The Sin Eater (32 page)

He paused at the intersection of two roads, suddenly unsure where he was going, then remembered that of course he was going out to Canning Town, to get to Cerise before Colm killed her. No, that was in Colm's time – Cerise had been dead for a hundred years and nothing Benedict could do would help her—

The clock chimed again – two single chimes – and with the sound the compulsion returned. He had an hour to get to Canning Town. Could he do it? Surely he could. Here was the Tube entrance.

In the tube he still felt odd – not weak exactly, but not entirely in control of his mind. Was it Colm again, pulling him even deeper into that long-ago world? He had no awareness of Colm's presence, but it was vital to remember he was in his own century and Colm and Declan had lived a hundred years ago.

At Oxford Street, where he got off to switch to an eastbound train, there seemed to be some kind of disruption. All the other passengers had alighted and seemed to be heading, very purposefully, for a different station. Benedict hesitated, then followed them, because usually if there was a diversion on the Underground, somebody always did know or had heard an announcement that the rest had not picked up. There was a long brick-lined tunnel, at the end of which echoing steps led down to a grim vaulted station smelling of something that Benedict, reaching back into childhood memories, identified after a few moments as soot. I'm going back, he thought. I'm going back into my own childhood. Or am I going even further back . . . ? He had no idea if this prospect terrified him or excited him, but when a train rattled into the station he got in without hesitation, and sat in a corner, turning up his coat collar against the cold. This had to be the maddest journey in the history of the world, but he could not get rid of the compulsion that he could somehow get to Cerise before Colm did – that he could somehow prevent Colm killing again. That was the maddest thing of all, of course; you could not unmake history. He studied the other passengers covertly. They all looked fairly ordinary, but the lighting was dim and most of them were so muffled up against the cold they could have been from any era. The few females in the carriage wore hats, but even this was not remarkable these days; girls wore all kinds of trendy pull-on hats in winter.

As the train jolted along, Benedict leaned over to wipe moisture from the window with his scarf, trying to read the names of the stations, but unable to see anything other than brick tunnels with the occasional thread of light from above. The dreamlike quality of the journey intensified, and this time it began to feel like one of those horror films where the newly dead were transported to some kind of judgement place. But this was so ridiculous a concept he refused to give it any credence. Would this slow train never reach its destination?

It was just after half past two when it pulled into the station. Was this Canning Town? Yes, there was a sign on one of the walls. Benedict had been expecting a large station – he thought it was an interchange with National Rail and also the Docklands Light Railway. But it looked as if London Underground really were diverting passengers and as if they had opened up one of the oldest underground stations they had. There was an old-fashioned booking hall, and grimy brickwork, interspersed with elaborate iron scrolls. I believe I really have gone back, thought Benedict, looking about him. No, that's absurd. It's this wretched condition – the alter ego taking over. I'll just take a look round, then I'll go home. He dared not think he might not be able to get home.

Outside the station he again had the feeling that everything was displaced. He also had the odd impression that the sky was lower than it should be. Or was it simply that it was a dark afternoon and the thick mist was still everywhere?

It was then that he saw something that seemed to split his head in two all over again. The streets were crowded, but ahead of him was a man wearing a long dark overcoat, like an old army greatcoat. The deep collar was turned up to hide his face almost completely, but when he half turned his head Benedict saw him in profile. Colm, he thought. It really is him. And he's got her with him – Cerise.

He thrust his way through the people to get nearer. He was positive it was Colm, and that it was Cerise with him, although she was not quite as Benedict had imagined: she was more slightly built and he had not thought her hair was that colour. Colm was not exactly carrying her, but he had one arm round her and she was leaning against him. Anger rose in Benedict at the disinterest of the crowds. Couldn't anyone see she was being forced to go with him?

As he crossed the road and went after the two figures, a church clock somewhere close by chimed the quarter hour.

Fifteen minutes to three. And at one o'clock Cerise had said she would give Colm a couple of hours to respond.

