by Sarah Rayne
Schönbrunn called out again, and the figure seemed to listen intently. And then it vanished. One minute it was there, the next it had gone. It was as if it had been made of a cluster of spiders’ webs, and as if something had blown chill breath on it, causing the webs to shrivel. The reality, of course, would simply be that whoever was there had darted silently away.
I said, in a determinedly practical voice, ‘Whoever that was has gone.’
‘It was calling for the children. And,’ said Schönbrunn, ‘who were we told does that? Still calls for them, weeks after they vanished? Who is it who constantly walks the lanes around here, trying to find them?’
‘Battersby,’ I said, eagerly. ‘Of course. Except …’ I looked back uneasily, remembering the broken lock on the main doors. ‘That figure was misshapen,’ I said.
‘Yes, but Mrs Battersby told us that walking any distance was a trial to her husband, because he had been shot in the last war. There’s no one else it could be.’
‘Of course there isn’t.’ I felt a surge of gratitude. ‘You,’ I said to Schönbrunn, ‘are probably the sanest, most logical person I’ve ever known.’
‘Logical? I hope so. Sane? I sometimes wonder.’ But the edge of the torchlight caught his face, and he was smiling. ‘We’ll leave Mr Battersby to his sad search, and we’ll see what else Deadlight Hall can tell us.’
The passage was dark and dank, but opening off it was a series of small, separate rooms. I went into the first of them, and that was when I knew we were not in Gehenna at all – that we had never been in Gehenna, for Gehenna, if it ever did, or ever will, exist, will be blisteringly, soul-shrivellingly hot. Those rooms were cold: a deadly coldness that would seep into your bones if you were in them too long and destroy you. I went into each one, and in every one I felt the misery and the loneliness soak down into my bones. I thought: people lived here, slept here, despaired here. So strong were the feelings that in the last room, I swayed, and had to put out a hand to the wall for support. It was with real gratitude that I felt Schönbrunn’s hand close around my arm.
‘It’s all right, you know,’ he said, very quietly. ‘There’s no one here.’
I wanted to say, Oh, but there is. There are fragments of people still here – tiny splinters of lost, forgotten people, and although I have no idea who they were, I know they experienced terrible things – unhappiness, fear, deep aching loneliness – and I know it because those emotions still live.
I did not say any of it. Indeed, I surprise myself to see I am writing it now, even to you, my oldest friend. I shall leave it as I have written it, though, and no doubt when you read it, you will think once again, ‘Ah yes, poor old Maurice Bensimon, he is certainly growing fanciful as he gets older.’
‘One more room,’ said Schönbrunn, leading the way to the very end of the corridor. I wanted to say we should not bother, that we should go back to our lodgings, but of course I followed him.
At the end of the short passage, facing us square on, was a black door, bound with thick iron strips. Set into the upper half was a round window, like a single unblinking eye. I had the feeling it was trying to stare at us, that lidless eye, but that it could not quite see us because its surface was smeared and filmed with grime, as a man’s eye can become smeared and filmed with a cataract. I stared at this dead, blind eye, and thought, So this is the ‘dead light’ of this house. But Schönbrunn had taken the torch and he was shining it on to the door, and I forced myself to stand next to him.
‘It’s a furnace room,’ he said. ‘If you stand close to the glass you can make out the furnace itself.’
He lifted up the torch and I wanted to tell him not to wipe the eye clear of its cobwebby film, to leave it in its semi-blind state so that nothing could look through at us, but instead I peered through the glass. The furnace was there – black and crouching and ugly. Thick pipes snaked away from it and the surface around its door was scarred and pitted with heat. I hated it instantly, but I said, ‘Yes, I see. It doesn’t tell us anything about the twins though, does it?’ I thought: so now, let’s go back upstairs, and get away from this place as fast as possible.
But Schönbrunn was already reaching for the heavy handle and if the door was unlocked we should have to go inside. But before he had turned the mechanism his expression changed, and he spun round, directing the torch on to the incomplete stone wall behind us. This time there was no need for him to tell me to listen, for I could hear the sounds clearly.
