Maestro (12 page)

Sara hesitated getting out of the car and rolled down the windows instead. She kept her hands firmly on the steering wheel and the engine running. 

"Good morning!" she managed a smile at the young man who nodded back.  "I'm...I'm looking for the Lunn family. Do they live here?" 

Barely twenty or twenty-one, too young to conceal his surprise, the man appeared taken aback by her question. He looked over his shoulder as if seeking confirmation that it was all right to reply. An elderly man, a great mop of silver hair on his head, sleeves rolled up, came out onto the porch. Despite being very tall, he was thin and wiry. Sara observed that he was leaning heavily on a cane. 

She repeated her question. 

The man cupped his hand over his ear as she spoke and yelled back:  "I'm Philip Lunn!" 

The young man who had come out first, retreated into the house and an elderly woman came out. She looked remarkably like Mag, although a much slimmer version. 

Sara switched off the engine and got out of the car. She walked up to the foot of the stairs leading to the porch. 

"You must be Mrs. Lunn," she said smiling at the woman.  

"This is private property," came the stony reply, "What do you want with us?" 

From the words and their delivery, Sara could sense that this woman was both unyielding and unforgiving. 

Mr. Lunn began to retreat into the house, knowing no doubt, that it was best to leave his wife to deal with the unexpected visitor. 

"Please Mr. Lunn!" Sara pleaded, "Please hear me out!" 

Mr. Lunn complied and stood next to his wife, facing Sara. 

"Perhaps.... you could... give me some of your time. Your sister...Mag...would dearly love to see you Mrs. Lunn." 

Mrs. Lunn drew her breath in sharply on hearing her sister's name. 

Sara realised she had given the woman a fright. 

"No. No. Nothing's wrong. She's fine. I didn't mean to frighten you so."  

Mrs. Lunn regained her composure but seemed irritable and annoyed. 

"Say what you want girl. I've not got time to stand around here all day." 

Sara, who could not allow herself to be intimidated, found not knowing what to expect made her situation the more impossible. 

"Your daughter..... Sarah... I've been doing some research..."  

Mr. Lunn turned definitively, to move towards the door. 

Mrs. Lunn's face had turned as white as a sheet. She remained silent, standing perfectly still where she was, her hands resting on the bright white railing. 

Sara forced herself to continue. 

"I don't want to upset you Mrs. Lunn but your sister Mag is convinced that something happened to your daughter. I've become involved. I don't want to upset you but why did you tell the police at the time, Inspector Jay, I mean, that Sarah had gone away?" 

The words rushed out of Sara's mouth as fast as she could think of them, desperate to illicit a response. 

".....but.... everyone in Glymeer....thinks that Gillane was involved. No one knows. There. That's it. No one knows. And I just wanted to know if you knew what happened to Sarah..." 

Mrs. Lunn did not respond. She stayed where she was, listening to the stranger. She remained motionless, listening to Sara's diatribe, her eyes intently fixed on the speaker. 

Finally, Mrs. Lunn spoke in a low voice, her lips hardly moving: 

"You are presumptuous. Now leave." she said, her thin lips curved downwards, concluding the visit. 

With a last glare, she turned her back on the unwelcome stranger and walked towards the door. 

Sara ran up to Mrs. Lunn and grasped her shoulder before she disappeared forever.  

"Why did you say she went away? Where has she gone?" 

Mrs. Lunn dislodged the hand from her shoulder, pulling herself away violently. 

"Get out. Get out!" she hissed standing inside the doorway. 

Sara knew it was over. 

She looked at Mrs. Lunn and the two men standing by now, behind her in the doorway. 

She was close. Something caught her eye. Paintings in the room from where Mr. Lunn and the young lad had just emerged. Paintings like the ones she had seen in Gillane's house.

The journey back to Glymeer was long and arduous. Preoccupied by the day’s events and her encounter with Mrs. Lunn, Sara kept getting lost. 

A small voice inside her head reminded her of the implications of what she had just done. She should leave well enough alone. Leave it alone. 

Whatever had happened to Sarah Lunn almost didn't matter anymore. Sara could not help thinking that Sarah's parents and Gillane had entered into a comfortable complicity. That all three had conspired to conceal a secret. 

The sight of the paintings in the Lunn's house had bowled Sara over. She remembered staggering back to the car, her hand covering her mouth. Before driving away, she had looked up towards the porch where she had confronted Mrs. Lunn. She saw the woman standing at the railing, supremely calm and composed, a glimmer of a smile on her face. Not a smile bidding a friend goodbye but a curled twinge at the corner of the lips. A distortion of a smile. 

When Mrs. Lunn realised that Sara was looking at her, she had withdrawn her hands from the railing and marched into the house. There would be no respite, no second chance for the unwelcome visitor. The talking was over. 

Darkness had descended on Glymeer by the time Sara arrived. John's shop was closed, bolted up, the blinds pulled down, the crates removed. Sara wondered if John would ask her where she had been going to so early in the morning. He might even already know. 

Sara stopped outside the post office. Impulsively, she thought of knocking on Mag's door and telling her what had happened. But that would mean a cup of tea, which she didn't want. She needed a Scotch and a cigarette. What could Mag say anyway? She would be too busy crying. The time for talking was over. Leave it alone. 

There was no sign that Gillane had checked in on her at Downswold during the day. No note on the front door. The upturned, uprooted rose bush still sat forlornly on its head. Sara lifted it up and leaned it against the stone island. 

The cottage smelt dank and musty. Sara heard water dripping and went to check the taps in the bathroom and bedroom. All six taps were tightly shut.  

Sara changed into her dressing gown and washed her face. She went back in to the kitchen to pour herself a drink. The Scotch was better than water, she thought, listening to the drip, drip, drip, echoing around the room. 

