I went on up the stairs to the second-floor landing. Ahead of me, a dim corridor led towards the rear of the house. Threadbare Persian runners over dark stained boards; William Morris paper, frayed and peeling at the joins.
I started down the corridor and tried the first door on my left. Daylight showed faintly below the curtains at the far end of the room, which shared a common wall with the landing. A musty old-dog smell rose from the carpet as I approached the window; for a moment I was a child again, trespassing in my mothers bedroom. I dragged the curtains open. Looking down at a blurred glimpse of laneway through thick foliage, I realised that this room must be directly above the drawing-room. Dust and fragments of the curtains-a dingy maroon-drifted down around me. To the right of the window stood a dressing-table with a swing mirror and a brocaded stool; on the left, an oak tallboy, and then a small bookcase. The bed, a single, draped in a bedspread the same colour as the curtains, stood with its head against the panelling opposite the window. The other three walls were papered: more fraying William Morris.
A closet had been let into the panelling beside the bed; the door was slightly ajar. Moving closer, I drew back the bedspread and saw that the bed was fully made up. A moth fluttered out from behind the pillow, trailing its own tiny cloud of dust as it whirred past my face. Inside the closet hung a single white dress or tunic; a yellowy, greyish white now. And on the floor below the dress, a tennis racquet, with ANNE HATHERLEY burnt in pokerworked capitals into the wooden handle.
The bedroom next door was almost a mirror image of Anne's, except that the window was in the side wall of the house. It too had a single bed, with its head against the common partition, and a closet built into the corresponding space to the left of the bed. The curtains and bedspread were dark green, made of the same heavy material. Nothing in the closet this time except dust and a few wire hangers. Just four books in a small case on the other side of the bed. A High Wind in Jamaica, Rebecca, The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, and The Death of the Heart. The Agatha Christie was unmarked. The other three had 'P.M. Hatherley' written in neat, slightly rounded script on the flyleaf.
For someone who had left home for ever with just a couple of suitcases, Phyllis Hatherley had done a remarkably thorough job of clearing out her room. Apart from the four novels, and a musty blanket in the bottom drawer of a chest by the window, the room was completely bare. Of course she might have come back later, when the house was empty… best not to think too far along that track. In fact it would make my task a lot easier if I were to think of Phyllis Hatherley and my mother as two quite separate people.
Which really, when you thought about it, they had been. And whatever Phyllis Hatherley might have done, Phyllis Freeman had paid for it with life in Mawson, no remission for good behaviour. I couldn't imagine my mother living in this house.
As I went to shut the door of the closet, it struck me that there must be quite a lot of unused space in the partition between the two rooms. I tried a panel above the bed and felt it give; pressed more firmly and it swung open. A cupboard, about eighteen inches square, the same depth as the closet. Empty again. Except that something heavy had evidently been kept in here: there were deep parallel scratches gouged into the wooden floor. A child could easily climb right inside; I imagined the girls tapping out messages at night, frightening each other with ghostly noises.
A loud clatter-or was it someone knocking?-sounded through the partition. I was out the door and half-way across the landing in a blind, panic-stricken rush for the stairs before I registered what I had glimpsed through the open door of Anne's room: curtains the colour of dried blood, heaped beneath the fallen curtain-rod.
I found I was holding my breath, straining to identify a faint rustling sound. A branch against the wall? Mice in the ceiling? Best keep moving.
Returning to the corridor, I saw a thin line of daylight, evidently coming from beneath a door at the far end. The room opposite Anne's was empty, unfurnished, and thick with dust; the next looked like Viola's. I opened a small jewelbox on the bedside table and found a gold wristwatch, engraved 'V. from M./ with love/ 7.2.1913'. 'V.H.' was inscribed in several of the books in the bookcase beneath the window, including, I noticed, a battered hardback copy of The Sacred Fount. Her clothes, or some of them, were still hanging in the closet, protected by the ghosts of old mothballs: everything from long tweed skirts to furs and several plain but very expensive-looking evening gowns, including one made of a material that shimmered like finely beaten gold, with shoes to match. But again no letters, no papers, no photographs.
The floor creaked more loudly at every tread, until boards were sounding up and down the hall as if invisible feet were moving all around me. I tugged at the end door, which opened inwards. Light from two high windows streamed into the corridor. There was one other door beyond Phyllis's: a boxroom, with only a small square window high in the wall. Trunks, cases, hampers, hat boxes, a golf-cart; more tennis racquets, croquet mallets, chairs with broken backs, a doll's house.
Two doors opened off the landing, on my right: a bathroom nearest the corridor. Bare board floor, porcelain washstand; an imposing claw-footed bathtub, darkly stained, with a greyish bath towel carelessly draped over the side. In the wall cabinet above the basin, a clutter of dried-up lipsticks, tubes, bottles, hairpins. Everything metal was heavily corroded, the labels unreadable.
I tried the other door. Not a closet, but yet more stairs, angling up to the left. I checked the door to make sure I couldn't be trapped, and clambered up. Two drab attic bedrooms, each with a single metal-framed bedstead; flock mattresses and pillows, tinder-brown with age, but no bedding. Plain wooden furniture, washstands with white china jugs and basins, bare boards. The windows were set like skylights into the sloping ceilings. Nothing in any of the cupboards.
Back on the landing, the sense of familiarity tugged at me again. Through the tall slit window in the stairwell I caught a blurred glimpse of the ruined summerhouse far below. The stairs came up on my right, with a railed balcony above the stairwell, extending about twelve feet to a dead end below the left-hand window. There was only one other door, immediately to my left, in the panelled wall that formed the other side of the balcony. Though there was nothing on the wall, I could see several slightly paler rectangles where pictures had once hung. The nearest of these was also the largest, at least five feet high and perhaps half as wide, just to the right of the door.
Pictures. The absence of pictures, or more precisely, portraits. That was what had troubled me in the downstairs rooms. The balcony was not the only place from which pictures had been removed. On several of the walls downstairs I had seen, without paying much attention, the outlines, and sometimes the empty hooks, where pictures had once hung, some of them very large indeed. A few small prints, mostly still lifes or rural scenes, remained. But so far no portraits, no photographs; not a single image of a human face.
I tried the handle of the door. Locked.
Like the door to the studio in The Revenant. With the portrait of Imogen de Vere beside it. The resemblance that had been tugging at me all the way along this floor. How could I have missed it? If the garden hadn't been so overgrown, I might have seen the resemblance from the lane outside.