The Sin Eater (27 page)

‘You'd trip over the flowerpots and set off the shop alarms,' said Nell. ‘And that would be more like a Carry On film than a French farce. No, I'll be perfectly safe, it was only that once and I haven't heard anything since. I'm probably overreacting.'

‘I'll see you tomorrow.'

‘Yes.' There was a pause. ‘Michael – you will be there, won't you?'

‘At the station?'

‘Well . . .' She paused, and something seemed to shiver on the air between them.

‘My dear love,' said Michael softly, ‘I'll always be there.'

Michael was vaguely worried by Nell's mention of a prowler. He was even more worried when he thought about the semi-isolation of Quire Court. It was so quiet, so enclosed in its own gentle atmosphere that it did not seem a place that would be targeted by vandals or burglars. Tomorrow evening he would take a look at the locks and bolts on the doors of the flat behind the shop.

What about the other threat, though? The chess piece. Unless Fergal McMahon's memoirs were false – nineteenth-century Gothic fiction presented in an unexpected way – the Abbot and his gang had clearly believed the chess set held a very dark power. And Fergal's account of the thirty-two shadows performing their own dance macabre in a dim old library was extraordinarily chilling, no matter what one believed.

Michael glanced back at the book's publication date: 1904. Presumably Fergal had been dead by then, but it was entirely possible that he had simply stashed the memoirs away, and they had not come to light until many years later. Perhaps some member of Fergal's family – a niece or nephew – had found them and wanted the world to know the old boy's strange story. Or the Church might have suppressed the memoirs, of course. Michael thought, with a touch of irony, that the Catholic Church was probably second to none when it came to hiding what it considered to be contentious or disreputable incidents.

How much danger might Nell be in from that single chess figure? For pity's sake, thought Michael angrily, it's a lump of wood with a few semi-precious stones stuck on to it!

He made himself a toasted sandwich, poured a glass of wine to go with it, and carried the tray through to his desk. Opening the latest Wilberforce file he worked solidly for the next two hours and by eleven o'clock had almost written an entire chapter. He diligently saved the work to a memory stick, which Nell's Beth had given him for Christmas, tied up in a huge scarlet ribbon. Last December the real Wilberforce had sat on the computer keyboard while Michael was pouring a cup of coffee, and had activated the log-off key. The computer had obediently shut itself down and Michael had lost four pages intended as an insert for the American publishing house, which had recounted Wilberforce's exploits at a Thanksgiving turkey dinner, when Wilberforce had fallen into the cranberry sauce and it had died his whiskers crimson. Ellie, thousands of miles away in Maryland, had loved this, and Beth had said they could not risk losing any of Wilberforce again, so a memory stick would be a really cool present.

Michael reread the chapter he had just written and thought it was not bad. But before he let his editor see it, he would email it to Beth and Ellie. They loved being in on the birth of a new Wilberforce exploit and they would be completely honest about whether it made a good story.

As he got into bed, he wondered if Benedict Doyle had traced any of the people in his story. He had been going to get the Title Deeds to Holly Lodge – perhaps he would ring to let Michael know about that.

Lying in bed, his mind was full of fragments of Benedict's curious story and the vivid collection of people who seemed to have been its major players. It was an extraordinary tale.

He began to drift into sleep, and as he did so, a half-memory nudged uneasily at his mind. He was toppling over into sleep when it clicked fully into place. It was of Benedict sitting in Michael's study that day, the sinister glint of blue in his brown eyes, saying Nell should not go to Holly Lodge.

Because we both know who's inside that house
, Benedict had said and his voice had once again held the soft Irish overlay.

N
ell enjoyed the evening at Nina's flat. Nina had made a huge risotto which they ate in the large friendly kitchen, together with the bottle of Chablis which Nell had brought. Nina rattled on in her customary inconsequential way, Benedict putting in the occasional word, and Nell listened with amusement. But several layers down, she was aware of an undercurrent of excitement.
Only a few hours left, then I'll see him again
, her mind kept saying.
I'll find out who he is. I'll find out what he is.
But this last thought twisted the excitement into such a wrench of apprehension that she pushed it away and focused on what Nina was saying about how people thought you could successfully transport beef Wellington for thirty people halfway across London without the pastry going soggy, could you believe it?