Footsteps – not the slow, difficult steps we had heard earlier, but firm, heavy footsteps ringing out on the cold stones.
There was no time to think who the footsteps might belong to, or how we would deal with this new situation, because he was already there, stepping through the narrow opening in the wall. And this was no elusive, amorphous shadow spun from spider webs, or forlorn figure calling for two lost girls; this was a solidly built man in his forties, with a jowly face and small mean eyes. And in his hand was a gun which he was pointing at us.
He said, ‘Schönbrunn. They told me you were coming.’
At his smoothest and most urbane, Schönbrunn said, ‘My companion and I are merely exploring this unusual building.’
‘We’ll forget the rubbish about you being travellers or men from some nameless ministry,’ said the man. ‘I know perfectly well who you are.’ He studied Schönbrunn for a moment. Me he seemed to hardly notice. He said, ‘It’s a remarkable moment to meet such a well-known figure. You aren’t in the least what I was expecting.’
Schönbrunn said, politely, ‘You, on the other hand, conform exactly to the pattern of Nazi spies. Even to the stench. Corrupt and rotten.’
His voice was polite and not emphatic, but his eyes were glowing with that reckless courage.
The other man’s eyes snapped. He said, ‘I do know why you’re here, of course. You’re here to find out what happened to the Reiss twins. I’m here to prevent you drawing attention to the fact that they disappeared – which in turn might draw attention to my own activities.’
‘May we know your name?’ said Schönbrunn.
‘My name is Porringer. Paul Porringer.’
The courtesy dropped from Schönbrunn as if it was water running off oiled feathers. In a voice like iced steel, he said, ‘Porringer, where are the Reiss girls?’
‘No longer here.’
‘I know that. Mr Porringer, we do not bandy words. You are a German sympathizer and a Nazi spy. You are also British, which makes you a traitor to your country.’ This last was said with such contempt I almost expected the man, Porringer, to shrivel. He did not, of course. ‘I suppose,’ said Schönbrunn, ‘that you pass here as an ordinary Englishman.’
‘I am an ordinary Englishman,’ said Porringer, at once. ‘I’ve lived here all my life. I run my family’s pharmacy business. I’m a pillar of the local church, friendly with my neighbours, and accepted by them all. None of them has the least idea of what I am. And once you’re dead, they’ll never know the truth.’
‘Ah, but “What is truth?” as jesting Pilate once asked. What, for instance, is the truth about the Reiss twins?’
‘They were wanted for research. To help with important work.’
‘We knew that already. We think you took them away, although we don’t know how.’
Schönbrunn waited, and Porringer, as if he could not resist boasting about his own cleverness, said, ‘Several of the children developed meningitis – they were brought here. It became a temporary isolation hospital. No one was allowed in, except for medical staff. And,’ he said, ‘a helpful chemist who had a well-stocked shop and could bring various drugs.’
‘You?’
‘Yes.’
‘So you got into Deadlight Hall?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you took the twins? Where are they now?’
I thought there was an unmistakable hesitation, and I thought Schönbrunn marked it as well, because he made as if to move. Then Porringer said, ‘Their whereabouts need
not concern you.’ He gestured with the gun towards the furnace room. ‘And now put down the torch, let its light shine into the furnace room, then open that door and get inside.’
‘And then?’
‘And then I shall shoot you and leave your bodies down here.’
‘You’ll be found out,’ I said. ‘Our bodies will be found – it will be traced back to you.’
‘Believe me, gentlemen, I will not be found out. You won’t be found, either,’ he said. ‘No one ever comes to Deadlight Hall. After I’ve shot you, your bodies will lie down here for years, and they’ll quietly and slowly rot.’
ELEVEN
With those words, Deadlight Hall’s shadows crept nearer, and the blind dead eye seemed to peer more intently through its smeary film.
Then Schönbrunn said, ‘Execution in a furnace room? Not worthy of you, Porringer, or your Nazi masters. Almost squalid, in fact. Or is it sufficiently bizarre to hold some distinction, I wonder?’
