‘I don’t… that is, he may be in his study, but he is often out at this hour… I would have to…’ She pauses, clasping her hands so tightly in front of her that the muscles begin to cramp. ‘What news is it? Please tell me.’ Constable Pearce shifts his weight from his left foot to his right, and his eyes fill with uncertainty.
‘I would much rather speak to your husband first, Mrs Canning. What I have to say is not suitable-’
‘Young man, if you have information regarding a member of my household, then please disclose it at once!’ Hester snaps, her heart racing so fast that it shakes her. The policeman flushes an even deeper colour, reluctance written all over him.
‘It’s your maid, Mrs Canning – Catherine Morley. I’m afraid she’s been found dead this morning. Murdered, I’m afraid,’ he says, not able to keep the thrill from his voice.
‘What?’ Hester whispers. For a second, everything is hung, everything pauses. Time seems to slow, and the halt between the tick and the tock of the clock stretches horribly long, and the air rushes out of Hester’s chest and will not return. She blinks and says: ‘No, you’re quite mistaken.’ But even as she speaks, she turns, goes back to the stairs and begins to climb them.
‘Mrs Canning?’ Constable Pearce calls, uncertainly, still hovering on the threshold, but Hester ignores him. Her walk becomes a run, and then a scramble, up the attic stairs and along the corridor to Cat’s door. She throws it open, and in her head she pictures the girl leaning her elbows on the window sill, staring out into the sunshine. So clearly can she see this – short dark hair growing in the shape of a V down the back of a fragile neck – that she manages to be shocked when Cat is not there. The bed is neatly made, and no trace of the girl’s possessions is left. Her gaze sweeps the room desperately, as fear pours into her, cold as ice, and her eyes light upon a small white envelope on the wash stand. Downstairs, she hears Sophie Bell begin to wail. Sophie, who never could help but to find things out from people.
An odd silence falls over Hester. The house itself is filled with noise – with footfalls as the policeman walks Sophie Bell back to the kitchens and tries to get a statement from her, and the woman’s loud and ugly sobbing all the while. And she barely seemed to tolerate Cat, Hester thinks, distantly. She picks up the envelope, which has her name on it, and carefully opens it. Cat’s handwriting, which she has never seen before, is elegant and sloping. Far more elegant than a maid’s should be. Far more elegant than her own. The words scroll with a gentle rhythm across the paper, and Hester casts her eyes over each of them before realising that she has not made sense of a single one. She slips the letter into her pocket and goes back downstairs on wooden legs, so stiff and unwieldy that she stumbles more than once.
The library door is still shut. If Albert is inside, he has not roused himself to see what is causing all the commotion. From outside comes the sound of a small wagon and pair, driving along the lane and stopping opposite The Rectory. More footsteps, more knocking at the front door. Hester ignores it. She stands in front of the library door, close to it; the grain of the wood in every corner of her vision. Her breathing is quick and shallow, and she can’t seem to get enough oxygen. She raises her hand to knock, but stops, cannot bring herself to. Somehow, she knows there is no point. Whether Albert is inside or not, there is no point in knocking. Shivering uncontrollably in the warm air, she turns the handle and steps inside.
The room is in darkness, the heavy velvet curtains pulled close together. She waits just over the threshold for a moment, letting her eyes adjust to the shadows. As footsteps sound in the hallway behind her, she quickly steps forwards and pushes the door gently closed, so as to go unnoticed. The atmosphere inside is heavy and thick, as though many weeks have passed since it was aired. There is a dark shape at the desk, and Hester’s heart lurches before she realises it is only Albert’s coat, thrown over the back of his chair. I am afraid of my own husband, now? she wonders. Her spirit shrinks like a candle caught in a cold draught. On the desk is the Frena camera she had so admired when Robin first arrived, and Albert’s journal, not closed and tied as he usually leaves it, but with his pen wedged between pages, as if he had been in the middle of writing when he’d risen and walked away. The room is empty, and Hester’s nerves ease a little. She walks forwards, thinking to throw open the curtains and the window, to banish the stifling air, prickly with dust and tainted with secrecy, with Albert’s dark fascinations. She hasn’t gone three steps when her foot catches on something heavy and she trips, turning her ankle as she fights for balance. She reaches down for the object. Robin Durrant’s leather bag. Frowning, Hester picks it up, and the leather strap feels soiled somehow, sticky and damp. She has never seen Robin go out without this bag of his. Hester takes it to the window to cast some light on it, but as she twitches back the curtains, squinting, she drops it in shock. Red smears daub her hands where she has touched it. Smears with the unmistakable, iron scent of blood. Hester gags, her stomach clenching in horror. For a long moment she stands frozen, barely breathing, as icicles of utter dread assail her.
13
2011
Leah waited impatiently while the phone rang, fidgeting with nerves. She was sitting in pale vanilla sunshine outside the library, while Mark read through the newspaper reports about the murder of Catherine Morley. The wooden bench was chilly and damp through her jeans, but the sky overhead had turned a gorgeous china blue. There was a lull in the traffic now that rush hour had passed, and the park across the canal from the library looked a brighter green than it had even two days before. At last there was a crackle and pop at the end of the line, and the receiver was lifted.
‘Chris Ward Limited,’ croaked a man’s voice.
‘Oh, hello,’ Leah said, taken aback. The voice sounded like raw meat. ‘I’m sorry to bother you. I got your name from Kevin Knoll – the caretaker at The Bluecoat School in Thatcham? I understand that you did some restoration work there last year?’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ the man said, then broke off to cough. Leah winced, holding the phone a little further from her ear until the fit passed. She could hear him wheezing, catching his breath. ‘I’m afraid I can’t come out and give quotes this week at all, love. I’m off sick,’ he said.
‘I can hear that – you sound awful.’ The man chuckled roughly. ‘Actually, I don’t need a quote. I’m writing an article about The Bluecoat School, and I was wondering if I could ask you a couple of quick questions about the restoration work you did?’
‘What kind of questions?’ Did she imagine it, or had a hint of defensiveness crept into his voice?
‘Well, about what condition the building was in before work started, and how much of the original fabric you were forced to replace-’
‘Well, the caretaker and the committee is who you want to ask about that, really. They have all the survey reports and the like,’ Chris Ward interrupted her.
‘And whether you found anything while you were doing the work? Say, behind the plaster… or underneath the floorboards?’ Leah pressed.
There was a startled pause at the end of the phone line. A pause loaded with shock and – unmistakably – unease.
‘Found anything? No, no. We didn’t find anything other than a few dead rats and a whole lot of dust. Sorry not to be more help…’ he said, with a note of finality in his tone. She pictured him edging the receiver back towards its cradle.
‘Hold on – are you sure? Nothing at all? Sometimes the original builders of these ancient buildings left little tokens, or dropped coins find their way through the cracks in the boards… you didn’t find anything at all?’