The Silence (6 page)

Nell thought the trouble with seeking reassurance was that you never got it, in fact you usually ended worse off.

It was probable that Burlap had simply seen a real intruder on the building site, and did not want to admit the intruder had eluded him. And again, it was possible he had been drinking.

But what about the music? Burlap had heard the music, and Nell had heard it, too. Music that could not have existed on that long-ago night. Music that could not exist tonight.

At this point she reminded herself that she had been half-asleep, and that she had undoubtedly imagined the whole thing. Stilter House’s eerie half-light did not help, either. If the house had been properly lit, none of this would have happened. This made her feel so much better she reached for the candle again, resolving to prove to herself that the music room was entirely normal and free of all unearthly presences, with no ravaged-faced females peering through the windows. She would do that, then she would go to bed.

But the minute she opened the music room door she was aware of something different. What was it? Had something been moved? Nell moved the candle around to see more of the room, and suddenly knew what had changed.

The piano lid, unquestionably locked earlier and the key nowhere to be found, was open. Nell walked nearer and it was then that she saw music propped on the stand. Had it been there earlier? But she was sure it had not.

The music looked old; the edges were curling and the pages faintly foxed. It was a Chopin Nocturne, composed in 1833, the opus number and key printed at the top.

Across one corner, in neat, careful writing, the ink faded to brown, was written, ‘Esmond.’

M
ichael spent an uneasy night. Emily West’s words replayed in his mind over and over again.
Please don’t stay at Stilter House,
she had said.
Esmond never left Stilter House . . .

It was absurd to read anything sinister into this, but he could not forget that the last time he had felt this particular unease, it had heralded a deeply unpleasant – nearly fatal – encounter with an ancient force that dwelled within a deserted old house.

Monday morning brought an email from his editor who had read the new instalment of Wilberforce’s adventures, but said that while the idea of Wilberforce performing clumpy ju-jitsu and karate among the chrysanthemums would certainly make for terrific illustrations, did Michael think suggesting martial arts to seven year olds was the right way to go? Perhaps he could rethink that one, could he?

Michael cursed, and got up from his desk to try Nell’s mobile again, but it was still inaccessible. Next, he tried Emily West’s number, but there was still no reply.

He returned to the computer and had just opened the file containing Beth’s idea for Egg-nog Village and Wilberforce’s Great-Aunt Tabitha, when Henry Jessel phoned.

‘I think that letter from Emily West has turned up,’ he said. ‘It’s a Scottish postmark and the address is handwritten. I haven’t opened it – it’s a large envelope and it feels as if there’s an enclosure. If it’s going to be opened at all I’d rather you were here.’

‘I can come round now,’ said Michael, glancing at his watch.

‘Can you? I’m about to open my shop, so I’ll leave the letter in Nell’s office for you. Call if you want me.’

When Michael reached Quire Court, Henry waved to him through his window, but there were two customers with him, so Michael went straight into Nell’s shop. The letter with the Scottish postmark was there, as promised. Reading the contents would feel like an appalling intrusion, but in view of Emily West’s phone call, and since he could not reach Nell herself, he could not see any alternative. And supposing Nell or Beth were in some kind of danger?

Before he could change his mind Michael slit the envelope and drew out the two sheets of paper, clipped to several sheets that looked as if they had been taken from an old exercise book.

He set these aside and focused on the letter itself.

‘My dear Nell,’ wrote Emily West in a clear, firm script. ‘First, I must tell you how very pleased I am that you stay in touch with me, even though we haven’t met since Brad’s funeral. I so enjoyed the photos you sent of Beth last Christmas.

‘I expect you know I’m an executor of Aunt Charlotte’s will – Brad’s great-aunt she was, of course. I’m not a very active executor, I’m afraid – Margery is doing most of the work. She has such energy for business matters.

‘I’m so pleased you’ve agreed to value the contents of Stilter House, but you’ll have quite a task on your hands, because the place is full from cellar to attic with all kinds of things. (If you find a Minton dinner service do be careful about selling it, though, because there’s always been a suspicion in the family that it wasn’t come by entirely honestly.)

‘My main purpose in writing is to advise you
very strongly
not to stay in Stilter House overnight. Charlotte and I often talked on the phone, and I used to stay with her two or three times a year. Most of what she used to say can probably be put down to what Margery called her fey attitude – she was always a little vague, dear Charlotte, but it was part of her charm. But she was always very clear and very definite about one thing, and that was Esmond.’

Esmond
, thought Michael, aware of the jab of unease again. He read on.

‘At first I thought it was a neighbour’s child Charlotte was talking about. “Esmond is a strange, silent child,” she used to say. “He comes here to play the music to me.” Charlotte was very fond of children, and they always responded to her so well. A crying shame she never married and had several of her own. I asked where Esmond lived, and Charlotte looked surprised. “He lives here,” she said, as if she thought I should have known. “It was his house when it was built all those years ago. 1900, that was.”

