by James Erith
MRS PYE SAUNTERED into the kitchen and released the rope on the Sheila’s maid. She folded each rug in half and then half again, and piled one on top of the other and placed them in the washing basket. She noted the unusually fine fabric, the lightweight, silk-like textures with delicate stitching and neat embroidery. Why oh why had they sat disregarded on Old Man Wood’s floor?
She filled a saucepan and placed it on the hot plate. Then she picked up the basket and headed out of the kitchen towards the “cupboard”. As she walked past the living room, she peeked through the gap in the door and gasped.
She pushed the door open. ‘What in Heaven’s name above have you been doing?’ she cried.
The children stood up, a sure admission of guilt, and looked around them. Frames of oil paintings and portraits and sketches and watercolours lay scattered all over the room.
‘We are trying, dear Mrs Pye,’ Isabella said, in her smartest voice, ‘to find something in a picture. The problem is, we’re not sure what it is, but we do know it is vitally important.’
Archie and Daisy nodded in agreement.
Mrs Pye turned from one to the next and back, her already ruddy face getting redder.
Isabella, oblivious to the housekeeper’s glare, added quietly, ‘Sue said so.’
‘Sue said so. Sue said so!’ Mrs Pye cried. Her face was now bright red, as though someone had turned up a heat dial. ‘Your friend Sue, who lives in Northallerton, said you should gather all the pictures in this house and leave them in one room. Because you’re looking for something! AND YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT?’ she tutted in disbelief. ‘Now come on, Isabella, you can do better than that.’
The children instinctively turned towards Old Man Wood.
‘The thing is,’ the old man hesitated as he pulled himself up, ‘Isabella’s right. But I’ll … er … tell you about it later. This,’ and he gestured around the room, ‘is all my doing, Mrs Pye. Don’t worry, each and every picture will be put back in its proper place, I promise.’
‘I should hope you will,’ she replied, her eyes boring into each of them. ‘You ought to know better, the lot of you. If you’re missing something, ask me. I’d be surprised if I don’t know its whereabouts. I want this room and all these pictures back where they belong by tomorrow night, even if you haven’t found what you’re looking for. I’m responsible for the domestics while your parents are away and they would not be happy.’
A long, embarrassing silence hung over the room. Eventually Archie piped up and said sweetly, ‘What we’re trying to find is a picture with some sort of old writing or marks on it, something that might be connected with this rain? Maybe you could help?’
Mrs Pye’s face instantly melted into a smile. ‘I’ll keep my eyes open.’ She exited out of the room carrying the basket. But something in the back of her mind made her stop. She opened the door. ‘Any of you lot know anything about some ruggy things left out in the rain?’ She looked at the blank faces of the children, ‘... on the washing line?’
‘Ah, yes! Those are mine,’ Old Man Wood said, ‘thought they could do with a clean.’
‘By leaving them out in the rain? Tuh. Typical!’ Her small eyes lit up. ‘Well, I’ve had a right proper go at them. You should see the difference. Beautiful things. Come alive they have. I’ll put them in the airing cupboard.’ She turned smartly and marched off along the corridor, humming to herself.
And if he doesn’t want them, she thought, I’ll have ‘em for myself. She stroked the top one and it seemed to reciprocate her touch, like the warmth of a sleeping cat.
‘WHAT WAS Mrs Pye going on about?’ Archie asked as he prised open the back of an old wooden portrait with a screwdriver.
Old Man Wood walked over and held the frame. ‘She’s given my old rugs a clean,’ he said. ‘Tickled blue about it too.’
Archie tried not to laugh. ‘Why?’
‘She said they’d all come alive. Don’t you listen to anything she says?’
‘Not really!’ Archie said, staring at the next family portrait. ‘How long have you had them?’
‘Had what?’
‘Your filthy old rugs!’
‘Oh! I can’t remember,’ Old Man Wood scratched the back of his neck. ‘It’s a long time, though.’
Archie moved on to the next portrait. ‘So how old are these?’
Old Man Wood walked over. ‘I’ve no idea. Sorry, Archie.’
