by Sarah Rayne
I can’t bring myself to write a description of what my mirror showed me during those darknesses and, after the first time, I never looked voluntarily in the glass. It was not me who looked back out of the silvered depths. And while the darkness was on me, I was not safe and no one was safe from me . . .
I make no apologies for the melodramatic nature of those last two paragraphs. A man facing death is allowed a few extravagances in his journal.
Chapter 5
London, June 1912
Crispian Cadence did not indulge in many extravagances, but on the night he left university for good he reached London and his parents’ house slightly drunk.
He had intended to arrive at a civilized hour, but the goodbyes in Oxford had taken longer than he had expected, and then the train had been delayed, so it was midnight before he let himself in. By most people’s standards this was not particularly late, but by the standards of Crispian’s mother, Serena, it was outright dissipation.
He stood in the big shadowy hall with its black and white tiled floor and considered the stairway. It was in near-darkness, his bedroom was on the second floor, and he was by no means sure he could get up to it in seemly silence. He was perfectly entitled to make as much noise in his own home as he liked, but he baulked at being seen in this condition by his mother, or – God forbid – his father.
‘Your father’s jealous of you, of course,’ Crispian’s cousin, Jamie, had once said.
‘Why would he be jealous?’
‘Do you really not know? Crispian, your father’s an ageing roué no longer able to indulge in the pleasures of his youth,’ Jamie said. ‘He sees you indulging in them, and it makes him jealous.’
‘Come up to Oxford sometime and join me in a few,’ said Crispian, who had been in his second year at the time. But Jamie, who was serious-minded and rather quiet, had merely said politely that he would think about it.
He was crossing the hall, when Flagg, the butler and general factotum, came out, pulling a dressing gown round him, a look of anxiety on his face, which cleared when he saw Crispian.
‘Beg pardon, Mr Crispian, I didn’t realize it was you. I heard a noise—’
‘And I was trying to be so quiet, Flagg.’ Crispian grinned at him, and lifted his hand in the gesture implying drink.
‘Ah, yes, I see. Black coffee, sir?’
‘Better not. I don’t want to wake anyone. Is my father at home?’
‘Not at the moment.’
‘Thanks. You get off to bed, Flagg. I’ll make my own way upstairs.’
He waited until Flagg had gone back to his own quarters, then grasped the balustrade and started up the stairs, hoping he could manage to be quiet. The stairs swung sharply back on themselves in a hairpin bend, then went on up again to the second and attic floors. Crispian and Jamie used to play games on these stairs when they were small, making faces at one another through the banisters, one on the higher flight, the other on the lower. Jamie had made up splendid games for them and, remembering this, Crispian smiled. Jamie had not been so serious in those days.
There was a wide half-landing at the top of the main stairs, with a long deep window. The curtains were only partly drawn across it, and shadows slanted in and lay across the stairs. Crispian had almost reached this landing when a faint movement from above made him look up. Standing in the half-curtained window was the figure of a man. A burglar! thought Crispian, and fear scudded across him. The man pressed back into the shadows, putting up a hand as if to keep his face in shadow, but Crispian had already started up the remaining stairs, shouting loudly to rouse the household. At once the man darted out of his hiding place and hared up the smaller stairway to the top floor, vanishing into the shadows. Crispian followed him, missing his footing on the last few stairs, cursing, then regaining his balance. But the man had vanished, and Crispian stood on the upper landing, looking about him. Had the man gone into one of the bedrooms? Up the tiny stairs at the far end into the attics?
Crispian heard Flagg calling from below, wanting to know what was happening.
‘There’s an intruder!’ called Crispian, coming back down the stairs. ‘I’ve just seen him – he ran up to this floor. God knows where he is now – hiding in one of the rooms most likely. Tell everyone to stay in their room and barricade the door. You stay here to make sure he doesn’t get out. I’ll fetch the constable – there’s always one on duty in the square.’
