The Seance (42 page)

If I had to spend the night here alone, I thought, I should go mad with fear. He added the last of the coal – there was more, he said, in the
cellar – and built up the fire while I told him what I had discovered, conscious at every pause of the listening stillness around us.

‘So Vernon Raphael was right,’ he said, ‘about Cornelius not being an alchemist at all.’

‘And about Magnus murdering him?’ I asked.

‘No, I don’t think so. As Raphael said, it wasn’t in Magnus’s interest to have Cornelius vanish. He’d gone to all that trouble to create the legend of the armour; why wouldn’t he leave the body in it? I wonder, you know, if Cornelius didn’t simply die up there, of a stroke or seizure, though it does seem an extraordinary coincidence; unless he was frightened to death by the storm. In fact ... Magnus
can’t
have known about the secret room, or he’d have found the body and saved himself the expense of the court case.’

‘Then Magnus knew nothing of his uncle’s imaginary life,’ I said. ‘I never thought I would feel sorry for Cornelius; but of course the man John Montague described was Magnus’s invention. Perhaps he was really quite kind; he kept the same servants all those years, after all.’

‘Perhaps he was,’ said Edwin, turning the pages of the manuscript book, ‘but why on earth did he huddle in that cell to write all this?’

‘Because ... because it was easier, shut away in there, to imagine the Hall as he wanted it to be,’ I said. ‘And because he had to keep it utterly secret – even from himself, in a way. Poor old man! Everything we learn about Magnus makes him seem more evil.’

‘And we can’t, as you say, even be sure he’s dead. Cornelius doesn’t mention Magnus anywhere here; he seems to have kept up his imaginary life until the day he died. The last entry is for the 20th of May 1866 – “Lord and Lady Cavendish expected Friday” – the day of the storm. It still seems too much of a coincidence, unless . . . let me see John Montague’s account of the inquest again.

‘Yes; here it is: Mr Barrett on the effects of lighting. “A man was rendered unconscious, and when he recovered, walked away from the scene with no recollection of having been struck.” It could have happened
that way; Cornelius might have returned instinctively to his bolt-hole, and there died of delayed shock, or concussion ... but in the meantime, I fear we must prepare for another night here.’

It had grown so dark outside that the fog was no longer visible. The dingy panelled walls, and the rows of leather bindings in their cases, seemed to be soaking up what little light remained. Edwin rose and lit two stubs of candle on the mantelpiece.

‘I think, in the circumstances, we should share the room you slept in last night; we haven’t enough coal to keep two fires burning all night, and in any case ...’

‘Yes,’ I said, shivering.

‘Then what I shall do first, before it gets completely dark, is bring up the rest of the coal from the cellar. And no,’ he said, seeing the fear in my face, ‘I don’t like it either, but without coal we shall freeze.’

He lit his lantern, took up the coal bucket and went out on to the landing, leaving the doors ajar. His footsteps retreated, boards groaning at every tread, changing to a muffled creak-creak, creak-creak as he began to descend, until the sound ceased altogether and absolute silence returned.

We had placed two cracked leather chairs before the fireplace, which backed on to the one in the gallery, half-way along the common wall, with rows of bookshelves receding into the gloom on either side of me. The sensation of being watched grew upon me until I sprang up and turned with my back to the fire. Even then it was impossible to see all four entrances at once. I stood glancing from door to door, straining to listen over the thudding of my heart. My twin shadows swayed across the doorway of the study opposite, seeming to move independently. I thought of snuffing the candles; but then I would not be able to see the doors to the landing at all.

I had learned at school that you could count seconds by your heartbeat. Mine was racing far faster than the measured ticking of a clock, but I began to count anyway. Only I could not keep it up; I would reach
twenty or thirty, and be distracted by some phantom sound or movement, and start again. Thus I endured an indefinite interval, while the windows darkened further and still Edwin did not return.

I knew what I must do: find the other lantern and go down to the cellar; he might have fallen and sprained his ankle, or hit his head, or ... Only I did not know where the cellar was, and my teeth were already chattering with fear.

Edwin, I thought, had left the other lantern by the entrance to the secret room. I took one of the candlesticks from the mantelpiece and, shielding the flame with my other hand, moved towards the connecting door.

There was still a faint glow of twilight in the windows overhead, but the darkness at the far end of the gallery was already impenetrable, and the dazzle of the candle confused my eyes. The black bulk of the armour loomed between me and the entrance; instinctively, I circled around it, grit crunching beneath my feet, until I could see the mallet and chisel lying on the floor; but no lantern.

Then I remembered that when Edwin had helped me down the stairs from the secret room, I had been carrying Cornelius’s journal, but no lantern, and he had lit the way with his own. Mine was still burning on the table in the secret room.

The last of my strength deserted me and I sank to the floor, just managing to set the candlestick upright beside me. Hot wax stung the back of my hand.
You must get up, you must get up
, a voice in my head was saying, but my limbs would not obey.

I was crouching a few feet from the fireplace, almost in front of the sarcophagus, which lay just within the circle of light from the candle.
If you cannot stand, you must crawl
, said the voice. I was making another effort to rise when I thought I heard a sound from the fireplace. I clenched my teeth to stop them chattering. There it was again, a heavy, muffled, grating sound, like stone sliding upon stone. It seemed to be coming from beneath the floor in front of me.

The grating ceased; for several seconds there was absolute silence, then a faint metallic creak. I held my breath; the candle flame steadied.

The lid of Sir Henry Wraxford’s tomb was slowly rising.

