by Sarah Rayne
This was instantly intriguing. Amy sat down in the other chair and pushed the cup of tea across. ‘Who used to play it, Gran?’
‘Oh, just a man I once knew.’ The tea seemed to be reviving her. ‘A long time ago, it was – before you were even thought of, Amy. Before your father was even thought of, as a matter of fact.’
‘A boyfriend?’ said Amy hopefully, but Gran gave the small laugh that Amy sometimes thought must have irritated the hell out of Gramps for the last forty years, and said, dear goodness, no, nothing like that.
‘Just someone I knew. Rather an unpleasant man.’ Amy thought she repressed a small shiver, but she only said, ‘So hearing that music gave me a bit of a jolt.’ She finished the tea and set the cup down. ‘That was very nice,’ she said. ‘I feel much better. I’ll just take one of my pills.’
Amy had no idea what Gran’s pills were, but she said, ‘Well, OK. But we could phone Gramps, you know. He’d come whizzing back from his rehearsal like a shot.’
‘I don’t want anyone whizzing back from anywhere.’
After Amy had gone upstairs Ella sat for a long time, staring at nothing, the past tumbling through her mind.
The music was his music. Ella had recognized it at once, even though it was a very long time – over fifty years – since she had heard it. A deserted village, Amy had said, and the music based on some poem or other. Ella had never heard of the poem, but the music was unquestionably the music that had threaded itself through all the nightmares of her childhood, sometimes rich and sombre, as it had been inside St Anselm’s that day, but at other times scratchy and cracked like an old gramophone.
Why had Amy made such a point of getting this particular piece of music and playing it tonight? It was hardly her usual choice. Was Amy taunting her? Surely not. Was someone taunting Ella through Amy? But who? Who else knew about the music?
Amy had said someone in the library had mentioned it. Had that been Clem? His parents had been a bit arty and highbrow – they had listened to the Home Service in the days when everyone Ella knew listened to the Light Programme. When Clem’s mother was alive, she and Clem’s father went to symphony concerts, taking Clem with them, which most of Upper Bramley regarded as very snobby.
A beat of apprehension began to pulsate inside Ella’s head. Was Clem Poulter, stupid clucking old hen, playing some silly mind game? Perhaps even lending Amy the CD in the hope Ella would hear it? But how would Clem know what that particular piece of music meant to Ella? How would anyone know?
The CD was still in the machine, and, almost of its own volition, her hand reached out to the switch. There was a faint whirr of sound, then the notes floated out into the quiet kitchen. The homely scent of washing-up liquid and the faint spicy drift of Amy’s chilli dissolved, and Ella was back in that long-ago summer afternoon, with the cuckoo calling in Mordwich Copse, and the scent of lilac and grass everywhere, and the squashy packet of sandwiches her mother had made in her bag. She was ten years old again, walking through a doomed village with her two friends, on her way to kill a man. She had waited nearly six months to kill him and the Geranos experiment had occurred to her as a possible way. She had not, at first, seen how it could be done; only that somewhere in the general disruption an opportunity might arise.
As the music moved to its conclusion the emotions that had driven her ten-year-old self rose fiercely to the surface again. She had felt no guilt that day and she felt none now, all these years later. What she did feel was anxiety verging on panic that after so many years his death might be traced back to her.
Because his death had not been the only murder that had happened inside Cadence Manor. The other one had happened on an autumn evening, that hour when the afternoon slides down into the evening. The sun had been setting over Mordwich Meadow and the scents had been the golden scents of bonfires and chrysanthemums. And on that autumn evening something had happened that no one had ever known about. Something Ella had never talked about, not even to her two best friends, Veronica and Clem.
