Later, just before nine, she left Jane in front of the TV and slipped away to the scullery. On the blue blotter on her desk, next to the sermon pad, was a folded copy of the property section of the Hereford Times. Just above the fold, an advert, encircled, said:
LEDWARDINE
Church Street – exquisite small, terraced
house, Grade Two listed, close to the centre
of this sought-after village.
It could be the answer. Tomorrow, she’d call the agent. Tonight, she lifted the phone and tapped in the number of Canon Llewellyn Jeavons.
So he was mad. Maybe she could use some of that.
4
The Room Under the Witch’s-Hat Tower
THE PINES WERE matt black against the blood-orange sky when Jane was walking up the hotel drive. Friday, late afternoon, and here it came again – that shivery anticipation, her senses honed as sharp as the air, as the cold tide of night swept in towards the Border.
The Border. It was right here. She could actually be standing on it now. The hotel was in England, but the rocks it was named after were in Wales. And here, where the track divided, was where it all coalesced in a burst of sunset.
Letting her school case and her overnight bag slip to the ground, Jane stopped at the fork. The independent working woman, on the Border.
Two witches’-hat towers were prodding up between the ragged pines. Stanner Hall was Victorian Gothic, therefore more lavishly Gothic than the original. And from this distance, at least, it looked like it belonged here, if only as a piece of skyline, on the Border. And the Border, like all borders, was more than just a political division; it was about magic and transformation, a zone out of time where things normally unseen might, for tiny, bright moments, become visible.
Some part of Jane felt this to be true and responded to it. Christianity would be like, Turn away from the dark... shun the numinous... take no pleasure in the nearness of other spheres. Which was why Jane reckoned that she was always going to be a pagan at the core. OK, maybe she’d mellowed a little towards Mum’s faith, but it didn’t go far enough. It had no sense of place. This was the holy land.
Looking up the left-hand stony track that led to the top of the mysterious Stanner Rocks, she stood for a moment, feeling the night beating in like heavy, downy wings. Then she picked up her bags and took the right-hand path between the gateposts of Stanner Hall, these sculpted stone buttresses against the trespassing woods. Most of a foxhound was preserved on the top of the left-hand post, its muzzle pointing rigidly at the sky as if it was about to begin howling. On the right-hand post only the paws remained. Nothing here was completely intact. The sign at the bottom still said STANNER HALL HOTE
Are we talking about The Hound of the Baskervilles? Voices from last Sunday. Rather disappointed that none of this came up during the weekend.
‘... That, ah, probably deserves more than a single weekend.’
Can of worms... can of worms...
Well, she’d read The Hound of the Baskervilles years ago when she was quite young. Hadn’t liked it much, always managed to avoid the films on TV. At school, when she’d raised the issue, Clancy had said, ‘Yeah, I think there’s some local connection,’ but she didn’t seem interested.
Tonight, Jane and Clancy had come off the school bus at the usual junction, at the end of the Kington bypass, but Clancy had gone off down the Gladestry road, to the farm. Clancy said her mum was coming down heavy on the subject of homework – like, it had to be done on Friday night or the kid didn’t get out on Saturday. Changing schools so often, she’d fallen behind, and this was her last chance to pull back. So Jane had been seeing more of Clancy’s mum than Clancy and now, when she lugged her bags into the courtyard of Stanner Hall, here was Natalie, leaning against the open kitchen door, massaging a mug of coffee.
‘Hi, Jane.’
This warm, pithy voice travelling easily across the darkening yard. It was a voice that Jane imagined blokes finding very sexy. Nat, too. She was quite tall and supple, with high pointy breasts inside her black jumper. She had dense, shaggy hair, the colour of dark tobacco, and she was... well, very beautiful, in this enviably careless way.
‘Clan has gone home, Jane?’
‘She was certainly heading that way.’
‘Hmm,’ Nat said doubtfully.
Clancy had shown up for the first time at the beginning of this term. She was only about a year younger than Jane, but actually two years behind her at school – which, not surprisingly, had left her isolated, with no real friends. Jane, who knew what it was like being the new kid, had realized that Clancy’s situation must be a whole lot worse, having to take lessons with little children. She’d gone out of her way to talk to Clancy at lunchtimes, and they’d become mates, kind of. Which was what had led, indirectly, to the offer of regular weekend work at the hotel where Clancy’s mother was receptionist, barmaid and the person who made this joint seem halfway professional.
Nursing her mug for warmth, Natalie came out into the yard, smiling in a bruised kind of way and raising her eyes to the purpling sky.
‘Like the Fall of fucking Troy in there today, Jane.’
The earthy talk was one of Nat’s contradictions. Treated her own daughter like a kid and was old-fashioned about stuff like bedtimes and homework and pubs, but she’d address Jane like a real mate, a colleague. Nat had clearly been around, and not only in hotels and restaurants.
‘Unexpected guests?’ Jane looked over at the car park and saw Jeremy’s old Daihatsu 4×4, which Nat must be using, and Ben’s MG, and that was all.
‘If only,’ Nat said.
The letter was crinkly and discoloured, and some of the print had smudged. Amber flattened it out on the baronial island unit, slid it across to Jane and switched on the halogen spotlights.
‘I had to dry it on the stove. Ben threw it in the sink on his way out.’
‘Oh.’ Jane looked at the letter but didn’t pick it up. ‘It’s OK to...?’
‘Please do,’ Amber said. ‘Otherwise you’ll spend the rest of the night wondering why he’s drinking too much and smashing things. Anyway, you’re one of us now.’
Jane felt a grateful blush coming on. She picked up the letter. It was printed on what she guessed to be very expensive, fine-quality vellum, and it was brief and kind of shocking.
The Baker Street League
Dear Foley,
As expected, the management committee of The League has confirmed my decision in regard to its annual conference and the Stanner Hall Hotel.
I was mildly diverted to hear of your intention to develop the link between the hotel, Doyle and The Hound. However, as the majority of my members firmly reject this theory, they did not feel it would be appropriate to associate the name of The League with your establishment.
Sincerely,
pp Dr N.P. Kennedy,
Hon. Secretary.
Jane let the letter fall to the island unit. ‘PP? And it’s not even signed by anybody. That’s like... deliberately insulting, isn’t it?’
‘No, it’s... probably just careless.’ Amber’s doll-like face was squashed-in with strain, her hair pushed back over her high forehead.
‘Amber, the bastard blatantly led Ben to think you were going to get the conference. I heard him.’