by Sarah Rayne
The faint light was in the main part of the shop as well. Quire Court had several Victorian-style wrought-iron streetlamps, and one was immediately outside. But as she went up the stairs, the light flickered and then dimmed, as if a lamp was being quenched. The narrow stair began to feel slightly scary, and the shadows seemed to be filling up with sounds and movements. Nell reminded herself that the sounds would be nothing more than birds scrabbling in the eaves, and traffic and people in the streets around the Court. Someone nearby was even singing. It was a bit early for raucous songs or drunken revelry from students, although this did not sound very raucous, and it did not sound drunk either. It was a single voice: a girl’s, high and cool and quite sweet. The words did not sound English and Nell did not recognize the language, which had an unusual cadence. It could be anything, though; Oxford teemed with all races and creeds.
She was about to continue up to the attic, when she realized that the singing was not outside the shop at all. It was inside. She stood still, listening. Was it coming from the attic floor, with that open window? No, it was downstairs. Had someone followed her in? Or had someone already been in here, crouching in the darkness? The alarm had been on when she came in, but could someone have climbed through the open window? But it was on the second floor, and it would have meant using a long ladder and squeezing through an impossibly tiny space. And where was the ladder now? And what burglar would sing like this?
Nell began to make her way back down the stairs as quietly as possible. The open window would have to wait until tomorrow. There was someone in here, hiding somewhere in the dark corners of the empty building, and she was going to get the hell out of here and beat it back to the house and to Beth, then call the police.
As she reached the foot of the stairs, the light flared up, casting moving shadows across the walls, and this time Nell realized with new horror that a faint smell of oil was coming from Godfrey’s half of the shop. A new image scudded into her mind – of papers being crumpled together, then doused with oil or petrol before a match was struck. This was so alarming she forgot about burglars who sang strange, sad songs and went towards the sounds, trying to remember where the fire extinguisher was, and if it had remained inside the building while the work was going on.
The singing was nearer now and there were other sounds as well, as if something was being dragged across the floor. There was the harsh ring of metal against stone, then the rhythmic slap of wet mortar on brick. Nell edged towards the outside door but, as she did so, something moved in the shadows – something that resembled the blurred pencil sketch of a human figure. Nell gasped and shrank back, but the figure had vanished. The burning-oil scent faded, and the old building settled back into its normal near-silence.
Nell, no longer caring if an entire army of drugged or drunk vagrants were camping out in here, tumbled through the partition into her own part of the shop. Her hands were shaking, but she reached the outer door and managed to tap in the security code and drag the door open. She locked it, and heard with relief the security system click back into place. Anyone inside would be trapped.
She ran along the garden path, relieved to see that Beth was still curled up on the window-seat. Nell waved to her as she ran along the garden path, and Beth waved back. Reality returned slightly. It was unlikely that anyone could have been inside the shop, but it might be as well to phone the police to report a possible intruder.
The night-duty officer at the police station was reassuring and efficient, and a patrol car was sent out with remarkable speed. Nell handed over the keys and the alarm code.
‘Nothing to be found,’ said the sergeant, having made an inspection, and returning the keys. ‘We made a thorough search of both shops. You were sensible to call us out, though. Here’s a crime reference number in case you need to phone us again, and here’s my direct number. Ring if you need to, but everywhere looks fine. We’ve re-set the security system using your code, but maybe you’ll feel happier if you change the code in the morning.’
‘If I can’t trust the police force, I can’t trust anyone,’ said Nell, nevertheless making a mental note to change it.
When finally she got to bed, the strange, sweet singing was still trickling through her mind as she drifted into sleep. But it would be just a rogue echo from beyond the Court, nothing more.
TWO
Email from: Olive Orchard, Organizing Committee, St Benedict’s Revels
To: Daniel Goodbody, Local Historian and Revels Chair
Dear Daniel
Sorry to report we still haven’t found the elusive ‘Thaisa’s Song’ for the Dusklight Concert.
However, Gerald is doggedly going on with his search and insists it isn’t just a vague legend. He says something is telling him there’s a copy in existence somewhere, and you know Gerald. When he becomes convinced of a thing, there’s no gainsaying him.
He spent the entire weekend exploring the library’s archives – by which I mean those ancient, mildewed bundles of newspapers and documents he keeps squirrelled away in the half-cellar that opens off the Crime Fiction section. It was a pity you couldn’t accept my invitation to supper while he was out of the house, particularly since Gerald had inadvertently locked himself into the cellar and we had to call a locksmith. He says it’s not neurotic of him to lock the cellar, because an inquisitive child once found its way in there while its mother was absorbed in the latest Richard and Judy recommendations. The child shredded every copy of the Abbas Advertiser for 1939, which means future generations will never know how Rede Abbas reacted to the outbreak of WWII. (I don’t know if the mother borrowed any Richard and Judy books.)
Regards,
Olive
To: Organizing Committee,
St Benedict’s Revels,
c/o Council Offices
Rede Abbas
Dear Sirs
I hear with concern that a search is being made for the music known as ‘Thaisa’s Song’, and that, if found, it will be sung at the forthcoming St Benedict’s Revels.