‘The date on these portraits,’ Daisy shouted from across the room, ‘is on the back or on the right bottom corner. It’s the same with all of them for some reason. This one’s from 1638 … and here’s one from 1702.’
Archie joined in by holding up a very delicate portrait. ‘Oh, I see. Look … 1595!’
Isabella, who was in the hallway listening in, said, ‘I can beat that. This shield goes back to 1382, I think that’s right? It’s Roman numerals.’
A sense of excitement and expectation filled the room. The notion of being surrounded by such antiquity built up a sense of awe, as if the people in the portraits had somehow gathered into the room and joined them in their search.
‘Isn’t it funny,’ Archie said as he studied a series of individual portraits, ‘how each of these have the same kind of creamy, rectangular backgrounds with pale little swirls on, while the actual images on the paintings are only slightly different?’
Daisy stared at the pictures, her concentration intense. ‘My God,’ she whispered. The others leaned in.
‘What is it, Daise?’
Daisy’s eyes were glowing. ‘The backgrounds are the same, like five light … panels.’
‘Panels?’ Archie said. ‘I can’t see anything like that, just sort of … blurs.’
‘Aha,’ Isabella said, ‘I knew it. I told you there were wall panels somewhere in the house.’
Old Man Wood sighed. ‘Isabella, wall paintings would never last, young ’un. They simply wouldn’t survive—’
‘Oh, come on. What else could they be?’
Daisy looked up. ‘If they’re not panels, then we’re missing something. What else hangs on a wall, has colour and could last the test of time?’
The children sat down in a circle, their brains working hard.
‘Of course!’ Archie said, a smile filling his face. ‘We’ve been complete idiots!’
‘What is it?’
‘Tapestries—’
‘Like those massive carpets on church walls?’ Isabella said. ‘Don’t be ridiculous—’
Archie shot up. ‘I think I’ve got it,’ he said. And before anyone could blink he flew off down the corridor, then up the stairs, the floorboards creaking at every footstep.
SEVENTY-SEVEN
KEMP AWAKES
Solomon was grateful for the shower and change of clothes. He ate his lamb chop with mashed potatoes, remembering to chew every morsel, otherwise his hungry stomach would hurt him later.
‘I’m going to be honest with you, Charlie,’ Solomon said, sipping a glass of water, ‘there is no way my school has anything to do with this.’
‘That’s all very well, but the evidence suggests the storm’s epicentre was directly overhead. And it’s from here that this blasted pathogen started.’ Stone pulled out a graphic. ‘Have a look at these satellite images. The reason the meteorological geeks didn’t pick it up was that it appeared like a localised storm. And, combined with the humid weather prevalent in the area, it generated its own peculiar entity and “boosh”, in a matter of hours it built and built. Here.’
On the screen, Solomon viewed the weather graphic. The storm was coloured in red, its centre a much darker hue, which ballooned out until a massive area was swathed in black. There was no mistaking that it stemmed from Upsall.
‘No one’s ever seen anything like it.’
‘But why Upsall, Charlie? We’re a small community with an old school built on the foundations of a monastery just like the Abbeys at Fountains, Rievaulx and Byland nearby. Have you checked them out?’
The commissi
oner nodded. ‘They’re underwater – like Upsall – but the difference is, all the others are ruins, Upsall isn’t.’ Stone picked his nails. ‘Something makes me think this disaster begins here and ends here. I don’t know what it is, but I’m going to find out.’
Solomon wiped his lips with a paper towel. ‘I’ll help you all you want, my dear old friend. You know I will. But, as I said earlier, I think you’re barking up the wrong tree.’
‘You mentioned the girl coming to you,’ Stone said, his eyes boring into the older man. ‘Tell me more about this de Lowe family?’
Solomon shifted. ‘Well, the mother and father are archaeologists, currently out in the Middle East on a dig and the children are popular and gifted. There’s not much more to it than that.’
Charlie rubbed his chin. ‘Why did that girl come to you knowing the storm was about to happen?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘I do,’ Stone replied. ‘She knew something. Something about all of this and she wanted to let you in on it.’ Stone rubbed his hands. ‘What else did she tell you?’
