Dreams of Origami (9 page)

‘People led a very limited existence, you know. A couple of hundred years ago it was not unusual for folk never to set foot outside where they were born. Even when I was young, some of the older people in my village had never been to Cambridge. For those families fortunate enough to own a horse and cart, a trip to market would be the highlight of their year. Labourers, if they went anywhere, walked. People worked and went to church; they married, had children and died, and if they were lucky there was a priest, a midwife and a doctor to see them through. That was life.’

They sat in silence for a while. Lacey looked around the little sitting room, cosy enough for Drew and her. At one time a large family would have been crammed in here, and that was without the bathroom and laundry area built on the back. No electricity or water, and the Fen wind whistling through the holes in the thatched roof.

Drew reached for the olives again. ‘What about the schoolhouse? Do you know when that was built?’

‘The sign over the door says 1815,’ Lacey offers.

‘Yes, that’s right: the same time as the other houses. All down to Samuel Gainsborough Street, bless him. He was concerned with the children’s education, so he provided ongoing funds for the employment of a schoolmaster. There would have already been a school in the village that the parents would have had to pay for; free education didn’t come in until much later. But the new school was dedicated to the education of the farm workers’ children and would be provided free. That would encourage the best workers to seek employment at those farms, so that the whole community would benefit. As was customary, a schoolhouse was built beside it to provide accommodation for the schoolmaster and a small family. The schoolroom was large enough
to take about twenty or so children. Quite adequate, considering there were nine households and, although they bred like rabbits, the infant mortality rate was appalling.’

‘It’s a good solid building,’ says Drew. ‘Street didn’t stint on materials. Those yellow bricks are from the Burwell brick works, and the roofing slate probably came from Suffolk. So the teacher lived here, next door to his pupils and their families?’

‘Yes, the schoolmaster living among the workers was supposed to have a refining influence on the little community. That was Samuel’s theory, anyway. And, in view of his benevolence in all these matters, the lane was thereafter referred to as Samuel Gainsborough Street’s lane.’

‘Shortened to Gainsborough Street. Well I never.’ Another olive shoots across the carpet and Lacey gives Drew a cold stare.

‘Unfortunately, the school was not as successful as he’d hoped,’ Audrey continued. ‘There was some difficulty in retaining a schoolmaster, and eventually, after only a few years, the project was abandoned.’

‘What happened to the schoolhouse after that?’

‘It stood empty for long periods, between being used for a number of business purposes. It’s been a shop and even a pub, I believe. It’s changed hands several times since I’ve been here. When I first came it was a cycle-repair business.’

‘And the Caxtons moved in about six months ago and he set up as a furniture mender.’

‘They prefer to call it antique restoration. And from what I’ve heard he does a good job.’ Audrey drains another glass. ‘I’m not sure there’s much more I can tell you for the moment. But if you want, I’m happy to have a root around. As I said, I was mainly interested in my own property, but it should be possible to locate more about the schoolhouse. I’ll see what else I can turn up.’

‘That would be great, Audrey. I’ll get another bottle of wine.’ Drew heads for the kitchen.

‘I’m so glad you agreed to come this evening.’ Lacey turns her wine glass in her hand. ‘What you’ve told us is fascinating, of course, but
Triss needs friends at the moment and I’m sure she’ll feel easier if she sees us getting on.’

Drew returns, unscrewing the cap off another bottle. ‘You know, I’ve lived here nearly two years and I’d no idea about any of this. Here, let me top that up for you.’

Audrey departed abruptly a few minutes before eight o’clock, saying there was something on the television she didn’t want to miss. Lacey stacks the empty plates next to the sink while Drew finishes off the second bottle. ‘Well, that was enlightening.’

‘Yes, it was, but does it take us any nearer to finding Matthew?’ asks Lacey.

‘Probably not, but you could always do an article about Samuel Gainsborough Street.’

‘That’s true. Still, I’d like to know why the schoolmasters didn’t stay. In fact, it sounds as if a lot of people haven’t been able to settle in that house.’

‘Perhaps Audrey might uncover some dark secret known only to ancient Covington. The curse of the web-footed Fen stalkers. You still up for a meal at the pub?’

‘Aren’t you stuffed full of olives? Or did most of them end up on the floor?’

‘Probably. I’m starving. How do you feel about driving? I had quite a lot of that wine.’

‘Yeah, OK, I only had the one glass. Besides, it’s too far to walk in these heels.’

‘You’re welcome to borrow my wellies.’

D
ETECTIVE INSPECTOR ERIC FLETCHER
lives alone. That is to say, he shares a house with his wife. He earns the money, fixes the loose drainpipes, wires the plug for the new food mixer; she spends the money, cleans the house and cooks his dinner, leaving it on a tray until whatever time he arrives home late from work.

