The Dead of Winter (14 page)

The article noted that in the past five years he had been forced to withdraw from an active role in these enterprises due to ill health and that his business and charitable activities had been run by the office of his Estate Manager, Mr George Weston.

George Weston had been at the original seance, Rina recalled.

The article made no reference to the events of 1872, except to record that Mrs Southam was unable to travel back for her husband's funeral, having been advised by her doctors not to risk the journey from the family's other residence in Rome as her health was too fragile.

‘Sad that she didn't even return to give you a proper send-off,' Rina mused. ‘What happened between you that night? What upset your world so much that she ran away and you locked yourself up in this place from then until you died? Did you even know that George Weston was running everything in your name? Did you give the orders, or did you even care?'

Tired enough to sleep now, Rina went to bed and managed to doze. She dreamed of planchettes and closed rooms and of her younger self in spangles and feathers and not a lot else, stepping into a magician's cabinet, all ready to disappear. And then she dreamt of Patrick's death, his body washed up on the beach not far from her home, and Joy's precipitate arrival into their lives, cold and dripping wet and defiant and very brave despite being scared half to death.

She woke with a start, thinking that someone had knocked on her door, and then, as she lay in bed, trying to sort out the dream reality from the mundane, she heard the bang again – only, it wasn't on her door, it was coming from above her head. Someone was up there in the attic rooms.

Much against her better judgement. Rina got out of bed and pulled on the fluffy pink dressing gown and rather fancy satin slippers that had been a welcome gift from Joy's mother that festive season, and she slipped out into the hall.

She was very aware that she was the sole resident on this floor in this wing and fervently wished she could summon someone to go with her. She should at least take some kind of weapon. Ducking back into her bedroom, she fetched one of the heavy glass candlesticks from the dressing table and set off alone.

ELEVEN

‘
Are you satisfied, Mr Weston?' she asked bitterly. ‘I thought you were my friend.
'

‘
Never, madam,' he said. ‘What possible reason could I have to be a friend of yours?
'

He climbed halfway up the stairs and leant towards her, a broad grin on his face. ‘You should go, madam. Leave here. The scandal will burn for months. It began with the death of Creedy, and now I've added more fuel to the fire. You should leave here before you shame your family name even more.
'

‘
I have done nothing wrong.
'

‘
Of course not, but who is going to believe that? Albert is furious, your friends have seen how you've tried to manipulate him, gone against his wishes. He investigated Mr Creedy's death, he has dealt more than fairly with Creedy's family, and you've gone out of your way to usurp his authority. To shame a good and kindly man.
'

‘
You planned this. From the very start, you planned all this. But why? I don't understand.
'

‘
No, and I doubt you ever will. Just know this, Mrs Southam: you aren't the first young and pretty girl to attract Albert Southam's eye. Just be grateful that you had a family name, an alliance that could be useful to him. Not like my poor mother, who had only what Albert Southam saw. A pretty face and hopes well beyond her station.
'

‘
The master will have forgotten all about it by morning,' she said gently, and Elizabeth, mistress of Aikensthorpe, proud wife of Albert Southam, found herself weeping on the shoulder of a fifteen-year-old girl.

When Rina and the others had left, the arguments had continued. Gail in particular was upset, not only that the circle had been broken and the re-enactment ruined, but also because she insisted there had been someone else in the room ready to communicate.

‘Something or someone was blocking him,' she insisted.

‘Probably Rina,' Toby joked.

‘What did you feel?' Robin was sympathetic and curious.

‘I thought . . . It felt familiar, and yet . . . It
couldn't
be him.'

‘Oh, for goodness' sake, Gail, stop being so mysterious. It adds nothing to your charm. If you've got something to say, then say it,' Professor Franklin said.

‘And you don't need to be so damned rude.'

‘She is right about that, David.' Edwin's voice was soft and tired. ‘Perhaps Jay and Rav are correct too. I've tried to derive meaning from something that was essentially meaningless.'

Viv got up from where she sat next to Robin and crouched down by the old man's chair. ‘Edwin, don't be put off, it really doesn't matter. You did this with all the right intentions. No one thinks anything less of you.'

‘You are very kind, my dear, but I've suddenly been reminded that I'm getting old and that maybe I'm also getting desperate.'

‘Intimations of mortality, Edwin,' Toby joked.

‘Leave him alone.' Viv was on her feet, and she turned angrily on her professor. ‘At least Edwin is still open to ideas. His curiosity is still turned full on. You, I don't think you've had an original idea in your entire life. You're boring, Toby. Tedious. You try to be so clever, so cynical, you put everyone down just because it makes you feel better.'

‘Viv!' Robin was caught between shock and agreement.

‘Now who's being rude.' Toby was laughing at her, but everyone could see that she had touched a nerve.

‘Please,' Edwin said. ‘We should not be fighting like this.'

Robin added his voice. ‘No, we shouldn't. Viv and I are going to bed; we've both had enough for one night.'

Viv opened her mouth as though to argue and then changed her mind. Instead, she turned on Toby yet again. ‘When we get back to uni, I'll be asking for a new supervisor,' she said. ‘And I'll be telling them why.' She marched from the room and Robin chased after her. It seemed to take Toby a moment for her words to sink in.

‘What the hell do you mean, telling them why? Little bitch!' He, too, left the hall, and the door swung shut, cutting off the argument that continued up the stairs.

