Dreams of Origami (15 page)

When he opens his eyes, he is lying in a hammock beneath an open-sided shelter. Cassandra is beside him, sitting in a high-backed chair, wearing a short-sleeved, low-necked top and a light, flowing skirt. She is fanning herself with a leaf as she sometimes does. Gideon watches her, realizing how hot he is himself. Already he can feel sweat breaking out on his back. There are noises all around them, the buzz and click of insects, screeches and whoops of birds calling from high above. Jungle sounds. Beyond the shade of the roof he sees rich vegetation, broad-leafed trees and shrubs, all with that blue tinge to their foliage. They appear to be in a tropical forest, but of a kind totally unfamiliar to him.

‘You were finding it hard to sleep, Gideon?’

He turns back to Cassandra and feels suddenly wide awake and refreshed. ‘Not surprising after what’s happened today. No doubt you’d know all about it.’

‘Most of it, yes. What do you make of it all?’

‘What’s happening? That humming sound and the lightning—the sudden coldness—they’re all symptomatic of an energy overload. Or a leakage; someone deliberately releasing energy or draining it away. But what is the connection between that and Matthew and that young boy?’ A sudden thought hits him. ‘Are you doing it? Is it you who’s making these things happen?’

‘Me? I thought I was only a dream?’

‘Oh, hell, I don’t know anything any more. Nothing makes sense. I was called on to help these people. How can I when I don’t understand it myself?’

‘Well, clearing away preconceptions, admitting that you know nothing, that’s sometimes a very good place to start.’

‘At least tell me about the sound? Where is it coming from?’

‘Don’t think so literally, Gideon.’ She produces a sheet of white paper, fluttering it in his face. ‘Things are not always what they seem. You should know that by now.’

‘The origami? That has something to do with it?’

‘You don’t seriously think we’ve spent the last twenty years learning to fold paper in order to create pretty decorations, do you?’

‘No, but…Of course I knew we were working on something.’

‘As I explained before, you already know the answer, but you have put up necessary mental barriers in order to be able to work. Now it’s time to start removing them.’

‘So, what are you telling me? The paper is symbolic? But of what?’

‘Yes, it is a visual representation, something you can grasp. And I mean that literally, something you can mentally hold.’

‘So, I’m really learning to manipulate—what? Something I see as paper, but is really…Because if I knew what we were really doing…’

‘You would never be able to concentrate,’ she says quickly. ‘Now,
back to work, we have little enough time. Where were we up to?’ She folds a flower, and then unfolds it, smoothing the paper on her lap. ‘So, tell me again: where is the lotus?’

‘Still inside the paper.’

‘Good.’ She folds again, this time a bird. ‘Gideon, think carefully. Where is the lotus now?’

‘It’s still there. The lines it formed are still in the paper. So it must have become part of the bird. No, wait a minute, that can’t be right. The bird is a completely separate object with its own identity. They both are.’

‘Correct.’ She unfolds and smoothes the paper again. ‘And so, now, where are both the bird and the lotus?’

‘They are both still there. The stress lines they formed are still in the paper. They have both, independently, become an intrinsic part of the material from which they took their form. Two shapes occupying the same space.’

‘Yes.’ She breathes deeply, relieved, exhausted. ‘Yes, Gideon, well done.’ She reaches out her hand and strokes his cheek. ‘Now we can both sleep.’

He awakes with the sun shining and house martins dipping and diving outside his window. It is as if last night—the lightning, the wind, and the weather vane—had never happened. There’s a summer’s day out there, awaiting his pleasure, yet the only thing in the entire world that seems real is Cassandra and the touch of her hand upon his face.

M
ONDAY MORNING
and it’s Lacey’s day off. She’s putting on her makeup and fixing her hair. No time to go home and change, so she’s trying to make herself presentable in the casual clothes she’d brought for the weekend. Drew is dressed in his working gear and has been stowing paint rollers and trays in the back of his van.

‘You’re not sulking, are you?’ she calls from the bathroom.

‘No, I’m not sulking. But if you’re going to be out with Audrey for most of the morning, there’s no point in me taking the whole day off. I might as well get that wall finished.’

‘I’ll come straight back here for lunch. There’ll still be time to do something with the afternoon.’