This evening he opened the front door at nine-thirty and hung his jacket over the banisters, as was his custom. Flickering light spilled from the lounge along with the sound of the television, a greeting of laughter and applause that had nothing to do with his homecoming. He collected the tray from the kitchen, warmed the plate in the microwave and took a cold beer from the fridge, carrying them up to his study where he ate in silence. He is still sitting there now, churning over the events of the day.

Most of his thoughts revolve around the Caxton case, spiralling outward to other missing persons who had, or had not, returned, then back in towards that wide-eyed child of a wife. Oh, yes, people go missing all the time, suddenly, inexplicably, and they usually turn up with a rational explanation. Then it’s ‘thank you’ and ‘sorry we’ve wasted your time’. Most of them are time-wasters; not this one, though. He has an instinct, a policeman’s nose that smells out the
genuine, the ones who turn up dead, if they turn up at all.

Unofficially, all missing-person reports are taken seriously and all are presumed to be murder until the person is found. Of course it would never do to let Joe Public know that. In this, as in most cases, Fletcher prefers to trust his intuition. This time it’s telling him that Matthew Caxton did not leave of his own free will. He realized that the first time he entered the schoolhouse, feeling the knowledge seep in through his skin and settle into his bones. He let his sergeant question the wife, while he stood apart from them, deciding whether to believe her or not. He watched her twisting wisps of blonde hair through her fingers, fresh tears swimming in her already swollen eyes. It was feeble, the story she told—no logic to it, no progressive sequence of events. Her husband was here and then he wasn’t and she panicked. Why? And why so soon? People wait, make telephone calls, eliminate possibilities, putting off that moment when the unthinkable must be allowed to take form. Only then is the official report made, and the word ‘missing’ permitted to enter and take control.

It’s been more than three days now. No leads, no trail—nothing. Only a dead baby, a medical history and a suicide attempt. Or was it suicide? People on medication become adept at juggling pills. It all circles back to that little wife with her bloodless face and her painted birds. One of those helpless women who lean, depend, suck the life out of a man. Yes, he’ll go back again tomorrow and talk to her some more. Get her on her own without that Stanton woman hovering around. Then there’s that reporter, the one with the legs. Too smart for her own good, that one. What does she think she’s doing, hanging around Gainsborough Street? What is she whispering in Triss Caxton’s ear? Three women together. He thinks of his own wife downstairs and the river of silence that flows between them.

That’s what he’ll do, go back again tomorrow. And the next day if need be, and the next. Sit at the kitchen table with the wife and her painted birds; feel that itching creeping over his skin, telling him that the whole set-up there is wrong.

Mr Abercrombie rarely closes his curtains. He is not a man to be comfortable in enclosed spaces, especially on these summer nights when the sky stretches out into space and the stars sing about the light years they have witnessed. No diamonds, no velvet screen; Charles Abercrombie knows too much about the nature of the universe to trivialize it with such comparisons. He is well acquainted with the constellations and the distances between galaxies. He knows which are the planets and which are our neighbouring suns, and if a bright star rises on a summer’s evening he can address it by name. At least, he could at one time. Sadly, his eyesight isn’t what it used to be. He accepts that as part of growing old. But, if he concentrates long and hard, his memory fills in the places where each point of light should be. And his memory still holds fast to the names printed on the sky maps: Cassiopeia, Perseus, Andromeda. The words themselves are sufficient to transform the night and to turn back time. Unlike himself, the stars do not change.

From his front window he is tracing the path of the Milky Way, a swathe of light stretching above the rooftops of the houses opposite. His neighbours are either out or asleep, the road in darkness except for a dim pool of yellow cast by a lonely street lamp. Gainsborough Street, normally peaceful, has been full of strangers recently, cars coming and going at all hours, people in uniform. Policemen, at least that’s who they told him they were, the ones who knocked at his door yesterday. They were asking for that young Matthew Caxton. He explained that they’d got the wrong house, advised them to go next door. They didn’t seem to understand. What’s wrong with people these days?

A light catches his eye, the beam of a car’s headlamp as it comes down the road. A small vehicle pulls up opposite. It’s the blue car that he often sees here now, owned by a woman, pretty thing, friend of that young builder…can’t remember his name though he did say what it was. There, he’s getting out of the car, now she’s switching off the lights and the engine while he holds the door open for her. She leans against him and they kiss in the halo of the streetlight before walking to the front door. His arm is around her shoulder and they are laughing gently. Mr Abercrombie smiles, remembering other nights when he was not alone.

