by Sarah Rayne
He went back to the hall. Sunlight was coming in through the windows, laying diamond-shaped patterns on the floor from the latticed glass. There were window seats in each of the window recesses, and Michael thought the house was almost pleasant, seen like this.
But he would be glad to be driving back to Oxford, although before he left, he would find Jack Hurst or one of his workmen, and mention seeing or hearing someone on the upper floors.
As he went out through the main doors, Jack Hurst himself came around the side of the house, carrying a coil of electrical cable.
‘Everything all right?’
‘Yes, thank you. I had a good look round – the flats are going to be lovely. You’re making a very nice job of everything. But there was just something …’
‘Yes?’
‘I thought I saw someone roaming around the top floors,’ said Michael. ‘And I thought I heard someone calling for a child.’
Hurst’s eyes flickered. ‘Did you see anyone?’
Impossible to say that all he had seen had been a shadow and a fall of old silk in an attic. ‘No,’ said Michael. ‘I did think there was someone up there, though – I heard a kind of thudding sound. It seemed to be in the attics.’
‘Pipes,’ said Hurst at once. ‘Water hammer – major airlock somewhere. It can be remarkably loud at times. We keep hearing it, and we’re trying to track it down, but in a place this size …’ He made a rueful gesture. ‘As for the children, well, I dare say it was just local kids. They get in here and think it’s a great place to play. Kids’ paradise, this place. I’ll take a good look round later.’
Michael did not think children had ever played in Deadlight Hall, but he said, ‘Thanks,’ and went back to his car.
THREE
Back in Oriel, Michael prowled around his study, and tried to read an essay from a promising second year on the influence of mental instability on Charles and Mary Lamb’s work.
But the image of the hunched figure he had seen in the attics and again in the hall would not leave him. Jack Hurst had said it would be a child or children, playing in the house, but Michael was not sure that what he had seen had been a child at all. And yet what else could it have been? And where had it – or they – gone? The impression he had received had been of fear. Fear of what? Of an eerie old house? That was very likely, of course. But what else might a child have feared so much that it ran away and hid itself – hiding so thoroughly it could not be found?
Jack Hurst had not seemed a likely candidate for the role of any kind of villain, but there had been that unmistakable flicker of unease when Michael had mentioned seeing a child in the house. And most villains must appear normal to the world for the majority of the time. They had to do ordinary things like the rest of the population; they had to go to the dentist and collect the dry-cleaning, and they had to earn a living – to pursue ordinary jobs.
After half an hour, he abandoned his attempt to read the second year’s essay, and phoned the local police, to ask if any children had been reported missing.
It seemed they had not. Was Dr Flint sure he had actually seen a child inside the house?
‘I’m not sure,’ said Michael. ‘And when I searched I didn’t find anything.’
‘You did say Deadlight Hall, sir?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ah. I see. Well, it’s an odd old place, that one,’ said the police sergeant. ‘You wouldn’t believe some of the reports we’ve had about that house. Myself, I put it down to peculiar bits of brickwork casting shadows.’
Shadows, thought Michael. But the shadow I saw moved.
‘We’ll take a look though,’ the sergeant went on. ‘And we’ll make a few discreet enquiries. Social workers and the like, you know. You can trust us to follow it up, but I don’t think you need worry, Dr Flint. We’d certainly know if any children were missing, and I’d hope we’d be aware of anything … well, anything wrong anywhere. Good of you to take the trouble to call us, though. Can’t be too careful. I’ll give you a reference number to quote if you need to come back to us. There’ll be a log of this call anyway.’
Michael wrote down the reference number, replaced the phone, and returned to his second year’s essay. This time his concentration was interrupted by the arrival of the head decorator into his room, who reported with indignation that Wilberforce, clearly still sulking from the attic incident, had dabbled his paws in a pot of paint which the decorators had left ready for the ceiling. He had then stomped white paw prints across most of Oriel’s stairways, and you never saw such a mess in your life – the decorator did not know how they were ever going to get it properly clean.