‘Mr Crispian—’ began Flagg, but Crispian was already crossing the hall and opening the front door. He gasped as the cold night air met him and cursed the wine he had drunk earlier, then managed to half-run to the far end of the square.
By the time he and the portly constable got back to the house, Flagg was hovering agitatedly in the hall.
‘I’m that sorry, Mr Crispian, but it seems the ruffian’s escaped us after all.’
‘He can’t have done,’ said Crispian incredulously. ‘He was on the stairs and he went up to the top of the house – I saw him. He couldn’t have got out.’
‘I’m sorry, but he did,’ said Flagg. ‘And I know you said not to, but I’ve looked in all the rooms. I took the fire tongs from the drawing room, and Dora and Hetty came along as well, for they wouldn’t stay in their room alone, not for you, me, nor King George. Dora had the rolling pin and Hetty had the meat mallet. Mrs Flagg barricaded herself in our room with the frying pan.’
Despite the severity of the situation, Crispian was aware of a stab of amusement at the image of the stately Flagg prancing round the house in his dressing gown and slippers, brandishing the fire tongs, while the two maids tiptoed along in his footsteps, glancing nervously over their shoulders every few seconds.
He said, ‘Did you go up to the attics?’
‘We did,’ said Flagg. ‘But not hide nor hair nor whisker did we find.’
‘It looks as if our man’s got clean away,’ said Crispian, turning to the policeman. ‘But you’ll make a report to Bow Street, will you? In case of any other break-ins hereabouts?’
‘Yes, sir, you can be sure I’ll do that.’ The constable sketched a half-salute and went out into the square again.
‘Flagg, one of the girls had better tell my mother what’s happened – reassure her there’s no cause for alarm.’
‘I’ll see to it, sir. And now, if you’d care for that black coffee after all . . .?’
‘That’s a very good idea, Flagg. Make about a gallon of it, would you?’
Serena Cadence had gone to bed at her usual time.
Crispian had said he would be home this evening but that he might be quite late, so please not to wait up for him. He would see everyone in the morning.
Serena was glad he would be home for good. He was such a very presentable son, and so far he did not seem to be inheriting his father’s tendency to portliness, which was a great mercy. He was slim and spare, and clothes always looked very nice on him, although he wore his hair slightly too long, as so many young men did. She had thought at Christmas, when the family assembled at Cadence Manor, that Oxford had smoothed away any youthful awkwardness, not that Crispian had ever been gauche, which was something else for which to be grateful. He was not as good-looking as his cousin Jamie, who had been more or less brought up with Crispian since his mother died. Jamie was a dear good boy, hard-working and reliable, but Serena thought for all his good looks he had not a tenth of Crispian’s quiet charm.
Unless there were guests Serena liked to retire by ten o’clock. There were not often guests now, although in the early years Julius had often entertained friends and business associates, and Serena had dutifully arranged dinners and luncheons. It had been rather novel at first and she had been an excellent hostess, everyone said so. But choosing the right gowns and jewellery so one looked prosperous but not vulgarly overdressed had been dreadfully tiring. Talking to people one hardly knew had been tiring as well. Even now it made her head ache to remember those interminable evenings.
Also – and this was not something she
cared to dwell on – those dinner parties had invariably excited Julius in a very particular way. He nearly always came to her bedroom after the guests had gone, his eyes bright with the stimulation of the company and the talk, his face flushed from all the wine and brandy. He would compliment her on the gown she had worn or the way her hair had been dressed, then there would be one of the messy, fumbling, painful acts Serena had always hated but which she knew had to be endured from time to time in any marriage.
Still, all that was at an end. She finished the chapter of the book she was reading, and switched off the bedside light. Julius had had electricity installed two years earlier; it had meant a great deal of hammering and crashing and workmen everywhere, but it was certainly easier and more efficient than gaslight.
