by Sarah Rayne
The execution date is Wednesday 16th, and I suggest that you and Mr Porringer spend the previous night (Tuesday 15th) as my guests here in the governor’s apartments. I fear the prisoner will need much patience and understanding during those hours. She is already in a very distressed state, and has had to be restrained several times. I should therefore wish, very particularly, that she has a lady at her side during her last hours.
In regard to your suggestion that you keep your own record of the event, I would have no objection. We have our own official records, of course, and two doctors will be in attendance, who will make medical records. However, a further and objective account will not come amiss.
Very truly yours,
E. M. Glaister.
‘So,’ said Nell, ‘Maria was called in to attend a condemned female. To see her through execution – keep her calm prior to being hanged. But that isn’t likely to help us, is it?’
‘I wouldn’t have thought so.’
Nell was rereading the letter. ‘It conjures up a bizarre scenario, doesn’t it?’ she said. ‘I can’t somehow see Maria providing what Glaister calls “patience and understanding”. You’d think she’d be the last person they’d call in.’
‘No, I think it’s understandable,’ said Michael. ‘Porringer was the local chemist, remember. Not a doctor, but a man of some medical knowledge. He’d have had a modest standing in the community. Maria would have shared that, even if she does come over to us as a bossy do-gooder. I think if E. M. Glaister had to cast around for someone – a female – to take care of that condemned woman, Maria would have seemed a very good choice.’
‘I wonder, though, how she got from this shop to running Deadlight Hall,’ said Nell, thoughtfully.
‘No idea. Is there any more?’
‘Just this,’ said Nell. ‘Folded into the end papers.’
There were two small newspaper cuttings, creased and yellowing. The first said:
Suddenly at his home, Mr Thaddeus Porringer (60), dearly loved husband of Mrs Maria Porringer. Funeral service at St Bertelin’s Church on Monday next, at midday. Friends welcome at church and at Wotherbridge’s Tea Rooms afterwards.
‘Death notice,’ said Nell. ‘Poor old Thaddeus.’
‘Living with Maria probably blighted his life.’
‘Or,’ said Nell, ‘Maria deliberately blighted it for him. Let’s not lose sight of the arsenic she booked out to herself.’
‘You think she might have helped him on his way?’
‘I wouldn’t put it past her. She’s a curious character, isn’t she? A mix of dutiful and disapproving. Archetype Victorian.’
The other cutting was more formal.
NOTICE OF CLOSURE.
The undersigned wishes to advise all customers to Porringer’s Chemist and Druggist (purveyor of perfumes, essences, soaps, spices, and all medicinal provisions since 1860), that she is under the necessity of closing the premises since the sad demise of Mr Thaddeus Porringer.
Inquiries as to reopening of the establishment can be made with Messrs Hollinsdale & Sons, Solicitors. Inquiries as to fiscal and credit matters should be addressed to Chubbs Bank.
‘So they closed down,’ said Nell. ‘Was that because Maria couldn’t – or wasn’t allowed to – run it on her own, I wonder?’
‘Or because she couldn’t keep it afloat. Let’s go to the pub and consider,’ said Michael.
They sought out Mr Trussell, explained that they had made some very useful notes, and would be in touch if any more information was needed.
‘By all means,’ he said. ‘This shop has been a pharmacy for more than a hundred and fifty years, you know. It was owned by a family called Porringer for three, if not more, generations. Father to son, usually. They nearly lost it once – in the mid-1800s, I believe – but then a cousin or something turned up and the name continued. The family died out during the Second World War, though.’
Nell said it was sad when family businesses did not continue within a family, and they walked across the square to the pub.
‘Do you think,’ she said, as their food was served, ‘that we’re any further on?’
‘Not really. And I still don’t know whether the professor’s right about Deadlight Hall being haunted,’ said Michael. ‘There’s no way of telling.’ He glanced at her. ‘Short of spending the night in the house.’
Nell had been eating moussaka with enjoyment, but she looked at him in disbelief. ‘You aren’t serious, are you?’ she said.