Michael pacified the aggrieved decorator, who was annoyed at having a twenty-litre can of paint ruined, managed not to point out that it would have been better not to leave the lid off in the first place, agreed to foot the bill for a fresh can of paint, together with what seemed like an unreasonably large amount of turpentine, tipped his scout to help them clean everything, then hauled Wilberforce off to the vet to have his paint-spattered paws dealt with.
‘Poor Wilberforce,’ said Nell that evening in Quire Court. ‘He’ll smell of turps for ages and his dignity will be severely damaged, never mind his street cred.’
‘If the Bursar finds out it’ll be Wilberforce who’ll be severely damaged,’ said Michael. ‘He’s already furious about having to get Wilberforce out of the attics.’
‘Yes, but I bet you get a chapter out of it for the new book.’
‘Well, I might.’ Michael had in fact already emailed his editor at the children’s book publishers about the idea as soon as he returned from the vet’s. He had received a cordial response, together with a reminder that they had a publication date of February and a first draft by the end of September would be greatly appreciated by the illustrator. She supposed that would not be a problem, however. There was not quite a question mark at the end of this last sentence, but Michael heard it anyway.
‘And,’ he said to Nell, ‘she apparently thinks it would be “rather fun” to have some publicity shots of the real Wilberforce for the new book and what do I think?’
‘Well, what do you think? And are you staying to supper? I made a huge lasagne this afternoon, so there’s plenty.’
‘Anyone who can keep Wilberforce still for long enough to photograph him – never mind finding him in the first place – is welcome to shoot an entire album of photographs,’ said Michael wrathfully. ‘And yes, I’d like to stay to supper, please. Where’s Beth?’
‘Bashing out scales with her music teacher. She hates scales, but she loves the second part of the lesson when she’s allowed to try one of the simpler Mozart pieces. She’ll be back by eight. We’ll save her some lasagne.’
Later, over the lasagne, she said, ‘How was the professor’s haunted house?’
‘A bit odd.’ Michael had been looking forward to being with Nell – to the familiar comfort of the little house behind her shop – but he discovered he did not want to talk about the small strange shadow he had seen. Instead he said, ‘I might see if I can unearth any details about it. It’d be interesting to research its history.’
‘I’ve been doing some researching,’ said Nell.
‘The professor’s silver golem?’ Michael was instantly interested.
‘Yes. I’ve had a discussion with Henry Jessel at Silver Edges. He’s got dozens of books on hallmarks – it took ages to track the golem’s markings down, and even then Henry couldn’t be absolutely sure about its place of origin. Apparently hallmarks struck in Central Europe – Bavaria, Czechoslovakia, Hungary – Bohemia, if you like – can be confusing. There were so many wars and the borders kept changing, so extra marks were sometimes struck on items from other countries. That means you often get a plurality of marks, and it’s not always easy to know which one to trust. That’s what seems to have happened with the golem. Henry says we’ll probably have to take the professor’s word that it was made in Prague.’
‘Could you tell
when it was actually made?’
‘It’s stamped as 1780, and there’s a figure of fifteen over the top, which indicates it’s a very pure silver.’
‘Valuable, then.’
‘Yes, I think so, but I’m waiting for Ashby’s pronouncement on that. They’d be more than happy to include it in their next sale, by the way.’
‘Of course they would. Did you say you’d taken photographs? Can I see them?’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Nell, pleased at his interest.
‘It’s an extraordinary object,’ said Michael, as she laid the photos on the table. ‘But it’s rather attractive.’
‘I think it’s quite endearing. A bit like a silver version of a child’s teddy bear. But,’ said Nell, ‘here’s one rather curious thing. The professor told me about a legendary golem crafted in Prague in the sixteenth century. Ashby’s knew about that. They said quite a number of figures were later made in Prague – I think as a kind of echo, or even homage, to the sixteenth-century tale. But there were two in particular – an exact pair – made in Prague in the late 1700s, said to have been valuable.’ She paused to drink the wine Michael had poured. ‘Both those figures vanished in the early 1940s. Ashby’s won’t commit themselves until they see Professor Rosendale’s figure, but they think it might be one of that vanished pair. They’ve got some correspondence on it – they’re going to send me copies.’