My heart gave one appalling lurch and stopped beating altogether. The next second, as it seemed, I was on the far side of the connecting door, with the key rattling in the lock as I fought to turn it. I could see the faint glimmer of my candle shining through the gap beneath the door. Then another, stronger light began to play about my feet; there was a creak, and thump, and the sound of footsteps approaching.

I thought of running for the stairs, but I had no light, and the visitant would hunt me down. The door handle rattled; the door shook; the footsteps moved purposefully away. In a few moments it would be on the landing. I had not time to run and lock all the doors at the far end of the library. I thought of the weapons arrayed along the gallery wall – too high for me to reach. The tin box Vernon Raphael had left – there might be something in it I could use to defend myself, if my shaking hands could hold it and I did not faint.

The grey cylinder Edwin had found. I could light it with the candle and throw it at – whatever was pursuing me. Most likely I would die, but if it seized me I would die anyway, and far more horribly.

The footsteps were still receding. I gripped the key with both nerveless hands and twisted. There was a rasp and a snick, but the footsteps did not pause. I withdrew the key and slipped back into the gallery, just as a light passed out through the double doors at the other end. The beam of a lantern played across the wall beyond; then the footsteps moved off along the landing, boards creaking at every tread. For a moment I thought I might be spared, but then I heard the squeak of hinges as my pursuer entered the library. I tried to slip the key into the keyhole, but my hand was shaking so violently that I dared not let the metal touch.

My candle still burned where I had left it on the floor. There was the tin box, two paces away, partly obscured by the shadow of the armour. Footsteps moved within the library – one, two, three, and then a pause.
Light flickered beneath the door. Biting my lip to stifle a moan of terror, I stole over to the box and opened the lid, but could see nothing within. My fingers touched something round, and I drew out the cylinder. The footsteps were moving again, I could not tell which way.

I moved towards the candle, almost tripping over the hem of my dress. As I knelt to the flame I realised I had no idea how fast the wick would burn. The floor seemed to be dropping away beneath my feet.
If you faint, it will catch you
, said the voice. Better to die instantly; I touched the end of the wick to the flame and it began to burn with a faint, sputtering, reddish spark, but crawling so slowly I could scarcely see it move.

In that extremity of terror I saw my only chance of salvation. I darted over to the armour, grasped the hilt of the sword, and placed the cylinder inside as the plates sprang open. Then I tore at my dress, ripped away a handful of fabric, and slammed the plates upon it. The footsteps paused, and then moved rapidly towards the door. I fled blindly into the darkness until I collided painfully with a wall and had just time to huddle, only half concealed, behind a musty tapestry before a lantern beam swept across the floor, flitted over the open tomb, and settled upon the folds of material caught between the plates of the armour.

The figure bearing the lantern moved into the circle of candlelight and paused directly in front of the armour. Not a ghost, but a man; a tall man in a long coat.

‘Miss Langton?’ said a deep, authoritative voice. ‘I am Dr Davenant; I have come to rescue you.’

If I had not heard him emerge from the tomb, I think I might have believed him.

‘Miss Langton?’ he repeated. ‘Come out; you have nothing to fear.’

A gloved hand reached out and grasped the hilt of the sword. Searing white light burst from the armour, and for an instant the two blazing figures stood face to face, hands clasped. Then the armour leaned forward, engulfing the man, and toppled headlong through the floor.

Darkness returned with an ear-splitting crash. The floor lurched and rebounded; for a moment there was silence, and then a long low rumble, gathering power as it approached until it broke over me with a thunderous roar. Choking dust filled my lungs, and I was flung from my feet and rolled over and over like a rag doll in a storm.

There was a vile, rasping taste in my mouth and throat, and a heavy weight pressing down on the side of my head; I tried to push it away, and realised it was the floor. The boards on which I was lying were covered in sharp, gritty fragments.

A faint, misty glow appeared in the darkness away to my right. I began to crawl towards it, not knowing what else to do, brushing aside slivers of what felt like glass, until I saw that it was the light from the candle I had left burning in the library. The fear had left me; perhaps I had simply exhausted my capacity to feel anything at all. I rose shakily to my feet, made my way along the landing to the library, fetched the candle and returned to the gallery – what remained of it.

At the far end, where the tomb and the chimney and the armour had been, was a great gaping hole in the wall. Half the floor had gone; the boards ended in a jagged mess of splinters not ten feet from where I had been lying. Dust was floating up from a black pit beyond.

Edwin is down there
. The thought struck me like icy water, dashing away the numbness. Suddenly I was trembling so that I could scarcely stand. Gripping the banister, and praying that the guttering flame would not blow out, I went slowly down the main staircase. The dust in the air grew thicker as I descended; faint slithering and trickling noises echoed in the darkness, but the entrance hall below seemed quite unchanged; the chimney, I realised, must have collapsed into the drawing-room beyond.

‘Edwin?’ I called as I came to the foot of the stairs. There was no
reply. I called again, louder and louder until the stairwell rang with his name. At last, from a doorway leading to the back of the house, came a very faint sound: tap-tap, tap, tap-tap, tap. The tapping grew steadily louder as I moved towards it along a dank stone corridor with shadows writhing around me, until I came to a rough wooden door, set low in the wall.

‘Edwin, is that you?’

There was a muffled cry from within and the door shook slightly. I lifted the latch, and recoiled with a gasp from the hunched, blackened creature that emerged, a lantern raised in its bloodied hand, until I saw that it was Edwin.