Cynthia had to sit down and compose herself again. Whatever Emma had been mixed up in, Felicia Browning had been part of it, and she had sat in Cynthia’s kitchen and drunk her coffee! Cynthia quickly picked up the half empty mug and dropped it into the sink, running hot water over it for several minutes. She worried about Felicia having another set of keys to the bungalow. Later, she had better phone the Tizards and tell them. It was their problem, not hers.
Rodney rang to say he would be late home and not to hold dinner. Cynthia ate early, making herself a mixed grill, and drank two glasses of wine. After eating, she went into the bedroom and fetched Emma’s paintings and book. Using ashtrays, mugs and ornaments, she laid the paintings out on the floor and sprawled on the sofa to study them, drinking another glass of wine. She had only taken one study of the naked man, one of the less erotic sketches. Now, it seemed to stand out from all the rest, commanding her attention. He was quite beautiful, almost effeminate, slim but with a hint of strength within the litheness. The face was disturbingly familiar. Of course! Cynthia realized the drawing was reminiscent of Emma herself. Did the Tizards have a son? Cynthia shuddered. Good God, was incest, or at the least the thought of it, another of Emma’s dark secrets? No brother had been mentioned though and surely he would have come to the funeral… if he was alive. Still glancing at the drawing, she opened the little book and tried to read some of it. A hopeless task really. It was not a work written for the uninitiated and she could barely understand a quarter of it. Was this research for Emma’s unearthly paintings, or something darker, more personal? Sighing, Cynthia put the book down. It would not give up its knowledge to her.
The light had faded completely from the sky outside and Cynthia sat in darkness, drinking and staring through the window at Wren’s Nest. Her eyes were narrow, her gaze strangely vacant. Her breathing had become shallow and misted on the air. Something nagged at her inside her head; a voice almost heard, but not quite. She felt she knew the answer, had all the pieces to reveal the picture, yet was too close to see it as a whole.
I must go back. It’s there. Felicia missed it. I must go back. The compulsion could not be ignored.
Cynthia raised herself jerkily from the sofa and padded into the kitchen. She put on her shoes and her coat and lifted down the keys to Emma’s bungalow. From the back of her pantry she took a flashlight down off its hook and marched out of her home, with purpose, to the house next door.
Nothing happened when she tried the light switch in Emma’s hallway. For a moment, Cynthia was afraid of the dark, but the fear had to be ignored. Feeling her way along the wall, she went into the lounge. Here, she turned on the flashlight, illuminating the ghostly clouds of her breath. The incense smell had gone. The Tizards had left all the furniture in the house; most of it was brand-new. She herself would not want to sit or sleep in the furniture of the dead.
In the kitchen, all the cupboard doors were open. Felicia Browning must have made a thorough search, but all were empty. Cynthia closed them, took a deep breath, and went out into the hall again, pausing before the workroom door.
It looked much larger now that all Emma’s belongings had gone. The desk had been polished, the floor cleaned. Cynthia went inside. There was nothing there. What had she been expecting? Her body gave an involuntary jump, as if responding to a sharp, unheard sound.
What the hell am I doing here? An empty house, there’s nothing here. Too much wine? Am I obsessed? You stupid creature, get out of here! Go home, draw the curtains, put on the lights, watch TV.
But the thoughts were separate from her. She realized she hadn’t the will, nor even the desire to move from the room. Was she afraid? She felt electrified, apprehensive, somehow out of control. None of these feelings were familiar to Cynthia Peeling.
Opposite her, the ornate mirror on the wall had misted over with condensation. Cynthia pulled herself together with rational, organizing thoughts. Perhaps she should arrange to have the heating turned on. New residents wouldn’t want to cope with problems caused by damp. The mere invocation of these mundane ideas seemed to change the atmosphere in the room. Cynthia swept the light beam around her, still strangely reluctant to leave. She went to the mirror and wiped it. Her reflection looked ghastly, surprised, in the stark light. ‘You’ve gone, Emma, haven’t you?’ she said softly. Her breath fogged the glass again and, mistily, it seemed to Cynthia that her reflection wavered and convulsed, twisting her dimly-seen reflection into something different; more strange yet more familiar. It seemed she stood against a background of rock and cloud.
Cynthia uttered an alarmed mewing sound and abruptly wiped the glass. Relieved, she found her own, accustomed image looking back at her. An illusion. I’ve had enough of this place, enough of Emma. Sniffing, Cynthia turned around. This time she meant to leave.
A tall figure stood in the doorway, caught in the beam of Cynthia’s flashlight. She cried out in alarm. It was a young man, arms above his head, resting his hands on the door frame. There was a certain proprietorial air about the pose. The silence lasted only seconds but in that time, Cynthia saw and realized who he was. She recognized the beautiful face, the red hair, the long, white hands. This man had Emma’s face, Emma’s hair, Emma’s eyes, Emma’s cruel smile of the nightmares. She had seen his image in a hundred of Emma’s sketches and paintings. She had seen him naked.
The man came into the room, leisurely closed the door and, folding his arms, leaned back against it. He said nothing, although he didn’t seem surprised to find Cynthia there. Had he watched her enter the house?
Cynthia tried to take a step backwards and found she couldn’t. Her shoulders were against the mirror. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ she demanded, aware of the tremor in her voice. She realized she was trapped. Fear paralysed her.
‘I might ask the same of you,’ said the man.
‘My husband and I look after the place. He’ll be over here soon. ’
The man laughed. It was a melodious, musical sound. ‘You’re a good woman, Cynthia,’ he said. ‘I’m glad you liked my paintings. I’m glad you saved them. You’ve been a good friend to Emma.’
Cynthia’s mouth had turned to glue. Her jaw ached and she was conscious of a numbness creeping through her limbs, as if presaging a faint. Images of her own comfortable, safe living-room flashed before her eyes. A mockery; she was neither comfortable or safe and further away from home than she’d ever been. An image of violence and murder superimposed itself over the fading memory of her familiar setting. ‘Who are you?’’
‘A friend,’ he answered. ‘Don’t be afraid.’ He unfolded his arms, rubbed his hands together. ‘I’ve been waiting to speak with you. I want you to help me.’
This apparently reasonable request slightly reassured Cynthia. Perhaps everything would be all right. ‘You had better come over to the house. My husband.. ’
‘Who is still at work. ’ The man laughed again. ‘I want you to help me here, Cynthia. It won’t take a moment.’
Panic slipped back into Cynthia’s mind. He knew her name. Her voice was a squeak. ‘What do you want?’
‘It’s quite simple. I want you to turn around, very slowly, and take down tie mirror from the wall.’
‘Why?’
‘Please do as I say.’
Cynthia’s mind quickly juggled the thoughts of whether it would be wiser to comply or refuse. She would be helpless with her back turned. Why did he want her to move the mirror? But even as she was still trying to come to a decision, she could feel her body moving by itself, turning round. Her neck felt wrenched; she did not want to take her eyes from the intruder. An urge to scream built up within her, a scream she knew would never escape the constriction in her chest.