He turned to me as if for confirmation of this and, realizing he was playing for time, I said, ‘Squalid rather than bizarre, I’d have thought.’
Schönbrunn nodded, then set the torch on the floor as Porringer had ordered, angling it to shine on to the iron door. When he grasped the thick old handle it turned, and he pulled the door open. There was a faint sound as if ancient breath had been released, and a stench of old soot gusted out. For a moment I thought there was a movement in the corner near the furnace, almost as if our entrance had disturbed something, but it was only black beetles scurrying away from the light. Schönbrunn seemed hardly to notice. His eyes were already scanning the room, and I knew he was searching for a means of escape.
Porringer nudged the torch with his foot, so that the light fell more fully into the room, and gestured to us to move back to the wall. The furnace was on our left, and as the light fell across it, I saw that it had a round door, held in place by a long steel rod, placed diagonally and thrust into grooves. The rod would make a good weapon, but I could not see any means of snatching it from the door without Porringer seeing.
He seemed in no hurry to shoot us. Clearly he was relishing having the legendary Schönbrunn at his mercy, and would no doubt brag about it to his paymasters in Berlin.
Schönbrunn said, ‘What exactly is this place? Come now, Porringer, if this is to be our tomb, you can at least tell us where we are.’ He took an unobtrusive step towards the furnace, and my heart skipped a beat, because I knew he, too, had marked the steel rod.
‘We’re in the bowels of Deadlight Hall,’ said Porringer.
‘What is – or was – Deadlight Hall?’
Porringer gave a small shrug, and said, ‘A hundred years ago this house was a cross between an orphanage for the bastards of the rich and respectable, and what used to be called an Apprentice House. A sort of hostel for the orphans who were brought up here and sent to work in the local industries. As a matter of fact an ancestress of mine ran the place. Maria Porringer was her name.’
‘I shouldn’t have thought this part of the country would have much industry,’ I said, strongly aware of Schönbrunn taking another step nearer to the furnace, and wanting to keep Porringer’s attention on me.
‘There was more than you’d think,’ he said. ‘In particular there was a glass-making manufactory. Salamander House it was called. Most of the children who lived here worked there. It’s long since gone, of course.’
‘This house has a bad feeling. As if violent things have happened here.’
‘Oh, the locals will spin you any number of stories about Deadlight Hall,’ said Porringer. ‘No one will live here. It’s been empty for years, and—’
The sentence was never finished. Schönbrunn dived for the furnace door, seizing the steel rod and dragging it free, so that the door creaked slightly then began to swing open.
Faced with two victims in separate parts of the room, Porringer fired at me, but I had already dropped flat to the floor. (I may not be as resourceful as Schönbrunn, but I do have some instincts.) The bullet went harmlessly over my head and into the wall behind me. Tiny chips of stone and plaster flew out.
Schönbrunn did not waste time; he simply threw the steel bolt directly at Porringer. It caught the man a glancing blow and although it did not actually disable him, he instinctively threw up one hand in defence. In doing so the gun fell from his hands, clattering to the floor, and Schönbrunn snatched it up at once. Porringer bounded towards him, but then – I could not quite see how it happened – his body jerked abruptly backwards as if a string had been looped around his neck and tugged hard. He fell back, against the furnace, banging his head on its side. The round cover, already released by the removal of the steel rod, flew open, revealing the black yawning interior. Porringer scrabbled to get back to his feet, but he was slightly stunned by the blow to his head, and he could not get up.
Schönbrunn levelled the gun at his head. ‘Tell us where the Reiss twins are,’ he said, but Porringer seemed not to hear or understand. He was still half lying against the furnace, but he had grasped the rim of the opening and was using it as a lever to push himself back to his feet.
‘Listen to me, Porringer,’ said Schönbrunn very coldly. ‘If you don’t tell me where the Reiss twins are, I will shoot you in each ankle.’