‘I’ll have that in writing, if you don’t mind.’

‘I’m going to make this up to you, I promise. Big time. We’ll go away for a whole weekend.’ She can hear Drew making huffing sounds in the kitchen. ‘You
are
sulking, aren’t you? Oh Lord, is that the time?’ She dashes through the kitchen on her way to the lounge where she’s left her mobile phone, planting a swift kiss on Drew’s cheek in passing. ‘I’ll just ring in and see if anything’s come up from the police handover.’

Drew goes out to the van again, and by the time he returns Lacey’s
off the phone. ‘Well, any major breakthroughs? Little men from Mars landing on the vicarage lawn?’

‘No. But there was a nasty accident on the motorway.’

‘What? Another one?’

‘Yes, only this time it was caused by someone jumping off the Covington flyover. Suicide, the police reckon. Killed outright. Other people were badly injured.’

‘Oh, Christ. Sorry I…Anything else?’

‘Some cattle needed rounding up. A herd of them broke out of a field on the other side of the village. They reckon the lightning must have spooked them and they stampeded. Flattened the fence.’

‘But cattle don’t do that.’ Drew looks puzzled. ‘Well, only in Westerns. British cows are far too laid-back.’

‘Like a lot of things that don’t happen; only they are happening around here.’ She wraps her arms around his neck. ‘If you’re going to work, please be careful. There’s been too many accidents, and I don’t want you to be one of them.’ Another kiss, this one more serious. ‘I’ll see you later.’

‘Call me Bob, please. Do sit down. Can I offer you some tea?’

‘That would be splendid, er, Bob.’ Audrey pulls a chair up to the desk and fusses with a large wicker basket that seems to function as a handbag. Lacey sits beside her and looks around at the neat little office, orderly ranks of reference books and a row of healthy-looking pot plants on the windowsill. A pleasant room and a pleasant man, also small and neat and healthy-looking.
Bet he plays squash,
she thinks,
to keep the middle-age spread at bay.

‘I believe we have met before, Mrs Stanton. I was asked to give a talk to your history society.’

‘Yes, indeed. “Expansion of the diocese of Ely in the eighteen-thirties”, fascinating stuff. And this is Mrs Prentice.’

‘Lacey, please.’ She takes Bob Carter’s hand. ‘I had better tell you straight off that I’m a reporter with the
Fenland Herald.
Naturally,
we are covering Matthew Caxton’s disappearance—but, don’t worry, this is more of a personal mission. Audrey and I are trying to find out more about the history of the schoolhouse itself.’

‘Well, you may be in luck. We do keep a collection of some very ancient paperwork in our basement. My grandfather would never throw anything away, no matter how out of date it was. My father was a bit more radical, but he retained some of the old records that might be of interest. Your telephone call jogged my memory about something I came across about eighteen months ago. I’d been looking for some copies of early land registration when I happened on a box of correspondence concerned with employment at Bell House School.’

‘Bell House? Is that the place in Gainsborough Street?’

‘The very same. The building itself passed out of our hands many years ago. We only deal with larger land sales now, farms and the like, so when the school building was sold off privately it no longer came under our umbrella, so to speak.’

‘Audrey thought this firm had links with Samuel Gainsborough Street at one time. Is that right?’

‘Ah, yes, indeed—the man himself and his plans for social and housing reform. Mind you, that was in the early eighteen-hundreds. A bit before my time.’

‘Yes, quite,’ says Audrey. ‘I understand he bought up a large area of land for the entire project. But I’m not sure who originally owned the land.’

‘That’s right. It included some of the newly reclaimed fen, which he then rented out to the adjacent farms at a minimal rate. I would guess that was to encourage them to participate in his workers’ housing scheme. Fascinating man, Samuel Street, very forward-thinking for his time.’

‘Yes, I believe he was genuine in his concern for the poor.’ Audrey sounds very earnest. ‘A lot of farmers thought more of their damned horses than the men they hired to work their fields. Workers were often paid starvation wages.’ She turns to Lacey. ‘That was before anyone had heard of workers’ unions.’

