The Chalice

'Actually, I'm really not very good,' she said a little breathlessly, in Yorkshire I was always forgetting to ask people's ages and all that. My spelling isn't terrific either.'

Sam slowly shook his head. 'Ah 'tis the usual problem with you aristocrats. 'Always so arrogant and full of yourselves.'

A shadow fell across the window of the print-shop, accompanied by a thump on the glass, and Sam looked up sharply and then made a dive for the door. 'Hey! Piss off, pal!'

Something had been stuck to the outside of the window.

'Bloody Darryl Davey, that was.' Sam came back into the shop, holding a yellow printed sheet he'd torn from the glass. 'About all he's fit for, fly-posting. Thick bastard.'

He unrolled the yellow paper.

GLASTONBURY FIRST

A public meeting to bunch a new initiative for the promotion of Priorities in the town and its environs will be held

Tonight Nov. I6 at the TOWN HALL

7.30 p.m.

Sam Daniel sniffed the paper suspiciously.

'The old man,' he said. I can smell the old man all over this.'

Verity was at once horribly anxious.

Oliver Pixhill. It must be thirty years since she'd seen him, and on that occasion she'd chased him angrily away.

'I hope it isn't inconvenient.'

'No.' She felt an awful blush coming on. 'Not at all. Besides…'

It had been not long after she'd taken over as housekeeper, Oliver and his mother having moved into the town. The boy had returned with his schoolfriend, Archer Ffitch, and an air pistol, both of them far too young to have such a thing in their possession.

'Old place doesn't change, does it?' Oliver Pixhill stooped to enter. 'Doesn't it frighten you, being here alone in the winter?'

Verity had found the dead bullfinch on the path, near the back door, the boys sitting on the wall, grinning at her, their legs swinging.

'I… I'm used to it,' she stammered, thinking of the American poking around upstairs looking for the heart of the darkness, wondering how he might alter the house's self-image. Oh lord, what was she going to do? How was she going to explain this? Oliver Pixhill was a member of the Trust; it would get back to Major Shepherd.

'I expect you're wondering why I'm here.' Oliver was soberly attired in a business suit. He was, Verity understood, some sort of corporate lawyer. In the City. Silly to judge him on that one incident from his childhood.

'You have every right to be here. That is, I'm very glad to see you, Mr Pixhill.'

There was the sound of footsteps overhead. Oliver glanced up briefly but didn't question it. Verity was struggling to put together an explanation in her head. About a man who was very interested in old, dark houses and…

'My father would never allow me to visit him here, you know.' Oliver walked languidly over to the stairs but didn't look up. He looked unnervingly like the Colonel as Verity first remembered him. Perhaps a little taller, sharper in the jaw.

'He'd come to my mother's flat two or three times a week and sometimes take me for walks. But he would never let me come here. Wasn't that odd. I used to think he was trying to protect me from something.'

'I suppose he simply thought it was a rather gloomy old place for a boy to grow up in,' Verity said lamely. 'Certainly your mother did.'

'That's what you were told, was it?' An eyebrow rose. 'I see.'

'I…' What could she say? How could she even start to explain?

But she didn't have to. Black trainers appeared on the stairs.

'Verity, I found it.' Moving quickly and lightly for a man of his bulk, Dr Pel Grainger padded down the last few steps and arrived next to her, looking fulfilled, like a cat with a bird. 'The crepuscular core. A slight misnomer, but I like the phrase. Oh. Good morning.'

'Dr Grainger, this…' Verity held the oak pillar to steady herself. 'This is Mr Oliver Pixhill. The son of my late employer.' Her voice was small and dead. Like the bullfinch.

'Mr Pixhill, this is…'

'Hi' Dr Grainger was already shaking hands with Oliver.

'Dr Pel Grainger.'

Oliver Pixhill shook hands, said nothing. He tilted his head enquiringly.

And did not have to wait long Within a minute, to Verity's mounting distress, Dr Grainger had identified himself as a therapist specialising in Tenebral Psychosis, which, he explained, was not entirely dissimilar to Seasonal Affective Disorder, only all-year-round, more intense and usually connected to a particular dwelling.

He identified Verity as his 'patient'.

Verity burst into tears.

'Oh, have I been indiscreet?' Dr Grainger turned to Oliver Pixhill. I guess you knew nothing of this, right?'

'I certainly did not.' Oliver's deep voice was full of surprise and concern. He guided Verity through to the dining hall, hands on her quaking shoulders. I did not indeed.'

Oliver pulled out a chair for her at the long table. At which she hadn't sat since the Abbot's Dinner. He took the chair next to hers.

'Miss Endicott, this is utterly dreadful. None of us knew about this. I feel absolutely devastated. And guilty.'

'Please… it's my fault. I'm so…'

'I've been back in this house, Miss Endicott, for less than ten minutes and already I'm finding the atmosphere decidedly oppressive. We shall have to get you out.'

'No! You don't und-'

'Mr Pixhill,' Grainger said from the head of the table, where the Abbot sat. I can help this lady. I have got this…'

'I'm sure your therapeutic techniques are entirely creditable. What I'm saying is she should never have been left here alone and that is the responsibility of the Pixhill Trust. I'm going to make it my business to find Miss Endicott fully furnished accommodation in the short-term and then…'

'You don't understand!' Verity gripped the edge of the table. 'This is my responsibility. I made a promise to your father.'

He looked astonished. 'Good God, you really think my father was in a fit mental state to extract a promise from anyone?'

'Your father was a great man,' Verity whispered.

'My father?' Gently, Oliver took her hands in his. He hesitated. He took a breath. 'Miss Endicott, my father was a deeply unhappy man with a paranoid and obsessive nature. Who ruined his own and other people's lives through…'

'No!' Verity snatched her hands back. That's a… that's untrue.'

Oliver said, with compassion, I do know how you felt about him, you know.'

She stared at him through a blur of angry tears. Saw an unexpected pain in Oliver's eyes. His father's eyes.

'He was my father, and I'm frankly tired of having him venerated. It's time the truth was acknowledged.'

'What can you know of the truth?' Hard to get the words out, her throat was so tight.

'Verity, I've made it my business to find out the truth. You never wanted to. You loved him too much.'

Verity gasped.

Oliver held up a placatory hand. 'Oh, not in any physical sense, I don't suppose. I doubt he was interested in that side of things anymore.'

'Stop it.' Verity drew a handkerchief from her sleeve, wiped her eyes, I don't want to hear any more of this.'

Oliver shrugged. 'All I know is, the oppressive darkness I felt when I entered here was nothing to do with the age of the building. Nothing to do with the legend of Abbot Whiting. You know that.'

Verity rose and backed away from him.

'It's him. Miss Endicott. You know that too. You've always known it. Him and his obsessions. His delusions. His self-importance. His invented visionary experiences. His crazy, rambling diaries The darkness in here is him.'

'How can you say these things?' Verity wouldn't look at him.

'He destroyed my mother, he neglected his parental responsibilities. And he's left his stain on this place. Jesus, you can feel him. The self-inflicted misery of him.'

Verity covered her ears, but his voice was low and insistent.