The sound seemed to be coming from the cellar.  

"It can wait," Sara muttered, lighting a cigarette. 

The Scotch and cigarette soothed her nerves, releasing her from the edge. She drew up the other kitchen chair and placed her feet on it. She sat there inhaling deeply on her cigarette and sipping her drink. It was late and she should eat. 

The dripping was getting louder. Sara imagined that the cellar must have been flooded with the heavy rain from the night before and the day before that. Two days of rain that had seeped under the house. 

Sara put the stove on and cooked up a couple of sausages. Her diet of fried meat, breakfast, lunch and dinner time, was starting to bore her. She was missing the delis in London. The olives, pitta bread, houmous, calamari, the escargots à la bourguignonne she was so fond of treating herself to, they all belonged to a faraway place. And to her life with Carl. She comforted herself with the idea of buying all of the above and more on her return to London. 

The sputtering sausages had temporarily drowned out the drip, drip, drip. They were ready now and rather than face counting the drops while she ate, Sara put on a cd. Music from the film
Un Coeur en Hiver
. Gentle enough to transport her away from the paucity of her meal. 

Two sausages and three plums had successfully fought off her fatigue. Sara dutifully washed up the dishes and wiped the kitchen table. 

Eight o'clock. She longed for a soak in the bath. 

Un Coeur en Hiver
was midway through. It would be a shame if it finished while she was lying in the bath. 

Sara pressed STOP on the cd player cutting the music off. Just as her finger touched REPEAT, she heard it again. The damn dripping. Louder this time, sharp and dull like a gong. 

Irritated by the sound and frustrated at being denied the chance to rest, Sara abandoned the cd player and went in search of the torchlight. 

She had forgotten which of the kitchen drawers she had scuttled the torchlight into. She opened them all, banging each one shut. When she eventually found it, that drawer got the same treatment. 

She repeated the banging and cursing as she struggled with the lock on the cellar door, her strength diminishing with each bang, kick and curse word. 

"Lift it up! Jam it in! Turn the goddamn key! Turn! Open! Bloody hell!!!" she yelled, cursing the door and herself. 

She wrenched the door open and stood a chair against it. She pulled on the light bulb above her head and shone the torchlight down onto the stairs. 

Her breathing raspy, her chest tight, Sara's feet finally touched the floor. The tunnel of light beaming out of the torch created contorted shadows around the bric à brac strewn over the cellar floor. Her foot knocked against something. She looked down to see the empty wine bottles and kicked them away. She stood in the middle of the cellar flashing the torch around her. The drip was definitely here but she could not see where. 

There was no window in the cellar for the rain to have seeped in. Sara thought of positioning herself under the kitchen sink to see if there was a leaking pipe. The pipes probably ran under the stairs, to the left. Sara walked around first to check the right hand side. Nothing. She went round to the left.  

The light globe at the top of the stairs began to flicker as before and she remembered Gillane and his bloody head. 

She had the torch. It could go out if it wanted. 

Under the left side of the stairs, she saw two great wooden crates filled with rusty spades, hedge clippers and other forgotten objects. Hidden behind the crates, a cupboard built underneath the stairs.   

Giant cobwebs had grown out from the crates and onto the cupboard, the soldier spiders keen to defend their territory from intruders. Sara bent down over the crates to take a closer look. Her face brushing against the cobwebs, she grabbed one of the crates. She managed to dislodge it from the thick layer of dust that had glued it to the floor. The other crate was lighter and she was able to squeeze herself in behind it. 

There was no lock on the cupboard door. Nor was there a keyhole. Two small holes, Sara deduced, were the traces of a handle that had been removed. The door fell flush against the supporting frame of the cupboard, making it impossible to open. Sara rummaged through the crates and found a loose blade from a saw. It was narrow enough to poke along the edge of the cupboard door. The blade slipped in. Sara pushed on it hard and prised the door open. It gave way with a loud squeak. 

Sara held her breath as the door swung towards her, tearing the cobwebs apart, its inhabitants clinging on for dear life. 

There were two objects in the four-foot deep hidden cupboard. A wooden chest and a leather harness of some sort.  

Sara was on her knees, pointing the torch onto the chest, watching the light move along it. Her lungs seemed to ache when she breathed. Summoning up her courage finally, she inched her way towards the chest. She ran her fingers along the ornately carved ivory handle. 

She knew instinctively that the chest belonged to Gillane's secret world. So secret that it would never adorn his home. It would never be put on display amongst the other magnificent pieces she had seen. Instead, it sat here protected by an inept army of spiders. 

Sara's search had led her right into the cellar at Downswold. Every day under her feet, there it lay. Gillane was no master of deception to be discovered so easily. No. He was the Prince of Conceit. 

The dinner at his house, the flowers, the lunch in Goldarn, all done for his personal amusement. Playing with her, she amused him. 

Sara returned her attention to the chest. She latched onto the ivory handle with both hands. It broke apart into three even pieces. Sara looked down incredulously at the pieces of ivory split apart by her thoughtlessness. She felt remorse at destroying such a beautiful thing. 

But it was too late. She felt for the blade that had helped her so far. She slid the blade under the lid moving it slowly around the four sides. Placing her hands on either end of the lid, she heaved open the treasure box. 

The contents looked unremarkable at first glance: an easel and a worn leather suitcase. Sara carefully lifted out the easel. Then the suitcase. It was unlocked, the clasp too rusted with age to secure its contents any more. 

Folded neatly inside was a white cotton lace dress.  

Making a mental note of how the dress had been folded and tucked carefully over the other contents in the suitcase, Sara nervously unfolded the dress. Long, flowing sleeves, a blue satin ribbon tied at the waist. A pretty dress with a certain medieval character.