The Ghost Writer (38 page)

"I'm sorry for what I said in the lane," said Beatrice, as soon as she came in. "You startled me, that's all; I didn't mean it. No"—as Cordelia reached for an apron—"you've done everything all week; Uncle has a glass of wine waiting for you."

"Yes, you put your feet up, old thing," said Harry. "I'll be in in just a minute."

Though Cordelia had grown used to being "old thing" in company, she had not realised until that moment just how thoroughly she disliked it. But after insisting that she was not jealous, she felt obliged to accept. Harry's minute stretched to what felt like ten, and when he did join her and her uncle and aunt, she could not decide whether he was simply being his usual self, or behaving like someone determined to pretend that nothing whatever was wrong. The hiss of rain and the constant rumble of thunder made conversation difficult, and then, after an especially fierce flash of lightning, the electric lights went out, leaving them to dine by flickering candlelight, which made it impossible to read anybody's expression, even when you could hear what they were saying.

Gradually, the thunder receded and the rain diminished until there was only the drip drip drip from the eaves onto the gravel outside. The wind, too, had died away, and when Uncle Theodore opened the window, cool damp air wafted into the dining-room. Aunt Una retired to her room; but still Harry, Beatrice (who had evidently taken the confrontation in the lane as sanction for casting off her reserve with him) and Theodore chatted on, until Cordelia could bear it no longer, and more or less ordered Harry to accompany her upstairs to the studio.

The air was so still that, rather than light a lamp, she simply took one of the candlesticks from the sideboard.

"Anything the matter, old thing?" Harry asked, as they approached the stairs.

"Don't call me that any more! I'm not old, and I'm not a thing." And, she almost added, I'm not yours, either.

"Sorry, old—I mean—er—sorry," he said, sounding aggrieved, and they ascended in silence while she choked back one angry opening after another, so preoccupied with her suspicions in regard to Beatrice that they had reached the second-floor landing before she remembered "The Drowned Man".

It came to her as she went to fetch the key of the studio from her room, leaving Harry to wait in darkness on the landing. She could not say anything about Beatrice without sounding jealous, and putting herself even further in the wrong, for he
might
be perfectly innocent on that score. But she could set him a test: she would place a strand of her hair between the covers of "The Drowned Man", and leave the door unlocked that night; if he lied about it in the morning, she would know, and break the engagement regardless.

Though it had been cool on the landing, the day's heat was still trapped in the studio. She lit the candles on the table, and placed her candlestick in a holder on the lectern. When she knelt on the bed and opened the window, the candle flames barely wavered. There was no moon, but the sky had cleared and she could see starlight glimmering on the wet grass beyond the flagstones below.

She stood up and turned to Harry, who was standing beside the easel, and, it seemed to her, ostentatiously ignoring the lectern.

"What's the matter, old—sorry, I mean, what's up?"

"Nothing," she said coldly, thinking, how could you possibly not know?

"Not still upset over that little spat in the lane?"

Too angry to reply, she tugged at the ring he had given her, meaning to fling it in his face, but it would not come off.

"Good, I knew you wouldn't be. Look here old—sorry, I'm quite done up, I think I'll turn in. Don't worry about a candle. 'Night."

He dabbed a perfunctory kiss on her cheek and retreated to the doorway. In silence, she extinguished the candles on the table and retrieved her own from the lectern.

"Er—aren't you going to shut the window?"

She shook her head, and removed her key from the open door as she left. Dazzled by the flame of her candle, she could not see his expression, but her own was surely unmistakable.

"I see—leaving it to air—er, good idea. 'Night." He set off down the stairs in his irregular, slightly crab-like fashion, while she watched, still speechless, until he had vanished into the dim, starlit recesses of the flight below.

