and turned. His face was white with anger. ‘You find this funny? After all we have discussed? After all you have heard here, you find this funny?’ He was almost shouting with fury.
‘No. I’m sorry.’ David bit his lip, holding the cross higher, in front of his face. ‘Put it down to hysteria. I’m not used to this sort of thing – ’
‘Thank God you are not!’ Edgar stared at him for a long moment. ‘I just hope that our witch has not got to you as well. Perhaps it would be better if you waited outside.’
‘No.’ The thought that he might have been bewitched was so frightening David felt the cold sweat drenching his shoulders. ‘No, Edgar, I’m sorry. Please. I’ll help you.’ He glanced up at the beams of the high ceiling as they both heard clearly the sound of running feet. ‘Don’t forget the king, Edgar. If the king is here too – ’
‘First things first,’ Edgar snapped. His hands had begun to shake. He tossed a shower of water into the dark corners beneath the gallery. ‘Ab insidiis diaboli, libera nos, Domine. Ab ira, et odio, et omni, libera nos Domine! This way.’ He turned towards the door. ‘… ubicumque fuerit aspersa, per invocationem sancti nominis tui, omnis infestatio immundi spiritus abigator, terrorque venenosi serpentis procul pellatur …’
‘Mr Tregarron? Are you there?’ The loud voice echoing suddenly through the room stopped him dead. ‘Mr Tregarron, are you all right?’
David closed his eyes. He wiped his face with the back of his arm. ‘It’s Jimbo; Luke’s mechanic,’ he whispered. His hands were shaking so much he had to clutch the cross against his chest.
‘Mr Tregarron?’ The voice sounded less certain now.
‘Keep quiet. He’ll go away,’ Edgar commanded in a whisper.
‘Mr Tregarron? The back door was open.’ The voice was closer suddenly. ‘I thought I’d better check.’
‘Speak to him.’ Edgar slumped forward, crossing his arms across his solar plexus, all the energy draining suddenly out of him. ‘Speak to him. Send him away.’
David put the cross down on the table and made for the door. ‘Jim?’ His voice was croaky. ‘Jim, it’s all right. I’m here.’ He walked out into the kitchen, taking deep breaths, feeling as though he had been let out of prison. With a huge, body shaking sigh he leaned his arms on the kitchen table, his head in his hands.
‘Are you sure you’re all right, Mr Tregarron?’ Jimbo had been standing in the doorway. He moved forwa
rd, his face creased with concern. ‘You look white as a sheet, mate. What’s happened?’
David forced himself upright. ‘Just a bit tired. Sorry, I didn’t mean to give you a fright. I didn’t realise I’d left the door open.’
‘No problem. As long as everything’s OK.’ Jimbo hesitated. ‘There’s nothing wrong through there, is there?’
David shook his head.
‘I’ll go on back to work then. I had to go into Ipswich this morning to collect some parts.’ He still hadn’t moved. ‘Shall I put the kettle on for you? You look as though you could do with something hot.’
David shook his head wearily. ‘No. Thanks Jimbo. I’m fine. Perhaps I’ll make some later.’ He forced himself to smile. ‘I’m going back to London today. I’ll look in on you before I go and give you back the key.’
He stood watching as the young man at last turned to go. As the door closed behind him he had a tremendous urge to call him, but somehow he resisted it.
He had to go back.
33
‘Luke, I have to visit the place where my mother lived.’
‘Oh, Joss!’ Luke sat up and stared at her. ‘We came here to leave all that behind.’
‘I can’t leave it behind, Luke.’ She shook her head. ‘All I need to do is look. See where she stayed. I’ve got the address. I need to know she was happy here in Paris.’
‘And how will you know that?’ He took a deep breath. ‘Joss, she’s been dead for years. I don’t suppose anyone is even going to remember her.’
‘They might.’ She clenched her fists. ‘It’s not so long. Please, Luke. I’ll go alone if I have to.’
He sighed. ‘You know I won’t let you do that.’
She gave him a shaky smile. ‘Thank you.’
‘All right. I give in. Let’s get something to eat then we’ll go and find it. Then, please, can we relax and enjoy ourselves again? For our last few days?’
She pushed back the bedclothes. ‘Of course. I promise.’
Rue Aumont-Thiéville was in the 17th arrondissement. Their taxi driver dropped them off in a short street of what looked like purpose-built ateliers. Looking up at the huge studio windows Joss took a deep breath. ‘It was here. Here that she lived with Paul after she went to join him.’
‘Are you going to knock?’
She bit her lip. ‘Doesn’t one look for the concièrge? Or don’t they exist any more? I seem to remember that they are supposed to know everything about every one of their tenants in Paris.’
Luke grinned. ‘They’re dragons. Direct descendants of the tricoteuses who sat at the foot of the guillotine knitting, counting heads as they fell into the basket!’
‘You’re trying to put me off.’
‘Not really. I know nothing will do that.’ He put his arm round her shoulders. ‘Go on. Ring the bell.’
The young woman who opened the door to them looked nothing like a tricoteuse. She was smart, well made up, and spoke fluent English. ‘Monsieur Deauville? Yes, he still lives here, Madame.’
Joss glanced at Luke, then she turned back to the young woman. ‘Perhaps you remember my – that is, his …’ she floundered to a stop. It had suddenly dawned on her that she did not know if her mother had remarried or not. ‘Madame Deauville,’ she went on hastily. ‘She died about six years ago.’
The young woman made a face. ‘Pardon, Madame. My mother was here then. I’ve only been here two years. All I can say is that there is no Madame Deauville now.’ She shrugged. ‘Do you wish to go upstairs?’