Michael had not been able to get rid of the memory of Benedict Doyle saying Nell should not go to Holly Lodge.

Because we both know who's inside that house
, he had said in the voice that was so eerily not his own.

Michael refused to believe that something malevolent was inside Holly Lodge, waiting to pounce on Nell. This was part of Benedict's multiple personality thing; it was not real. But the chess set was real, said his mind. Fergal McMahon seems to have been real, as well. And Nicholas Sheehan was real too; he was ordained in 1874, and the event was recorded.

It was midday and Michael's tutorials were over for the day. He had intended to spend the afternoon preparing some notes for his second years, focusing on the Victorians' slightly contradictory custom of summarily dismissing servants who transgressed the mores of the day – usually by getting pregnant – but then helping organizations dedicated to what they termed fallen women. He wanted the students to find examples of this ambiguous attitude in the literature of the period; there were plenty of examples for them to home in on.

The trouble was that Benedict's story kept intruding. Michael found himself remembering Eithne, the serving girl at Kilderry Castle, who had got pregnant out of wedlock. That was that rogue Fintan Reilly, thought Michael, smiling. But at least the Wicked Earl of Kilderry had not turned Eithne out into the snow. Oh, blast those people from Benedict's story, why can't I forget them! And why can't I forget what Benedict said?

It would not hurt to phone Nell. A friendly, ordinary call, to ask how she was getting on. Before he could think too much about it, Michael reached for the phone and dialled her mobile.

It went straight to voicemail, but if she was wandering around various rooms, looking into cupboards and even cellars, she would probably have switched the phone off. He left a casual, cheerful, message, saying he hoped she was uncovering some good finds, and he would see her later. After this he returned to work, trying to ignore the nagging unease.

I don't think Nell should go to Holly Lodge . . . We both know who's inside that house . . .

‘Oh hell,' said Michael aloud, and reached for the phone again to check the times of London trains. There was one at one thirty which got in to Paddington shortly before two thirty.

On the train, he felt better. Nell would be fine and he might help her with some of the inventorying, and they would come back together and then enjoy their evening.

The taxi dropped him outside Holly Lodge. It was pretty much as Michael had visualized it: a bit gloomy, a bit neglected, with the air of having known better days. There was a light showing in one of the downstairs rooms. Michael went along the gravel drive and plied the door knocker. It echoed inside the house, but there was no sound of any movement. He tried again. Still nothing. Perhaps Nell was upstairs, or at the back of the house. She had said something about French windows, so he made his way round the side of the house. Yes, there were the French windows. Michael peered through them. There was no sign of Nell – or wait, wasn't that her jacket thrown over a chair? He knocked on the window and called out, but the house remained silent and still. Perhaps she had gone out to get some lunch. Without her jacket, though, on a bitter January day? He found his phone and tried her number, but again it went to voicemail. Then he tried the French windows, but they were locked.

He was not exactly worried, but he was a bit uneasy. He went back to the front of the house. The front door would be locked as well, but he would try it anyway. But it was not locked. The old-fashioned brass handle turned easily and smoothly.

The minute he stepped into the hall, the unease deepened. He reminded himself he did not believe in ghosts, not even after that very strange business in Shropshire when he had met Nell. But he did believe that houses could retain atmospheres – that you could sometimes sense if their inhabitants had been happy or sad or lonely. Holly Lodge held none of those emotions; what it did hold was fear, stark and unmistakable. The feeling was so strong that if it had not been for wanting to find Nell, Michael would have left as fast as possible.

There was a small table lamp glowing in the hall, and it looked as if there was another in one of the rooms leading off it. Michael called out, hoping Nell would come out of one of the rooms, or down the stairs, laughing and saying he had given her a scare. But she did not.

He looked into the rooms at the house's front, then went through to the one with French windows. Rather guiltily, he felt in the pockets of Nell's jacket. Tube ticket, a tissue, an odd peppermint. And her phone. Michael frowned, then went into the other rooms, his footsteps echoing eerily. Everything was ordinary and unthreatening.

