The Silence (3 page)

‘We could send out for pizzas,’ said Beth hopefully, as Nell wrestled with the gas cooker. Beth loved sending out for pizzas which she considered a grown-up thing.

‘There’s no phone and the mobile signal isn’t working – I tried a few minutes ago.’

‘We could
drive
out for pizzas,’ said Beth, not to be daunted.

But the gas cooker worked. ‘It’s looking good,’ said Nell. ‘Let’s see if the gas fires work. It might be cold later.’

Two of the rooms had gas fires; one in a small sitting room overlooking the gardens, the other in the music room. They looked to be the same vintage as the cooker, but they both leapt reassuringly into life. Nell sat back on her knees in front of the piano, the gas fire leaping warmly, and smiled. ‘Two days of candlelight, then.’

‘Good.’

‘Let’s sort out the bedrooms now.’

The bedrooms were large and Beth wrinkled her nose at the furniture.

‘It’s pretty grim, isn’t it?’

‘People pay money for grimness these days. And some of it’s beautiful,’ said Nell, running her hands over a small bow-fronted bureau.

In a small room overlooking the back of the house were bookcases filled with children’s books. Beth instantly sat down to examine these, and Nell saw that the titles and authors were from the 1930s and 1940s. Enid Blyton’s school stories and some of the Greyfriars books. There were also some Elinor Brent-Dyer and Angela Brazil titles; Nell thought Brent-Dyer went back to the 1920s, and Angela Brazil was as far back as 1910. She would look more closely later, to see if there were any first editions. She paused, looking about her. Had this been Brad’s room when he stayed here? Had he gone to sleep reading one of those books about long-ago childhoods, and had he woken to that view over the lanes?

Leaving Beth among the jolly hockey sticks of Blyton’s and Brazil’s girl boarders, she investigated the other bedrooms. A large one at the side of the house had twin beds, and Nell thought she and Beth could sleep here. And by the time they had spread the sleeping bags on the beds, eaten a picnic lunch and explored Stilter House more fully, it began to feel friendlier. Nell made a start on the inventory, working through the rooms systematically.

It was annoying to find it was impossible to make a phone call, though. The mobile signal appeared to be out of range, and the landline was disconnected, of course. But there would be a phone box in the village or at the local pub, and Nell could phone Michael from there tomorrow. She was glad that at least she had left him a message earlier on, so he would know they had got here.

Edinburgh,

April 20—

Dear Emily,

A nice note this morning from Nell West to say they’re setting off for Stilter House on Monday. She will provide a list of anything she thinks is worth selling through the conventional antiques circuit, together with photographs and an estimate of the figures we can hope to achieve. She’s going to stay at Stilter for a couple of nights while she makes an inventory; it sounds as if she likes the idea of Beth seeing the house where Brad used to stay as a child.

She seems interested in the house’s history – she says all houses have a story to tell and she likes trying to find those stories – and she’s going to read the copies I sent her of those old letters and accounts Ralph West kept. She says if there are any receipts it might help date some of the contents and provide a provenance. I haven’t said anything about the blue and white Minton, because we both know the story of how
that
was supposed to have been acquired. Personally, I never believed it of Charlotte’s mother – she was far too ladylike to smuggle out an entire Minton dinner service during a Townswomen’s Guild tour of the china factory. There are thirty-two pieces, for goodness’ sake!

In answer to your question, no, I have not told Nell about Esmond. As you know, I was always firmly of the opinion that Charlotte imagined all of that.

I certainly do
not
think you should try cosmic surgery for your leg, whatever cosmic surgery may be. It sounds extremely suspicious. Have you thought of acupuncture? I believe the Chinese are very wise in these matters.

Fondest love,

   Margery

Edinburgh,

April 20—

Dear Emily,

I like your suggestion that we make a small bequest to Beth. I’ll ask Nell to look for something in the house that can be kept until she’s older. And we might set up a small savings account for her with a portion of the house sale proceeds.

But I think you’re overreacting in saying Nell shouldn’t stay at the house after dark, and that Beth shouldn’t go to the house at all. But you were always given to dramatic behaviour – that’s not a criticism, dear, just a statement of fact. Nell and Beth will be perfectly all right.