Chapter 13
Ella usually walked to school and back home with Clem and Veronica and a few others. None of them lived far from the school, but one of the mothers generally went with them – they told each other you could not be too careful these days; you heard of such awful things happening to children. So they took it in turns to shepherd the children safely through the school gates, then went on for their shopping in Upper Bramley. ‘And for coffee in Peg’s Pantry,’ said Ella’s mother acidly. She was never part of the school-escorting or the shopping and coffee expeditions; she said she had better things to do with her time, and anyway she did not like coffee. Ella sometimes thought her mother would quite like to join in but had never been asked.
Usually the children reached home around half-past four, but on this particular autumn afternoon they were a bit later because they had to stay on to hear who was going to be in the end-of-term play. Ella stayed, too; originally she had thought she would like to be in the play, but when her name was not read out she changed her mind and saw it was a stupid, babyish play. Veronica was in it, of course; she was playing a princess, which Ella thought soppy. She would not have wanted to play a princess herself, and Veronica had only been picked because she smarmed up to the teachers.
A boy called Derek Haywood in Veronica’s class was going to play the prince. He had only just moved to Upper Bramley so nobody knew him very well, but Veronica said his parents had been in an operatic society in the town where they had lived before, and Derek had been on stage twice already, singing in a children’s choir. Clem said it was nothing to do with operatic societies or children’s choirs; it was just that the teachers thought they should make a new pupil feel welcome. Clem himself had not been chosen to be in the play, even though he had sung ‘Someday My Prince Will Come’, and had got all the way through without forgetting the words. He told Ella he did not care and he was going to help write the programme instead. Ella could help if she liked, they could make it really good and have their names in it as the programme’s authors. Ella did not particularly want to write a stupid programme but it would be better than not being part of the play at all, so she said yes. She thought Clem had not been picked because he did not look anything like a prince, whereas Derek Haywood was quite nice-looking.
It was an exciting afternoon. People who had been chosen were bursting with importance and telling their friends how good they would be. Then the mother whose turn it was to walk them home had to be told about it, and it all meant Ella was home a bit late.
Her mother was not exactly angry, but she was a bit annoyed. Where on earth had Ella been? When Ella explained about the play, she said, ‘Oh, that. Are you going to be in it?’
‘No.’
‘Well, I don’t suppose you mind. You wouldn’t want to be bothered with a lot of play-acting anyway.’
‘No,’ said Ella again. ‘But Clem and me—’
‘Clem and I.’
‘—we’re going to write the programme. It’ll be really good, Clem says.’
Her mother was not very interested in the play or the writing of the programme, Ella saw that. She was more bothered about Ella being late because she had to go out. The lady from the end cottage had been going to sit with Ella for the hour it would take, but because Ella was so late she could no longer do so.
‘She says she has to be somewhere else,’ said Ella’s mother, ‘so you’ll have to come with me. Don’t screw your face up like that, it’s ugly and it’s also very common.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Priors Bramley.’
Ella stopped screwing up her face, not because it was ugly or common, but because the words Priors Bramley brought back the remembered horror. She had not exactly forgotten about the man who had poured out the music in the church and sobbed so frighteningly, but after a while the memory had receded. There were all kinds of important things going on in her life – lessons and homework and the school play – and he had got pushed to
the back of her mind. But as soon as her mother said this about going to Priors Bramley, it all came back.
‘I can’t come,’ she said. ‘I’ve got homework to do.’
‘What homework?’
‘Um, something for tomorrow’s nature study.’ She did not look at her mother when she said this, because Mum could always tell when she was lying.
‘You don’t have nature study until Friday,’ said Mum.
‘Well, no, but – but it’s the serial on TV Children’s Hour. It’s the last one tonight, so I don’t want to miss it.’
She offered this last excuse hopefully, but her mother was not having it. Ella had not really thought she would. She said, ‘I’m sorry, but I have an important errand and there’s no one else who can come in to sit with you.’
‘I don’t need sitting with. I’ll be all right on my own.’
‘I’m not leaving you in the house on your own. Put on your coat, and you’d better fetch your gloves as well.’
‘Where are we going in Priors Bramley?’
