Spider Light (15 page)

As she went across the dining room, there was a faint movement just beyond the kitchen door which she had left half open. She hesitated, and then thought it was probably Raffles who had got in again. Had he? Yes, something had definitely stirred within the kitchen, although it did not seem substantial enough to be a human intruder so there was nothing to feel scared about.

Or was there? Antonia took a cautious step forward, aware of little creakings and rustlings that might only be the cottage’s timbers contracting in the cool evening air, but might as easily be the sounds of an intruder, creeping away into hiding. Of all the neurotic ideas to have! But something had moved in the
kitchen, and it was still moving–Antonia could see the faint stirring of the shadows.

There was a symmetry to the sounds. Footsteps, was it? No, it was more like something moving backwards and forwards. Something rocking? Yes, that was exactly what it sounded like. She paused by the gateleg table, and glanced over her shoulder towards the friendly, warmly lit sitting room. She had closed the front door when she came in, and dropped the latch, but if there really was someone in the cottage she could be at the door in seconds, and outside.

It would not be an intruder, though. It would be Raffles or the plumbing or something in the central heating; it was certainly not her imagination. Whatever it was, it had to be tracked down and dealt with.

Despite her resolve, she had to take a deep breath before she could push open the kitchen door and step inside. The kitchen was dark and her apprehension increased but she reached for the light switch along the left-hand wall.

Something brushed against her face. Something that was light and dry, and felt for a terrible moment like an old, dead hand reaching out of the shadows to touch her cheek.

Panic grabbed Antonia, constricting her throat, so she could not even scream. The unseen thing touched her face again, a little more definitely this time, and she gave a sort of strangled half-cry, and hit out blindly. But her hands met only air, although there was the impression of some kind of thin movement directly in front of her. She was shaking so much she thought she might fall down, but she finally managed to locate the light switch.

The entire room and what it held sprang into dreadful clarity, and this time she did cry out.

Hanging from one of the rafters was a long thick rope–as thick as Antonia’s wrist, almost as thick as a man’s neck–and it was this rope that had swung into her face. The end of it had been looped up and knotted to form a shape that was sickeningly familiar from dozens of images. A hangman’s noose. The method
of punishment used until the middle of the twentieth century on men and women convicted of murder. Antonia stared at it in frozen horror. It was swinging slowly to and fro, pulling gently against the old ceiling joists as it moved and causing them to creak. It was several minutes before she managed to put out a shaky hand to still it, hating the coarse feel of the hemp, but unable to bear the swaying back and forth like a hypnotizing snake.

The rope had been moving because of the kitchen door opening, of course: the movement of air would have disturbed the rope, or the edge of the door might have caught it. Or had it been the soft creaking she had heard when she came in?

Whoever had let Raffles in that day must have come back. That person might even be hiding in the cottage now, watching her.

There was a faint warning creak from the ceiling beam, and the rope stirred slightly, and then began to sway again. Exactly as if someone was holding one end of it, swinging it menacingly.

Come closer, murderer…Step nearer so that I can loop this around your neck, and snap your spine, or strangle you in a slow death–it could go either way, you know…

Antonia’s precarious control snapped. She gasped and ran from the kitchen, slamming the door hard. Somehow she got across the sitting room and wrenched the front door open, tumbling outside.

She leaned against the old stone wall of the cottage, still shuddering, and took several deep breaths of cold night air. And then, since to go back into the cottage, even to find her mobile phone or keys, was unthinkable, she began to run across the park, towards Quire House.

Quire’s main front door was closed, but when Antonia turned the handle, it swung open, and she went thankfully into the big shadowy hall and leaned against a carved chest for a moment to get her breath back and regain a degree of calm before seeking out Godfrey Toy. In a moment she would go through to his office at the back of the house, and explain to him that someone was playing some kind of sick joke on her.

Or would she? Could she tell anyone what had just happened without her real identity coming out? Without Richard’s and Don’s death being dragged into the light once more? But it would have to be done. Whoever had put that rope in Charity Cottage was sick and dangerous. Antonia went determinedly across the hall and through to the back of the house, which was in darkness. Darkness inside a house again…that eerie in-between darkness, when anything might be hidden by the shadows…Oh, for pity’s sake get a grip!