   Margery

M
ichael Flint had had a mixed weekend. It was the last few days of Hilary Term, with all the end of term activities enlivening Oriel College. Students wandered in and out to say goodbye, or include him in various farewell activities.

Owen Bracegirdle from the history faculty held a Sunday lunch buffet in his rooms, which had been intended to go on until a decorous mid-afternoon, but ended up lasting until six o’clock. Michael returned to his rooms to learn that Wilberforce had spent his own afternoon in pitched battle with the ginger tomcat belonging to Oriel’s chaplain, with whom he was currently conducting a territorial war. It was unfortunate that this latest battle had taken place in Oriel’s chapel, which, as the porter said, could not have been much more public, and it a Sunday, to boot.

‘And the yowls Wilberforce let out when we hauled him out, Dr Flint – well, you’d have thought he was being gutted for violin strings.’

‘I will gut him for violin strings if he does it again,’ said Michael wrathfully, and bundled the unrepentant Wilberforce into his rooms before seeking out the chaplain to apologize, during which he found himself agreeing to pay the vet’s bill for the ginger tom’s bitten ear.

On the crest of this incident, he wrote a new chapter of the current Wilberforce book, in which the fictional Wilberforce signed up for a Japanese martial arts class, the better to deal with the ever-inventive mice who plagued his life, but found himself in the wrong schoolroom learning Oriental flower-arranging by mistake. Michael emailed this to his editor, intending her to deal with it on Monday, and was slightly disconcerted to get an almost immediate reply saying she was currently in America, but would read the new chapter that evening in her hotel because Wilberforce would make a welcome diversion after schmoozing book buyers and reviewers.

After this he checked his voicemail and was pleased to hear Nell’s voice with a message timed just before ten that morning, telling him they were on the outskirts of Bakewell and they had had an uneventful journey, but the phone signal was getting a bit erratic, so she was sorry if she sounded crackly. She would try to phone again later.

Michael was just relenting so far towards Wilberforce as to give him a bowl of his favourite tuna chunks, when the phone rang. He hoped it would be Nell, but it turned out to be Henry Jessel from the silversmith’s shop adjoining Nell’s.

‘Michael, I’m glad to catch you in,’ said Henry. ‘I looked into Nell’s shop earlier – she left me a key and asked me to check answerphone messages fairly often, because she’s hoping to hear from those Japanese customers who might buy that Regency desk. They haven’t phoned, but there’s a message on the machine that I’m worried about, and I don’t know what to do. I tried to phone Nell, but her mobile’s inaccessible.’

‘She left a message earlier saying the signal was erratic,’ said Michael.

‘I dare say there’s acres upon acres up there that are out of reach of a signal. I emailed her as well, but I don’t know if she’s taken her laptop – or if she’d check emails anyway.’

‘I think she was taking it, but she might not check emails until this evening, or even tomorrow,’ said Michael. ‘What’s the worrying phone message?’

‘I think you need to hear it,’ said Henry. ‘Is there any chance you could whizz over?’

‘Now?’

‘Well . . .’

Michael glanced at his watch. It was half past eight. ‘All right, but I’ll have to get a taxi,’ he said. ‘I’ve been sloshing vino at somebody’s lunch since midday. I’ll be there as quickly as I can.’

On the way to Quire Court he tried Nell’s mobile again, but it was still inaccessible. A nearby church clock was chiming nine as he crossed the court; Michael had never identified which church this was, but he always liked hearing it. He liked Quire Court as well, which was a small quadrangle near Brasenose College. He had the feeling that it was one of the corners where fragments of Oxford’s long and vivid history had collected, and that one day those fragments might overflow, in a glorious confused cascade of Norman invasions and Saxon settlements, and civil wars and dreaming poets and quarrelsome academics.

There was a notice on Nell’s shop saying that from Monday to Wednesday all customers should please go to Henry Jessel, at Silver Edges, next door. Michael, who had a key, let himself in, enjoying the familiar scents of old wood and beeswax, and the bowls of dried lavender which Nell always placed on the choicer tables or desks she was selling. At the moment there was a round cherrywood table and a set of chairs in the main window, as well as the Regency desk, earmarked for the Japanese customer.

As he went through to the office at the back of the shop Henry came bustling in, his elderly cherub face worried.