Joss nodded. She glanced at Luke. ‘Do you want to come or would you rather go for a walk or something?’
‘Don’t be silly.’ He stepped inside after her. ‘Of course I want to come.’
The lift was wrought iron, small, ornate and terrifying. It carried them with unbelievable slowness up to the third floor where they heaved back the gate and stepped out onto the bare scrubbed landing. It took several minutes for the door to be answered. Paul Deauville was, Joss guessed, in his eighties, tall, white haired, astonishingly good looking and full of charm. His smile was immediately welcoming. ‘Monsieur? Madame?’ He looked from one to the other in enquiry.
Joss took a deep breath. ‘Monsieur Deauville? Do you speak English?’
His smile broadened. ‘Of course.’
He was dressed in an open-necked shirt and heavy wool sweater. There were tell-tale paint stains on his sleeve.
‘Monsieur, I am Laura’s daughter.’ She stared at him anxiously, half expecting a rejection as a look of shock then astonishment and then at last delight played across his expressive features. ‘Jocelyn?’
He knew her name.
Her face relaxed into a smile of relief as she nodded. ‘Jocelyn,’ she confirmed.
‘Oh, ma chérie!’ He put out his arms and pulled her to him, planting a kiss on each cheek. ‘At last. Oh, how long we waited, Laura and I, for this moment.’ He drew back suddenly. ‘You knew – forgive me – you knew she was dead?’
Joss nodded.
He echoed her nod, then he seized her hand. ‘Please. Come in. Come in. This is your husband, no?’ He released her to give Luke’s hand an equally warm squeeze.
Joss nodded. ‘I am sorry to come without warning.’
‘That does not matter! What matters is that you come at last! Come in, come in. I will put on the coffee. No, we need something better than that. Something special to celebrate. Sit down. Sit down.’ He had ushered them into a huge studio room. The walls of the ground floor area were lined with paintings. There were two easels both with canvases standing near the vast window; behind them a small area served as the sitting room; three comfortable chairs, covered in woollen throws, a coffee table, a television with all round it piles of books and papers. To one side of the studio an open plan staircase – almost a ladder – ran up to a gallery where presumably he had his bedroom. The old man had disappeared into the kitchen area. As Joss and Luke stood in front of one of the canvases, looking in delight at the riot of colour in the painting, he reappeared with a tray carrying three glasses and a bottle of wine. ‘Voilà! To drink a toast!’ He put the tray down on a low table in front of the chairs. ‘Look, have you seen? The portraits of your mama? Here? And here?’
There were several of them. Huge, reflecting his style of large solid blocks of colour, pure emotion, warmth and vibrancy and yet at the same time all managing to capture something of the delicacy of the woman they portrayed. Her hair – in two dark, streaked with white, in the last grey and white and wild, a gypsy’s hair. She was swathed in bright shawls, yet her skin had the fine luminous texture of the English aristocrat; her eyes remained wistful behind their teasing. Joss stood a long time in front of the last.
‘I painted that after we knew she was ill.’ Paul came to stand beside her. ‘She was twenty years younger than me. It was very cruel that she should be taken so soon after we had found each other.’
‘Will you tell me about her?’ Joss found there were tears in her eyes.
‘Of course.’ He led her back to the chairs. ‘Come, sit down. I will give you some wine then I will tell you everything you want to know.’ He began to pour. ‘You have of course found Belheddon.’ He did not look up from the glasses.
She nodded. ‘That is how I knew how to find you.’ She took one from him. ‘Did you ever go there?’ She had gone back to look at the picture again.
He nodded, passing Luke his wine, and then sitting down himself, his long legs, encased in old denims, stretched out in front of him. ‘And are you pleased with your inheritance?’ The question was posed cautiously as he took a sip of his wine.
Joss shrugged. ‘There are problems.’
Paul nodded slowly. ‘There are always problems with old houses.’
‘Why?’ Joss turned away from the picture and looked at him hard. ‘Why did she leave it to me when she was so afraid of it herself? Why, if she knew there was danger there? I don’t understand.’
Paul met her gaze for several seconds t
hen he put down his glass. With a shrug he climbed awkwardly to his feet and went over to the huge window. The greyness of the afternoon had lightened a little and a few streaks of brightness illuminated the sky above the houses opposite. His back to her he put his hands into the pockets of his jeans, his shoulders hunched. ‘She was in torment, Jocelyn. Torn this way and that. I had known her, I suppose, ten years. I met her a long time after your father died. She told me, of course, about your brothers and about you. She talked about you a lot.’ He was staring up, over the house roofs opposite into the sky, as though his gaze could recall the past.
‘I asked her to marry me then,’ he went on, ‘but she refused. She was a prisoner of that house.’ His voice took on a bitter tone. ‘She hated it. But also she loved it.’ There was another long silence. ‘You have asked yourself, of course, why she had you adopted?’ Still he did not turn round.
Joss nodded. She found she couldn’t answer.
He took her silence for assent. ‘I did not know her then, of course. I can a little imagine her pain after your father died. She adored him all her life.’ He gave a self-deprecating smile. ‘I was only ever a poor second best for her. But even then I could not imagine how she could give you, her last link with him, away to a stranger. Once or twice only, in all the time I knew her she tried to explain a little to me, but that part of her life she guarded. I think –’ he paused, choosing his words carefully, ‘I think she felt that if you stayed at Belheddon, you too would be harmed, as her sons had been harmed. The only reason that would make her give away the little bébé she loved, was to save your life.’ He turned round at last with an expressive gesture of the hands. ‘Do not be angry with her, Jocelyn. She did it to save you. The act brought her only unhappiness.’
House of Echoes Page 36
