Property of a Lady (28 page)

‘I’m dreadfully sorry,’ said Michael, making a mental note to look out for the second years in question and treat them to a large drink each, and to double the porter’s Christmas tip.

He swallowed two paracetamol, wished he had not drunk the Dean’s hock and Owen’s claret on the same day, and finally got to bed shortly before one a.m.

Next morning he got up early and went into several of the Oxford bookshops to find something for Nell and Beth for Christmas. It had better not be anything too elaborate or expensive in case it made Nell feel awkward, but he would like to find something.

The trouble with bookshops was that you always spent more time and usually more money in them than you intended. By lunchtime Michael was still only on the third shop and had already acquired six books. It was not until he had chased away the lingering memory of the Dean’s hock and Owen’s claret with a cup of strong coffee that he found a framed print from a John Tenniel illustration, intended for the first publication of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, but never actually used in the book. It showed the Cheshire Cat, looking extremely pleased with itself, lying under a tree and Alice standing over it, waving a severe and admonitory finger. Michael loved it, and he thought Beth in particular would love it as well. The frame was slightly scuffed, but the shop offered to clean it up a bit. An application of Danish oil, then a good buffing with beeswax and turpentine. Would tomorrow morning be convenient for it to be collected?

‘It would indeed,’ said Michael, and he left a deposit and his name.

When he got back there was an email from Nell, attaching an article she had found about William Lee. ‘You’ll see,’ she had written, ‘that his death conforms to all the traditions of hauntings. And his description of the “burglar” is eerily like the man you saw. I’ve found another piece of jigsaw as well – it’s interesting but probably not relevant, so I’ll save it until you’re here. Beth and I have decorated the shop; Beth thinks it looks pretty cool, and I hope it looks like something out of Dickens. Our Open Day is on Monday, and there’s a glass of mulled wine and a mince pie with your name on it.’

Michael would certainly look in for the mulled wine and the mince pie, and he would book the promised lunch for the three of them for Tuesday or Wednesday. He remembered to phone the Black Boar to confirm his reservation and the reservations for Jack and Liz, tried to reach Jack yet again, then gave up.

He drove to Marston Lacy two days later, the framed print, wrapped by the shop, carefully stowed in the back of the car.

Nell’s shop did indeed look like something out of Dickens. Michael stood in the street for a moment, enjoying the scarlet and gold decorations and the glinting candlelight reflecting on the spun-glass stars and globes. The inside looked fairly full of people, and it looked as if quite a number were buying as well.

When he went in, the warm scent of cloves and cinnamon from the huge tureen of mulled wine greeted him. There was a buzz of conversation from the people, and music was playing quietly but pleasantly. After a moment Michael identified it as Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker Suite.

Nell was absorbed in discussing something with two of the guests, but Beth saw him and came over. She was wearing a garnet-coloured dress, which gave her a Victorian look of her own.

‘I’m allowed to speak to people and offer them a mince pie,’ she confided. ‘But I mustn’t get in the way, ’cos it’s a grown-up party. I didn’t think you counted as a grown-up, however.’

‘I don’t think I do.’

‘Was that rude?’ asked Beth, anxiously.

‘Not a bit.’

‘Have a mince pie? How’s Wilberforce?’ said Beth hopefully.

‘I’d love a mince pie, and Wilberforce has been very bad,’ said Michael, and he saw her face light up with glee, suddenly turning her into a gamine. For the first time he was aware of a pang for the dead Brad West who would never see his daughter grow up. He said, ‘I’ve typed out Wilberforce’s new adventure for you.’

‘Oh, brilliant. Could I have it tonight, d’you suppose? On account of I’m going to a party on my own tomorrow.’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘It’s a party with a girl at school in my class,’ explained Beth. ‘And four of us are staying at her house all night. We might have a midnight feast, only I mustn’t tell Mum about it.’

‘I won’t say a word,’ promised Michael. ‘But I’ll want to know what you had to eat.’

‘Um, OK. Shush, here’s Mum now.’

Each time Michael saw Nell the sight pleased him all over again. Today she was more formally dressed than he had yet seen her: her outfit was the colour of horse chestnuts, and with it she wore a pendant of beaten copper and earrings to match. The colours brought out the red lights in her hair.