I do beg you to abandon this search. The music is thought to have been lost for almost five hundred years, but it would be better for it to remain lost.
I realize you will probably put my letter down to the ramblings of a crank or the fantasies of an eccentric, but I should be very grateful if you would abandon this search for ‘Thaisa’s Song’.
Sincerely
Maeve Eynon
Email From: Olive Orchard, Organizing Committee, St Benedict’s Revels
To: Daniel Goodbody, Local Historian and Revels Chair
Hi Daniel,
Here’s the letter from Miss Eynon, which personally I should consign to the wpb. Gerald says Miss Eynon should be consigned there with it, because she drifts into the library and upsets everyone by talking about ancient tragedies and pointing out how many mistakes there are in books on local history (one was your own opus, I’m afraid). But Gerald hasn’t the heart to ban her from the Reading Room, and says she’s probably only mad nor-nor-west anyway.
However, a polite note with your name on it (and all the letters after your name you’re entitled to), might reassure the lady. I shouldn’t think there’s anything peculiar about the music, should you? But perhaps you and I should get together to discuss it? I’m available almost any night this week. Or next week.
Kind regards,
Olive Orchard
From: Mr Daniel Goodbody, Local Historian and Revels Chair
To: Olive Orchard, Organizing Committee, St Benedict’s Revels
Dear Olive
Angels and Ministers of grace defend me from Maeve Eynon and her Cassandra-like prophecies of doom!
Of course there isn’t anything peculiar about ‘Thaisa’s Song’. I have no idea who ‘Thaisa’ is, or was, or how she came to be associated with the ballad – most likely she was the romantic focus of some medieval troubadour. But, whoever she was, it would be a nice tribute to Rede Abbas’s past if we could find and perform the song at the Dusklight C
oncert, because Rede Abbas’s past is what the Revels are about.
I’m so sorry that at the moment I can’t accept your suggestion for a drink one evening, but with the Revels coming up there’s so much pressure of work. Perhaps when all that’s over …
D.G.
The strange singing heard in the shop was still in Nell’s mind next morning, but she pushed it away, let in Jack Hurst, whose building firm was dealing with the renovations, and focused on the day ahead.
This involved signing the new lease, which would effectively make Nell and Michael joint owners of the two shops. Nell had resisted any definite or official kind of link for so long that the prospect of this new arrangement, in which Michael would have a financial involvement, was starting to assume symbolic significance. More than once she wondered if she would end in feeling disloyal to her dead husband – which was absurd because Brad would have been genuinely pleased that she was being so adventurous. But as she and Michael drove to the solicitor’s office, Nell wondered if she would recoil from actually signing when it came to it.
As if he had picked this up, without taking his eyes off the road, he said, ‘Are you nervous about endowing me with half your worldly goods?’
‘It feels like a massive step into unknown country.’ Nell deliberately ignored the oblique reference.
‘You aren’t going to back out at the last minute, are you?’
‘No. Are you?’
‘No. It’s a bit of a Rubicon-crossing moment, though,’ he said. ‘Well, it is for me. But I’m glad we’re crossing it together.’
He took her hand briefly, and Nell suddenly knew it was going to be all right, and that of course Michael understood about them stepping into an unfamiliar place.
In fact, far from being unfamiliar, the sight of her signature and Michael’s on the lease looked reassuring and familiar, and as if the two names belonged together – as if they ought to have been written like that long since. She glanced at him, and saw that he was regarding the signatures with an expression of satisfaction.
‘All dealt with,’ said the solicitor at last, handing them their parts of the document and stowing his own in a box file. ‘And your ex-neighbour, Mr Purbles, has signed the counterpart, so everything is nicely in place. Oh, and the change of use for the house at the back has been approved. Residential to business use for the antique workshops. My wife’s rather keen to come to one of those, by the way.’
‘I’ll send you a brochure,’ said Nell, pleased. ‘I’m having some printed.’
‘Are there any questions you want to ask?’
‘I don’t think so. In essence, the lease is the one I’ve had for the last few years – except everything’s doubled. All the repairing obligations and insurance liabilities are the same, except for the clauses allowing the two shops to be knocked into one.’
‘And the lateral conversion on the first floor for your new living quarters,’ nodded the solicitor. ‘The freeholders are Christchurch College, as you know. They’ve put in several stipulations about the adaptations, but on the whole I think they’ve been fair. They want to make sure you aren’t doing anything that might damage the overall structure, and that you’ll be keeping to the original character of the Court.’
‘Which I would anyway,’ said Nell.
‘Quite. You’ll let me have the building guarantees and electricity certificates, will you? I see you’re extending into the area immediately under the roof, as well.’
‘Yes. That will be part of the living quarters. Godfrey – Mr Purbles – hardly used any of the upper rooms, and I don’t think he ever used the attic floor at all.’
‘No forgotten Old Masters likely to be discovered up there?’
‘If there had been any, Godfrey would have found them and sold them,’ said Michael.
As they got up to go, Nell said, ‘I was intrigued by the references to the original owners.’
‘The monks,’ said the solicitor, smiling.
‘It seems odd that a monastic house in Dorset owned property as far away as Oxford.’