B
ACK IN HER ROOM, SHE REMOVED THE OFFENDING RING
with soap and sat on her bed rehearsing what she would say when she returned it to him in the morning. Or should she go down to his room and have it out now? No; that would only upset her uncle, and give Beatrice something more to gloat over. She would wait until she could get Harry alone in the wood. For an hour or more she paced up and down her room, sustained by the heat of her fury. But as it began to cool, doubts crept in. Harry hated scenes, and would go to any lengths to avoid a quarrel; perhaps he would have apologised if she hadn't been so hostile. And what—supposing he was innocent where Beatrice was concerned—was he supposed to apologise
for?
Calling her "old thing"? She had never protested until tonight. For being chronically unpunctual? She had never objected to that, either. For his lack of ardour? Again, she hadn't complained of it. Was he supposed to read her thoughts? Yes, said a rebellious voice, because I know I can read his. But how could she be so sure? He had been ardent enough, last Sunday on the riverbank; her headache had put an end to that. A wave of self-loathing rose up like bile; she buried her face in her pillow and wept for a long time.

She must have fallen asleep, for after an indefinite interval she woke in darkness, with the impression of having heard a door close. Or had she only dreamt it? She slid off her bed, still fully dressed, and crept out into the corridor. No light shone beneath her sisters door, but the door to the landing stood open, and as she came nearer, she saw a faint glimmer of yellow light on the polished floor outside the studio.

Candles burned in the sockets on either side of the lectern. His hair was dishevelled, his feet bare, his shirt half-unbuttoned. He had also lit the triple candelabra on the table; its light shone full upon her face as she stood with her hand on the handle of the half-open door, but he did not see her. His forehead gleamed; she could see the reflection of the flame moving over his temple as he swayed slowly back and forth. Once again she waited, willing him to look up, her anger rekindling as the seconds passed. A stirring of the air set the candles flaring the portrait of Imogen de Vere, which stood just to the left of her line of sight, caught her awareness, and she knew exactly what she wanted to do.

She closed the studio door softly and returned to her own room, where she lit another candle, and changed into the emerald green gown. It was a little loose around the bodice and shoulders, but that would not matter; and her hair was still pinned up. She took out the veil, and for the third time drew it over her head.

The mirror showed only a flame floating in black mist, but that did not matter either; she knew the way blindfold. Her sisters room was still dark and silent as she made her way back along the corridor.

Even through the veil, she could see that his gaze remained fixed upon the lectern. She took a step into the room, then another. Still he did not see her. Three more paces, and a hooded shadow fell across the portrait as she came between it and the candelabra on the table. He looked up, and though his face was little more than a blurred impression of features, it seemed to her that he smiled. Then he began to speak, but so softly that she could not hear him through the muffling folds of gauze. She raised both hands and threw back the veil.

The smile faded; the words died on his lips. For several seconds he stood petrified. Then, very slowly, his expression changed to one of disbelieving horror. She began to back away, her shadow growing larger as she retreated until she bumped against the table. The room suddenly brightened; something moved upon—no,
in
—the bed, at which she had not even glanced before. In the flaring, crackling light she saw Beatrice's head upon the pillow, a bare arm and shoulder emerging from beneath the sheet, eyes opening wide as Cordelia tore off the burning veil and beat at her hair with both hands.

The flames around her head went out, with a horrible smell of singed hair; the blazing remnants of the veil floated across the room and settled upon Henry St Clair's palette-tray. Cordelia stood paralysed, watching her own narrowly averted fate enacted upon the canvas. A tongue of fire darted up one bare arm and across the shoulder of the emerald green gown; the beautiful face seemed to rise up in flight; and then, with no memory of an interval, she was stamping with her bare feet at the smouldering ruins of the portrait, with acrid fumes burning her throat, and a thousand tiny red sparks floating and settling and crawling about the floor.

She had knocked over the candelabra on the table; it too had gone out, but the two candles on the lectern still burned. Someone had been screaming; she did not know whom. Harry had not moved; he stood gripping the lectern with both hands, his mouth half open. Beatrice had wrapped herself in the sheet and was shivering on the edge of the bed, staring at her sister with glazed, uncomprehending eyes. Cordelia's hands and the back of her neck were beginning to sting painfully. Aside from the stinging, she felt perfectly numb; her mind had frozen in mid-thought, somewhere between Harry and Beatrice and what her aunt and uncle would do now that Ashbourn would have to be sold.