Benedict seemed entirely normal. He teased Nina about the risotto, and helped cut up ciabatta bread to hand round. Afterwards Nina shooed Nell and Benedict into the sitting room while she made coffee, and Nell asked Benedict about the criminology studies.

‘At the moment I'm researching for an essay on old Victorian cases,' he said.

‘You mentioned that last time I was here. It sounds interesting.'

‘It is. I'm trying to find some really unusual crimes from the late 1800s – the 1890s particularly. Ones that weren't publicized – ones we don't know about today.' He glanced at her hesitantly, then, as if realizing she was genuinely interested, said, ‘To start with, I thought I'd re-examine them, comparing the police methods with today's forensic science. But then I thought that if I could unearth some really good ones, I'd try to find oblique references to them in the fiction of that time. I don't mean obvious things like the Artful Dodger representing all the pickpockets in Alsatia, or Mr Hyde being Jack the Ripper—'

‘Mr Hyde wasn't Jack the Ripper, was he?' said Nina, coming in with the coffee pot, and sounding startled.

‘No, that's just an illustration of what I mean.'

‘Where on earth was Alsatia? Oh bother, I've forgotten the milk. And I made some
petits fours
—' She vanished to the kitchen again.

‘Where is Alsatia?' said Nell.

‘It was in Whitefriars,' said Benedict. ‘Roughly speaking, the Fleet Street area across to the Thames. It was sort of a sanctuary place for thieves and general ruffians and crooks.'

‘And now it's home to newspapers and journalists,' said Nell, deadpan, and was pleased when he grinned and instantly said, ‘Yes. So what's new?'

‘I like your essay idea. And it's such a colourful era, as well. The minute you mention the 1890s, you see all the images.'

‘The street life,' said Benedict. ‘The hot food sellers and the beggars and toffs, and the ordinary clerks and workers. Apothecaries' shops with huge glass flagons in the windows, and little dusty drapers' shops and barrow boys. It would smell different then, and it would certainly sound different. London's always noisy, but it'd have been noisy in a different way. Hansom cabs rattling over the cobblestones, and people shouting and quarrelling, and the hoot of barges from the river, and the sound of overstrung, out-of-tune pianos played in smoky pubs—'

He broke off, and Nell said warmly, ‘And one of the fascinations is that it's still just about touchable, that era. Our grandparents would remember their grandparents or even their parents talking about it. And we've got photographs from those years. Voices, as well. Those scratchy old recordings. But go back a bit earlier, and there's only what was written down. We'll never know what people really looked like.'

‘Yes,' said Benedict, with a kind of eager gratitude for her interest. ‘And we'll never know what they sounded like, either. In ordinary everyday speech, I mean.'

‘Because language changes,' said Nell, thoughtfully.

‘Yes. Not just because we use different expressions. We don't pronounce words as people did a hundred – even fifty – years ago.'

‘That's true. You only have to watch one of those old 1930s or 1940s British films to hear that. Tell me some more about your essay.'

‘Well, the thing is that an author writing today might have a character mentioning a current murder trial that readers would recognize and know about. Even today if you say Ruth Ellis, most people know she was the last woman to be hanged.'

‘Or Fred and Rosemary West and the macabre patio in Gloucester.'

‘Yes. But those references in a book probably wouldn't mean anything to somebody reading it in a hundred years' time,' said Benedict. ‘So it's the lost cases of the 1890s I'm going for, then I'll see if they're mentioned in the fiction of the day.'

‘Weren't there books that used to be termed the Newgate Novels?' asked Nell.

‘Yes, there were,' said Benedict, pleased. ‘They were a kind of fictional counterpart of some true stories of the era.
Oliver Twist
is regarded as a Newgate Novel.'

‘Yes, of course. Will you use the essay as the base for a PhD, later on?'

‘It'd be nice to think I could,' said Benedict rather wistfully. ‘Only I'm not sure about even doing a PhD yet.'

‘Wouldn't it be a good idea? And you're so knowledgeable about that era.'