She smiled at him. ‘I’m so glad you made it. Is Beth looking after you?’

‘She is, and I’ve had two mince pies and I’m about to head for the mulled wine,’ said Michael promptly. ‘And Beth says she’s going to a party tomorrow night, and your notice on the door says you’re closing the shop on Tuesday, so will you both have lunch with me on Wednesday?’

Beth looked at her mother and Nell said, ‘We’d like that.’

‘How long does today’s party go on?’ asked Michael, glancing at the shop, which by now was quite full.

‘Until six.’

‘It’s a lot of hard work for you.’

‘I’ve got a couple of local girls in, helping,’ said Nell. ‘They’re being very good.’ She paused, then said, ‘You got the email?’

‘Yes, and I’m looking forward to hearing what else you found.’

‘Well, if you feel like coming back for a drink after we close . . . ?’

‘Seven o’clock? Can I bring some food? The Black Boar seems a bit harassed with cooking about half a dozen turkeys, and I shouldn’t think you’ll want to cook after today, will you?’

‘I hadn’t thought about it—’

‘We could order pizza,’ said Beth hopefully, and Michael laughed.

‘You sound like one of my students. Pizza it is. I’ll order for half-past seven.’

The pizzas had been consumed with enthusiasm, and Michael had solemnly viewed some drawings Beth had done of Wilberforce and said they were extraordinary like him. He would take one back for his study at Oxford, he said.

Beth went contentedly to bed, taking with her the story of Wilberforce stuck in the panelling, which Michael had related over the pizzas. Nell had scooped up the pizza boxes and taken them out to the kitchen bin, and Michael had refilled the wine glasses.

‘Nice,’ he said as she came back to the sitting room and curled into a low seat by the fire. ‘Firelight’s traditional for ghost stories, isn’t it? I read the article about William Lee. I’ve been trying to decide if he really did kill Elizabeth.’

‘Twelve good men and true thought he did.’

‘Elvira didn’t seem to believe it, though. That part about how she clung to William’s hand . . .’

‘It’s evocative, isn’t it? But you know,’ said Nell, ‘I don’t think a child would believe a thing like that about her own father. She was almost eight when he was hanged – she’d have known him very well, and she’d remember him quite clearly.’ Her eyes darkened briefly, then she said, ‘Also, most of this information is second-hand, if not third. Harriet’s journal is a memory of something told to her when she was a child.’

‘And the chaplain might have been painting purple patches,’ said Michael, thoughtfully. ‘Elvira said the murderer was still trying to find her. She said his mind had – what did she call it? – touched the black marrow of the world’s history . . . Sorry, I didn’t mean to spook you.’

‘She said she heard him singing as he searched for her,’ said Nell, who had shivered slightly at his words. ‘He sang that song I heard in the churchyard.’

‘Harriet heard that as well. Or,’ said Michael, ‘was Harriet simply dredging up the memory of what Elvira told her? Like Jack thinks Ellie did with Alice. Because that meeting with Elvira clearly made a deep impression on Harriet.’

‘I heard the singing as well,’ pointed out Nell. ‘Oh, but that was after I read Alice’s journal, so maybe I was doing the same thing.’ She paused to drink some more of the wine.

Michael said, ‘Have the police found any trace of the man who took Beth?’

‘No. The policewoman who stayed with me while she was missing – Lisa – phoned yesterday to check she was all right. She said they hadn’t got any leads at all. They’re putting it down to a tramp, I think. Someone who took Beth, then panicked and beat it out of the area. She was left inside the church, by the way. They found traces of hair and shreds of wool from her scarf. There were a few hairs on a kneeler – they think that had been put under her head for a pillow, and a woollen cassock thrown over her. They said she’d have been perfectly snug and warm.’

‘Who put her on that grave, though?’

‘I don’t know. Neither does Inspector Brent. Someone who wanted her to be found, maybe? I suppose,’ said Nell, ‘the tramp theory might even be the truth.’

‘You don’t think so?’

