The Devil's Serenade (8 page)

Our eyes met. At least she had the grace to look embarrassed. She gave me a nervous, twitchy smile, cast her eyes downward, and moved off with her friend. I heard giggles when they must have thought they were out of earshot.

Great. No doubt the whole town would have decided I was a head case by lunchtime the next day. If I hadn’t already decided to leave, that would have done it. I could go wherever I pleased. And at this moment, that meant anywhere but here.

Chapter
Seven

Two days away from the house and already I was putting things into perspective. Not only that, my desperate quest for answers had quashed some of my apprehensions. Of course, leaning on Kelly helped too. She would view the facts rationally. Anything irrational was simply a mystery waiting to be solved. Maybe my self-therapy would seem crazy to most people, but it worked for me, and at this moment, that was all that mattered. Anything to help me get through this with some semblance of sanity remaining.

On Wednesday morning, rain beat on the windows of my hotel room on the first really bad day of the new season.

I stared out at the dripping landscape. Gray, sodden. As I ventured outside, a chill wind whipped my cheeks, making them smart. I pulled the zip of my shower jacket up to my chin and secured the hood. No point attempting an umbrella in this weather. Fallen leaves created a treacherous mush underfoot. I unlocked my car and hesitated. So far, I’d paid for three nights and this would be my last. Should I extend my stay? I was comfortable enough. I slept well, felt safe. I could have paid a lot more for luxury in Chester, but here I was near enough to home to be able to carry on pretty much as normal. Maybe I would see the estate agent today. It all depended on what happened when I got back to Hargest House.

The rain had stopped when I climbed out of my car and stared up at the Gothic towers of Nathaniel Hargest’s pride and joy. I was glad we’d never met. I would have hated his arrogance, cruelty, and selfish ego. Had he built all that into this house?

I shivered. The air held a distinct chill and the damp penetrated my clothes and seeped into my body. I smelled the autumn aromas of rotting vegetation, leaf mold and sodden wood. I sniffed. Someone somewhere had lit a log fire. That, at least, provided a homely, comforting smell. For a second, a memory flashed through my mind, too fleeting to hold. A blazing log fire, the distinctive aroma of burning applewood, reminding me of those colder nights at Aunt Charlotte’s. We had never had real fires at home. Mother said it made too much mess. I shivered at the memory of ice-cold mornings, the condensation freezing the curtains to the windowsills. I’d drag my school clothes into bed and get dressed under the covers before emerging and summoning up courage to brave the bathroom and the water out of the hot tap that never seemed to struggle above lukewarm.

A sudden wave of embarrassment surged inside me. I had made such a fool of myself on Monday, I worried how the cast would react to me this evening. I hadn’t even been into any of the local shops since, so had no way of knowing if I had become the main topic of conversation. But I suspected so. I had provided too good a morsel to resist.

I opened the front door and stepped inside, looking all around me as I did so, fearful of what I might see. The hall felt warm, but I would need to turn up the heating, with the colder weather on its way—even if I was selling the place. Potential buyers liked to be wooed by warmth, coziness, comfort. I wandered into the living room and then the kitchen. I set my purse down on the worktop, removed my sodden jacket and draped it around a chair.

The only sound was the ticking of various clocks in each room. I noticed the cellar door—firmly shut—and breathed a sigh of relief.

I toyed with the idea of making myself a coffee, but decided I’d do it after I’d switched those heaters on. If I decided to stay here for the rest of the day.

I left the kitchen and started up the stairs. My heart beat a little faster but, when I got there, the only sound on the second floor was me.
My
breathing.
My
footsteps.
My
hand turning the door handle, making it squeak and the door creak as I opened it. Inside, a few theatrical props lay around. They’d set up a small table, with a lamp. A few chairs were scattered about. I recognized some of them from the room that had been used as a general dumping ground. So they’d made themselves at home all right, even to the extent of exploring other rooms. I didn’t mind. That must have been when that woman had bumped into Sonia…

I stopped myself. She couldn’t have seen Sonia, I reminded myself. Sonia didn’t exist. Except in my mind where she had lain, ignored, for over thirty-five years.