It was shortly after midnight that she was woken by the sounds of running feet and Crispian’s voice calling out something about an intruder. Serena sat up in bed and considered whether to go out of her room, but Flagg was equal to anything, and if Crispian was with him, it would be all right. She waited until the sounds had died down, and presently heard Flagg call a good night to Crispian. She could relax. Whatever had happened had been dealt with.
She lay down again and tried to go back to sleep, but sleep, so abruptly interrupted, would not return; the images pouring through her mind were too vivid. She reminded herself that Flagg could be entirely trusted. But as the chimes of St Peter’s church clock came faintly to her – 1 a.m. – she knew she would not be able to sleep until she had made sure that everything was as it should be. It was not that she did not trust Flagg, simply that she needed to know for herself. Moving stealthily so as not to alert anyone, she got out of bed, slid her feet into slippers, donned a thin silk robe, and took a key from her bedside drawer, which she put in the robe’s pocket.
The house was quiet and still, but Flagg had left a low light burning on the central landing. Serena stole along to the narrow stairs at the far end – the stairs leading up to the third floor. It was, of course, the height of folly to go up there on her own at such an hour, but there were certain responsibilities. A light summer rain had started to patter against the windows; she could hear it gurgling down the drainpipes. It sounded exactly like a throaty whispery voice. Come closer, Serena . . .
The house did not have attics in the conventional sense, but it had three rooms directly under the roof, either made by the original builder or created by some past occupant who wanted extra storage space. The rooms were small, with tiny windows overlooking the narrow walled garden. The first two were used for lumber – odds and ends of discarded furniture, and the trunks the family used when going away, or when removing to Cadence Manor for the holidays. But the third one . . . As Serena reached the head of the narrow stairway she could see the thick lock on the third door.
It was six months since Flagg had called in an incurious workman to fit the big new lock; Serena had been given one of the keys at the time. She walked down the passage and stood in front of the door. Then, her heart beating fast, pressed her ear to the oak surface. Was there the faintest movement from the other side? She suddenly had the impression of someone standing up against the door in the room. Come inside, Serena . . .
One could take a sense of duty a bit too far, of course. But, thought Serena, there was some sort of disturbance earlier and I do need to make sure everything’s all right. She glanced back to the stairs leading down to the main landing. The light was still glowing down there, and people were in earshot – Flagg and the two maids. And Crispian would be in his room by now. She slid the key from her pocket, and into the lock. Turning the lock, she cautiously pushed the door a little way open.
Bars of moonlight lay across the bare wooden floor, and there was a faintly sour smell in the room. But it was empty. Serena frowned, still standing in the doorway, unwilling to enter the room. Then a scrape of sound came from her left and a hand came round the edge of the door, reaching for her. Serena leaped back at once, her heart thudding, then slammed the door closed and fumbled frantically for the key to lock it. He had been there all the time! He had been standing behind the door.
But she was shaking so badly she dropped the key and, when she turned to run down the stairs, she caught her foot in the hem of her robe and half fell. To her horror, the handle of the door moved and it opened. A hunched-over figure came scuttling out of the room, and before Serena could call for help he was on her. One hand came over her mouth, and with the other he half dragged her back into the attic room. Once there, he threw her onto the narrow bed by the window, then bounded back to the door and locked it. At some deep level of her mind, Serena remembered the key she had used must still be on the landing outside. That meant he had his own key! He was able to go in and out – to roam around the house at will – even to roam around the streets! As he came back to the bed she opened her mouth to scream, but only a terrified gasp came out.
He pushed her down on the pillows. Serena beat against him with her fists, but he was too strong for her. Hammer-blows of terror beat frantically against her mind, and she fought as hard as she could, trying to cry out for help again. This time she managed a half-scream, but she knew with despair that no one could possibly have heard it.
