by Sarah Rayne
But somehow I would have to find the courage to go out of Priors Bramley and find someone to whom I could explain about Saul and me, living at the lodge. The prospect sent the fear scudding across my skin, but it would have to be faced. I would write it down, explain I was disabled from a long-ago accident and unable to speak. Then I would ask for help in getting the two of us clear of the village.
I sat by myself for a long time, working all this out. It was only when I realized it was dark that I came back to a sense of awareness of the world. Saul would be waiting for his supper. He couldn’t tell the time, but he knew when we ate.
I put together a meal and carried the tray up to him. He was waiting for me, but he was not at the table by the window as he usually was at mealtimes. He was standing behind the door. I didn’t know that, though, and I drew back the bolt, turned the key and went into the room as usual. He leaped out, lifting one hand high over his head and, too late, I saw he was holding the carved wooden box that contained the chessmen. With a cry of triumph, he brought it smashing down on my head. I dodged instinctively, the tray of food crashing to the ground, but I wasn’t quick enough and the blow fell on the side of my head. Pain, shot with jagged crimson lights, exploded in my skull, and through it I was aware of Saul laughing. A child’s laughter. The laughter of a child who has tricked a grown-up and is delighted with itself. He was never really much more than a child, you see. There was no viciousness in him. I’d like anyone reading this to know that.
As I tumbled into unconsciousness, I was distantly aware that the laughter had been replaced by a different sound. The sound of the door closing, the key turning in the lock and the bolt being shot across. And Saul’s scampering feet going down the stairs and outside.
I tried the door at once. Of course I did. I shook it and rattled it hard, and banged at the door knob for all I was worth. But the lock on the outside was a very hefty affair indeed – I had made sure of that. And the bolt was the one I had fastened on myself, a thick stout shaft with steel plates holding it in place.
At first I thought Saul was teasing me. I thought he would be sure to come back. He had never been in the outside world on his own and after he got over the first glee of being free he would be bewildered. He would come running back to the safe familiarity of this house.
So I ran cold water in his little bathroom and bathed my head where the blow had fallen. It ached abominably, but that would have to be ignored for the moment. I went to the bigger of the two windows and looked through the bars. Below was the shrubbery and beyond it were the overgrown gardens of the manor and the drive. I could see the front of the manor – I could even see the crumbling pillars flanking the main entrance. But of Saul there was no sign.
I pulled up a chair and sat by the window, watching, waiting for him to come back. It was half-past four, and on an early spring evening it was starting to grow dark. He would come back when darkness started to descend, of course he would.
But he did not.
The night I spent can probably be partly imagined. Not more than partly, though, because I shouldn’t think there are many people who suddenly find themselves locked away by a madman, facing the prospect of contamination from a substance containing sulphur mustard.
Sulphur mustard. The words sent my mind back across the years, to when I had lain in the infirmary in Edirne and heard the screams of the soldiers. I had never seen them, those poor wretches, but I had seen the nurses shuddering and sickened from tending them.
I ate the remains of the food I had prepared for Saul – I even rinsed the plates in the tiny bathroom. Then I lay on his bed, and tried to sleep. He would be back in the morning, hungry and bewildered and contrite.
But he was not.
The day dragged on. I spent most of it at the window, watching for Saul – watching for anyone. At intervals I returned to attacking the door, trying to work the bolt or the lock loose. All to no avail.
It was midday when I discovered the electricity supply had failed. I suppose it had been disconnected – in fact it was surprising it hadn’t failed sooner. It added to my sense of isolation, but looked at sensibly it did not really make much difference to the situation. I had oil lamps and candles that could be used when it got dark.
Towards evening, I considered what I could do if Saul did not return. Surely someone would walk through the village one last time, to make sure no one was here? Could I attract their attention? How? The only sounds I had been able to make for over thirty years were unformed grunts, so ugly I was careful never to utter them. But I might be able to throw something out of the window.
The bars at the window were thick iron, spaced at two-inch intervals and set well away from the glass panes. I couldn’t reach the glass with my hands, but if I had something sufficiently long I could jab it between the bars and smash out the glass, a shard at a time. I surveyed the room, and chose a large photograph frame, solid silver, enclosing a faded portrait photo of Serena and Julius. It was thin enough to slot between the bars and the silver should be hard enough to shatter the glass. I removed the photograph and laid the frame on the narrow sill, ready. Then I wrote a careful note, saying I was trapped inside the lodge and please to come inside and up the stairs to unbolt the door. I wrapped it around a small book, which would go in between the bars. Then I placed it on the window ledge, ready. The instant I saw or heard anyone outside, I would smash the glass and throw the book and note out. All I had to do was wait.
Seven days. That’s how long I’ve waited now.
My condemned cell has been relatively comfortable. As condemned cells go. The store of food has lasted – I have Serena to thank for that.
At intervals I’ve tried to break out. I’ve hammered against the walls for hours on end, hoping to chip out plaster, and I’ve tried to prise up floorboards, to see if I can get into the rooms beneath. None of it has been any good. Perhaps if there had been implements in this room – hammers or chisels or saws – I might have managed it, but there’s nothing.