The door to Godfrey’s office was closed, but it was not long since Antonia had left him so there was a good chance he was still here. If he was not, she would decide whether to venture upstairs to find his flat. She was just preparing to tap on his door, when a man’s voice behind her said, ‘I’m afraid this part of the
house isn’t open to visitors. And the museum closed two hours ago.’

Antonia had not heard anyone approach, and the words made her jump. She spun round at once, hoping she did not look as startled as she felt. Whoever the speaker was, he was brown-haired with rather narrow deepset eyes and in the uncertain light he might almost have been part of the shadows, except for the voice. There was nothing in the least shadowy about the voice: it was distinctly frosty. It was a you-have-no-right-to-be-here voice, and a who-the-hell-are-you voice.

‘In fact,’ said this cold-voiced man, regarding Antonia with unmistakable hostility, ‘the main doors ought to have been locked.’

‘Well, the front one certainly wasn’t locked,’ said Antonia returning his stare, ‘so I didn’t break in, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m staying at Charity Cottage for a few weeks, and I’m going to be doing some cataloguing work for Dr Toy–My name’s Antonia Weston.’

‘How do you do.’ It was said with the slight impatience of someone paying lip-service to the conventions. The tone was still challenging. ‘I’m Oliver Remus.’

Godfrey’s professor. The half-academic, half-dynamic gentleman who had sounded like the most positive force in Godfrey’s gentle life. There had not really been anyone else he could be, and through the still-lingering fear, Antonia registered that he was not in the least as she had pictured him. But by way of establishing her own credentials, she said, ‘You’re just back from a buying trip, aren’t you? Dr Toy mentioned it.’

‘Did he?’ He took a step nearer. ‘I’m sorry if I was sharp just now, Miss–Mrs?–Weston, but there are several quite valuable things in here and one or two have recently vanished, so you’ll appreciate that I’m always suspicious of anyone wandering in after hours. We’re considering a proper alarm system, but until then—’ He did not sound especially annoyed about any of this or particularly apologetic at having spoken sharply to Antonia.

‘In that case I’m sorry to come in when the house is closed to the public,’ she said, trying to match his formality. ‘But there’s been a–I think there’s been an intruder at Charity Cottage, and I’m not sure what I should do about it, so I thought I’d have a word with Dr Toy—’ Infuriatingly her voice wobbled treacherously on this last part of the speech, and she broke off, frowning, because of all things to do–of all people to break down in front of…

Oliver Remus did not appear to notice the wobble. He said, quite sharply, ‘What kind of intruder? A burglar, d’you mean? In that case you should definitely call the police. I can give you the number of the local station if you don’t want to invoke a dramatic 999 response. Not that anyone ever behaves particularly dramatically in Amberwood.’

‘It’s not an ordinary burglar,’ said Antonia, ignoring this last part. ‘It’s some freak who’s getting into the cottage and playing sick jokes on me. I’ve just encountered the latest example, so I’m a bit off-balance.’

She had his full attention now. ‘Did you say, “getting into the cottage”?’

‘Yes. Even when it’s all locked up.’

‘How?’

‘If I knew that,’ said Antonia angrily, ‘I probably wouldn’t have run so wildly across the park just now to get help from Dr Toy.’ This was the most bizarre discussion to be having in the unlit passageway of Quire House with this unfriendly stranger who was still regarding her with suspicion. She said, ‘I don’t
know
how he’s getting in, but he’s certainly been there this afternoon!’

‘Is anything missing?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Then how d’you know someone’s been in?’

‘I’ll explain it to the police,’ said Antonia, feeling awkward and consequently sounding aggressive. ‘Did you say you had the number of the local station?’

‘It’s in my flat. I’ll go up and get it for you.’

‘Please don’t bother. I’ve got a mobile phone, and I can as easily get it from Inquiries or something.’