‘No. For one thing I can’t think how I’d get into the place,’ said Michael. ‘And yet, I can’t help wondering what would happen if I was there. “Once upon a midnight dreary” and all that.’
‘You’re starting to enjoy this,’ she said, half accusingly.
‘I’m not. But I’d like to know a bit more about Maria and the rest.’
‘So would I. And,’ said Nell, ‘I’d like to know what the professor’s not telling us about that house, because, sure as taxes, there’s something. Are you ready to go? I ought to get back to the shop. And if you’ve got time to come in, I’ve had an email from Ashby’s that you might want to see.’
The email was from Nell’s contact in the sale rooms.
Hi Nell,
As you know, we’ve placed a preliminary ad for the upcoming sale, with the silver golem as lead item. (You should have had the page proofs, so you know how terrific the photos look!) This morning a letter came in from a Polish buyer, expressing what sounds like definite interest. See attached – although I have, of course, had to delete the address for client confidentiality. I’ve left the sender’s name though (bit of a breach of the rules, but as it’s you … ) Also, it seems to link up with the archive stuff I sent you recently – the gentleman who wrote to us back in the 1940s. So I thought on all counts you’d like to see it.
Looking forward to seeing you soon. If you deliver the silver figure to us yourself, let me know beforehand, and we could have lunch.
The letter, scanned and sent as an attachment, had a slightly more formal note.
Dear Sirs
I see with interest that you are advertising a forthcoming Auction Sale of a silver golem, believed to date to the 18th century, and thought to have been brought to England in the early 1940s.
My great-uncle, Maurice Bensimon, spent many months trying to find a silver golem that I believe could be the one you are selling. The story of his search for it has long been a part of my family’s folklore.
It may not be possible for me to actually purchase the figure – my means may not allow it – but I should be grateful if you could let me know the reserve figure when it is set.
I hope to travel to England to be present at the auction. If the golem should be sold by a private arrangement before the date, I would be very grateful if you would let me know.
Kind regards,
David Bensimon.
‘I think Ashby’s are right that David is the descendant of the man who wrote to Ashby’s in the 1940s about finding the figure,’ said Nell, as Michael laid down the printouts. ‘Bensimon is probably a fairly common Jewish name, but it’s a bit of a coincidence if there were two people of that name both trying to trace the golem in the same year.’
‘Maurice Bensimon wrote to Ashby’s and all the other auction houses, didn’t he?’ said Michael, frowning in an effort of memory.
‘Yes, and there was some shady character doing the same thing around the same time,’ said Nell. ‘Ashby’s reported that one to the police. They seemed to think Bensimon’s enquiry was genuine, though. It’s interesting, isn’t it? Part of the golem figure’s background in a way. Would you like another cup of tea?’
‘I’d better not. I’ve got to be back in College for half-past four. That photographer – Rafe – is going to make a second attempt to photograph Wilberforce for the publishers’ website.’
‘God help him,’ said Nell.
The photo shoot for the website turned into quite a lively session.
&nbs
p; Wilberforce regarded the photographer with thoughtful malevolence, before ensconcing himself out of reach on a top bookshelf, where he succeeded in dislodging a set of Ruskins, an early edition of George Borrow’s Romany Rye, Michael’s DVDs of Inspector Morse, and a folder containing notes for a lecture about the metaphysical poets, which had unaccountably found its way on to that particular shelf. The whole lot tumbled to the floor, with Wilberforce watching with pleased triumph.
Rafe helped tidy up most of the debris, agreeing that the broken DVD cases would probably not affect the actual playing of the discs and that the leather covers of the Ruskin volumes could certainly be rebound, after which Wilberforce retired to the top of the window ledge, and had to be tempted down by a dish of his favourite tinned herring. He regarded this with contempt, then tipped up the dish with a paw, sending the contents over Rafe’s light meter and splattering it on to Michael’s lecture notes into the bargain.
‘I’m terribly sorry,’ said Michael, grabbing a cloth, while Rafe surveyed the light meter, whose screen was completely obscured by tomato sauce, with dismay. ‘He isn’t usually this disruptive. No, that’s a lie, he’s always this disruptive.’
