The Empty Frame (10 page)

He decided to go for a safe, neutral remark,
encouraged by Arthur, who was now trying to drape himself round the old lady's neck like a scarf. “He really likes you,” he said, “and he doesn't seem to like everybody.”

She smiled again. “Well, cats are canny creatures. They respond to the good things in people but they sniff out the bad too.”

“He was terrified the night we came,” Magnus said. “When I heard the woman crying and when the cold mist came, he sort of went rigid, then he bolted.”

“But were
you
afraid?” asked Miss Adeline.

“Only at first. Now I think she knows we're here. I think she may be trying to get through to us.”

“Yes. That may well be why you've come to the Abbey,” said Miss Adeline softly. “I have noticed that she is always
most
active when there are young people around. That girl who fell from the window could have been indulging in wild horseplay – and thank God she wasn't killed – but it could have been something to do with Lady Alice. She might have simply terrified the girl out of her wits.”

She turned to Sam. “I notice that, so far, you have said nothing Samuel. I'm just wondering why you are sitting there so quietly. Do you think all this is sheer gobbledegook?”

“Not necessarily,” Sam said, cautiously. “It's just that I've never seen a ghost.”

“But neither have I.”

“
I
don't expect to.”

“Fair enough. So, do you find all this talk rather tiresome?”

“Oh no. As a matter of fact I think the whole theory of ghosts is quite interesting, in itself. But you don't have to believe it's true. It's like religion, in that way.”

“Do you know anything of the theory, Samuel?”

“Well, I do know it's all to do with time, so that when, for example, a ghost walks through a wall, it's because, in their time, the wall wasn't there. But it's more complicated than that, isn't it? I heard someone say once that we are ghosts ourselves and that our lives have already happened, that somebody's just playing them back to us, perhaps the very people we think of as ‘ghosts'. I get lost at that point.”

“I think we all do, Samuel,” said Miss Adeline. “So, what else can you tell me about ghosts?”

“Well, I've noticed that ghost stories are nearly always about horrible things, brutal murders and ghastly accidents. There don't seem to be many nice ghosts around, quietly minding their own business. Ghosts are always banging and thumping and rattling their chains – or crying, like the ghost in the Abbey.”

Magnus said, “That's because violence always seems to attract them. I mean, when something awful has happened in a place it's as if the stones themselves
absorb it. It doesn't seem to settle down into history in the same way as an ordinary, peaceful event. Sometimes, like in the Abbey, it
never
seems to settle down.”

“Unless—” began Miss Adeline.

“Unless what?” Magnus demanded. He really sounded quite rude. But she'd made exactly this kind of tantalising remark yesterday.

“Unless the dead are laid to rest.”

“But we don't even know if there is a ‘dead'. I mean, that boy William Neale may never have existed. It could all be made up.” Magnus was feeling more and more frustrated now. He felt like screaming.

The old lady withdrew into her deep wing chair and sat silent. The three children were silent too, and the atmosphere had definitely changed. There was a tension in the air, and a growing sense of expectancy.

After a few seconds, Miss Adeline sat forward and thrust her face up at them. “Can I trust you?” she said, and Floss remembered that she had asked exactly the same question yesterday, before showing them the fragment of Queen Elizabeth's dress. But this time it sounded more like “I have decided to trust you”. And she was right because, before they could reply, the old lady unzipped her bag which was sharing her lap with Arthur, and took out something wrapped in white tissue paper.

“This is the key to the tunnel under the river,” she said, “and I believe” – and here she laughed to herself – “that it may also be the key to the lifelong sorrows of the Abbey. But please, do be prepared to be disappointed. It's a very long time since anybody went there. I have held this key since my brother Maurice's death. Samuel, you are to have charge of it as you are the oldest of the three.”

Sam took the small white-wrapped parcel in trembling hands. “But Miss Adeline, what are we actually looking for?”

“I am no longer sure. My brother put his childish treasures there once, in a chamber in the middle, where the river is deepest. There may still be something there… there may be other things, things I didn't know about… But I can't remember. Did I return alone, after his death? It's so very long ago… but there
was
something in the tunnel, some clue to it all.