But now Harry was folding away "The Drowned Man". Meticulous as always, he fastened the clasp, took up the black volume and placed it under his left arm. He might have been walking in his sleep, or perhaps the dream was hers, for it seemed to take him an age to cover the few paces that separated them. She thought he would pass her without speaking, and knew that she ought to be angry, angrier than she had ever been in her life, but the feeling would not come, nothing would come; until he stopped between her and Beatrice and muttered something that sounded like "Sorry old ... sorry." And then, quite clearly, "I must, you see."

The open window was directly behind him; one good push would send him reeling backwards past Beatrice, across the bed and over the sill. Something must have showed in her face, for he flinched away from her, hugging the black book to his chest. Beatrice, now with her clothes clutched against the sheet, held out her free hand as if inviting him to help her up. But he did not see her; his eyes remained fixed upon Cordelia, to whom he repeated, "I must have it, you see." Then he turned and made for the landing at a horrible hopping run.

Cordelia followed, not knowing what she meant to do. From the doorway, she saw him silhouetted crabwise against the starlit window as he reached the head of the stairs. Then she was thrust violently aside. A pale figure darted across the landing and flung itself at Harry. His arms flew up, and he lurched violently forward, clutching at the black volume as it sailed over the banister. One foot caught on the rail, and for an instant he seemed to hang motionless in the void. Whatever sound he made in falling was drowned in Beatrice's scream before she vanished, wailing, down the stairs.

A
LANTERN GLEAMED ON THE LANDING BELOW, FOL
lowed by the sound of Uncle Theodore's hurrying footsteps. Cordelia turned towards the light, but then, remembering what she was wearing, and what he had seen before, she retreated into the darkness of the corridor, to prepare herself for all that she had yet to face.

***

One came true.
I had found the missing pages of 'The Revenant'. Crouched beside the guttering candle, I turned over the last page and saw that there was writing on the back.

My name is Anne Hatherley and my sister Filly—Phyllis—shut me in here. I heard the front door slam hours ago. I'm afraid she's left me here to die. I mustn't waste time, there's only half a candle left. And half a pencil.

I'll try and write in the dark.

Filly slept with Hugh. Hugh Montfort, my fiancé. I heard them in the attic. They were making love on Lettie's old bed. It's all in my grandmother's story—the pages I'm writing on. No time to explain. I thought it was haunting me but Filly was making it come true. She's been reading my diary—I don't know for how long.

I posted Hugh's ring back the next day with a note saying, you know why, I never want to see you again. He didn't reply. And then for a week Filly behaved as if I'd done something unforgivable to her. She was daring me to speak and I

The pencil just broke. I had to light the candle to sharpen it on a stone. Only nine matches left.

A week after I saw them in the attic my face and scalp started burning. Exactly what happened to Imogen in the story. And then it all blew up. Iris heard the row and Filly started screaming at her too. Next thing she was walking out the door. She must have had her cases packed and waiting, I think she went straight to Hugh's flat. Iris was so angry she cut Filly out of her will and left everything to me. She died that same week, I know it was the shock.

Every day my skin's got worse. It burns like fire and I feel sick all the time. The doctor said he'd never seen anything like it. Just like the story again. He gave me some ointment but it didn't help.

She didn't even come to Iris's funeral. I had the locks changed so she couldn't get in. I was staying with friends in Highgate, coming back here to pack when I could face it. I was afraid of her, I even made a will yesterday, hut I didn't tell

The pencil just broke again. Seven matches left.

Nobody knows I'm here. Except Filly. I hid this and my diary in the study where I thought she wouldn't find them again—I wanted to leave them behind but I couldn't. I came out of the study and saw her coming up the stairs with a carving knife in her hand. She smiled when she saw me.

I threw the diary at her and ran, but she didn't follow. If only I'd kept going. Instead I stopped to listen, and got caught in the most terrifying game of hide-and-seek. I slipped the story down the front of my blouse to protect me from the knife. The floorboards kept giving me away, but Filly never made a sound. I knew she was lying in wait. In the end I went down the front stairs to the first floor, making sure I trod on the boards that creak, and then crept through to the back stairs and dawn to the courtyard door. I managed the bolts quietly but the lock

Hours later—I've tried everything I can think of and I can't get out. It's so cold down here. I could burn the rest of Grandmama's story but it would only last a minute or two. I'll hide the pages I've written on in case

The last of the candle's going

Dear God help me