In the end, Rafe managed to clean the light meter sufficiently to get several shots of Wilberforce scowling at the camera. The best shot, Rafe thought, would be the one where Wilberforce’s whiskers and front paws were covered in tomato sauce from the herring. It was a pity the publicist would probably not use it, on account of it looking as if Wilberforce had just killed something in a particularly gruesome fashion.
After Rafe had gone, Michael threw away the remains of the herring, sponged the carpet, and sat down to write a chapter for the Wilberforce Histories, in which the Tudor Wilberforce was mistaken for the Royal executioner, and found himself on Tower Hill, complete with headsman’s axe and block. The publishers would not be able to use that either, but writing it made him feel better, and he then embarked on a more moderate episode in which Wilberforce, adorned with gold earring and bandanna, sailed the seven seas, braving a tempestuous storm and discovering an unknown island, on which he planted a flag. Michael followed this up with a lively scene in which Elizabeth Tudor announced the island would henceforth be known as Wilberforce Island. He rifled the atlas to make sure there was not actually a real Wilberforce Island somewhere, then described the Queen presenting the intrepid explorer (now richly clad in doublet and hose) with a casket of doubloons (which would make for a good illustration), and a churn of best dairy cream. Or was cream a bit too lush in today’s cholesterol-conscious, five-a-day climate? Michael deleted the cream, and then, with the idea of imparting a few vaguely educational facts to his youthful readers, allowed Wilberforce to be borne off to The Globe, where he met luminaries of the era, one of whom was a certain Master Will Shakespeare. Master Shakespeare was so entranced with the tale of Wilberforce’s exploits on the high seas that he declared his intention to one day write a play in which a massive storm – ‘A veritable tempest!’ exclaimed Master Will with enthusiasm – caused a group of people to be shipwrecked on just such an island as Wilberforce had found.
Michael emailed the pirate/playhouse version to his editor, added the Tower Hill one just in case, and pressed Send before he could change his mind.
He then turned his attention to the lecture on the metaphysical poets which he had been trying to compile for the last three days. The melancholic allegories and intensities came as something of a rest cure after the brooding darknesses of Deadlight Hall and Salamander House.
NINETEEN
It was not until Friday afternoon that the elusive memory attached to the handwriting – the memory that had been nudging at Michael’s mind – suddenly clicked into place.
Books – old books – that was at the centre of it. Children’s books in the main, with the exception of one. That one was not a printed book at all; it was leather-bound, the edges worn and one edge very slightly split. He concentrated, and the image came properly into focus. The shelf of books in the attic at Deadlight Hall. That was what he had been trying to remember – he had seen them through that blur of migraine, but he was sure there had been a small book among them – a book whose pages had slightly uneven edges. Beneath the split cover he had glimpsed handwriting – the same kind of handwriting he had seen in the old Poison Book and in Maria’s letters.
How reliable was the memory, though? Even if it was accurate, it was too much to hope that the book could be a diary. It could be an old household account book, or even a cookery book left behind by some long-ago cook. Nothing to do with Maria Porringer’s story at all. But Michael would not be able to rest until he had found out.
It was just on four o’clock. He had no more tutorials until Monday, and the rest of the day was free. If he drove out to Deadlight Hall now he should be able to get there before Jack Hurst’s men finished for the day. Hurst would not think it odd that Michael wanted to take a second look round.
It was not quite dark by the time he turned into the drive leading to the Hall. The builders’ rubble and machinery were still in evidence, and Michael saw Jack Hurst’s van. The main doors were open, and as he went up the stone steps and stepped inside, the remembered scents closed about him – clean new timbers and freshly applied paint. But underneath was the same whiff of something unwholesome, something old and troubled.
There was no sign of Jack or any of his men, but they must be around. Michael called out, hoping for a response, but there was nothing. Very well, he would go openly up to the attic floor, and take a quick look for the book. Now he was here he did not relish the prospect, but he had been perfectly all right last time. Nothing had come boiling out of the woodwork to gibber at him, or clank its chains in his face. There had just been a few whispering voices and eerie shadows, all of which could have been a product of his headache. As for the thuddings from the attic, Jack Hurst had said they were something to do with an airlock in the pipes.