“All I will tell you is that when you have found the answer, you will know that you have found it. And Samuel, I'm going to pray that you will. As you said, religion is interesting in itself but you don't have to believe that a word of it is true. It's just that I happen to believe that it is.”

If Sam had been rather less excited at that moment he would have interpreted the old lady's last remark as a snub. But the weight of what felt like a very large key in his pocket was focusing his thoughts on other, more exciting things.

Firstly, there must
be
a tunnel, because here was the key to the entrance, a tunnel which went under a river, a proper tunnel made with hands, not something bored out by machines to get cars in a quick orderly fashion from A to B. Secondly, this tunnel was hundreds of years old and must have been there at least in the days of Elizabeth the First, if there was any truth in the story of the young tutor trying to get little William away from the Abbey.

Sam didn't really expect to find anything in the tunnel which would make particular sense of the ghost story, and of the figure of Lady Alice Neale which was supposed to haunt the Abbey, because he didn't believe in such things. He could see that his sister might, and Magnus almost certainly did. Floss was romantic and saw things when she wanted to see them, and Magnus was beyond his understanding. Nothing about him was
a surprise. What excited Sam about exploring the tunnel was very straightforward. It was, simply, that it was
there
like Mount Everest. It had the same fascination and challenge as a high mountain, or a seaside cave cut off at high tide, or a really massive tree which, merely to climb, was a complex and daring exercise.

He suspected that Magnus was probably furious at his being put in charge of the key because it was Magnus who had chatted up Miss Adeline. Floss was probably annoyed too, she'd think they should all be equally responsible for the key. In fact, she'd probably suggest they take turns to guard the key at nights. But as they walked back to the Abbey, Sam had a wicked but rather appealing thought. Why didn't he just slip off at some point and find the entrance to the tunnel on his own? They couldn't stop him. He needn't even tell them where he was going.

It would have been horribly frustrating having to go sedately down the river with Wilf and Cousin Maude, had the tunnel entrance not been quite near the bank. This meant that the picnic expedition was a good chance to do a “preliminary reconnoitre” as the Colonel might have put it.

Miss Adeline had told them that the tunnel entrance had originally been in the house and that you got into it in one of the outlying cellars. But, long before her time,
this internal entrance had been filled in. So that portion of the tunnel that went from the house to the river was inaccessible now, and nobody had ever excavated to find it. Her entrance, therefore, hers and Maurice's was a much later construction. She had told them to look for something flat, a lid with a ring set into it, and a lock. They might not need the key, she said. The lock might have corroded into nothing long ago.

After lunch, Wilf and Cousin Maude disappeared, Floss suspected for naps. She and Magnus snoozed for a bit, too, it was so hot and sticky they didn't have the energy to do much else. But Sam, desperate to be off, had paced about like something in a cage, checking every other minute on the key in his pocket. He went down to inspect progress at the foot of the turret, to pass the time, but discovered that the workmen, having constructed a temporary WC for themselves, and hidden it coyly under a tree, had gone away again.

An hour after lunch everybody met up outside the front door. Maude had brought rugs to sit on, and umbrellas. “These are for the sun, dears,” she explained. “I don't possess parasols, I'm not really the type.”

Floss felt Arthur suddenly brushing against her legs, then running in circles round them all, like a sheep dog herding them all together. “He wants to come with us,” she said. “Perhaps he thinks the picnic hamper's his basket.”

“It is, actually,” Cousin Maude said, slightly embarrassed. “I gave it a good spring clean, though, before putting the sandwiches in.”

A five minute walk, under great trees, brought them to the river and to the boat. Even Magnus, who knew nothing about sailing, could see that the blue dinghy, which was called
Salut d'Amour
, was rather ancient. It had a wide-hipped, middle-aged appearance and was pleasantly battered-looking.

“She's watertight, if that's what you're wondering,” Wilf said, slightly on the defensive. He was fond of his old boat. “Give me a hand with the basket, will you? Get in – you, too, Sam – and I'll hand it to you. Then we'll assist the ladies.”