‘To the manor.’
Ella turned round from rummaging in a drawer for her gloves. ‘Actually to the house?’ Nobody she knew had been inside Cadence Manor, so it would put her one up on the others, with their stupid play about princesses and silver curlews. It would even be worth missing the TV programme. Also, they could get to the manor across Mordwich Meadow, which meant they would not have to walk along the main street and past the church at all.
She asked how long the errand would take. Errands were things grown-ups did, and mostly you never found out what they were. ‘I’ve got to run an errand,’ they said, and that was all you were told.
‘Not very long.’ Mum’s voice sounded a bit trembly. ‘We’ll be back for your television serial,’ she said.
As they went along the little back lane towards the manor’s side gate, Ella tried to think about the TV programme and not about whether the man from the church might be prowling around. On one side of Cadence Manor was what had once probably been a lawn. Veronica’s family had a lawn in their garden where they sometimes put chairs and a table; Ella had had tea there several times. But this was a much bigger lawn, although the grass was so long it brushed the hem of her skirt and tickled her knees. They went towards the house, where a French window was partly open on one side.
And then, trickling into the glowing autumn evening, came sounds that sent fear scudding through Ella. Music. Music she recognized – music coming from what sounded like a record player like the one Clem’s parents had. It was the music she had heard that day being played in St Anselm’s church.
As they neared the house there was a movement beyond the French windows, and Ella’s mother said, ‘You stay here, Ella. You’ll be all right. I have to just step inside the house for a moment to see someone, so you wait here like a good girl.’
Ella looked about her, trying to shut out the music. Cadence Manor was very old and there were a lot of trees everywhere. Under one oak, quite near the house, was a blur of blue, which might be gentians. You hardly ever found gentians, and it would be pretty good if she could pick some for nature study. She pointed to these.
‘Could I get some of those gentians? Nobody’d mind, would they? It’d be extra good if I could take them to school for nature study.’
‘I should think so,’ said Mum, looking to where Ella was pointing. ‘Only pick a few, though. And don’t go anywhere else in the grounds.’
‘I won’t. I’ll sit on that bit of crumbly wall when I’ve got them,’ said Ella.
She watched her mother walk up to the house and go through the French window. As she did so, the music shut off with a scrape as if whoever was in there had lifted the needle off the record’s surface and had not done so smoothly. The movement came again and this time an arm came up to the window, drawing thick curtains over it, almost all the way. As Ella watched, the movement was repeated at the two other windows. Whoever was in there had stopped the record and was shutting out the blazing sunset. Ella thought it was a bit peculiar. But the really peculiar thing was that no lights were switched on inside the room.
Ella went over to the blue fuzziness near the trees. They were gentians, and she picked several carefully. A couple of the roots came up with some of the flowers because of the dry ground; Ella thought she could put those in a plant pot and water them, so she wrapped her handkerchief around the roots to protect them, and then her scarf. There was what looked like deadly nightshade as well, growing a bit nearer to the house. Ella was not going to pick any of that; they had all been told it was just about the most dangerous plant there was. ‘Belladonna’, the nature study teacher had called it, warning them before a nature walk and showing a photograph. ‘It means beautiful lady, but you have to remember that some beautiful ladies can be dangerous.’ They had all laughed a bit embarrassedly, but they had promised to be careful.
Ella was not going to touch the belladonna growing in Cadence Manor’s grounds, but she was curious to see the real thing. It would be pretty good if she could tell at school how she had found some. She had just reached the place where it was growing when a sound from inside the house made her turn her head. Had that been Mum’s voice, calling out? Was Ella meant to go into the house? Perhaps she could go quietly up to the window and peep inside to see if Mum wanted her. If not, she could go back to the crumbly wall and Mum would not know she had looked in.