The door opens and the receptionist comes in, carrying a tray. ‘On
the desk here, if you wouldn’t mind, Mrs Forbes.’ Bob slides papers out of the way to make room. ‘And could we also have the documents I brought up from the basement earlier?’

‘I assume the land for the schoolhouse was included in the purchase?’ Lacey asks as the tea is passed around.

‘Oh yes, all part of the same package.’

‘Who
did
own the land originally?’ Audrey stirs heaped teaspoons of sugar into her cup.

‘Well, that would have been the Church of England. They’ve owned vast areas of land around here for centuries. Cambridgeshire became part of the new diocese, and the local church would, naturally, come under Ely. They would therefore have had ownership of most of Covington and the farmlands to the south. Bit of a personal interest of mine,’ he adds, almost by way of an apology.

‘Samuel bought it directly from the Church, then?’

‘Yes. There is talk of a previous building on the site at one time, but that was many centuries ago, long before it became Gainsborough Street.’

‘What sort of building?’

‘I’m afraid I’ve no idea.’ He shrugs. ‘My own interests lie more in parish divisions and land ownership. Anyway, it may only be a story, hard to tell. But the department that manages the Church’s property over at Ely may know something about it. I’ll give you a name and phone number if you want to follow it up.’

There’s a knock on the door and Mrs Forbes comes in again, this time carrying a box file. ‘Here it is, Mr Carter. Shall I put this on the desk? A bit dusty I’m afraid. I have given it a wipe, but…’ She brushes her hands off on her skirt. ‘And your client is here. I’ve shown him into the other office.’

‘Yes, that will be fine, thank you.’ He clears a space for the box, which does, indeed, look as if it hasn’t been touched for years. Lacey suspects it’s full of spiders. ‘What I came across is this. I’m afraid I haven’t had time to read it thoroughly myself, but it appears to contain contracts and such that may be useful to you. Not much of it, of course. Unfortunately that side of the scheme wasn’t as successful as old
Samuel had hoped. There was difficulty in retaining a schoolmaster, and the school was abandoned after only six years. Bit of a scandal, I gather, not sure what it was about. With Samuel Street being a man of influence, the whole thing was hushed up.’

‘And were Carter and Histhorp involved with the school at that time?’

‘Oh, yes. We—or rather my forebears—acted with regard to the school until it was sold to a local farmer in the eighteen-fifties. By then, of course, old Samuel was long departed. His nephew and heir didn’t share the philanthropic interests of his uncle and gradually sold the project off piecemeal.’ Bob Carter gets up from his desk. ‘Anyway, if you’ll excuse me, I have a client who needs my urgent attention. Please feel free to use this office. Take as long as you like, there’s no hurry. If there’s anything of use to you, Mrs Forbes will make you a photocopy.’

Lacey and Audrey are left alone with the pot plants, the desk and the dust-laden box. The box itself is ancient, but not as old as the papers inside it. No spiders, thank God, but sheaves of yellowed documents, many worn and fragile, the ink faded to grey, like cobwebs stuck to the pages.

‘So, what have we got?’ Lacey is burning up with curiosity, but doesn’t know where to start. Thank heavens for Audrey’s professional eye. She is able to quickly sort through the documents, arranging them in logical divisions, and then into date order.

‘Now then, I think these are what you and Mr Wakefield will be interested in.’ Audrey flourishes the wad of papers in her hand, pointing to another pile on the desk. ‘Those there are mostly bills and receipts, also the deeds of ownership and leasing contracts. All very straightforward. But we’d better ask to have this lot photocopied.’

‘Can I see?’ Lacey takes the bundle from Audrey and quickly sifts through them. They seem to be employment applications and agreements, along with some private letters, and some printed cuttings set out in columns, possibly something from a broadsheet, the forerunner of the newspaper. Lacey looks through them again, reading certain of the letters more intently, her eyes growing wider with each turn of
a page. Lastly, she studies the printed cuttings and then looks up at Audrey.

‘Bloody hell.’ That’s all she can think of to say.

Meanwhile, Gideon is sitting at the kitchen table in the schoolhouse.

Triss had knocked on his door earlier, saying that she really had to go over to the house. She was visibly agitated; Gideon could see she was shaking. When he asked what was wrong, she told him she’d had another visit from Fletcher. Apparently, when he’d found the schoolhouse deserted, he came looking for her at Audrey’s. She found him on the doorstep just after Audrey had left.