‘Am I?' He frowned slightly.

‘Yes, you are,' said Nell. ‘You convey such a sense of it. It's extraordinary, but when you were talking about it – about the street sellers and the scents and the sounds and the river barges – I could see it all so vividly.'

She knew at once that she had said something wrong. Benedict's expression changed – so markedly that Nell was reminded of still water that had suddenly rippled beneath the surface. She felt a shiver of apprehension.

In a soft voice, Benedict said, ‘I'm glad you came. I hoped you would, you know.'

It was an odd, slightly disconnected remark, and for a moment Nell could not think how to reply. But then Nina came back, and Benedict said in a completely normal, slightly tired-sounding, voice, ‘Nina, d'you mind if I skip coffee and head for bed?'

‘To make some notes on your essay while they're still alive in your mind?' said Nell, smiling at him, relieved that the brief disconcerting moment had passed. Perhaps it had been something to do with the illness he had – she had been enjoying talking to him so much she had almost forgotten about that.

‘Well, yes, sort of,' said Benedict. He stood up. ‘I expect I'll see you before you set off for Holly Lodge tomorrow though.'

Nina began to fuss about the sleeping arrangements, wanting Nell to have her own room, because it would be no trouble at all, she had put clean sheets on just that very morning, and it was not right that a guest should sleep on a futon fold-out thing, because what if it collapsed halfway through the night and precipitated Nell on to the floor—

‘I'll have the futon,' offered Benedict. ‘Then Nell can have my room. I don't mind being collapsed on to the floor.'

Nell said, ‘For heaven's sake, both of you, I'll be fine, and the bed won't collapse and I'll even get my own duvet from the airing cupboard. Stop fussing.'

‘OK,' said Benedict, but he still hesitated, and Nell suddenly thought he might be wondering if he should come with her to Holly Lodge tomorrow. Please don't let him suggest it, she thought, then felt deeply guilty, because Holly Lodge was his house after all, and he would be paying her for the work. But he merely smiled, wished her good luck with the bed, nodded to Nina, and went quietly to his own room.

Later, in the narrow but perfectly comfortable bed, Nell thought how much Michael would have enjoyed the conversation this evening. He would have been deeply interested in Benedict's proposed essay-cum-thesis, and his eyes would have smiled in gentle and amused appreciation of Nina's pelting conversation. It was nice to think of having supper with him tomorrow evening, and telling him about tonight. And by tomorrow, thought Nell, I'll have seen that man at Holly Lodge, and I'll have got him cleared from my mind. This struck her as a peculiar way to think.

She felt a bit guilty about telling Michael there had been a prowler at Quire Court, although she had not precisely lied, because she had certainly heard something peculiar the night she had photographed the chess piece. But it had not really been very frightening – all she had heard were footsteps, it was important to remember that was all it had been.

And that sinisterly small hand
, said her mind.
Don't forget that
. Oh shut up, said Nell, and pulled the duvet over her head.

She set off for the tube straight after breakfast the next morning, leaving Nina pitting half a kilo of cherries for duck á la Montmorency.

‘You'd think, wouldn't you, that they could have duck with orange, or apple stuffing for their Silver Wedding party, but no, it has to be bloody Montmorency, and no thought for how long it takes to stone cherries for sixteen people. It's been lovely having you, Nell, darling, we won't kiss or anything, on account of me being covered in cherry juice and duck fat. Let Benedict have the inventory for Holly Lodge when you can – there's no frantic rush, but it'll be interesting to know how you get on and what you find.'

‘Is Benedict still in bed?'

‘He got up early and went out to get the papers. He does that most mornings, but it's only at the end of the road, so you might meet him on the way back, unless he's called at the second-hand bookstore, which he often does, and once he's in there, he loses track of time.'

‘Michael does that in bookshops,' said Nell.

‘I
like
your Michael,' said Nina enthusiastically. ‘I think he's exactly right for you, in fact, if I were you— Oh God, there's the phone, I'll bet it's that woman about the Silver Wedding
again
. Can you let yourself out, because if I don't speak to her she'll be hammering on the door like that horror story where the thing gibbers at the door in a snowstorm—'