‘We’ve been over this before,’ Solomon said, smiling thinly and leaning back in his chair. ‘She simply bustled in saying that her homemade barometer was indicating undue pressure. She’s a scientist, and a good one. We encourage pupils to act on their instincts and she did just that.’
‘But don’t you think it’s uncanny?’
‘No, I do not,’ Solomon bristled. ‘We teach students to be decent, responsible citizens, and reacting to her findings is a part of that. It isn’t complicated, you know.’
Stone sensed unease in the headmaster. ‘When their parents are away, who looks after these kids?’
Solomon tensed. He’d hoped Stone wouldn’t bring this up. ‘There’s an elderly uncle and a housekeeper. I saw them myself only the night before. In their circumstances, they do a terrific job.’
Stone opened up the folder in front of him, pushed on his reading glasses and scanned the document. ‘There’s no mention of an uncle.’ He thumbed through another couple of pages. ‘Ah. It mentions that a woman, named here as Mrs Pye, was taken in by the family twelve years ago. She was found with terrible injuries in the forest beneath the moors.’ He looked up and said slowly, ‘And has possible brain damage.’
‘That’s ludicrous,’ Solomon snapped. ‘I don’t see what this has to do with your enquiries.’
Stone’s lip curled. ‘I’m trying to find out what the hell is going on. Just doing my job.’ He smiled. ‘So who is this old uncle? Why no record?’ Stone pulled out some historical documents. ‘After all, they’re an old family in the area, right?’
Solomon stared out of the window. ‘I suppose.’
‘Says here there’s a whole stained glass window in the church dedicated to the de Lowe family. Seems they go back a long, long way. So I repeat my question. Who is their uncle?’
‘I don’t know how this is relevant,’ Solomon replied, feeling the heat. ‘He’s a loner – a hermit who lives with them. There’s probably no record of him because he’s never been on record for anything.’
‘He was born, though,’ Stone fired back. ‘There’s been a legal duty to record all births for more than two hundred years. Why is he not mentioned?’
‘Perhaps,’ said Solomon, ‘you should ask the parents. I am the children’s headmaster, I do not study the historical records of every child in my care.’
‘But it says here that the school has given a bursary to the de Lowes for centuries,’ Stone countered. ‘And in fairness, the school was started by the family, was it not?’
Solomon couldn’t deny it. He shrugged and scratched his head.
‘Strange, isn’t it,’ Stone said, ‘the name “de Lowe”. Where did that come from? I mean it’s not exactly common?’
Solomon pursed his lips. ‘Almost certainly from French origin. Probably a Norman conquest knight, given land here by William of Normandy.’
‘French, huh,’ Stone said leaning back in his chair. ‘I thought it might be Flemish, or Breton.’
Solomon suddenly sat bolt upright. A thought struck him like an arrow through the eye.
Stone noticed. ‘Is there something you want to tell me?’
Solomon regained his composure. ‘Oh, I was just thinking of those poor children. They wouldn’t have stood a chance.’
‘How come?’
‘All three de Lowes were on the playing field when the storm broke. Little Archie was struck down by a huge lightning bolt. It was that moment that made me realise it was no ordinary storm.’ Now that he remembered, it was Sue and Isabella yelling on the football field that had given him the creeps; they were having a private, though very public, screaming match about the storm as if there was something they knew. ‘I gathered up a whole bunch of children and we headed to the relative safety of the school.’
Stone eyed him curiously. ‘So the first part of the storm went for one of the de Lowes. I’m intrigued.’
But Solomon’s thoughts were elsewhere. Why hadn’t he thought of it before? It was staring them right between the eyes. The name, de Lowe. Stone clearly didn’t know his French; de Lowe, or should it be, de l’eau – French for water – the essential ingredient of life. Was this a coincidence or part of some ancient code?
And, not for the first time, the headmaster realised there might be something a little different about those children and their old man. The stained glass window in the chapel! It had been staring him in the face for twenty-five years. A beautiful, but rather grubby, artwork with three panels showing three figures bearing gifts. And filling the background: water, or, de l’eau! He realised he had to get back to Upsall as fast as he could.
