(1992) Prophecy (13 page)

A bird flew past one of the windows and its shadow skated along the wall. The total silence struck her. A
floorboard creaked as she stepped on it and she moved forwards, treading more lightly so that Edward wouldn’t hear her.

The handkerchief was lying on the floor beneath the ping-pong table and she picked it up and removed a bit of fluff from it. A sad room, she thought, staring around, and tried to imagine Edward playing up there on his own. There was an old rocking-horse, perhaps Victorian; it had probably been here for years, and generations of young Halkins had played on it. Oliver. Oliver’s father.

She walked over to the bookshelves and looked at the titles.
William. Jennings. The Famous Five. Biggles
. Old books, some with their covers torn, others with no covers. There were some she used to read herself:
Grimm’s Fairy Tales
and
Struwwelpeter
and the
Eagle Annual
and the
Beano Bumper Book
. Then she noticed a photo album and pulled it out.

It was heavy and she laid it down on the ping-pong table to open it. The first picture was a colour photograph of a naked baby lying on its back, gurgling, arms and legs raised in the air.

‘Edward. 2 days,’ was handwritten in black ink beneath.

She turned the thick page. There were various photographs of Edward’s mother cuddling him in a hospital bed. She was fascinated to see this younger version of the Sarah Henrietta Louise she’d already seen in the kitchen collage. She noted the same poise, the same classic features, which made her feel rather plain in comparison. Her suspicions about Oliver’s motives in inviting her down began to return. She turned on, through scenes of Edward growing up. She studied them closely, also trying to see his expression, searching for clues about his strange behaviour. Finding none.

As she turned the last page, she saw, folded in the back, a newspaper cutting. Curious, she opened it. It was from the
Mid-Sussex Times
, and dated 10th August 1991. An article in the centre of the page had been ringed with a red pen. Its headline read:
SUSSEX MAN SHOT IN US STREET HORROR.

She began reading.

Frannie stopped and went to the start of the article again to make sure her eyes weren’t deceiving her.
Jonathan Mountjoy
. But there was no mistaking his face in the photograph; it must have been taken around the time they were at university, or else he had not changed. The serious looks, almost gaunt with his high cheekbones and short black hair. A kind face. His colleagues were right; he was a brilliant young man, even if he had always seemed to be in a permanent dream.

She remembered Seb Holland in the restaurant last night, telling her about Jonathan’s death. A curl of anxiety travelled through her as she remembered
Edward in the kitchen earlier, scanning through the newspapers as if looking for something. Had he cut it out? Or was it Oliver, thinking it would be of interest to her? The print blurred. Confused thoughts whirled through her mind. Oliver cutting it out did not make any sense. He would have shown it to her if he had seen it in the paper, surely, not hidden it in his son’s photo album. And the article was a few weeks old.

She folded it up again and replaced the album on the bookshelf. Then she decided to have a bath, hoping Oliver might’ve returned when she’d finished.

She had a quick bath, then combed her hair, tugging the tangles free. Dark olive eyes stared back from the mirror. Frightened eyes. They watched the reflection of the closed door behind her. Maybe Jonathan Mountjoy was a relative of the Halkins? A cousin? But if that was the case, why had Oliver not mentioned it at the time?

Maybe it was just coincidence. Things happened that way sometimes. She remembered Oliver’s words:
Coincidences make me uneasy
…
I’m not sure there is such a thing as a meaningless coincidence
.

She dabbed the shine from her nose. Some people were scared of spiders; some of flying; of darkness; of the number 13; everyone had something they were scared of. Oliver Halkin happened to be scared of coincidences. That did not mean she had to be.

Oliver was waiting for her in the kitchen as she’d hoped. Captain Kirk was asleep on the floor in front of the Aga. ‘Edward finally released you?’ he asked, winking at her.

‘Just.’

‘I’m sorry you got lumbered.’

‘He’s been good company.’ She hesitated, wanting to ask Oliver about Edward’s strange silences but not able to think of a way of doing so tactfully.

‘Would you like some tea – or something stronger?’

‘I’d love some tea.’ Her eyes fell on the stainless-steel draining-board and she swallowed at the memory of the fingers that had lain there a few hours earlier on the bloodstained tea towel.