At first I thought the supply of drinking water might be a problem, and I wondered if I was fated to die from thirst. Be honest, reader, if you had to choose between dying from thirst and dying from having your lungs and your bones burned by chemicals, which would you pick?
But the taps in the bathroom still ran water, and presently I remembered that when the bathroom was created in this room, the workmen put a large water tank in the roof. I have no idea of its capacity, but I remember seeing it manoeuvred into the loft space with considerable difficulty. It must be about three feet cubed, certainly sufficient to hold several dozen gallons. When the tap is turned on, water comes from that storage tank, which is then automatically topped up from the mains. I had to assume the mains had been turned off, but the stored water remained in the tank. I thought as long as I was sparing with it, it would last the week.
I’ve been sparing. I’ve drawn a bucket each day, and drunk only as much as I felt was necessary. I’ve barely washed. Oh God, it’s been so reminiscent of Edirne and the siege . . . except that in Edirne we knew there was more than a fighting chance that we would get out and get back to England.
I’ve stood at the window for long hours, watching and hoping someone would appear. But the village is silent and deserted. It really is Goldsmith’s ravaged landscape gloomed with sorrows, the matted woods where bats cling . . .
Several times I’ve glimpsed Saul through the trees, walking along the village street. Each time I’ve willed him to come back up to the lodge, but he hasn’t. There’s still time, of course . . .
I suppose he’s sleeping in one of the abandoned houses – that he’s found food there. He’ll be seeing it as a grand, grown-up adventure. I’m seeing it differently. To me he’s the pitiful solitary inhabitant Goldsmith depicted in his fictional village, Auburn. The houseless one, scraping food from the poisoned fields. What does that make me? The sad historian of the pensive plain, I suppose.
Yesterday I had a brief moment of hope when I
remembered the grocery delivery and I stood at the window for hours, ready to smash the glass and throw out the note. But no one came, and I have to assume the delivery people knew about the Geranos experiment and since they had been paid up to date, they assumed the delivery would no longer be required.
Now it’s the seventh day. There’s a dreadful biblical ring to that, isn’t there? It’s deathly still everywhere, as if the village is waiting for its fate.
A little while ago – just after eleven o’clock – three children came running into the drive, and my heart leaped with hope. I snatched up the silver frame and began smashing it against the larger of the two windows. They must surely hear and look round.
But they did not. They were running quite fast. There were two girls and a boy – I could see that although I couldn’t see their faces. They ran along the drive, occasionally glancing over their shoulders, and hesitated at the entrance of the manor. I had broken a small piece of window away by that time, and I was managing to knock out several more splinters of glass. But it was far more difficult than I had expected; the iron bars got in the way and I constantly banged my knuckles against them. My nails were torn and bleeding from the glass, but nails and knuckles heal. Bones and flesh burned by sulphur mustard do not. I continued the task.
Very faintly I heard one of the children cry out, and the three of them went into the manor. I stared in an agony of apprehension, willing them to come out again, wanting them to come back down the drive. It was then that another figure came loping along the drive, a slightly shuffling, shambling gait that I knew. Saul. Saul was going after the children. And the children, it was safe to assume, were frightened of him and had bolted into hiding in the manor.
They might as well have stood on open ground and called to him to come and get them. Saul had grown up in that house; he knew every corner, every stair, every alcove and chimney of it. He would find them. I didn’t think he wanted to harm them, but they wouldn’t know that. They would only see the lurching walk, the face misshapen and scarred, and they would be terrified. Too terrified, certainly, to notice the puny attempts of a prisoner in the lodge.
As I stood there, the attempts to break the window abandoned, I heard the church clock chiming from St Anselm’s. Midday. As the last chime died away there came a sound from above: a soft purring as if some huge invisible animal was approaching. The plane, with its terrible cargo, was heading towards Priors Bramley.
I don’t know – and I never will – what took place in the manor between those children and Saul. I do know that after a short time there was a vivid flash of colour from the side of the house as the children ran helter-skelter towards the old garden wall. They vanished from my sight, but it didn’t take much intelligence to guess they had climbed over the crumbling wall into the lane, and gone across Mordwich Bank.
Of Saul there was no sign. I never saw him again. I never saw anyone again.
And so now my story is told.
The plane has flown away and beyond the windows a misty golden dust is billowing everywhere. Where it touches, it leaves an amber glaze. I know it for what it is, of course. I know what it will do to me. What I don’t know is how long it will take me to die.
The ticking clock that has marked the passing hours over the last week shows that it’s seven o’clock. Normally I would be preparing a meal now, drinking a glass of wine. But half an hour ago my skin began to prickle and burn, and when I looked in the mirror I saw blisters forming on my neck and along my hands and arms.
Chapter 42
The Present
Jan came out of St Anselm’s, stopped by the lich-gate, and looked down the village street. There was no sign of the person he and Amy had heard – the person who had given that unmistakable cry of startled fear at hearing the music a few minutes earlier.
