The Seance (44 page)

But the diary was written for Magnus to find
. My mind was so clouded with fatigue and misery that the thought did not at first make sense, and I stood staring blankly at the page for several uncomprehending seconds before the implications rushed upon me, and I understood at last why Ada Woodward had not answered my letter.

The noise of the harbour floated up to me as I stood at the top of Church Lane: men shouting, canvas flapping, wheels rumbling, and above it all the incessant crying of the gulls, piercing, desolate. Beyond the piers the sea was a flat, steely grey; the salt air was laden with smoky smells of tar and fish and coal, and the decaying odours of mud and seaweed. Stone steps continued on up the hillside, towards St Mary’s Church and the ruin of Whitby Abbey.

No one knew where I was; I had left my uncle a note saying that I had gone out for the day and would not be back until late, and slipped out of the house before he came down for breakfast. I had dozed fitfully in the train, drifting in and out of nightmares of Wraxford Hall, and schooling myself in the intervals of waking to expect absolutely nothing of this visit.

St Michael’s Close was a cul-de-sac, curving down from Church Lane
and ending at number seven, a high, narrow, whitewashed cottage, set further below the street, with steps leading down to the front door. My mouth was very dry, and my heart was thumping painfully. I descended the stairs, grasped the heavy brass ring and rapped twice.

The door was opened by a gaunt, middle-aged woman who must, I thought, have been very striking in her youth. Her brown hair was streaked with white, her skin was etched and crisscrossed with fine lines, and there were shadows like bruises beneath her eyes, but the eyes themselves were large and luminous; all the more striking, set in that haunted face.

‘I should like to speak with Mrs Woodward,’ I said tremulously.

‘May I ask who you are?’ Her voice was harsh, yet not unpleasant, with something of the local accent.

‘My name is Miss Langton,’ I said.

‘Wait here,’ she said, and closed the door in my face. I waited, shivering, for what seemed an age before the door opened again.

‘Mrs Woodward is not at home.’

‘Please,’ I said, ‘I have come all the way from London to see her – to give her this.’ I drew Nell’s journal from my bag, but the housekeeper’s eyes did not move from my face.

‘Then I shall give it to her when she returns,’ she said, stretching out her hand.

‘I am sorry,’ I said, ‘but I am charged to deliver it in person. Please; I shall wait in the street, if she will only come out and speak to me.’

‘She is not at home,’ the housekeeper repeated. As she spoke, a young woman emerged from a doorway further down the passage behind her. I had a glimpse of auburn hair, dark eyes, and an alert, curious gaze before the door closed again.

There was a low stone wall at the top of the steps, and I sat down upon it, determined not to be driven away. A few moments later I saw, from the corner of my eye, the curtains twitch at an upper window.

A quarter of an hour or so later, the door opened again and another woman emerged; tall like the housekeeper, but with darker hair, shot through with filaments of grey that held the light. She had high cheekbones and a strong, shield-shaped jaw, and though her face was not as ravaged, she too had deep lines etched around her eyes, which were fixed upon me with extreme disapproval.

‘Miss Langton?’ she said sternly. ‘I am Mrs Woodward. What do you want of me?’

‘I wrote to you from London, some weeks ago; did you not receive my letter?’

‘No, I did not. Pray state your business.’

‘I inherited Wraxford Hall,’ I said, ‘from Augusta Wraxford – I am a descendant on the Lovell side. John Montague gave me Eleanor Wraxford’s journals—’

‘And what is that to me?’

‘Please believe me,’ I said desperately, ‘I mean no harm to you, or to Nell – will you not hear me out?’

She regarded me silently, until I thought all was lost.

‘Walk up to the top of the steps, and wait by the churchyard,’ she said at last, and disappeared into the house.

I did as I was told, and stood for another long interval amongst the weathered tombstones with a chill breeze tugging at my bonnet and gulls shrieking around me, before a cloaked figure appeared at the top of the rise and strode across the damp grass towards me.

‘Now,’ she said, just as severely, ‘what is it you want of me?’

‘I have come to tell you that Magnus Wraxford is dead – he died by my hand, two days ago at Wraxford Hall, under the name of Dr James Davenant. He meant to murder me, and I killed him in self-defence, but the police do not know that; they think it was an accident. I came here to ask if you would come to London and – identify him as Magnus.’

She regarded me with horrified concern.

‘Miss Langton, I fear you are not well; you should be telling this to a doctor or a clergyman, not to me.’

‘Your husband is a clergyman—’

‘My husband died ten years ago.’

‘I am very sorry to hear it,’ I said, ‘but was he not the George Woodward who was once rector of Chalford St Mary’s?’

‘No, you are mistaken,’ she said. But an edge of desperation in her voice prompted me to continue.

