Out of the Ice (29 page)

So Ingerline’s ghost – not that I believed in ghosts – had been in Erling’s home.

‘Where did Ingerline live?’ I asked.

‘Well, Uncle Olaf lived right next door to my father in the beautiful rose-coloured house, and after Granddad passed away Granny sometimes stayed there; when we were down she stayed in Daddy’s house with us. Other times she went back to her own place.’

‘Was that the orange house?’ I asked, my body tingling as I remembered Ingerline’s portrait.

‘The house opposite? Yes, that one’s hers. It was the grandest place in the village. Granddad Lars made sure of that.’ Helen chuckled. ‘With those fierce portraits. That artist didn’t capture them at all. Missed their spirit, everyone said. Gave us a good old time teasing Granny Inga. She’d wanted another but Granddad wouldn’t spend the money.’

I went through the photos of Erling’s house, the convex Regency mirror on the wall, the furniture sitting snugly, the gramophone and records, and Helen’s eyes welled. ‘Nothing’s changed,’ she said in a hushed voice. ‘Nothing at all. It’s as though we could all be there still, listening to that beautiful music.’ Tears streamed down her face. I remembered how the notes had filled the house when Kate played the gramophone.

‘Oh my word. Daddy just loved classical. And so do I. What I would give to have those records,’ said Helen.

It was an interesting thought. Who did own the records now? Perhaps I could repatriate them to her when my report was done. I could certainly raise the issue with the Council.

‘I might be able to do something about that,’ I said.

‘I would be most grateful. The records and the gramophone. I wouldn’t be able to play them otherwise.’ Helen smiled gently.

‘Wouldn’t that be swell?’ cried Nancy, clapping her hands together.

I continued to screen the photos, moving through the kitchen and upstairs to the bedrooms. ‘This one’s mine,’ said Helen and her face dropped. ‘It’s been stripped. How odd. Why would Daddy have done that?’

I looked at the photo anew. Perhaps Erling hadn’t done it. Had the intruders at Fredelighavn shifted things around? It was entirely possible.

‘Your Dad didn’t bring things back here?’

‘No, he brought nothing. When Fredelighavn closed, it was a very fraught time. Everyone thought the whaling would continue. But one year – 1957 – it just stopped. The politics and the finances and the lack of whales – what they’d call now a perfect storm. When November came round, no one went back. The place was abandoned. But some workers had seen the writing on the wall and already left. They were the ones who moved their stuff. But Daddy and Granny and Uncle Olaf – they were believers. It hit them hard. And if it hadn’t been for the Antarctic Treaty, I think they would have tried to go back. I’m sure they left everything there. Daddy was very clear, and so was Granny. I remember because I was upset. I threw a tantrum – I wanted my things. So I don’t understand what happened to my room at all.’

Her brow was creased, anger brewing. ‘You say no one’s been in?’

‘Not officially.’

‘Well, clearly someone has. My daddy did not dismantle my room. It was a beautiful room. A wonderful hand-made quilt, all my pictures around the walls. No, something’s off here. Who did this?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I wish I did.’

‘You saw a boy – goodness knows who he was, or who he was with. Someone’s tampered with my property. In a zone where no one’s meant to be, in a place where I’m not allowed. Things are amiss down there, aren’t they, Laura?’

Her pale eyes pierced mine.

‘I think so,’ I said.

‘Then you must do something about it.’ Helen sat frowning – she looked spent. Nancy said nothing, but she radiated anger on behalf of her friend. I decided it was not the moment to show photos of the area where they’d said Helen’s brother had died. But before I left I was determined to see the references to the tunnels they’d found in Erling’s notes.

Helen pulled out the pages, her earlier enthusiasm drained. It was just as they’d said: two notes, three years apart, commenting on the state of the tunnels. Frustratingly, there were no details as to where they were.

Helen was white and frail. I felt guilty I’d kept her up.

‘I’m heading to Cape Cod for a night or two, tomorrow,’ I said. ‘If you have time, could you keep looking for more references to the tunnels? But I’d understand if you’ve had enough.’

‘We’ll keep looking, all right,’ said Helen, clear-voiced, and relief surged through me. ‘But now I do need to get to bed. Seeing those photos is like being back there. It’s a lot for me to think about.’ Her pale eyes didn’t tear up this time but Nancy still gave her a tight hug.