‘Is there some news? Have they found something?’ Gideon asked.

‘News? No. At least he didn’t say. I rang the station earlier this morning. The sergeant said that there were no new developments. Fletcher wouldn’t speak to me then, although I’m sure he was there.’

‘So what did he want?’

‘I don’t know. He wouldn’t sit down, just kept walking around the room. Sort of pacing. I had to keep turning around to look at him. He said he had a headache. I offered to get him something for it, but I don’t think he heard me.’

‘What did he say? Did he ask you anything?’

‘No, not really. He was saying something about his wife, I think. But it wasn’t like he was speaking to me, more like thinking out loud. And, Gideon, I know this sounds silly, he’s a police officer…but I was scared.’

Triss looked directly at him. He could see the fear in her eyes, and thought she had every reason to be afraid.

‘Did he do anything?’

‘No. He just talked and then left. He said he would be back. It felt like a threat.’

‘I’m not sure what’s going on, but I don’t think you should see him
on your own. If he turns up again unaccompanied, don’t let him in unless one of us is with you.’

‘No, I won’t.’ Triss sounded relieved, but she still looked shaken.
What the hell is that man up to?

‘I expect you felt you’d be safer over at the schoolhouse.’

‘I know this doesn’t sound very rational, but it’s the nearest I can get to Matthew. Audrey’s gone into town with Lacey, and I did promise that I wouldn’t go over there on my own.’

‘I’ll come with you. I’d like to have another look around anyway, if you don’t mind.’

‘No, of course not. I’d better leave a note in case Audrey wonders where I am.’

Inside the schoolhouse, the rooms felt cold and long abandoned, even though it was only yesterday afternoon when they were last here. Triss turned the kitchen light on, despite it being mid-morning and the garden splashed with sunshine. On the way in, they had walked by the rose bushes, buds opening in the warmth of the day, their pink petals edged with gold. The fragrance alone was enough to lighten the soul, and Triss went out again to cut a few, setting them in a jug on the table.

‘Shall I make us some tea?’

‘Yes, if it’s not too much trouble.’ Gideon glanced around the room, aware of the strange dampness in the air. And a smell, but not that ancient mildew odour common to old houses. No, this was more like—like what? The smell of the roses mingled with it, making it difficult to identify. Triss was talking again.

‘They won’t be looking for him now.’ She placed hot mugs on the table. ‘You know, perhaps they’re right; perhaps he did leave because he wanted to. I wouldn’t blame him. I haven’t been easy to live with since Christopher died. Perhaps he thought he’d lost me, too, and he had in a way, so he might as well…’

‘No, I don’t think he did, Triss, although I can’t tell you what did happen.’

‘You think it’s this house, don’t you? Something to do with the building? But if it did take Matthew, then I have to be here. That’s the nearest I can get to him.’

He looked directly at her, frowning in thought. ‘Where do you think he is? Tell me, no matter how illogical it sounds.’

She was silent for a moment, unsure, then she spoke very slowly, carefully placing each word. ‘I think he’s still here. I think he’s very close. It’s as if I could reach out and touch him. But I can’t get to where he is.’

Gideon nodded to let her know he understood. More than that he dared not say. She’d been hurt enough without her being given false hope. ‘I’ll tell you what, let’s spend the morning here. You can get on with what it was you were doing. Searching for possible contacts, weren’t you?’

‘That’s just an excuse, if I’m honest. Something to do to justify being here.’

‘Yes, I know, but if it helps…I’ll take another look around and then sit in here. Perhaps I’ll read the newspaper. We’ll stay here until the others get back.’

Gideon took another tour of the house, looking in all the places he’d looked in before. From an upstairs window he watched the fields of grain shimmering in the light breeze, unripe heads still upright and tinged with green. He then glanced across to the old man’s garden. Nothing had changed. The events of the previous night seemed unreal now; the lightning, that phosphorescent green in the sky, instantly there and gone. Ten seconds…twenty-five seconds. Whatever that was about, it seemed to have nothing to do with this pleasant summer’s morning. Pleasant, that is, except for that constant thrumming.