‘Ordinary or Earl Grey?’

‘Earl Grey, please.’ She watched his face. ‘Does the name Jonathan Mountjoy mean anything to you?’

‘Jonathan Mountjoy?’ He pulled a tea-bag out of a tin, dropped it into a mug and then poured from the heavy kettle. ‘Jonathan Mountjoy,’ he said again with a slight frown. ‘I think I recognize the name.’

‘Last night,’ she said.

‘Ah! Was it the name of the chap – your friend – who was killed by a mugger?’

‘Yes.’ There was nothing that she could read in his expression at all.

‘Why?’

She blushed. ‘I – I got the impression that his name rang a bell with you, that’s all.’

He shook his head. ‘So where did you go this afternoon?’

‘We went first to the chapel.’

‘Oh?’ Oliver pulled a tin out of a cupboard. ‘Like a piece of cake?’

‘No, thanks.’ She eyed the spaniel. ‘How old is Captain Kirk?’

Oliver thought for a moment. ‘About three.’

‘Is he OK with Edward?’

‘Good as gold.’ He hesitated. ‘Why?’

‘I thought he was going to attack him this afternoon.’

Oliver shook his head. ‘He has got a bit of a sharp streak – he had a go at some gypsies last weekend, but he wouldn’t touch Edward. He –’

‘May I watch a video please, Daddy?’

Edward came in holding a Game Boy in his hand, and knelt beside Captain Kirk, who was stretched out on the floor, crooked his arm around the dog’s neck and pressed his cheek against him. ‘You’d like to watch a video, wouldn’t you, Captain Kirk?’

‘What do you want to see?’ Oliver said.

‘
Terminator
2.’

Frannie watched the dog warily, but it licked Edward’s face affectionately with no trace of its previous display. Oliver bent and tousled the boy’s hair. ‘All right. I’m going to show Frannie round the house. What do you want for supper tonight?’

As he removed his hand, Edward tidied his hair with a faint look of annoyance. ‘Fish fingers,’ he said. ‘Captain Kirk likes them,’ he said, looking at the dog fondly. ‘Don’t you?’ He pressed his nose against the dog’s.

Frannie looked at Edward curiously, wondering if the boy was being deliberately tasteless or not.

‘I think we’ve had enough of fingers for one day.’

Edward looked crestfallen. ‘Why?’

‘I don’t even know if we have any.’

Edward’s face fell further. ‘I
want
fish fingers; please, Daddy.’

He stomped his foot and Frannie felt uncomfortable, as if it was her fault he was overtired.

‘OK. OK.’

Tears began to trickle down Edward’s cheek. Frannie’s heart went out to him. Perhaps the loss of his mother was still affecting him. Maybe that explained his behaviour. But not the news cutting. She caught Oliver’s eye and he smiled wistfully back at her. A glint of sunshine slipped from an upstairs window across the courtyard, as if a light had been switched out. Edward cradled Captain Kirk tightly to him again, rocking backwards and forwards, tears flowing thickly. Oliver spooned the bag from Frannie’s tea and raised the milk bottle as if it were a question mark. She nodded.

Oliver watched Edward for some moments, then
rested a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. Edward spoke without looking up at him.

‘I’m scared, Daddy,’ he said.

‘It’s OK,’ his father replied. ‘It’s OK.’ He handed Frannie her tea and gave her a weary smile, then he picked Edward up in his arms. ‘Who’s a tired boy? Sure you want to see a movie and don’t want to go to bed?’

‘See
Terminator
2.’

Oliver winked at Frannie and carried the boy out of the room and down the corridor. Captain Kirk followed, excited.

Frannie sat at the table and blew on her tea, thinking of Edward’s strange remark to his father.
Scared
. She wondered what of?

Oliver took Frannie round the downstairs first, starting in the basement, showing her the old, disused kitchens with their massive ovens and small high windows that reminded her of the ones in the nursery. She trailed along beside him, feeling slightly awkward, as if she were a sightseer; she was still very uncertain about her role. Upstairs, he showed her a bedroom with a roped-off four-poster where Oliver Cromwell had once spent the night. But it was the objects in the rooms that really captivated her. They seemed to be walking through an endless treasure trove. She recognized an Etruscan bronze mirror just for starters.