Antonia turned to go, but he stopped her.

‘You’re not going back to the cottage, are you?’

‘Yes.’ Where else did he think she was going?

‘Don’t be stupid,’ said Oliver Remus impatiently. ‘If there’s an intruder around you can’t go back across the park on your own and you certainly can’t go inside the cottage until it’s been properly checked.’

‘I’ll be perfectly all right.’

‘Yes, but I won’t be perfectly all right if I hear afterwards that you’ve been mugged or raped, or knocked out and left for dead. You’d better come up to my flat; we’ll phone the police from there and then I’ll walk back with you.’

Without waiting for her answer, he went through to the main hall, and up the wide curving staircase, clearly assuming she would follow him. Since there did not seem to be anything else to do, Antonia fought down her annoyance and did follow him.

The main stairs wound up to the first floor where Godfrey Toy had his flat, and a narrower flight went up to the second floor. Oliver Remus unlocked a door at the top, and went in ahead of Antonia, switching on lights. The flat was surprisingly large; it apparently took up the entire second floor of Quire, and the rooms were high-ceilinged with an elegant fireplace in the big sitting room and several nice old pieces of furniture. There were a great many books, some on shelves, some spilling onto the floor, and there were brass lamps on side tables, and scatterings of pens and sheaves of notes. In one of the window recesses was a large Victorian desk, with a computer and a fax machine on it. A battered suitcase stood in the centre of the room, with two large boxes of books propped against it.

‘Gleanings of the trip,’ said Oliver Remus, seeing Antonia glance at the boxes. ‘A house that belonged to a former headmaster of a minor public school. I picked up two quite nice first editions and a Rex Whistler book plate. Oh, and a set of Ruskin’s
books but only what’s called the Waverley editions which aren’t particularly valuable. Would you like me to phone the police for you? It’d probably carry more weight.’

‘Because they know you?’

‘That sounds as if you think I’m an old lag, Miss Weston.’ It was lightly said, but Antonia’s eyes flew upwards to his face. ‘You’d better have a glass of brandy first, though. Antidote to shock.’

He poured the brandy, and then checked an address book and made the call, merely saying that there were signs of a break in at Charity Cottage and that the cottage was presently occupied by a lady living on her own. He listened to the voice at the other end for a moment, and then said quite sharply, ‘Yes, I do think you should send someone out at once. I don’t know if anything’s been taken, but Miss Weston’s presumably got to sleep in the cottage tonight and if the prowler’s still around…’ There was a pause, and then he handed the phone to Antonia. ‘They’re sending someone out to take a look round and get statements in about half an hour, but they’d like more details from you first. It’s Sergeant Blackburn.’

He left her to it, going into one of the other rooms–presumably his bedroom because he took the suitcase with him–but even though he closed the door Antonia thought he could probably hear what she was saying. Infuriatingly, relayed to the stolid-sounding sergeant, the two incidents sounded like the delusions of a neurotic female: the first ridiculously trivial–the cat got in without my seeing how or where; the second over-dramatic. A hangman’s noose tied to a beam in the kitchen, left there for her to find.

Yes, she had said a hangman’s noose. Yes, she was sure. No, she had not touched anything, she had simply got out of the cottage as fast as—Well, presumably the thing was still there, unless the person had sneaked back in and removed it in her absence. ‘I should think that’s perfectly possible, shouldn’t you, Sergeant?’

Sergeant Blackburn said cautiously that anything was possible
when you were dealing with the workings of a disturbed mind, madam, and passed on to the question that Antonia had known would come at some point.

‘You said you were here on holiday, Miss Weston, is that right? In that case, I’ll need a note of your permanent address. Oh, and a phone number.’

Antonia gripped the phone tightly, and said, ‘I haven’t got a permanent address–I’ve been away for a long time.’ But this sounded so absurd and so redolent of nineteenth-century lunatics locked away for years and the truth covered up with euphemisms, that she gave the sergeant the hospital address, and said he should record it as care of Jonathan Saxon, head of psychiatry.