As we headed off into the night Helen called, ‘Take care, Laura. Come back safe.’

I went up to my room and emailed Georgia, telling her about the existence of the tunnels, and the story of Helen’s brother Peter falling into the ice near the cinema. I urged her and Kate to check under the stage when they could.

Then I packed. I decided to take everything, even though I was expecting to return. Given a couple of days, I was sure that Helen and Nancy would find more details.

The next morning the shops were hidden in a thick fog as I made my way down Main Street to Straight Wharf. Nancy had given me breakfast but had been keen to get to Helen’s, which I’d encouraged, so today I was alone. I felt a melancholy tug in the silky half-light. I wished I could stay and delve through Erling’s papers and find more about the tunnels. And I was indecisive about the best way to make contact with Snow.

I had plenty of time, so before I reached the end of Main Street I turned left to detour past the whaling museum. It was in a huge old red-brick building, with a white-pillared portico and a sunburst over its double doors. I could just make out on top, shrouded in fog, a viewing deck with a small white- windowed room. A whale was spinning slowly on a weather vane; I could see from its square nose that it was a sperm whale. It was Wednesday morning. Alice from the museum would be back for Saturday, and so should I.

•  •  •

Nantucket Sound was glass-calm as the ferry headed off. I went out onto the top deck and threw a penny back towards the lighthouse as we rounded the point. I didn’t want to risk not returning.

My hire car was waiting where I’d parked it. I fired it up and drove the half-hour route through the Cape to Chatham, which was as pretty today as yesterday. The serenity and uniform beauty of the houses soothed me. I followed the waitress’s instructions to the inn off the main street, turning right by a stately old Methodist church, its steeple shrouded in mist.

The inn was actually a motel – but not a typical string of small rooms lined up like ducks in a row. These were picturesque two-storey cottages arranged around lush gardens and a swimming pool that had been drained in readiness for winter. I parked and went into reception, where I was greeted by a woman with a blonde beehive hairdo, who looked almost identical to the waitress in the cafe except for the hair. As I went through the process of checking in I peered closely – the woman was wearing a wig.

‘Have we met before?’ I finally asked.

‘Yes darling, in the cafe.’ She smiled, swiping a red fingernail over the key to my room. ‘Two-one-two, top floor. You have a gorgeous view to the sea.’

‘You work two jobs?’ I said.

‘Many more than that at this time of year, honey. I’m here and at the cafe, and I clean the houses of the rich people who won’t be back till summer. I’m trying to set up my own company selling kitchenware online, and in my spare time I paint church steeples.’

I laughed, but she was serious.

‘In this economy, off-season, you do everything you can. By training I’m a musician. I’m Wendy Slattery.’ She leaned across and shook my hand. ‘I do a few shows here and there.’

‘I’m Laura,’ I said, but she already knew that from the check-in paperwork. She smiled back graciously.

I found my cottage and carried my bags up the stairs to the top floor, all the time wondering what to make of Wendy; I was certain that she knew things about Snow. I just had to work out how to get her to open up.

Wendy’s description of my room proved accurate: it had a spectacular view out to sea. The water was grey and mist swirled above the surface. I stood gazing at the waves, trying to think how I could contact Snow. Part of me wanted to ring the intercom at his gate and announce myself. I’d take flowers, say I was in the area. But how would I claim to have found his address? It wasn’t in the phone directory – I’d checked.

I sat down on the bed and pulled up my email. There was still nothing from Georgia, so I sent an email to Kate, asking if they’d had a chance to look under the stage for a tunnel entrance, and if she could get Georgia to contact me. Perhaps they were both camping again at Fredelighavn, and were out of range.

My mother had sent more emails, but I wasn’t in the mood to reply, so I didn’t open them.

I went for a drive to Snow’s house, as though it might help me work out the best way to approach him. As I passed, the hedge and evergreen trees hid everything but the roof. I kept driving, and again ended up at the private marina. Fog hung low over the sea. Boats were perched high on the hydraulic double-storey dry dock – they were substantial pleasure craft. Other boats were tied in a canal, slapping gently against their moorings. A man working in a shed saw me. I drove off.