The kitchen was a large, reasonably modern room. A chair had been drawn up to an oak table, and there was a plate with a few crumbs on it, and an apple core. A sheet of notes in Nell's writing lay at the side, with her Filofax next to it. Michael had a mental picture of Nell eating a picnic lunch, reading her notes as she did so, perhaps checking for an address or phone number to call a colleague because she had found something outside her own province. The Filofax was open at the calendar section, and today's date was circled rather elaborately in red. In the evening section, she had written, in ordinary blue ink, ‘Michael – supper'. This did not tell him anything he did not already know, and he looked round the kitchen for further ideas. Without thinking much about it, he touched the electric kettle. It was hot – in fact it was so hot it could not be long since it had boiled. Michael stared at it. This was starting to be the classic dark fairy-story scenario: the apparently empty house with sinister signs of occupancy. A door left open so the unwary traveller could lift the latch and step inside . . . And, once inside, there were lamps burning, a kettle singing on the hob . . . Michael wondered whether, if he went into the bedrooms, he would find any of the beds occupied. With the corpse-bride out of Robert Browning's poem, said his mind cynically? Or were you thinking of Goldilocks in the Three Bears' cottage? Even so, as he went up the stairs, he was remembering the eighteenth-century sonnet with the old bed that thrilled the gloom with the tales of human sorrows and delights it had witnessed over the centuries.

Thrilled gloom or not, he would check the bedrooms in case Nell had fallen and knocked herself out. Michael called out again, willing her to answer, but Holly Lodge remained silent.

Most of the rooms had nothing but discarded or dust-sheeted furniture in them, so he went up to the attic floor. The rooms here looked smaller, and the passageway linking them was narrower, but again there were only odd pieces of furniture and boxes of old curtains.

When he entered the room at the far end, he had an impression of extreme fear, and so strong was it, he almost went straight out again. There were several large packing cases, and an old-fashioned dressing table with a swing mirror stood against the wall. Was that where Benedict had glimpsed that sinister reflection that had lodged in his mind? It would not be difficult to believe a figure stood in the smoky depths, watching you.

But the room looked perfectly normal, even though the fear hung in the air like clotted strings. Pushed against one wall was a small bureau with a drop-front flap and a chair pulled up to it, and Michael sat down and tried to decide what to do. Would Benedict or Nina know where Nell was? He did not have their phone numbers, but they were probably on Nell's phone or written in the Filofax. Michael was not sure if this was a situation where he could intrude on her privacy to that extent. Was there anywhere else she might be? Had she found something in the house that had sent her hotfoot out of the house? Where, though? And would she leave the house unlocked and her jacket and phone and Filofax behind?

How about the chess set? If Benedict's story could be believed, the rest of the figures had perished in the watchtower fire that had killed Sheehan, so Nell could not have found the rest of the set. But might she have found out something about its origins? Paperwork? A letter? On this thought, Michael began to sort through the desk, tipping out the contents of the envelopes. But they seemed to contain only old household accounts, yellowing notepaper with Holly Lodge's address, and bills from local merchants. No, wait, there were a couple of old photographs. He seized on them. One was a group shot, the grainy, sepia tones of the nineteenth century, the faces of the people indistinct and the background blurred. On the back, in faded, slightly childish-looking writing, were the words ‘
My friends in Kilglenn.
'

Kilglenn. That edge-of-Ireland place near the stormy Cliffs of Moher, with an old watchtower where Nicholas Sheehan and Colm Rourke had played chess . . .

The other photo was clearer and looked as if it had been taken by a professional photographer. It was a posed shot of two people, head and shoulders, both very young, barely out of their teens. The man was dark-haired, and he wore the faintly embarrassed amusement of any Victorian gentleman faced with a camera. The girl came up to his shoulder. She was even younger and she had an air of fragility and innocence, but there was something in the slant of her eyes and the curve of her lips that suggested she might be capable of being very far from innocent. Her hair fell to her shoulders.