‘Psychiatry?’ said the voice at the other end with a suspicious edge, and at the same time Antonia was aware of a sudden stillness from the adjoining room.

‘My boss,’ she said, into the phone, and this time there was an edge of authority in her voice she had not known she could still summon. Either this or Oliver Remus’s brandy gave her sufficient confidence to add, ‘Thank you, Sergeant Blackburn. I’ll see you at Charity Cottage in half an hour,’ and to hang up before any more difficult questions could be asked.

As they walked back across the park, Professor Remus had the air of someone who wanted to get a necessary task over so that he could get back to more important things. Antonia found this depressing and annoying in equal portions. But as they turned into the walkway between the old yew hedges, he suddenly said, ‘You did tell the police that someone had put a hangman’s rope in the kitchen, didn’t you? I did hear that right?’

‘Yes.’

He half turned his head to look at her. ‘How extraordinary.’

‘That’s one word for it.’

‘The front door’s open,’ he said, as they rounded the curve in the path and the cottage came into view. ‘Did you leave it like that?’

‘Yes. I ran out of the place as soon as I saw the–the rope. I wasn’t thinking about locking up, and anyhow the intruder had already got in so it didn’t seem to matter about keys and locks and things.’

‘I wasn’t criticizing. That looks like the police driving up now. We’d better wait here and let them go in ahead of us, I should think.’

Sergeant Blackburn was very much like his voice: large and a bit ponderous. He introduced a young PC who was with him, and said this sounded like a strange business so they would go inside on their own first, just to see what was what.

‘We’ll wait here,’ said Oliver. ‘All right, Miss Weston?’

‘Never better.’

The police search took quite a long time. Antonia sat down on the little low wall that surrounded part of the cottage’s gardens, and tried not to shiver too noticeably. Lights were switched on inside the cottage, and there were sounds of doors being noisily opened, and of the two policemen calling to one another. When they eventually came out, Antonia’s heart skipped a few beats, but she said, ‘Well?’

‘You did say the rope was in the kitchen, Miss Weston?’

‘Yes. You can’t miss it. It was hanging down from the ceiling,’ said Antonia. ‘You’d walk smack into it if you didn’t know it was there.’

Sergeant Blackburn exchanged a glance with his constable, and looked at Oliver Remus. ‘There’s nothing there,’ he said. ‘The kitchen’s perfectly normal–no rope, no signs of one anywhere.’

The constable added, ‘And there are no signs of any break in.’ He glanced at the sergeant, who studied Antonia for a moment and then said, ‘Can you think why anyone would put a hangman’s noose in your kitchen, Miss Weston?’

After they had all left, Antonia was angrily aware of her isolation.

What am I doing here, cut off from everyone I’ve ever known,
with a madman attempting to spook me? Hangman’s nooses in the kitchen, teleportation of cats and cars driven by dead men–it’s classic horror-film material. All I need to complete the picture is for someone to hammer on the door, and say his car’s broken down so could he possibly use the phone, oh, and please not to take any notice of the dripping axe he happens to have in his hand, it’s just a rather outré accessory he likes to carry…

What would Richard have done in this situation? It was impossible to visualize him physically tackling the madman, but it was certainly possible to imagine him working out some kind of subtle trap. For a moment, Richard was with Antonia so vividly that she could almost hear him saying, ‘I’ll teach the sick bastard to frighten you half to death!’ She could see his eyes glowing with fury for the cruel mind that had fashioned the hanging rope and played the other tricks.

Donna was extremely pleased at how well this part of the plan had gone.

It had been quite tricky to set it up–trickier than the cat ploy, which had been a suddenly seen, quickly seized opportunity–and certainly trickier than playing the part of a visitor to Quire last week and unobtrusively placing the
Caprice
sheet music on the spinet in the hope it would stay there long enough for Weston to find it. But she had managed it and it had worked beautifully.

As she drove away from Quire House, she smiled to think how predictable this murderous bitch actually was, and how predictable she had been all along the way. Even renting Charity Cottage–the cottage that Donna had forced on her, like a conjurer forcing a playing card.