House of the Lost (6 page)

Theo said, ‘Innes? The man who found my cousin’s body?’ Damn, he thought, why can’t I say Charmery’s name aloud?

‘Yes. It was a dreadful shock for him – he admired her very much.’ This was said quite ordinarily and openly, but Theo thought she glanced at him a bit warily. Had there been something between Charmery and the local GP?

Sister Catherine took her leave smoothly and easily. ‘Thank you for the coffee, Mr Kendal.’

‘I’ve enjoyed meeting you,’ said Theo, accompanying her to the door.

‘So have I. God bless.’ It came out naturally and unselfconsciously. Since Theo could not think of a suitable rejoinder he merely nodded and waited until she had walked back down the overgrown drive and into the lane beyond.

Rinsing the cups in the kitchen, he considered that remark about some of the nuns having known his mother. It was vaguely surprising, because Petra had never spent much time at Fenn House. She had certainly shared one or two of the Christmases there, but they had been brief holidays and no one had ventured much out of the house because Norfolk in winter was about the bleakest place imaginable. And during Theo’s school years she had usually driven him to Melbray in July, stayed a night or two, then left him to it.

‘Too many Kendals,’ she always said, with the smile that Theo sometimes found painful although he had never quite known why. ‘When I married your father I didn’t realize I was marrying an entire clan, and I’m not very good at family gatherings. But you stay and riot with your cousins, darling, and I’ll collect you well before term starts so we can have a bit of time together in London.’

She had always arrived at Melbray punctually to pick him up, usually with gifts for everyone. Guff, who was a regular visitor to Fenn, said happily that she lit up the house the minute she came in, but Nancy said sourly it was Petra currying approval as usual. ‘Playing fairy godmother,’ Nancy said. Nancy never seemed to come to Fenn because she enjoyed the house or the company of the family; she apparently came because the drains had packed up at her house, or because she wanted peace and quiet to work out next term’s assignments for her sixth-formers, or she was recovering from flu.

They had all enjoyed the presents from Petra’s travels, though. There were generally clothes for Charmery who said delightedly that no one had such exquisite taste as Aunt Petra, books for Lesley, who would seize them eagerly and vanish for hours on end, and unusual toys for Lesley’s small twin brothers, whose birth had taken everyone by surprise, including Lesley’s father. Charmery’s mother and Lesley’s would be presented with frivolous designer silk scarves or perfume, and there was vintage port or brandy for the men. Once Petra brought a pair of embroidered Turkish slippers with curved toes for Guff who trotted delightedly round the house in them, refusing to listen to Charmery’s father, Desmond, saying he looked like an escapee from a harem.

Theo, Charmery and Lesley always stayed up later than usual when Petra was there. ‘She turns it into an occasion,’ said Lesley’s father, rather wistfully. Lesley’s father was Desmond’s younger brother, and Theo often thought he seemed a bit over-shadowed by the genially successful Desmond, just as Lesley so often seemed over-shadowed by Charmery.

Charmery had loved those evenings; even from the age of nine or ten she flirted with Guff and any other uncles who were there, laughing and making a fuss of them, coaxing her father to let her have a sip of wine in water like French children and usually getting her way. Lesley, three years younger than Charmery, always sat quietly, listening to the conversation. ‘Only speaking when she’s spoken to,’ had been Nancy’s approving observation, and Petra had told Theo she sometimes wondered which century Nancy lived in because her outlook was positively Victorian at times. ‘But then Helen and Desmond are Edwardian anyway,’ she added. ‘Nursery tea and children being allowed to eat with their parents, my God, it’s archaic. D’you suppose they’re really time travellers from about 1900?’

‘I don’t know, but there’s a peculiar machine in the shrubbery, labelled, “Property of H. G. Wells”,’ said Theo, and was pleased when she smiled appreciatively and made a joke of her own about the Tardis parking in the cabbage patch.

