The door led into a large and cheery sitting room, where a log fire burned merrily, throwing antic, dancing shadows over the walls. In an armchair beside the fire sat a tiny, crook-backed woman, wrapped up in a shawl and squinting with intent bird-like eyes at her knitting needles as she worked them dexterously with busy fingers. This, Michael guessed, was Tabitha Winshaw: her resemblance to Aunt Emily, the deranged old spinster played by Esma Cannon in the film What a Carve Up! was unmistakable. Opposite her, on a sofa, staring phlegmatically into space with a whisky glass in his hand, was Thomas Winshaw, the merchant banker, while at a table on the far side of the room, nearest the rain-spattered window, Hilary Winshaw was quietly tapping away at a laptop computer. Reaching the end of a paragraph, and looking around the room in search of further inspiration, she was the first to notice Michael’s appearance.
‘Hello, who’s this?’ she said. ‘A stranger in the night, if ever I saw one.’
‘Not quite a stranger,’ said Michael, and was about to introduce himself when Thomas broke in with, ‘For God’s sake, man, you’re dripping all over the carpet. Call for the butler, someone, and get him to put that coat away.’
Hilary stood up and pulled on a bell-rope, then came to take a closer look at the new arrival.
‘You know, I have seen him somewhere before,’ she said. And then, addressing Michael directly: ‘You don’t ski at Aspen, do you?’
‘My name’s Michael. Michael Owen,’ he answered, ‘and I’m a writer. Among my unfinished works is a history of your family: parts of which you might even have read yourself.’
‘Why, Mr Owen!’ cried Tabitha, putting down her needles and clapping her hands in delight when she heard this news. ‘I was wondering if you’d be able to come. I’ve been so looking forward to meeting you. Of course, I’ve read your book — your publishers have been sending it to me, as you know — and read it, I must say, with the greatest interest. We must sit down together and have a long talk about it. We really must.’
Thomas now rose to his feet and pointed at Michael accusingly.
‘I remember you. You’re that damned impudent writer fellow. Turned up at the bank one day and started asking a lot of fishy questions. I was obliged to throw you out, if I’m not mistaken.’
‘Not mistaken at all,’ said Michael, extending his hand, which Thomas declined to take.
‘Well what the deuce do you think you’re doing here, turning up at a private family get-together? This is tantamount to breaking and entering. You could find yourself in very serious trouble.’
‘I’m here for the same reason as yourself,’ said Michael, unruffled. ‘I’m here for the reading of the wilclass="underline" at your late uncle’s invitation.’
‘Poppycock, man, pure poppycock! If you expect us to swallow a story like —’
‘I think you’ll find that Mr Owen is telling the truth,’ said a voice from the doorway.
They all turned to see that Mr Sloane had entered the room. He was still wearing his black, three-piece suit, and he had with him a slim briefcase, gripped firmly in his right hand.
‘It was Mortimer Winshaw’s specific request that he should be present this evening,’ he continued, coming to warm himself at the fire. ‘We shall not know why, until the will itself has been read. Perhaps if Mr Owen were now to go upstairs and refresh himself, that happy event might be expedited.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Michael.
‘And here’s your taxi,’ said Hilary, as the ancient, shambling figure of Pyles, the butler, came unsteadily into view.
He and Michael proceeded slowly up the staircase together. Not having much experience of making small talk with servants, Michael waited some time before venturing his first sally.
‘Well, I can’t say I think much of the climate up here,’ he said, with a nervous chuckle. ‘Next time, I think I’ll bring a sou’wester and wellington boots.’
‘The worst is yet to come,’ said Pyles curtly.
Michael thought about this.
‘You mean the weather, I take it.’
‘There’ll be storms tonight,’ he muttered. ‘Thunder, lightning, and blinding rain enough to soak the dead in their very graves.’ He paused briefly, before adding: ‘But to answer your question, I did not mean the weather, no.’
‘You didn’t?’
Pyles put the suitcase down in the middle of the corridor, and tapped Michael on the chest.
‘It’s nearly thirty years since the family were last met together in this house,’ he said. ‘Tragedy and murder visited us then, and so they will tonight!’
Michael stepped back, reeling slightly from his close contact with the butler’s alcoholic aura.
‘What, erm … what did you have in mind, exactly?’ he asked, picking the suitcase up himself, and continuing down the corridor.
‘All I know,’ said Pyles, limping after him, ‘is that dreadful things will happen here tonight. Terrible things will happen. Let us all count ourselves lucky if we wake tomorrow morning, safe in our beds.’
They stopped outside a door.
‘This is your room,’ he said, pushing it open. ‘I’m afraid the lock has been broken for some time.’
The walls and ceiling of Michael’s bedroom were panelled in dark oak, and there was a small electric fire which had not yet had time to warm the dank air. Despite the light from this and a couple of candles which stood on the dressing table, a sombre gloom shrouded every corner. The air of the room, too, had a strange quality: a suggestion of mouldering decay, a cold damp mustiness such as is found in underground chambers. The one tall, narrow window rattled unceasingly in its frame, shaken by the storm until it seemed that the glass would splinter. As Michael unpacked his suitcase and arranged his comb, razor and sponge-bag on the dressing table, a mounting sense of unease began to steal over him. Preposterous though the butler’s words had been, they had planted in him the seeds of a shapeless, irrational fear, and he started to think wistfully of the downstairs sitting room, with its blazing hearth and promise of human company (if a roomful of Winshaws could be said to offer any such thing). He changed out of his damp clothes as quickly as he could, then closed the door of the bedroom behind him with a quiet sigh of relief, and lost no time in attempting to retrace his steps.
This, however, was easier said than done. The upper floor of the house presented a maze of corridors, and Michael had, he now realized, been so distracted by the butler’s prophecies that he had not taken proper notice of their various twists and turns. After several minutes’ walking up and down the shadowy, thinly carpeted passages, his unease had begun to grow into something approaching panic. He also had the feeling — a ridiculous feeling, he knew — that he was not alone in this part of the house. He could have sworn that he had heard doors being stealthily opened and closed, and even that, once or twice, he had caught a fleeting glimpse of something moving in the darkest corner of one of the landings. This feeling was not completely shaken off even when he arrived (just when he was least expecting it) at the top of the Great Staircase. Here he paused, standing for a moment between two rusting suits of armour, one of them wielding an axe, the other a mace.
Now: was he ready to face the family? He patted his hair into shape, straightened his jacket, and checked that he hadn’t left his flies undone. Finally, noticing that one of his shoelaces had come loose, he knelt down to tie it up.
He had been in this position for only a few seconds when he heard the scream of a woman’s voice behind him.
‘Look out! For God’s sake look out!’