“I can manage, thanks,” Floss said, hitching up her long cotton skirt and stepping straight in, rather heavily. The skirt, her last reminder of the bid to play Lady Macbeth, was pleasantly loose and cool. The boat rocked about and she sat down abruptly, feeling rather foolish. No sooner had she settled herself than Arthur took off from the bank and, with a flying leap, landed in a puddle at the bottom of the boat. They all laughed as he shook his small paws fastidiously.

“Arthur!” said Cousin Maude in dismay. “You
can't
sail down the river with us. You can't swim and you hate water.”

“Oh, he can swim all right,” Wilf said, inspecting the
oars before fitting them into the rowlocks. “Only cats don't
choose
to, that's the thing about cats. Let him come, he can only drown,” he added wickedly.

So they set off down the river, with Arthur draped across Floss's and Magnus's knees, making himself as long as possible because of the heat. Behind them sat Sam and opposite was Cousin Maude with the picnic hamper.

“I'll row to begin with, shall I?” suggested Wilf. “Then someone else can take over. I don't mind. I quite fancy a lazy afternoon.”

“‘While the Colonel's away, Wilf will play…'” said Floss cheekily.

“Something like that,” Wilf answered. “He's staying up in London at his club for a few days. He's given me some time off.”

Magnus, who was getting very fond of Arthur, said, “What if he does jump into the water? I couldn't fish him out, I can't swim that well, yet.”

“I'll save him,” Floss said. “But he's already asleep. It didn't take him long, did it? He's pathetic.”

“No, he's just young, dear,” said Cousin Maude. “He needs lots of little naps. So do the old folk,” and she laughed, then yawned.

It was peaceful, going slowly down the river, and cool for the first time since they'd come to the Abbey. They passed bright fields of wheat, already full and
thick, then greener meadows where cows lay motionless, as if the heat made grazing itself too much of an effort. Gradually, the trees started to close in and Sam, who'd been delighted when Wilf had headed the boat away from the village and therefore in the direction prescribed by Miss Adeline, began to look carefully at the left-hand bank, the bank which formed the modern-day boundary of the Abbey grounds. He was to look for a stand of elm trees which was the first marker. Beyond these, Miss Adeline had explained, the vegetation became very dense and scrubby, “a kind of wild shrubbery” was how she had described it. In the middle of this, fairly near the water's edge, they were to look out for some holly trees and that was where they would find the “plate”, which was the Victorian entrance to the tunnel.

Holly trees.
Sam's heart had sunk when he'd heard that. He'd be scratched to bits trying to find what he was looking for. Were holly trees slow to grow? He very much hoped so. On the other hand they were fully grown trees when Miss Adeline was a girl, so with luck they might have died by now.

Taking a risk he said to Cousin Maude, “Miss Adeline said there were some marvellous elm trees along this bit. Have we passed them yet?”

Maude, who had been dozing, perked up. “Oh yes. I didn't know you were interested in trees, dear?”

“I am,” mumbled Sam, lying through his teeth and hoping the others wouldn't look at him.

“Well, I'm afraid they've gone, dear. Dutch elm disease. It was a terrible tragedy for the English countryside. Look, there are the stumps. You can see how massive the trees must have been. I fully intend to replace them,
and
to clear that tangle of bushes.”

Sam stared in dismay at the dense, dark mass of greenery that took up the river bank for several yards and stretched back from the water as far as the eye could see. He saw Magnus and Floss looking at it too, and he knew what they were all thinking, that hacking a way into that lot would be virtually impossible. They would need serious tools. Well, Wilf would have those, perhaps Cousin Maude had things too. But it was going to take them time, he could see that.

Wilf rowed on and they saw that, beyond the jungle of thick scrub, there was a fork in the river. The main waterway swept on, widening out and passing once more into dappled sunshine. But Wilf took the smaller tributary to the left, steering them under huge grey-green willows out of whose shade a family of ducks appeared, paddling gently on their way, just in front of the dinghy.

Floss clutched at Arthur, but he had seen them and had already taken up a tense crouching position on her lap. After watching them for a minute he stood up on
her knees and made as if to dive in after them, but he stopped mid-way, his muscles suddenly frozen solid, making a defeated little growling noise.

“See what I mean?” Wilf said. “He
knows
it's water and that it's bad news. He won't jump.”