Still holding the gentians in the handkerchief and scarf she went forward, trying not to make any sound. The dry dead grass crunched under her feet but other than that everywhere was quiet, although once she thought something had moved within the old trees and she looked towards them, her heart racing. No, there was no one there, only the old trees with their trunks like gnarled faces. The curtains were still drawn but the French window was open, and Ella could see Mum. She was talking to someone. Ella could not see who it was, but it must be the person who had shut out the evening light.
She took a nervous step nearer and suddenly saw her mother was crying. This was dreadful. Mum never cried at home and she would never ever cry in somebody else’s house. She was always talking about not making a scene in public. But Ella could see that her shoulders were shaking and she was wiping her eyes with her handkerchief. Whoever was in there had made her cry. This did not exactly stop Ella being so frightened, but it made her feel angry. She went nearer. Yes, Mum was crying quite hard. Ella took a deep breath and, pushing open the glass door, stepped through it.
The room beyond the French window was dim and musty-smelling, but there was a faint scent of something sweet overlaying the mustiness, as if whoever lived in this room had tried to smother it by pouring scent everywhere. It made Ella feel slightly sick.
Her mother turned and started to say, ‘Ella, I told you to stay outside,’ but Ella barely heard because her whole attention was on the other figure in the room. It was seated in an old-fashioned high-backed chair, this figure, but the chair was set against one window so it was difficult to make out the person’s features. Ella squinted through the dimness, and saw some kind of high collar turned all the way up. Gloved hands, and dark clothes that fell in folds over the chair. And a blur where the face should be . . . Her heart started to thud and some of the anger trickled away, letting the fear back in. It was him. It must be. He was hiding from the light, exactly as he had done that day in the church. That was why the curtains were drawn and no lights switched on.
A harsh voice said very quietly, ‘Get that bastard out of my house,’ and Ella flinched, not so much at the word ‘bastard’ – although it was a very bad swear word indeed – but at the voice itself. It was a terrible voice, harsh and grating, as if the owner’s throat was shredded into bloodied strips, or almost as if there was no throat there at all. She glanced nervously at her mother for guidance.
‘You’ve had your last lot of money from this family,’ said the faceless creature from its shadowy corner. ‘And you’ve been well enough paid for your whoring. I bought tha
t cottage for you. But there’s no money left now, do you understand that?’
‘You’re a liar,’ said Mum. ‘You have money, all right. Plenty of it.’
‘How dare you speak to me like that? Remember your place, Ford.’
Ford. That was how people used to speak to servants. As if they were scarcely even people, not even entitled to their own names. Some of the anger came back into Ella, and then the head turned towards her again.
‘Does the child know who she is? Does she know what she is?’
‘No,’ said Ella’s mother at once. ‘She doesn’t need to.’
‘Get her out of my house,’ said the voice. ‘Or did you bring her here to gloat over me? Because if so—’ The figure stood up, moving slowly, and came forward. For the first time Ella saw that the gloved hands held a walking stick.
‘I’m not gloating,’ said Ella’s mother. ‘I never have. I’m sorry for you. But it doesn’t stop me hating you.’
‘You can’t hate me any more than I hate you,’ said the figure. ‘You ruined us all, you slut. And you – child – get out of my house!’
This last was aimed at Ella, and the stick was lifted, threateningly. Ella, frightened she was going to be attacked, flinched, stumbling backwards against the wall. In that moment her mother moved forward, screaming something. Ella couldn’t make out all the words, but it was something about evil cruel monsters.
‘Oh, you’re showing your true colours now, Ford,’ said the voice, and the stick was lifted again. Ella cried out a warning, but her mother had already dodged out of the way. Ella thought she would fall against the table, but somehow she regained her balance and lunged forward. Her fists were clenched and there was an expression on her face Ella had never seen before – a white twisted look of fury, like a snarling animal. It frightened Ella so much that she cowered back into a corner of the room, cramming her knuckles against her eyes so she could not see her mother’s face, trying not to cry in case they heard her, but hearing herself sobbing anyway.