The heaters began to take the damp chill off the room within minutes. Glancing out of the window, I saw a couple walking with their Golden Labrador down the river path. They didn’t see me; they were moving in the opposite direction. The woman stooped and unclipped the leash from the dog’s collar. Freed from his restraint, he bounded along ahead of them, full of life and enthusiasm as young dogs are. I watched him gallop off toward the tentacle tree. He stopped, cocked his leg, and overbalanced. Shocked, I watched him lying still, on the ground.

The couple raced over to him. The woman gesticulated wildly. The man grabbed his phone from his jacket pocket. The dog lifted his head, as if he had recovered from being stunned. The couple helped him to his feet and he shook himself. The man put away his phone as the woman replaced the leash. The Labrador barked and strained, pulling her away from the willow. If the couple looked up now, they would see me staring down at them. I backed away. What had happened to make that dog react like that? What was it about that tree?

I scanned the room again, relieved to see everything looked normal.

The doorbell rang, faint and distant up here. I closed the door behind me and hurried down the stairs. A gray-haired man in a high visibility yellow jacket stood on my doorstep. He held a clipboard in his dirty hands.

“Mrs. Chambers?”

“Yes?”

“I’m Terry Watson from Priory Tree Services. You called us about a problem in your cellar.”

I had completely forgotten. “I’m sorry, did we say today?”

“Not definitely. I said I’d call next time I was doing a job in the area. I’m on my way there, so I thought I’d see if I could catch you. Is it convenient, or would you prefer me to call back?”

“Oh no, no, now is fine.” He’d caught me unawares but, after all, whatever I decided to do with the house, those tree roots had to go. One way or another. “I’ll show you. It’s through here. Would you like a cup of tea or coffee?”

“Oh no, thanks, I’m fine.”

I opened the cellar door and switched on the light.

“At least I won’t need my torch,” he said. “Some cellars are like the black hole of Calcutta.” He started down the stairs, his boots clattering on the wooden steps.

I called after him. “This one was pretty dark until a week or so ago.”

He reached the bottom, turned around and grinned at me. I lost sight of him as he went to investigate. I heard scuffling and he spoke.

“Ah, here it is.” More scuffling and a dragging noise. I stayed at the top of the stairs and waited. Seconds ticked by. Nothing. The hairs rose on the back of my neck.

“Are you all right down there?”

He moved back into the light at the bottom of the stairs. The smile had been replaced by a frown.

“You told me on the phone that you thought it was a willow? Well, that’s the weirdest willow tree I’ve ever seen,” he said. “They’re not usually too invasive. It’s the type of tree that takes no for an answer. You know, if you put up some sort of barrier—anything from pool lining to foundation—they stop growing there. Their roots also tend to be much closer to the surface. They need water, and the roots extract that from soil, so they’re usually found within a foot or so of the surface. Only in dry, sandy conditions will they have to grow deeper. The soil round here is neither sandy nor dry. You’re right by the river, so the roots should be really close to the surface. In this case, this tree isn’t pushing up under your foundation; it’s like it’s part of them. I don’t get it at all. I’m not even sure what to do about it really. I mean, we could cut off the roots, but… I can’t believe I’m saying this. From what I’ve seen, if we do, it might affect the integrity of your foundation.”

He started up the stairs and I backed away to let him pass while I tried to take in what he’d said. “So you’re saying that when this house was built, the tree roots were put in as part of the foundation?”

“Not put in, exactly. Look, I don’t really know what I’m saying because what I’ve seen is impossible. It’s as if the tree somehow meshed with the foundation and supported them. But that’s not how it’s supposed to work. Not at all. If anything, trees are supposed to destabilize foundations by pushing against them. This one has become part of them. Basically, your house is built on a foundation comprised of the usual hardcore, bricks, mortar—and an enormous tree root.” He opened the kitchen door, to go outside. “I have some tools in the van, I’ll dig some small trenches outside to try and trace the source. The actual tree. That’s confusing me as well, because the nearest seems to be that one down by the river, but it’s too far away. Much too far away. Maybe these roots belong to a tree that was felled. I’ll go and investigate.”

“Don’t you have another job you have to get to?”

“That’ll have to wait an hour or so. I’ll give the customer a call and tell her I’ve been held up.”