‘Charlie,’ Solomon said. ‘I’m very tired and I am afraid it has been a shattering and overwhelming experience. Would you mind if I slipped off to bed? You know where I am, if you wish to question me further.’
Stone clasped the papers together. ‘Very well. It’s late and there’s a hell of a day coming.’ He stood up smartly. ‘If there’s anything you need, shout.’
Solomon knew this was his chance. ‘I’d be happy to do some investigations into some of the school books if you like. Being high up in the tower, the library was relatively unscathed and there are several large old volumes which may shed some light on the history of the area. Perhaps there are plague records from the Black Death.’
Stone eyed him suspiciously before his face lightened. ‘Great. That’s exactly what I need. An academic with local knowledge. I’ll get you back in there first thing in the morning.’ He pressed his phone. ‘See to it that Headmaster Solomon is returned to Upsall at first light. Give him a linked phone and full access to the site.’
The order was confirmed.
A rap at the door made both men turn. The young officer Solomon had noticed from before came in. ‘sir,’ he said, ‘there’s been a development with the boy in intensive care. He’s awake.’
Solomon raised his eyebrows. ‘Tell me more.’
‘He’s made a very quick recovery. It looks like we might be able to talk to him after all.’
Stone checked his watch. It was nearly midnight. ‘Reports are due in for the next two hours and I’ve got to brief the PM at seven tomorrow morning. I’ll get a few hours’ sleep if I’m lucky.’ He yawned and addressed the officer. ‘Let’s try and talk to the boy at nine. Make sure he has everything he needs. It’ll give him more time to recover before the scientists get their hands on him.’ The officer nodded and left the room.
‘It’s the boy they found in a tree, hanging on to life with some extraordinary injuries. Burns covering him. It’s been all over the news – we’ve been waiting for him to come round so we can talk to him.’
‘Yes, I heard,’ Solomon said. ‘Was he an Upsall boy?’
‘I doubt it,’ the commissioner replied. ‘Found too far downstream to be one of yours. The strange thing is, there’s no sign of the virus on him which, given his position, is quite frankly astonishing.
In fact, his whole survival, in line with the injuries he sustained, doesn’t add up.’
Solomon breathed a sigh of relief. He’d lost so many it hurt him to think about it. He stood up. ‘Well, good luck, Charlie. I don’t envy you, but I’ll do my best.’ He headed for the door.
‘Excellent – thank you,’ said the commissioner, standing up to conclude the meeting. ‘Report in if there’s anything unusual or suspicious, especially with regard to the de Lowe family.’
COMMISSIONER STONE STRETCHED his arms out as the door closed behind his cousin.
He re-ran Solomon’s reaction through his mind especially the bit when he’d mentioned the de Lowe family. Something didn’t stack up.
He pressed the intercom. ‘Dickinson.’
Shortly, the officer strode in.
‘The headmaster leaves at dawn for Upsall. Do something for me, will you? Fit him with video surveillance. From the moment he lands, I want a handpicked member of your team to monitor exactly what he’s studying. You know the score.’
Dickinson nodded. ‘And mike enabled?’
‘If done without trace.’
Dickinson straightened. This kind of work was his speciality. ‘Does the schoolmaster wear glasses?’
‘Is there a headmaster who doesn’t?’
Dickinson feigned a smile. ‘Then I’ll add microgram lenses to them. Consider it done.’
‘Good. And keep this to yourself, Dickinson. Report back to me at lunchtime. We’ll run over his findings then.’
OVER BREAKFAST, reports bombarded his office, while his early link-up with the Prime Minister had been dreadful. The PM sounded ill and in a foul mood, so that by nine o’clock an early-morning fatigue swept over him. He needed at least five hours sleep, not two. And the news was awful: Astonishingly awful. The plague, even at this early hour, appeared to have spread randomly across the country. Thank God the media had been shut down or the pandemonium and unrest throughout the United Kingdom would be unthinkable. But, conversely, unless they found answers soon, panic across the world was a real possibility.