He walked towards the village itself, until he could see round the curve in the road, but everywhere looked deserted and whoever they had heard must have gone in the other direction, towards Cadence Manor. Jan looked back at the church. Amy would be out in a minute; she would see him walking up to the manor.
He had thought the police would still be working in the grounds, particularly since that second body had been found, but there was no one around. There were tapes saying ‘Police Crime Scene’, as there had been at the other end of the village, but that was all. Jan was about to retrace his steps when he saw a blur of movement within the grounds. Had it been someone whisking out of sight? Or only an animal – an inquisitive cat or even a stray dog? He thought the movement had been too big for an animal, though, and he paused, unsure whether to go up to the house. There had been some peculiar things happening around here – the finding of the two bodies and then the murder of that woman Veronica Campion and the arrest of Amy’s grandfather. But that cry of fear they had heard surely could not be connected to that. He stepped through the gates and began to walk along the driveway.
Cadence Manor, when he came into full sight of it, really was the forgotten mansion amidst the poisoned fields. Jan found it sad. It was not even the classic ghost-ridden manor; it was simply a derelict house that had outlived its era – that era of weekend parties with elaborate dinners, and of race meetings and shooting parties. Once, thought Jan, people wandered through these gardens on scented summer evenings, carrying drinks onto a terrace, the younger ones giggling in the shrubbery as kisses were snatched. It was a privileged age, as long as you had money. Presumably in those days the Cadences had plenty of money.
Directly ahead was what must be the original main entrance. Jan thought he would take a quick look inside, call out to see if anyone really was here, then go back to the church. He stepped inside, trying to avoid the worst of the damp and the puddles. There were dozens of muddy footprints, presumably from the police and forensic people, but they had dried out. He wondered how far the police had got with their enquiries. And then he saw that there were recent, wet footprints. Someone had come in here within the last few minutes.
Jan called out. ‘Hello? Is someone here?’ His voice echoed eerily and the words bounced back at him. He tried again. ‘Are you in here? I wanted to say sorry if we spooked you with the music in the church.’
There was absolute silence, but Jan had the impression that someone was very close to him, listening, perhaps even watching. He looked round, but nothing moved. Probably whoever he had glimpsed had gone out again. But the footprints went in and did not seem to come out again. They crossed the big hall, and went into a room on the left. Was that where the person was? Perhaps it was a child, frightened by the music, and hiding.
Jan went towards the doorway and called out again. ‘Don’t be frightened. I only want to reassure you that I’m not a ghost.’
The room was a large one with the remains of tall windows and a French window at the far end. There was a massive fireplace on the inner wall, with a gaping hole where the hearth had been, full of broken bricks. The feeling of being watched increased, but that would be his imagination. As Amy might say, it was pretty spooky in here. And whoever had come in here could have gone out through that opening. He would go back and tell Amy he had not been able to find anyone.
He paused for a moment by the chimney breast, interested in the carvings, wondering if they might once have depicted a family coat of arms and whether Amy would like to see them. As he stood there, from out of the sour dank blackness of the chimney shaft, arms reached out and hands with fingers like steel closed around his neck. Before he could do anything, something came round his throat like a whiplash – something orange and brown faintly scented – and was jerked tight.
Jan struggled and clawed at the thing round his throat, but his attacker held on. A dreadful pressure began to build up in his head and his lungs felt as if they were being crushed. Crimson-shot darkness closed down on him.
As Ella stood up, looking down at the prone body at her feet, she was aware of a soaring triumph. She had done it. Finally and at last she had killed this man who had haunted her dre
ams, this man who played the threatening music, and who knew all the secrets. She went on looking at him, wanting to prolong the feeling. He was lying face-down in the rubble, his hair tumbled forward. She could not see his face, but she did not need to. He was the man who had stood in this very house and seen her mother kill Serena Cadence. The knowledge that she was finally free of him made her feel light-headed.
Strangling him had been a strange experience. Two things had been in her favour. One was the element of surprise, and the other was that she was wearing the scarf, which she had been able to twist round his neck from behind. He had clawed frantically at the scarf, trying to loosen it, but he had not been able to, and he had gone down as if pole-axed. This was very good indeed; Ella certainly could not have strangled him with her hands, and Veronica’s scarf had worked splendidly.
She bent to retrieve it and the memories swirled forward again, because she had had to retrieve a scarf that other time. She had come running through the French windows into this very room to get it because it had her name on it and Mum had said no one must ever know they had been at Cadence Manor today. But he had known, this man. He had stood there watching. That was why he had to die.
Ella put her hand up to her head because it was starting to ache dreadfully and she was beginning to feel confused. But the scarf would not give her away today, any more than it had that other time. She put it back on and went out of the house, using the main door. Now she could go home.
As she drew level with the lodge, a faint doubt came into her mind. There was something else she had to do. Someone else she had to deal with. Who? Ella frowned, but could not think who this person might be. Someone who knew something, was it? Yes, there was someone who knew something – who had seen her do something. She went on thinking about this, hardly noticing where she was going, but aware of the shocking state of the manor’s grounds. Mum always said the Cadences were irresponsible, though.