He forced her back on the bed, his breath, dry and sour, gusting into her face, and Serena shuddered, turning her head to one side so that her face was half buried in the pillow. The bed creaked as he climbed onto it, and she felt his free hand pushing aside her robe and nightgown beneath, then fumbling with his own clothes. Serena sobbed and fought to get free. This was dreadful. Dreadful. The hammer-blows were beating a horrid tattoo inside her mind by this time. You-know-what’s-going-to-happen, said these insistent beatings. You-know-what-he’s-going-to-do . . .
He jerked her legs wide apart with one knee and, as he thrust against her, she felt the brutal masculine arousal. Serena squirmed and fought, but she already knew it was no use. He pushed himself hurtingly into her and the grunting heaving act began – the act that in marriage she had always found so repulsive.
‘Please stop, please . . .’ she gasped.
He seemed not to hear her; he went on, sweating and gasping. Once she thought he faltered and the feeling of hard intrusive masculinity lessened slightly, but then he gave a bellow of triumph and jerked convulsively. Pain tore through Serena and the shadowy room spun dizzily around her, then she was aware of him lumbering off the bed. She half sat up, pulling the robe around her. Her assailant was crouching in a corner of the room; in the dimness she could see him turning his head from side to side, as if bewildered, shrinking from the thin moonlight and covering his face with his hands.
Something akin to pity sliced through Serena, but moving slowly so as not to alarm him into making another move, she got off the bed, and went to the door. He flinched like a child expecting a blow, but he did not move and she reached shakily for the key, which was still in the lock. It turned, and Serena opened the door and almost fell onto the narrow landing beyond. She pulled the door shut, managed to lock it, and leaned back against it, gasping and trembling. But it’s all right, said her mind. He’s locked in again and I’ve got the key he had. Oh God, how did he get that key? I’ll have to find out about that. But I don’t need to do that tonight. I don’t need to raise the alarm. I can go back to my room.
She went shakily down the narrow stairs and she was almost at the bottom when footsteps came up the main stairway, and Crispian appeared, a mug of something in one hand. He saw her at once, and stopped, clearly puzzled as to why his mother should be coming down from the attics at this hour. As Serena moved forward, Crispian’s eyes widened in horror and she realized, too late, that her robe was torn and her hair was probably in wild disarray.
‘Dear God, what on earth’s happened?’ he said, setting down the mug on the floor and coming towards her. He took her arms. ‘You’re hurt – it’s the intruder come back, isn’t it?’
‘No—’
‘Then what’s happened?’ His eyes went past h
er to the stair. ‘What’s up there?’ he said. ‘What are you hiding?’
‘Nothing. Crispian, please don’t . . .’ But he was already ascending the stairs, taking them two at a time, and it was then that Serena realized her own key was still on the floor where she had dropped it. Would he see it? Yes, of course he would. She went up the stairs after him but it was already too late. Crispian had indeed seen the key and he had seen the thick, new-looking lock on the door. He had picked up the key and unlocked the door before Serena could stop him.
She cried out, ‘Crispian – no! Don’t!’ but he was already stepping into the room. Serena saw him pause and peer through the shadowy dimness, and then grope, almost automatically, to find the light switch.
Light flooded the room, and fell cruelly and revealingly across the face of the man who was still huddled in the corner, his face turned away. Crispian gave a start of horror and, as he stood staring, Julius Cadence, his father, gave a cry of anguish and cowered back, covering his face with his hands.
Crispian thought he would be ashamed for the rest of his life of the instinct that sent him stumbling out of the dreadful room. But he had been unprepared for what the sudden light revealed, and such sick horror swept over him that he had to get out at once.
For several moments he was afraid he was actually going to be sick – all that wine at the party! – but he filled the bathroom basin with cold water and thrust his head into it. As he emerged, dripping wet and gasping, he was dimly aware of Flagg’s voice calling from downstairs, and of his mother saying that nothing was wrong, please to go back to bed. He dried his face and hair, his mind still seeing the nightmare thing cowering in the corner of the bedroom, the thing that was unmistakably his father despite . . .
His face, thought Crispian, horrified. Oh God, what did that to his face?