‘In those days the Church owned large swathes of the entire country, Mrs West. But I agree that it’s a bit odd in this case, because as far as I’ve ever been able to make out, that particular monastery was quite a small one and not particularly rich.’
‘What happened to it?’
‘I don’t know its eventual fate, but it was still in existence in the late 1800s, because that was when the freehold of most of Quire Court was transferred to Christchurch.’
‘So the monastery survived dissolution,’ said Michael, thoughtfully.
‘It seems so. Probably it was too insignificant – and too poor – to attract much attention. Rede Abbas must have been a very tiny place – it’s barely more than a speck on the map now.’
It was not possible to be away from Quire Court for all of the work, and Michael and Beth spent a companionable evening speculating on the fate of the Court’s various ghosts. Michael drew vivid word pictures for the enraptured Beth, involving indignant spooks tumbled from their beds by twenty-first-century machinery, the ghosts scrambling untidily into doublet and hose, their wigs askew as they scurried hither and yon. After this, the two of them embarked on a discussion for a new Wilberforce the Cat book, in which Wilberforce moved into an old house, only to find himself at the mercy of an entire family of resentful ghosts, who objected to his presence and went to considerable lengths to dislodge him.
Nell, watching the two dark heads bent over notebooks and sketch pads, hearing Beth’s sudden giggle of delight and seeing Michael’s absorption, thought: Brad would have been pleased with this. He would have known he could trust Michael. I can trust him as well, she thought. How have I been so lucky?
‘The idea for Wilberforce being plagued by comedy spooks is pure Oscar Wilde, of course,’ said Michael, later. ‘It’s straight out of The Canterville Ghost. I must look out a copy of that for Beth – I think she’d enjoy it. But I emailed my editor about the idea, and she loves it. She says sales are doing very well in the current quarter, and the Wilberforce website they set up is being bombarded by eager seven- and eight-year-olds. So I’m going to take a swing at the ghost idea.’
‘I love the sound of Wilberforce pursued by irritable ghosts. Uh – did you say you could be here tomorrow to help with the wall-demolishing? Only if you can be free, of course.’
‘Nell, there’s no need to sound defensive. I’ve kept the afternoon free, and I’d sweep out the Augean Stables for you. All three thousand of them.’
‘Never mind the Augean Stables – as long as we get that pair of Regency desks back on display without too much delay, because I paid well over the odds for them and I need to sell them as soon as possible. Can you be here at two?’
‘Neither flood nor fire nor the scalding winds that rive the knotty oaks shall keep me from you at two tomorrow.’
‘If we get any scalding winds, Hurst’s men will probably abandon ship until next week.’
But there were no winds, scalding or any other kind, and Michael helped Jack Hurst’s two sidekicks to carry the Regency desks and the other larger pieces of Nell’s current stock into the little house at the end of the garden, then went back to drape everything else in dustsheets. One or two inquisitive customers wandered in while this was going on, despite the large notice explaining that both shops were being temporarily closed for renovations. They prowled around, not appearing to mind the mess, and several wanted to know if Godfrey Purbles’s antiquarian bookshop service would be continuing. Two of them joined in the cleaning operations, during which Nell sold a hand-painted filigree fan, a pair of Victorian miniatures painted on silk, and one of the Regency desks.
When the sledgehammers finally smashed into the dividing wall, they did so with a crash like the crack of doom, and for a split-second the whole of Quire Court seemed to freeze. There was a moment of extraordinary stillness before clouds of stone-dust and shards of rubble flew upwards. Nell, standing at a safe distan
ce with Michael, had the sudden disconcerting impression of something that was neither brick nor stone splintering. Or was it more as if something had been cracked open?
She was relieved when Jack Hurst peered out from the dustsheet draped over the door, like a Victorian showman behind a camera lens, and gave the thumbs-up sign. ‘All done, and a more beautifully behaved wall you never saw. It came down like a collapsing pastry case.’
‘I’m glad I apologized in advance to the other residents,’ said Nell, surveying the dust-strewn Court in some dismay. ‘There’s a lot more mess than I thought.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Hurst, cheerfully. ‘We’ll use a pressure hose to sluice everything away. Bright as a new pin this time tomorrow.’
Michael was studying the Court and the stone-fronted shops, and Nell said, ‘I suppose you’re visualizing the ghosts fleeing in disarray.’
‘Not exactly. But if you look across at the stone arch – no, not the one on the front of the shop, the big one over the Court’s main entrance …’
‘Yes?’
‘Doesn’t it look as if a couple of figures are standing there? As if they’re hovering between two worlds – trying to make up their minds to step into the twenty-first century.’
‘All I can see,’ said Nell, ‘is a whopping great crack in the plinth on the left-hand side. If that isn’t cemented soon, it’ll widen and the whole thing will crash down.’
‘You’re a heartless wench. Didn’t you realize that arch is the portal through which the Quire Court ghosts come and go?’
‘Well, if the arch does fall down, I hope the ghosts are on their own side of the portal and that there aren’t any customers directly underneath at the time,’ said Nell.
Jack Hurst arrived promptly the next morning, full of plans to finish the plastering so it could dry out over the weekend.