Michael said, ‘That date’s significant, isn’t it? Could the figures have been smuggled out during the Second World War? Or even looted by the Nazis? No, that’s not very likely is it? The Nazis wouldn’t be likely to seize such a very Jewish symbol. Or would they?’
‘The Nazis squirrelled away a huge amount of paintings and silver and whatnot. I wouldn’t discount anything. But don’t you see that it begs the question—’
‘If Leo Rosendale owns one of the vanished pair, how does he come to own it?’
‘Exactly. I do like not having to spell things out to you,’ said Nell. ‘And the other question, of course, is what happened to the second figure.’
‘I wonder if the professor knows.’ Michael was still studying the photographs. ‘Is this the hallmark?’
‘Yes, I took several close-ups. That’s the date, as you can see, and a figure fifteen indicating the purity of the silver. And—’
‘What’s that?’ Michael interrupted, indicating a small symbol on the side of the main hallmark, set a little apart. ‘It doesn’t look as if it’s part of the hallmark.’
‘No, in fact it looks as if it was added much later – a bit amateurishly, as well. I thought about asking Professor Rosendale if he knew what it was, but—’
‘He’s a bit defensive about the figure?’ said Michael.
‘You noticed that, too? Yes. But Henry didn’t know what it was and we couldn’t find it in any of the reference books. I’m hoping Ashby’s will recognize it.’
‘I recognize it,’ said Michael. He was staring at the small symbol, which was a little like three vertical branches jutting up from a horizontal line.
‘You do? What is it?’
‘I don’t know. But the exact same symbol is carved on a wall inside Deadlight Hall.’
*
The Village School House, Nr Warsaw
Autumn, 1942
My dear M.B.
We agreed that, in the British expression, there would be ‘no names, no pack drill’ in these messages, so I address you by your initials only, and sign in the same way. Forgive the discourtesy, my good friend.
With great reluctance, we have agreed that despite the emotional cost to their families, the children in our village may need to be removed to safety. You mentioned a possible escape plan from the man we both know as Schönbrunn. Does such a plan actually exist? Can you give me information about it? And can it – and Schönbrunn himself – be trusted?
Affectionately,
J.W.
Prague, 1942
Dear J.W.
I have spoken with Schönbrunn (through the usual sources) and he has given me details of his plan. I do not dare commit those details to paper, but I can assure you the plan is a simple one and should work. It will be an enormous wrench for the families, but in the end we will have saved the children, and we can only hope they will be reunited with their parents before too long.
Schönbrunn can be trusted completely. Remember how many of our people he has smuggled to safe countries already. I suppose someone somewhere knows his real name, but I certainly do not and I don’t suppose you do, either, which probably is safer for both of us. I shall never forget the first time I met him – just outside Buchenwald, it was. He has the eyes of a poet and a dreamer, but in his hands is a machine gun.
Your friend and one-time colleague,
M.B.
School House, 1942
My dear M.B.
If Schönbrunn can save our children, we do not care if he is one of the seven princes of hell.
J.W.
School House
Winter 1942
Dear M.B.
It is being whispered that the march towards our village will soon begin, and a terrible dread is pervading every house.
We hear that Dr Josef Mengele is being called the Todesengel – the Angel of Death – and that he is particularly focusing on experiments on twins. We therefore have great concern for the Reiss girls – you will remember them, I dare say, from your time here teaching at the school. If so, you will certainly recall that very unusual gift they seemed to have. I think special arrangements may need to be made for those two.
If our village is invaded, we plan to hide in the crypt of an old Christian church on the village outskirts – the last place we will be sought, we hope!
J.W.
Prague,
January, 1943
Dear J.W.