“No, but he's going to be an awful nuisance,” Cousin Maude said. “I think I'll have to pop home with him. He can go in his basket.”

“I'll take him,” Sam said, thinking that he could grab a sandwich, run home with Arthur, then come back to have a private look at that shrubbery.

Wilf was resting on his oars, letting the dinghy drift across what had turned into a pool though it was really a side shoot of the main river which had broadened out to make quite a respectable swimming place, at its broadest part almost the length of the Abbey pool. It ended in a wall of yellowish rock over which water trickled lazily.

“Don't be deceived,” Cousin Maude said. “It can pour down over those rocks like Niagara, when we've had some rain.”

Wilf tied the dinghy to a tree trunk, drove a looped metal stake into the bank and secured it to that too. Then they all climbed out, Magnus and Sam handing up the basket and blankets, Floss proceeding very cautiously because Arthur was now struggling to get free.

“He'll get lost if we let him go,” Cousin Maude said. “I should have shut him in the kitchen. He's not really
old enough yet, to be independent. That's how he got lost the day you arrived.”

“If you'll empty the basket I'll take him back now,” Sam offered.

“Will you bring my swimming things?” Floss said. “I think I might go in later.”

“OK. What about you, Mags?”

“Don't think so.” Magnus didn't know how deep the pool was, and he didn't want to make a fool of himself in front of the others. He was planning to get a lot of practice in first.

Sam shut the lid of the basket down on the mewing kitten, equipped himself with a couple of sandwiches, slipped an apple in his pocket and set off in the direction of the Abbey.

He was able to walk close to the river until he reached the jungle which was supposed to camouflage the entrance to the tunnel, then he had to strike off right, and skirt round it. It was many years since Miss Adeline had played here with her brother Maurice, and gone down into the tunnel. What might then have been little saplings, or plants seeded by the wind or by birds, would have had time to grow up and mature, even to die. She had lived a very long life.

As he rounded the end of the untidy plantation and made his way back towards the river path, he noticed that the Abbey buildings were actually much nearer
than they had realised. It was certainly possible that a tunnel to the river
had
been dug, starting in a corner of an outlying cellar. It reminded him of the true story of
The Wooden Horse
which described how, during World War Two, some English prisoners had escaped from a German camp by digging a tunnel out from the middle. They had used a wooden vaulting horse with a false bottom, to hide in while they were digging. It had always seemed such a fantastic tale to him, but it was absolutely true, and the men had escaped – unlike this pathetic-sounding boy called William Neale. If he had ever existed at all, which Sam still doubted.

As he shifted the cat basket in his arms Arthur mewed rather piteously, and two boys sitting by the river with fishing rods looked round. “Be quiet, Arthur, it's OK,” he whispered. Then, to the boys, “Sorry.” Fishing bored him, but his father liked it, and he knew it was important to move about quietly and not to disturb the fish.

“It's OK,” said one of them casually, opening an old tobacco tin, the kind beloved of Sam's father, the kind which would contain important mysteries to do with flies and maggots. “Not much doing round here. Fish gone on holiday, strikes me.”

Sam walked slowly past and saw, sitting on a fallen tree trunk, perhaps on one of the stricken elms, an old woman who was watching the boys intently. She was thin and, in spite of the stifling heat, was muffled up in
black. Her skirt came down to her ankles. She looked like an ancient widow woman, the kind of old crone he'd seen last year when he'd gone on the school trip to Greece.

Arthur was not happy inside his wicker prison, in fact he now seemed rather disturbed. He had started howling, and chewing at the bars of the tiny window cut out of the front of the basket, desperate to get out. His howling was that of a very frightened animal, hopelessly trapped. Sam didn't like it. It felt cruel, keeping him imprisoned like this. He must get back to the Abbey. “Hello,” he called out, as he walked past the hunched-up figure sitting on the fallen tree. What was this ancient lady doing here, watching two boys fish by a quiet river?

At the sound of Sam's voice, she got slowly to her feet and he saw that she was very tall and very slender. Her hair was plentiful for one so old and carefully and elaborately braided, as if she had just stepped out of some expensive
salon.
Where it was not grey it was the faint colour of strawberries and this told him it must have once been red, like his Aunt Helen's hair.