Porringer shook his head, although whether in refusal or because he was trying to clear his head, I have no idea. I was in fact bracing myself for the sound of gunshot when the open furnace cover suddenly swung back, as if someone had pushed it to shut it. It was a massive, thick slab of iron and it crunched against Porringer’s head and on to his hands, which were still grasping the edges, knocking him halfway into the furnace’s mouth, and trapping him. He gave a dreadful grunting cry, and I sprang forward, grasping the edge of the door to pull it back.
‘Help me,’ I said to Schönbrunn, desperately. ‘It won’t move – it’s stuck – or the hinge has broken, or something. But it’s so heavy – it’s smashed the back of his skull half open—’
Schönbrunn thrust the gun in his belt and knelt next to me, at the side of the furnace. ‘Porringer,’ he said, ‘can you hear us? Listen then, if you tell me where the Reiss twins are, I’ll free you, I swear. I’ll get the door up somehow and we’ll get you out, and get you to an infirmary. But first tell me where they are.’
Porringer was struggling, and blood was dripping from his hands, which were trapped between the edges of the door, and he was shouting for help, his cries echoing hollowly from within the furnace.
But when Schönbrunn rapped out that question, Porringer said, ‘Damn you, no!’
‘For pity’s sake, man—’
‘You’ll only – shoot me – as a spy …’ The words were slurred and distorted and blood was running from his neck. Schönbrunn and I exchanged glances.
‘You won’t necessarily be shot,’ said Schönbrunn. ‘You could change sides. Become a double agent. I’d help you.’ I knew he would have promised Porringer almost anything to find out what had happened to the twins. ‘Where’s the torch?’ he said to me, urgently. ‘Shine it on to the door’s hinges. Between us we can lever it open, surely.’
Porringer’s lower body was twitching spasmodically, and he was groaning. Schönbrunn and I grasped the edges of the door, and threw all our weight into pulling it open. In the cold torchlight we could both see that blood had spattered the iron – blood, with tiny splinters of bone in it. I began to feel sick. As you know I am apt to be annoyingly squeamish.
But I said, with as much force as I could, ‘Porringer, tell us. We’re trying to get you free, but tell us about the twins, and we’ll do our best to help you.’
But either Porringer would not or could not speak by now, and I said, ‘We must get him out. There’s blood and brain matter spilling out. We can’t leave him like this—’
‘If there was something we could use as a series of wedges to force the lid open,’ said Schönbrunn, looking round the room, ‘we could get him out and to an infirmary.�
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‘Should one of us try to find a doctor? There’d be one in the village – Mrs Battersby would know, I could ask her. Or if her husband’s still prowling around upstairs …’
‘I think Battersby must have gone,’ said Schönbrunn. ‘If he was still here he’d have heard us and come down to investigate. As for going in search of a doctor – by the time we managed to get one here …’ He looked at the trapped man and gave an expressive shrug.
‘Also,’ I said, very softly, ‘to do any of that would blow our cover.’
‘Quite. Dammit, there must be something we can do.’
That was when we heard the other sounds. A kind of rhythmic ticking, like the heartbeat of some invisible creature. We both looked towards the door leading out to the dark passage, but nothing moved. Then came a dull roar. At first I had no idea what it was, then Schönbrunn said in a voice of extreme horror, ‘Dear God, it’s the furnace.’
‘What—?’
‘It’s firing,’ he said.
‘It can’t be.’
‘But it is. Can’t you smell the hot iron? The door mechanism must have released something – set something working. If we don’t get him out in the next few minutes he’ll burn alive. His face—’
The thick pipes feeding the furnace were already scorchingly hot, and the smell of hot iron was increasing.
The torch spluttered and the battery died. We were in the pitch dark.
Porringer’s screams will, I believe, echo through my nightmares until I die. It is a terrible thing to hear the screams of a man whose brain has been partly crushed, and whose face is about to be burned off by the roaring heat of an ancient furnace.
After the first few nightmare minutes the darkness was not quite so absolute, because a flickering light began to glow from the furnace. That meant we could at least see what we were doing, but it would not have mattered if a hundred suns had shone down on us, or if a thousand bright lights had poured into the room, because there was nothing we could do to save Porringer.