Schönbrunn’s agents have told us that an order has gone out from the High Command that 7,000 of our people per day are to be ‘resettled in the East’. Once, we would have accepted this at face value; now we know that these deportations end in mass extermination.
Exact details of the plan for the children should by now have reached you. Schönbrunn has contacts in the country to which the children will be taken – safe homes can be provided for all, and I believe there is some kind of secret list of people who have indicated they are prepared to give shelter. I do not enquire, but I think it is information that can be trusted and all the parents can feel reassured. Siblings will be kept together if at all possible.
I do indeed remember the Reiss twins who undoubtedly possessed that extraordinary gift – it was occasionally somewhat disconcerting in the schoolroom! I have told Schönbrunn about them, and he agrees that we must have particular concern for them. Josef Mengele’s spies are in the most unexpected places.
Schönbrunn advises most strongly that you do not alert any of the children until the very last minute. You must not risk them inadvertently letting something slip, or being too afraid to obey the requirements of the plan when the time comes. They should take only the minimum of possessions, and the journey itself will cost nothing, but I think none of their families will want to be dependent on charity of any kind. So it is my suggestion that each child is given several small but valuable items. Actual money might pose problems, but jewellery is always sellable.
M.B.
School House, 1943
My dear M.B.
Even amidst the fear and desperation, I smiled at your suggestion to provide the children with sellable valuables. It is so like you to have an eye to the practicalities and the finances.
J.W.
Prague, 1943
Dear J.W.
We think your situation has suddenly worsened. Late last night one of our people sent word that residents in a village thirty kilometres from yours were taken away. This happened just two days ago, and we believe your village will be next.
Schönbrunn is putting the plan into action at once. Tonight, as soon as it is dark, you must tak
e the children, and hide out in the old church you mentioned. There is an irony, isn’t there, in making use of a Christian sanctuary to shelter Jews? But if you can be safe there, it does not matter what it is.
Most worrying of all is that we believe within the detachment of soldiers are two of Mengele’s agents. As you know, we always feared this particular menace – there is a general order that any twins, boys or girls, are taken to him. But we now have information that one of his spies has heard about the Reiss girls and their exceptional telepathic gift (we do not yet know how such information could have got out), and we fear that the march to your village is not a general one as the others have been. We are afraid that Mengele’s orders are to take Sophie and Susannah Reiss to Auschwitz. You must make it very clear to those two – to all the children, of course – that during the days ahead, they must never trust strangers.
I would like to think that along with the Reiss twins, the intelligent little Leo Rosendale will be safe. He was such a delight in the infant class I taught for you last summer – such a bright, enquiring mind. But all of the children must be made safe, of course.
Hold firm and fast, as I do – as we all do – to the belief that one day this nightmare will end and we will all live together again in peace and safety and harmony.
M.B.
FOUR
Leo Rosendale had listened to Michael Flint’s account of what he had seen and heard inside Deadlight Hall with dismay. Dr Flint had been deliberately casual – even vague – about the shadowy figure and the voice calling for the children, but it was clear to Leo that Michael had heard and seen the things Leo himself had heard and seen all those years ago. The strange misshapen shadow that walked through the old house, calling for the children …
He had expressed his thanks, and said something about going out to take a look for himself. Flint had offered to accompany him, to which Leo said, carefully, that he was going to think it over first.
But after Michael had gone, Leo sat for a very long time, staring out of his study window. Was he reading too much into this? Was it possible that Michael had encountered nothing more sinister than some local children playing some game? Hide-and-seek, perhaps – did children still play that? He had played it all those years ago in the village where he had lived for the first five and a half years of his life. There had been a little group of them, all good friends. The Reiss twins had been part of the group, Sophie and Susannah. They had been Leo’s particular friends – they had been pretty and clever, and he had loved them both with uncritical devotion. But then there had come a night just after his sixth birthday when they – when all of his friends – had played what had become a macabre game of hide-and-seek. That had been when the nightmare began.