Time machines or not, there had been something remarkably restful about Fenn House in those days. As Theo put the coffee cups away after Sister Catherine’s visit, he was deep in the memories of those summer evenings round the big cherry-wood table in the dining room. There would be huge bowls of roses everywhere – Sister Catherine had been right about the rose garden. Helen had planted a rose called Charmian to mark Charmery’s tenth birthday. ‘Because it’s clear no one’s ever going to use the correct version of her name,’ she said, ‘so this is a reminder of it.’

The French windows would be wide open and people would be relaxed from the wine and the huge suppers that were served. Aunt Helen fussed about the food which was always perfectly all right – it was a bit of a family joke, Aunt Helen’s fussing – and Uncle Desmond became genial after a few drinks, exchanging bluff jokes with the other men, but doing so
sotto voce
if Nancy was there, because Nancy did not approve of coarseness. Guff listened to the jokes and always laughed, although Charmery said he probably did not understand half of them. Theo thought Charmery probably did not understand half of them either, but he did not say this.

Catherine got back to St Luke’s shortly before twelve. Even at this time of year she enjoyed the walk along Boat Street. Old trees fringed the lane that wound up to Fenn House so that even with the branches bare the house was hidden from most people’s view. Local legend said it had originally been built by a recluse who had wanted to hide from the world but had liked having the tributary to the Chet at the end of his garden. The Bursar was going to compile a history of the area on account of it having so many interesting fragments of gossipy lore. Catherine had been at St Luke’s for nearly ten years and the Bursar had still not got any further than saying at intervals they really must get down to drafting some ideas. The murder of Charmery Kendal had daunted even the Bursar from putting pen to paper, although it had certainly added another layer to the legends.

Mr Kendal had been very polite and welcoming, and it had been companionable to sit drinking coffee with him. It was the kind of thing people in the outside world did all the time without so much as thinking about it, but for Catherine, who had entered the convent at eighteen, it was sufficiently unusual for it to occupy most of her thoughts as she walked back. It would not be occupying any of Theo Kendal’s thoughts, of course; he would most likely have dismissed it as soon as she had gone, because he would be used to drinking coffee and stronger substances than coffee with all kinds of females. He was very nice-looking with that dark hair and those deep blue eyes. There had not seemed to be a wife or girlfriend in the picture, but there would surely be one somewhere. Catherine caught herself thinking that his wife or girlfriend would not wear a plain navy woollen dress with flat-heeled lace-ups; she would be smart and modern, with glossy, well-cut hair. This was a thought that was dangerously close to vanity, so she pushed it firmly away.

Morning coffee was over at St Luke’s, and there was already a smell of food from the kitchens, which meant Sister Agnes, who was the convent’s kitchener, was presiding over the midday meal. Today being Thursday it would be Irish stew with dumplings and big platters of accompanying vegetables.

Catherine hung up her coat and went along to see Reverend Mother, who was with the Bursar, both of them frowning over some accounts. Catherine thought they were rather pleased to be interrupted, although neither of them would have admitted it. They were certainly pleased to hear she had managed to arrange for Mr Kendal to talk to the patients. The Bursar said Catherine must remember to tell Dr Innes when he came in for his clinic day tomorrow. He would be interested to meet Mr Kendal.

‘Yes, he will,’ said Catherine, carefully making her voice bland.

Reverend Mother said they would make sure Sister Miriam, the convent’s librarian, got a couple of Mr Kendal’s books from the library van when it came round, and the Bursar said Sister Agnes must be asked to provide an extra-nice afternoon tea. Mr Kendal would be glad of a substantial tea after talking to them all.

Catherine remembered the empty wine bottle on the dining room table at Fenn House and thought, but did not say, that after facing the community of St Luke’s, Mr Kendal would probably prefer a large drink.

As Theo went back to the dining room, he was smiling at the prospect of plunging back into Matthew’s world. And as he switched on the laptop, that other house and its atmosphere were already closing round him.