I made a coffee and sat in my kitchen. The cellar door stood open. A cool, damp breeze wafted up, bringing with it the now-familiar woody, damp earth smell.

Curiosity took hold of me. I had to go back down there and see what the arborist had seen. Impossible surely, but hadn’t Charlie reported something similar? And if these roots were growing as part of the foundation, what was I supposed to do about them? Leave them there? Fat chance of selling the house! Who the hell wanted a tree molded to the foundation? But maybe it wasn’t still growing. Maybe those roots had died after all. Perhaps I’d imagined that one squirming in my hand.

I clung on to the stair rail as I made my way down, sure I heard dragging noises, but rationalizing that had to be impossible.

I looked up. The door was wide open. Terry would be back soon anyway, although I had no idea how long it took to dig a couple of trenches.

At the bottom of the stairs, I inched my way to the corner, where the roots coiled Medusa-like. Thinner, but far more numerous than they’d appeared last time I was down there. If roots were supposed to supply their tree with nutrients, these seemed to have wandered seriously off course. I stared at them, a part of me wanting to touch them again, but scared that if I did, I would experience a similar reaction to the time before. They looked alive. I supposed a dead one would look like kindling, dry to the touch. Easily snapped off. These looked far too supple for that.

The sound of footsteps coming closer hitched my breath in my throat.

Terry, clomping down the stairs. “Oh, sorry, Mrs. Chambers, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

I backed away from the roots and forced a smile. “Not at all, Terry. I was wondering if these are still alive. If they’re still growing.”

“Oh, they’re alive all right and I’ve traced their source. At least, I think I have. I dug three or four quick, shallow trenches and they do seem to be related to that tree by the river. I would have to confirm it and none of my colleagues will believe me, but I’m as sure as I can be.
These
roots belong to
that
tree, and they’re still growing.”

I stared at him. “But how? And what are they feeding on? There’s nothing in here except rubbish, dust and…” I gazed around me at the broken bits of furniture that hadn’t made it upstairs. “It’s just a cellar.”

Terry sighed. “I know. I think you might be wise to call in a building surveyor. They look at things from a different perspective, so with their view as well, you’ll be able to start deciding what, if anything, you want to do.”

“What if I do nothing?”

Terry shrugged his shoulders. “My guess is that, although the roots are still growing, they’re doing so very slowly. As you say, there’s nothing for them to feed on. As far as the tree’s concerned, there’s no obvious benefit to it to have those roots there. The thing that’s confusing me is that nature doesn’t usually do something without a cause. At least, that’s how I understand it anyway. Would you mind if I took some photos? I’d like to send them to the association I belong to. Maybe someone else has seen something like this and can advise what to do.”

“Of course. Please. Help yourself.”

Terry practically ran up the stairs. Probably wanted to make sure he got his pictures before I changed my mind.

I stared at the roots. “What are you doing here?” I heard myself say. “What do you want?”

Something brushed my leg through my jeans. I looked down—one of the thinner roots had curled around my foot. But surely that hadn’t been so close. Had I somehow slid under it? I withdrew my foot and the root hung an inch or two off the ground for a few seconds before settling back on the floor. I stared at it and swallowed hard. I could ask Terry if tree roots moved like that, but I risked looking stupid. Or paranoid. No. I’d already done enough of that with the drama group. I didn’t need to become the laughing stock of the Arborists’ Association or whatever they called themselves.

Terry reappeared, complete with digital camera. He snapped away for a minute or two, capturing the growth from every angle.

“Would you hold these roots aside for me a second? I want to photograph where they’re coming in.”

In my present state of mind, that was the last thing I could do. “How about if you hold them back and I take the photo? I said.

“Okay, if you wish. If you could get in really close, that would be great.”

He pulled the roots aside and I bent down.

A whooshing noise, like a sigh, filled our corner of the cellar.

Terry jumped. I gasped and nearly dropped the camera. “What was that?”

Terry’s face had paled. “Haven’t a clue. Wind in the pipes or something?”

I snapped the picture. The flash lit up the wall, illuminating the strange, veined appearance of the bricks.

“
Fuck!
” Terry dropped the cluster of roots he was holding and clasped his wrist, Blood dripped between his fingers.

“Oh my God. What happened?”

“The damn thing scratched me.”