As I went back to town I stopped at the lighthouse with the Coast Guard sign that warned only
authorised personnel
could enter. Opposite down below was a wide, sandy beach, and sea that stretched for miles, limpid grey, peeking through a white shroud. Pale strips of sand bars cut the water. The lighthouse foghorn boomed, startling me. A long beam of light swept through the fog in a yellow arc. Atlantic gulls cried, lonely and forlorn.

I drove on past immaculate mansions with thick green lawns and well-tended gardens. Squirrels played beneath trees, grey feathered tails curled high as they scampered about. On one lawn a large hare wandered, grazing casually.

I parked outside the cafe. I was in luck: Wendy was behind the counter and I was the only customer. I bought a stack of fresh sandwiches and water to take away and ordered a coffee to have there.

‘You visit your friend yet?’ she asked, bringing over my drink. She’d taken off her wig and her hair was thin and lank, tied again in a ponytail. It was unnerving how she ping-ponged between glamorous and plain.

‘He doesn’t exactly know I’m coming.’

Wendy stopped and hovered.

I shrugged. ‘I’ve only met him a few times but I really liked him.’

Wendy pulled up a chair and sat facing me from the next table. ‘Honey, I think you’re barking up the wrong tree there.’

‘So you do know Snow?’

‘The professor? Uh-huh.’

She seemed not remotely worried that she’d lied to me yesterday, or maybe she didn’t remember.

‘I do some cleaning, on account of there’s no lady of the house.’ Wendy pulled her chair closer, scraping it along the timber floor. She lowered her voice and glanced around, even though we were alone. ‘I can see you’re heading for trouble. You’ve got love written all over your face.’

Thank goodness Wendy had an imagination. I thought all I was showing was curiosity.

‘Honey, I don’t think there’s
ever
going to be a lady of the house, if you know what I mean. The professor only lets me clean certain areas, other rooms are closed up tight. He’s very particular. The other day I arrived early and he wasn’t happy about that. I could have sworn I heard teenage boys laughing in the basement. He moved me upstairs quick as you please. You seem like a nice girl. Don’t go getting yourself hurt now.’

A flush burned my neck right up to the tip of my head. Teenage boys laughing in the basement. My flesh crawled. And Snow was in residence, here in Chatham.

‘Sisters need to look out for each other,’ said Wendy, tapping my arm. ‘Am I right?’

‘If there were teenage boys in the basement, do you think you should report him to the police?’ I blurted.

Wendy raised her eyebrows and stared at me. ‘For what? I only
thought
I heard them anyway.’

Before I could speak again, an elderly couple bustled in and Wendy stood up. ‘Just watch yourself, honey,’ she whispered as she ducked back behind the counter to greet the new arrivals.

I left a fifty-dollar tip, hoping I wasn’t stepping outside the bounds of the friendship we seemed to be establishing. As I headed towards the door, feeling shaken by Wendy’s news, she swept the greenbacks off the table.

‘Come again,’ she called.

Back in my car I drove to Snow’s place, parking a little way up the tree-lined street. My mind was racing with the idea of teenage boys in his basement. What was Snow doing to them? But Wendy had said they were laughing. Could they have just been students from Harvard visiting? Wendy hadn’t seen them – how could she tell their age? Except Snow wasn’t at Harvard any more, I reminded myself.

My neck was stiff with tension. I checked my emails. There was nothing from Georgia, but Kate had replied. Georgia was letting her go every day to Fredelighavn to observe the gentoo penguins along the shore from the whaling station. She was happy. She wished she could return to her own Adélies, but Georgia hadn’t wanted to trouble the base by requesting a plane. Rutger and Georgia were still going through the village documenting everything, but for now, Kate was busy with the gentoos and also recording chinstrap penguins and a couple of macaroni penguins. I emailed back asking if I could use the data and if she could also record any whale movement in the harbour.

It made me feel slightly better. Kate’s work would help my report. At least I was moving forward on one front. I opened a sandwich and bit into it – roast beef with a hot mustard kick. It was kind of Georgia to let Kate back in the field but also strange: I would have thought she’d want everyone possible looking for the tunnels.

I kept staring at Snow’s huge white gates, hoping to see him come in or out. I waited until dusk, when I could just glimpse lights coming on.

Once it was dark, I ventured out of the car and walked quickly up the street, grateful that neighbouring houses seemed empty, their owners tucked away in Boston and New York at this chilly time of year. I stopped by the hedge of Snow’s house and peered through the trees.