On the first floor they went into a long oak-panelled gallery. There were tapestried window-seats, elegant sofas, large tables on which open photograph albums of the family’s history lay. The rich pinky-yellow glow of the sun filled the room with an ethereal light that the polished oak floor reflected like the surface of a lake. Massive chandeliers hung above it, each arm ornately wrought into the shape of a wyvern.

‘Incredible,’ she said, stopping in appreciation. She breathed in the rich warm smell of the wood and was aware of the complete silence.

‘I think you’re incredible,’ Oliver said, putting his arm around her, surprising her.

‘Me?’

He pulled her gently towards him. ‘Yes.’

She turned to face him and smiled. ‘I’m not. I’m very ordinary.’ She watched his blue eyes that were staring straight into hers, and felt the strength of his arm around her.

‘I say you’re incredible,’ he said again. ‘And you’re very lovely.’ He squeezed her tighter.

Frannie flushed with elation, and experienced a sudden, intensely erotic pang of desire for him. He released her to walk over to a glass showcase and she followed him. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I think you’re very lovely too.’ Their shoulders were touching and there was a peacefulness between them; the same easiness again now as there had been when they had left the restaurant last night.

On the wall above them was a portrait of a man in seventeenth-century clothing. His head rose from the ermine collar of a purple velvet robe. The expression on his face was cold, preening arrogance. Thin lips were compressed into an inquisitor’s smile. His shoulder-length hair was brushed immaculately in King Charles curls and tiny hands, the size of a child’s, clasped a book to his chest. The same book, she realized, that now lay in the showcase on a velvet pad, its faded ink handwritten on what looked like badly preserved vellum. The writing was almost illegible, even without the failing light, and in a language she did not recognize.

Oliver moved and his shadow fell across the glass
and the book beneath. ‘That’s the one thing I really wish I did not own.’

‘This book?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why? What is it?’ There was a typed card in a mounting on the outside of the cabinet. It said:
Maleficarium
. c.1650
AD.

‘An instruction manual of satanic rituals. It’s supposed to be written on human skin.’

‘Seriously?’

‘That’s what the family has always believed. I’ve no idea whether it’s true.’

She leaned forward with morbid interest. It was as beautifully crafted as it was hideous. She stared at the grain of the pages, tiny criss-cross lines; the colour was a repugnant dark brown. She peered closer, revulsion spreading through her. Frannie had seen preserved human skin on mummies and on tribal artefacts. It always looked leathery, like this. ‘Have you ever had anyone test it?’

‘No.’

‘I could get it done for you.’

There was an expression of wariness on his face. ‘I’m not sure I really want to know. It’s a bloody evil thing whatever it is. I’ve never even touched it and I don’t think I want to.’

‘What’s the history behind it?’

‘It was written by one of my ancestors – the second Marquess.’ He nodded at the portrait.

‘That’s him?’

‘Yes. Lord Francis Halkin.’

‘Is he the only Marquess who’s not buried in your family chapel?’

He frowned. ‘How do you know that?’

‘Edward told me when he was showing me the chapel.’

His expression darkened. ‘He was a fairly evil man by all accounts.’ He eyed the book uncomfortably. ‘He was into witchcraft. Black magic. A whole raft of things. He was a sort of follower of Gilles de Rais.’

‘I know the name. Who was he?’

‘A rather unsavoury Frenchman who liked to have sex with small boys and cut their throats during the act.’

Oliver moved and as his shadow slipped away from the book, the effect made it appear for a moment as if the skin were breathing, and Frannie turned away also, unsettled, not wanting to stand near the cabinet any more. A floorboard creaked as her weight shifted.

He dug his hands in his pockets. The sunlight in the room seemed to be incongruous. She followed him as he walked slowly on. ‘Gilles de Rais is reputed to have killed over nine hundred boys – the world’s worst ever serial killer. I don’t know how many the second Marquess killed. Nor where he got his writing-paper from.’ He stopped and turned towards her. ‘I can never take the notion of aristocracy too seriously. None of us are descended from terribly nice people.’