Melissa sighed and started to load dishes and glasses back on to the tea trolley.

‘Do you need a hand, my dear?'

‘Thanks, Edwin, but I'm fine. I'm going to dump this lot in the kitchen and sort it out in the morning. Later this morning, I mean. I'm guessing it'll be just us lot for breakfast.'

‘I suggest we all turn in,' David Franklin said. ‘We are all feeling a little fragile, it seems.'

‘Good idea,' Edwin agreed. ‘Though . . . Gail, you said there was a familiar feel to the other presence. Can you tell us any more than that?'

She hesitated, and then she said, ‘If I didn't know better, I'd have said it felt like Simeon, Professor Meehan, but he's not dead, is he? He's just gone home.'

TWELVE

R
ina paused at the foot of the attic stairs. Instinct and good sense screamed at her that she should forget about this and go back to bed, but curiosity told her that she wasn't going to be able to sleep even if she did. As usual, curiosity won. She began to ascend, annoyed at stairs that creaked far more than she remembered and oppressed by the smothering silence she recalled from her previous foray. Anyone up there would be sure to hear her coming. She decided to try a different tack: forget about being quiet and just be the guest disturbed by some odd bumps and thumps in the floor above her room.

‘Is there anyone there?' Rina called out. ‘Hello, is everything all right?'

No reply, just the gathering silence, like an audible fog blocking her ears.

Reaching the landing, she pushed open the door to the room used for storage. Nothing appeared to have been disturbed. Once she'd got the second door open and the light switched on, it became obvious that no one had been there recently. Rina herself had probably been the last visitor. She went through to the second room, just to be certain. The debris left by the rewiring still sat on the bed, the fragment of paper still in the grate.

Sighing, Rina turned to leave, and then swore under her breath. ‘You idiot woman, this room isn't above yours. It turns the wrong way.'

She hurried down the stairs, blaming lack of sleep and the events of the evening for fuddling her brain. So where was the stairway to the other attic rooms?

Back on the landing, she remembered that she had seen that other bedroom door left ajar the first evening they had been here. Could that be her answer? She stood and listened, not sure if she really heard the sound of someone up above or if her overstretched nerves now just imagined it. Back along the corridor, she tried every door. An airing cupboard; a bathroom; an empty bedroom, the mirror image of her own, furnished for guests but still covered down with dust sheets. Then her own room, and next to that the door she had seen left just slightly open.

Taking a deep breath, Rina turned the handle expecting to find yet another bedroom beyond. Instead, she discovered a short and narrow lobby, with an even narrower flight of stairs leading off. Reluctant now, but still determined, and with the candlestick-weapon firmly clasped in her hand, Rina mounted the stairs, senses so stretched that each tiny creak and groan of the wooden treads seemed magnified. Just one door at the top this time. Rina opened it and reached round the frame to find the light switch she hoped would be there. She was relieved on two counts when she found it: first, that electricity had been connected and she was able to see; and second, that it was unlikely anyone would still be there in the dark. Would they? Surely she hadn't made that much noise coming up the stairs.

The room was empty: of people, anyway. A rodent squeaked and skittered into the shadows, and Rina told herself that it wasn't really as big as it looked. She could smell mice up here, musty and musky and damp, and traps, recently set, told her that Melissa was aware of the problem.

So that was what she had heard, perhaps. A trap snapping shut and an unfortunate rodent coming to a sudden end? A fine explanation, except that Rina knew she had heard two bangs and not one. Was it really likely that two traps had been set off in such quick succession? Her experience of mice was that they fled at the slightest sign or sound of danger, and of rats that they were extremely adept at taking the bait from the trap without setting anything off.

She relaxed a little and loosened her grip on the moulded glass candlestick, suddenly aware that she had been gripping it so tightly that the hobnail pattern was now impressed into her palm. This attic had been used as a storeroom too, though someone had started to sort out what was up here. Large boxes, tea chests and the like filled most of the space. It would have been a tight squeeze getting them up here, Rina thought. In the one closest to where she stood she could see newspaper wrappings that had been slightly disturbed, revealing an old teapot. The remainder of the service was stacked beneath, she discovered as she poked about. Next to that was a box of old clothes, some of them from the nineteen twenties and in surprisingly good condition considering the mice population. The slight smell of camphor and lavender that still clung to the fabrics when she examined them suggested why that might be the case. Her mother and aunts had always sworn that camphor and lavender kept both moth and mice at bay.

A wooden crate filled with sheet music had been less fortunate.

Rina glanced around, looking for whatever it was that had made the noises she had heard. Drag marks on the dusty floor looked fresh, and one of the tea chests had only recently been opened: its lid, resting on top, had been splintered and broken by use of something like a nail bar. One piece of the frame now rested on the floor beside the chest; most likely the lid had also fallen and that was what she had heard.

So, who on earth would want to go firkling about in the attic at this hour of the night – or morning, rather. In Rina's experience, late night firklers were rarely up to any good.

The tea chest in question was half empty. She removed a sheet of newspaper that must have been used to wrap something or other and smoothed it out. It was dated from June 1875, three years after the seance evening and about two years before Albert Southam's death.

Taking the newspaper with her, she left the attic room, careful to switch out the light but painfully aware that anyone going there again would be see the extra footprints on the floor and the additional disturbance of dust.