‘If Magnus is buried as Davenant, the world will always believe that Nell murdered him, and Clara: alive or dead, she will never be free of the stain.’

‘I do remember the case,’ she said warily, ‘though it has nothing to do with me. And – supposing this man you claim to have killed is not Magnus Wraxford at all – what then?’

‘You mean,’ I said, with tears of despair welling up, ‘that if you come to London, and he isn’t Magnus, it might lead the police to Nell, and you cannot take that risk.’

‘That is your meaning, not mine,’ she replied, but her voice had softened.

‘There is one thing,’ I said hesitantly. ‘John Montague told me – it was just before he died – that I reminded him very much of Nell; and I have wondered ... whether I might be Clara Wraxford.’

This time there was no mistaking the shock that flashed across her face.

‘Miss Langton, you must understand me: I cannot help you. Surely you have friends, family – someone you can confide in?’

I shook my head.

‘A doctor, then?’

‘There is no one who can help me now.’

‘I am sorry to hear it,’ she said earnestly. ‘What will you do?’

‘I shall take the next train back to London, and then . . .’ I was about to say, I will go to the police and confess, but remembered I could not do that, because of Edwin.

‘And then ...?’ she prompted.

I could think of nothing to say; the prospect seemed as grey and featureless as the ocean at her back. I took Nell’s journals and held them out to her, but she would not touch them.

‘I am sorry,’ she repeated, ‘but I must go now. Goodbye, Miss Langton; I wish ...’

She hesitated a moment, then turned abruptly and strode away across the grass.

I did not get home until ten o’clock that night; my uncle had retired to his bedroom, as if to say, I wash my hands of you, but Dora had waited up for me. Edwin, she told me, had called twice at the house during my absence, and left me a note, which said only ‘I shall be in the Botanic Society Gardens in Regent’s Park from two o’clock tomorrow and will wait all afternoon. Please come. E.’

‘Don’t tell your uncle I gave it you, miss, or I’ll lose my place,’ said Dora. ‘When he found out it was Mr Rhys he said I wasn’t to let him in on no account. And he said you was to look at that—’ indicating the evening paper which my uncle had pointedly arranged on the hall table, with a thick pencil line angrily slashed down the margin beside a column headed ‘Distinguished Scientist Dead: Mysterious Explosion at Wraxford Hall’. The phrases blurred before my eyes: ‘Dr James Davenant, FRS ... following investigation by Society for Psychical Research ... violent explosion ... cause unknown ... extensively damaged ... grisly discovery. We understand that the owner, Miss Langton, was present at the time and was fortunate to escape with her life ... Wraxford Hall, as readers may recall, was the scene of a notorious murder in the autumn of 1868 ... Dr Magnus Wraxford ... Mrs Wraxford and child ... vanished ... cloud of suspicion ...’

I set the paper aside, suddenly overwhelmed by a great yearning to
see Edwin; but unless I could prove, in his eyes as well as my own, that I had not killed an innocent man, the shadow would always fall between us. Through a haze of exhaustion, it occurred to me that I ought to look up Davenant’s address, as I had done with George Woodward: might he not have left some trace, some memento of his former life? And if I were to visit his house, on the pretext of offering my condolences...

Number 18 Hertford Street, Piccadilly, was one of a row of large, sombre town houses built of dark grey stone. I walked up and down in the sunlight – it was one of those rare, dazzlingly bright March days, the air as warm as May – gathering my courage, then climbed the steps and knocked.

After a long pause, the door was opened by a small, white-haired man, dressed in a suit of mourning.

‘My name is Miss Langton,’ I said tremulously. ‘I am the owner of Wraxford Hall, and – I thought I should call to offer my condolences to the family.’

‘Very kind of you, Miss Langton, but I’m afraid there is no family. Dr Davenant was a bachelor, and quite alone in the world. My name is Brotherton; I was his manservant.’

‘I wonder,’ I said, ‘if I might come in for a moment. I am feeling a little faint’ – which was no more than the truth, for my knees were shaking so that I could barely stand.

‘Of course, Miss Langton. Pray step this way.’

Two minutes later I was seated in a cavernous drawing-room with a glass of port wine in my hand and Mr Brotherton hovering anxiously nearby. ‘This must have come as a terrible shock to you, Mr Brotherton.’ I could see that he warmed to being addressed as ‘Mr’.

‘Very much so, Miss Langton; a dreadful business. I understand that you were present at the time of the accident?’

‘Yes,’ I said, grateful for the dim light, ‘but I am afraid I have no idea what caused the explosion; we did not even know that Dr Davenant was in the house when it happened. How long had you been with him, may I ask?’

‘Twenty years, Miss Langton – ever since he came to London.’

‘And where had he lived before?’

‘Abroad, Miss Langton; he was a great traveller in his youth.’