‘What I think is so fantastic I don’t really believe it myself,’ said Nell. ‘A tramp would be horrible, but it’s easier to accept.’ She frowned as if to push away the memories. ‘Tell me what you thought about the article.’

‘One thing that struck me,’ said Michael, ‘was that William’s description of his burglar matched the description of the man I saw in Charect House that day. It matches Harriet’s description of the man who stood over her that day, as well.’

‘Then it wasn’t William either of you saw?’

‘It doesn’t seem like it. But if William was hanged for a crime he didn’t commit, it certainly gives him one of the classic reasons for haunting. D’you know, I don’t believe I ever imagined myself discussing ghosts quite so rationally,’ he said wryly. ‘You have a remarkable effect on me, Nell.’

‘It’s more likely the wine,’ she said, after a moment.

‘I expect so. What was the other jigsaw piece you found?’

‘Oh, that. Hold on, I’ll show you.’ She opened the drawer of the desk which housed the laptop and handed him a large envelope.

‘Property deeds?’

‘Yes. I’ve put the relevant one on top. It’s fairly old, so you have to be a bit careful – sorry, you’re probably used to dealing with old books and papers on a day-to-day basis.’

‘Well, not quite,’ said Michael, and he read the transfer of title on top of the deeds. Brooke Crutchley’s name leapt out at him at once, but he looked through the whole list before setting it down on the table. ‘So we’re in his house,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Brooke Crutchley – the man who made that sinister clock.’

‘Yes. And I can’t help thinking – feeling – that he’s at the heart of all this,’ said Nell. She was sitting on a low stool by the fire; the fire painted copper and bronze shadows into her hair, and Michael suddenly found he wanted to reach out and run his hands through her hair and cup her face between his hands.

‘Elvira said the man looking for her was an ordinary man – what was called Everyman.’

‘I remember that as well,’ said Nell, eagerly. ‘She said he enjoyed the company of his fellows and drinking beer with them at the end of his day’s work.’

‘Yes. What kind of man does that sound like to you?’

‘A workman of some kind,’ said Nell. ‘Not a labourer, exactly. Not someone who dug ditches or worked in the fields. Someone who worked with his hands.’

‘An artisan? A skilled craftsman?’

‘Yes.’ She turned from her contemplation of the fire to stare at him. ‘A cabinet maker,’ she said slowly. ‘Or a tailor or jeweller or stonemason. Or—’ She broke off, her eyes widening.

‘Or a clockmaker,’ said Michael.

TWENTY-TWO

‘
B
ut
,’ said Nell, for the tenth time, ‘how does that get us any further?’

‘Do we really need to get any further?’

‘I think we do if we can. There’s still Ellie to think of. And there’s what happened to Beth.’

‘If we could find out what happened to Brooke Crutchley, that might give us a start,’ said Michael. ‘All we know is that he lived here – presumably he worked in the outbuildings behind the shop – and that he vanished and was presumed dead after— Wait a minute, how long was it?’

‘Seven years,’ said Nell. ‘I think that’s fairly standard in law for presumption of death.’ She had made a pot of coffee half an hour earlier, and they were still drinking it.

‘There’d have been a search for him, I should think,’ said Michael. ‘He sounds as if he was a well-known figure – modestly prosperous too, I should think. This house isn’t exactly a hovel, is it?’

‘No, and that auction catalogue refers to him as one of a famous clockmaking family. It was quite a reputable trade,’ said Nell. ‘Very skilled, and he’d have to have a knowledge of the mechanical side of things. Almost a jeweller on that score.’

‘They’d have searched this house for him,’ said Michael, leaning back in his chair and looking round the room. ‘So I shouldn’t think there’d be any clues after all this time. Even so . . .’ He frowned. ‘Nell, you might hate this, but I’d like to have a really thorough look at this place.’

‘You can scour it from top to bottom if it will solve the ghost,’ said Nell. ‘I was going to close the shop at lunchtime, and Beth’s going to her party at four. It might be better to do it while she’s not here.’ She smiled. ‘They’re planning a midnight feast at her party. She thinks I don’t know, so I’m not letting on that I do because that’s part of the fun for her.’