No lights were on, but it was reasonably easy to see the way. The first floor was silent and still, but as he went up to the second floor, Michael had the impression of something moving somewhere in the house.
The attic floor was dark, but there was enough daylight left to see everything. As he had remembered, the rooms had certainly been partitioned at some earlier stage, but one thing he had not noticed last time was that the door of the inner room had had a padlock on it – part of it was still attached to the frame. It seemed odd to have a padlock on the outside of an attic, but perhaps valuables had been stored up here. Or, said his mind, perhaps it had something to do with the secret that Maria promised Augustus Breadspear she would keep.
He pushed the door back and went inside. His memory had been right, after all. There were the books on a low shelf, and they were indeed children’s books. Could this have been a nursery floor once? But not even the grimmest of the Victorians would have stowed children away in an attic and padlocked the door.
‘Children …’
The word came lightly and with a struggle, like dried insect wings or the tapping of tattered finger bones, and Michael turned sharply round. Had something moved near the door? Something that walked awkwardly, and that had the hunched gait of the shadow he had seen here last time? No, there was nothing.
He turned back to the shelves. There were several Rudyard Kipling volumes and some Rider Haggards; also a copy of Treasure Island and the Charlotte M. Yonge classic The Daisy Chain, which rubbed shoulders with Lorna Doone. Perhaps these were the books that the ungodly and irrepressible John Hurst had brought for those long-ago children. That poor wretched little Douglas Wilger, and the Mabbley girls who had vanished – probably because they had run away to find golden pavements and fortunes.
Michael knelt down to see the rest of the small collection. And there it was. A small, leather-bound book, exactly as his mind had presented it to him. The pages were uneven, as if they had worked loose or never been firmly anchored in the first place – or as if extra loose pages or notes had bee
n thrust into them.
Michael drew it out from its place, and very carefully opened it. Yes, it was handwritten – had he actually looked inside it last time? He did not think he had, but he could not remember very clearly; he could only remember the sick blur of his vision, and the storm raging overhead.
But the writing was clear and firm, and Michael knew it was the writing he had seen in Maria Porringer’s letters, and in the old Poison Book.
It was completely reprehensible to put the book into his jacket pocket – it was certainly not in keeping with conduct expected of a senior member of Oriel College, and it was undoubtedly committing a felony, albeit a minor one. Michael did not care if he was committing all the crimes in the Newgate Calendar; he could not have left this book on its unobtrusive shelf if it had been guarded by the three-headed Cerberus on temporary secondment from the entrance to the underworld.
With the book firmly in his pocket, he went back down the stairs, hoping he would encounter Jack Hurst so he could explain his presence here.
The two lower floors were still deserted, and when he reached the main hall that, too, was silent and empty. As Michael went across to the big double doors, he saw a large dusty van going down the drive, away from the house. Jack Hurst’s van.
Apprehension clutched him, and he reached for the door handles. Neither one moved. Jack Hurst, conscientious and responsible builder, having finished work for the day – presumably for the weekend – had secured the house before driving away.
Michael was locked in.
There was no need for panic, of course. He had only to phone Jack Hurst and explain, and Hurst would come back to let him out. There was even a display board on the drive, displaying Hurst’s phone number. Michael sat down on the window seat and dialled it. He was greeted by a recorded message, saying Hurst’s were closed until Monday at 8.30 a.m., but please to leave a message. Not very hopefully, Michael left a message.
There was still no need to panic. Estate agents were handling the actual selling of the flats, and they would certainly have a key – or they would know where one could be reached. Michael tried to remember who the agents were. There had certainly been a large For Sale board at the head of the drive, by the turning to the main road. He peered through both windows, and although he could just see the board, it was turned towards the road, and there was nothing on the back of it. But phone numbers could be obtained, and he rang one of the directory enquiry services. They were helpful and efficient, and said there were nineteen estate agents in the immediate vicinity. Michael wrote them all down, then asked if they had a number for Hurst’s Builders. They had, but it was the mobile number he had already tried. How about a home number? They were very sorry, but no other number was listed.