As the bedroom light comes on over the road, he turns away, heading for the kitchen at the back of the house where he can look across level fields with only a ragged hedgerow and a few trees to break the skyline. He opens the kitchen window. There are no streetlights in this direction and the sky is alive with stars. And, even if it is only his imagination, there is a certain scent on the evening air that is undeniably Sarah. His Sarah. She, too, knew how to chart the skies. He had taught her well during those long, clear nights when they would lie together, side pressed against side, with the bedroom windows open to the damp air and the moths dusting their faces. He would recite the stars like a rosary, and she would tell them back to him, although whether her passion was for the sky or for him, he was unsure. Perhaps one grew from the other.

‘Charles,’—he can almost hear her voice; she would never shorten his name—‘I know they are rock and gas and flame, but I like to think of them as souls. All the countless souls who have left this Earth and continue to watch us, waiting for us to join them. We’ll be out there with them one day, you’ll see.’ Sarah had an imagination, which he never did. Being a scientist, he left such fanciful ideas to her.

Mr Abercrombie opens his back door. An unseasonable blast of cold air whips around his shoulders. He scarcely notices; discomfort is only to be expected now, with his old bones and his old man’s blood. Sarah never grew old. That is not how he remembers her.
Where are you now, Sarah? Are you out there with the stars, just as you imagined?
He reaches for his coat, a scarf, a walking stick, and makes his way down the path of broken bricks, past the honeysuckle and the night-scented stock, to the wooden bench from where he can watch the constellations rise and turn like a great wheel. And after a while he feels Sarah’s hand upon his arm and the warmth of her pressed against him. He remains very still, not turning his head, or the spell might be broken. And so, hour upon hour, he watches the stars go round as he listens to his Sarah breathing softly by his side.

Gideon is not alone. He is with Cassandra. It is the deep hours of the night and, while his body lies unmoving on his crisp, white bedsheets, he and Cassandra walk beside a lake and watch swan-like birds bend their heads to the bright water. It is hot here, much hotter than in his bedroom. She is holding a broad leaf that she uses as a fan to cool herself. ‘So…Gainsborough Street…What do you think, Gideon?’

‘You know about that? Of course you do. The photograph. But I suspect you know about everything. Tell me about it. What’s going on there?’

‘I’m asking what
you
know. What did you feel? You have one of his tools, don’t you? What did you learn from it?’

After dinner, Gideon had sat out on the balcony watching the river while he finished his glass of wine. The hammer lay on a small table in front of him. Cassandra had taught him how to read objects, to discern the traces of energy left by the wearer of a ring, the owner of a watch. Psychometry—to give it its correct title—works best with metal, although almost any object that has been in close and constant contact, or that has been present at the release of intense energy, can retain an imprint of emotions and events. This was the hammer Matthew had been using that day, moments before whatever it was that happened to him. Gideon placed his glass on the table and picked up the tool, feeling the weight of the head, the coolness of the metal against his palm. The handle was rough and grainy, the original varnish worn away to be replaced by a patina, the grime and sweat of a craftsman at work. He ran his thumb along its length and saw the young man, his soft, blond hair falling over his eyes as he smoothed out the velvet fabric and reached for another tack.

Gideon turns to Cassandra. ‘I think Triss is telling the truth. Matthew Caxton did disappear, but I feel that he’s still alive. Somewhere. I don’t know where. But it’s not only him, is it? I could feel danger. It is spreading out from that place, like those rings on the water.’

They both turn to the lake where birds dip their beaks and concentric circles spread ever wider, chasing each other all the way to the shoreline. Cassandra does not look at him. Instead, she lowers her head, very slightly, and her violet eyes are suddenly darker.

‘Are you going to tell me what’s going on?’ he asked.

‘You will know soon enough. Come, there is work to be done.’ She takes his hand and leads him to a bench, roughly hewn from rock. Between them, on the seat, she lays a sheet of white paper. ‘Make the lotus, Gideon.’

‘Look, I’ve made the damned lotus a hundred times. People are in danger there—I know it and I have to do something about it.’

‘We
are
doing something.’ Her voice is sharp, her eyes are now bright and spark like flint. This is not like her. ‘Now, make the lotus.’

He sighs and turns his gaze to the paper. After a moment a corner curls and folds, a tuck, another fold, and so on until there is a flower. ‘I suppose you want me to unfold it now?’ His voice is sullen, but a moment later the flower opens, unfolds, then lies flat.

‘And where is the lotus now?’ she asks.

He shakes his head.

She lifts the paper, twisting it into a bird, thrusting it at him. ‘Think Gideon, where is the lotus?’

‘I don’t know. Always the same question, and I don’t know what you want me to say. And what the hell has this got to do with what’s happening at Gainsborough Street?’