Matthew’s story seemed to be shifting focus and his small friend was insinuating herself more definitely into the plot. This was the girl who accompanied him to school each morning. She apparently lived in a small cottage, and each evening she liked to curl up by the fire with her back to the brick chimney breast. The firelight spun garnet and black shadows in the room, and an elderly lady sat in a rocking chair, her own shadow falling blurrily on the walls as she rocked and talked. The girl’s grandmother? Yes, of course.

Theo typed all this, then stared at it in surprise, because he seemed to be going back into the land of fairytale once more. Small girls and grandmothers who rocked by fires, and views of thick trees through the window, suggesting the house was in the middle of an old forest . . . Once again he was aware of puzzlement as to where this was coming from.

The girl was swept along by the tales grandmother wove in those fire lit nights. ‘Tell more,’ she said eagerly, leaning forward, her small face alight.

‘They’re only stories,’ said the grandmother. ‘Some of them written by clever men, but they’re all stories made up out of people’s minds, remember that, Mara.’

‘But some bits might be real,’ said Mara. ‘You can’t be absolutely sure, can you?’ She leaned forward, her eager little face vivid in the firelight. ‘Annaleise is real.’

Annaleise . . . The shadows seemed to shiver at the sound of the name.

‘Yes, Annaleise is real,’ said the grandmother. ‘You must keep out of her way, though, Mara. You must keep your brother out of her way, as well.’

‘I do,’ said Mara earnestly. ‘I truly do. Tell me about Annaleise. Why does she come here?’

‘To watch people. To listen to what they say. That’s why you must always be very wary of her, Mara. She’s not watching you, not at the moment, but one day she might.’

‘Who is she watching?’

The old woman glanced round the room again, as if making sure no one could be hiding and listening. Very softly, she said, ‘Your friend Matthew’s father.’

Mara sat up very straight. ‘How do you know that?’

‘I listen to what’s said. I know what happened in that family once, and I can guess why Annaleise sends the men to that house. Others might know as well – we have long memories hereabouts.’ The shadows shivered again, but this time it was the movement of the rocking chair and of the old woman’s head as she nodded to herself.

Mara leaned forward eagerly. ‘What is he trying to keep secret?’

The grandmother paused, and then said, ‘The truth about what happened to Matthew’s mother. Elisabeth her name was.’

‘But Matthew’s mother died when he was a baby,’ said Mara, puzzled.

‘Did she? Are you sure about that?’

‘It’s what Matthew thinks,’ said Mara after a moment.

‘It’s what Matthew was
told
,’ said her grandmother, and again the shadows seemed to twist themselves into eager, listening shapes as if they, too, wanted to know about this. ‘It’s what his father wants everyone to believe.’

‘But what happened to her? Where is she?’

‘No one really knows what happened to her, and no one knows where she is, either, not now, not for sure. But—’

But people in this village have long memories.

The shrilling of an electric doorbell sliced through the silence, shattering Theo’s concentration and sending the crimson shadows fleeing into the corners of the forest cottage. He swore, blinked at his surroundings, hit the Save key more or less automatically, then went across the hall to the front door.

‘Mr Kendal? I’m Michael Innes – Dr Innes. I hope I’m not interrupting you, but I thought perhaps we should meet . . .’

The man who had found Charmery’s body. He was recognizable from the TV news bulletins, although he was slightly older than he had seemed then – probably thirty-eight or forty – and he had a careful manner of speech, as if he considered every word before actually saying it. Theo thought he looked clever and slightly intense. He bade a mental farewell to finding out more about Mara and the forest cottage for the next hour, and said, ‘Come into the dining room. I’ve been working there and it’s probably the warmest place in the house at the moment.’

‘I don’t want to disturb you if you’re absorbed in something,’ said Innes, taking in the open laptop and the sheaf of notes on the dining table.

‘You aren’t disturbing me,’ said Theo, not entirely truthfully, but wanting to talk to this man who, according to Sister Catherine, had ‘admired’ Charmery. Had he done more than just admire her? Was he the kind of man Charmery might have found attractive?