‘I saw you arrive and I’m so glad you’ve come, Michael, because I haven’t known
what
to do.’ He indicated the answerphone. ‘It’s a most peculiar message. The caller phoned twice, I think. The first time she didn’t speak – as if she hadn’t expected to get a recording and it disconcerted her. The second one is about fifteen minutes later.’

‘As if she had to prepare what she was going to say?’

‘That’s what I thought. Here goes.’

As Henry had said, the first call was silent, apart from a faint crackle from the machine. It cut out, then went on to the second one. It was unmistakably an elderly lady’s voice – but it was not the quavery voice of weak old age; it was a vigorous, decisive voice. Michael had the impression that she might be reading from some notes.

‘Nell,’ said the voice. ‘This is Emily West – Brad’s Aunt Emily. I hope you remember me – we met a couple of times, and Margery has arranged for you to list and value the contents of Aunt Charlotte’s house. I’m very glad about that, although I should think it will be quite a task because Charlotte lived at Stilter House since she was born, so there will be a lot of stuff.

‘I have written to you, but as I haven’t heard back I’m concerned my letter might have distressed you. Or perhaps I’ve simply got your address wrong and you haven’t received it yet, which is why I’m phoning. Nell, my dear, I strongly advise you not to stay at Stilter House itself. There’s a very nice pub in Caudle village and they let out perfectly comfortable rooms. It would reassure me very much if I could know you and Beth will stay there.

‘Lots of love to you both. Here’s my phone number in case you haven’t got it. I’ll be away for a few days at a health farm. Only a small place, but I’m told they do some marvellous things. I’ll be back on Thursday.’

The message paused, but Emily West did not hang up. Michael glanced quizzically at Henry, who held up a finger, indicating, Wait.

Emily’s voice came again, a little breathless this time.

‘Please don’t stay at Stilter House, Nell. Because whatever Margery may say, Esmond never left Stilter House. He is still there. Charlotte knew it and I know it. And Beth is so very like Brad was at that age.’

The dial tone returned as Emily hung up, and Michael looked at Henry in bewilderment.

Henry said, ‘You see what I mean? It’s so peculiar, I don’t know whether we ought to tell Nell about it. Always supposing we can reach her.’

‘Nor do I,’ said Michael, frowning. ‘But she was going to stay at the house – Stilter House – I do know that.’

‘Is the call genuine? I mean – is Emily West genuine?’

‘I think so. She’s the elder sister or cousin of the aunt who set this up. That was Margery West.’

‘Emily sounds perfectly lucid and intelligent, doesn’t she?’

‘Well, yes. That last part though – she sounded as if she said all that on an impulse. As if she’d written out what to say, then gave in to some impulse.’

‘That’s what I thought.’

‘Is there a time on the call?’

‘Yes, wait a minute – eleven o’clock this morning,’ said Henry, having peered at the machine’s display screen. ‘Are you going to ring her back?’

‘I think I’d better try. She said she was going away, but I’ll phone her. What time is it – quarter past nine? That’s not too late, is it?’

‘Try anyway.’

But when Michael rang the number Emily West had given, there was no reply.

‘Then she’s gone to her health farm,’ said Henry.

‘I’ll try again in the morning,’ said Michael. ‘And I’ll try Nell again later, but I don’t want to alarm her. I’m sure it’s nothing.’

‘The letter Emily mentioned might turn up tomorrow, as well,’ said Henry. ‘Nell did tell me to open anything addressed to the shop – particularly anything that looked urgent or important. I’ll phone you if it does arrive.’

‘It might give a bit more information,’ said Michael.

‘Do let me know if it’s anything dramatic, won’t you,’ said Henry hopefully. ‘I love a bit of drama, and you don’t get much drama flogging silver and engraving charm bracelets and watches. Well, it depends on what people want engraving. You wouldn’t believe what some of them ask for and half the time they can’t spell it anyway.’

Michael stayed long enough to hear some of the more scurrilous tales about Henry’s customers, then went back to Oriel where he tried Nell’s mobile again but still with no success.

He ate a belated meal in his rooms, and tried to work on Wilberforce again, but Emily West’s phone call kept intruding, and he was aware of an uneasy prickling at the back of his mind.