‘A peculiar statement, but it didn’t worry me overmuch, because Charlotte used to have exceptionally vivid dreams, and several times she was convinced she had “seen” people who could not possibly have been there, generally because they were all dead. “I’ve been seeing great-grandfather,” I remember her saying after her afternoon nap. Or, “D’you know, I believe my cousin Mary sat in that chair earlier today, you remember her, she died in a boating accident.”

‘I reasoned – so did Margery – that Esmond was another of these daydreams. We hoped she would forget about it, and for a time it seemed she had.

‘But when I stayed at Stilter House last year, Charlotte asked me to find an old address book from one of the bedroom cupboards. She suffered a bit with arthritis, you know, so stairs were a struggle for her at times. I wanted her to try a herbal rub which a charming young man had recommended that very month – shockingly expensive, but it contained distilled orchid essence, which accounted for the cost, of course, and the young man was able to get several bottles at a discount price. But Charlotte held by wintergreen and some unpronounceable pills which her GP prescribed.

‘I went up to find her address book; she said it would be in the bedroom at the side of the house – the room Brad always had. “His” room, he liked to think it, and so it was, with books and games and so on for him during his holidays. He generally had holiday homework, too – compositions or nature study projects – and there was a small desk by the window for that.

‘That’s where I found the composition he wrote just before his ninth birthday. It was in an exercise book at the very back of the cupboard, behind the address book I was looking for. I saw his name on it, and – I’m not ashamed to admit this – I took it to read, because I was always so fond of him and it felt like a small memory from his childhood.

‘Nell, my dear, I’ve hesitated for a very long time before sending this to you, because I fear it will revive all the sadness. But I think you need to know what Brad wrote about Stilter House before you go there. So here it is – the pages from the exercise book. The composition Brad wrote all those years ago. I don’t know what to believe or what to think, but one thing seems clear: Esmond wasn’t just a figment of Charlotte’s imagination. Brad saw him as well.’

Michael laid the letter down, and looked at the sheets of lined paper, covered with a child’s careful writing. I can’t read that, he thought. It’s too private. But I can’t just shovel it in the post to Stilter House for Nell to read without any prior warning.

He looked back at Emily’s letter. ‘Esmond’ could have been written off as the too-vivid imaginings of an elderly lady, prone to daydreaming, perhaps caught up more with the past than with the present or the future. Except for one thing. Brad West, it seemed, had seen Esmond as well.

With the feeling of stepping into a dark and uncomfortable place, Michael reached for the pages and began to read.

The composition ended with that, but there was a final page of Emily West’s letter, which Michael now read: ‘As you’ll perhaps know, Brad had to leave Stilter House very suddenly when his father was posted to Germany. He spent most of his holidays over there. I think he used to visit Charlotte in later years, but only ever for a day – never staying overnight.

‘But you see Brad, too, met “Esmond” – he played music with him. As to Esmond’s secret, I have no idea.

‘It doesn’t seem as if anyone ever read that essay, but if anyone had, I think it would have caused considerable unease. Even all these years later I’m uneasy – for you, but especially for Beth. I don’t know what Esmond’s intentions towards Brad were. And if he is still there, thwarted of Brad he may turn his attention to Brad’s daughter. Nell, dear, I do know how peculiar all this sounds, but please believe that I’m very concerned for you.

‘I hope we can talk about this before you go to Stilter House. I’ll be away for most of next week – at a new health farm. They get you to inhale the smoke of burning pine, and also make you to walk round a spiral in the grounds for 20 minutes to exercise your ear muscles.

Fondest love to you and Beth.

Emily.’

Michael laid down the pages. There must have been two boys called Esmond, he thought. That’s the only explanation. There was one who lived there in 1900, and another in Brad’s time. Perhaps it’s a local name or something.

He locked up Nell’s shop, thanked Henry Jessel and promised to recount the whole story very soon, then took the letter and its enclosure back to College, which was already moving into its holiday mode, where it felt and sounded and even smelled different.

Wilberforce had gone to sleep on Michael’s desk, on top of a memo from Oriel’s Director of Music, marked ‘For Immediate Attention.’ It was only when Michael shooed Wilberforce off to get to the memo, that he saw the phone was registering a new message. He put the memo aside, pressed Play, and was relieved to hear Nell’s voice.

‘Michael – sorry I couldn’t phone until now – the signal here is so poor it’s almost non-existent, and I’ve had to drive to the village pub to call you. I got your message from yesterday though. Henry Jessel left one, too. Everything’s fine – although there’s no electricity on so we’re eating by candlelight. Pity you aren’t here to share that, because you’re one of the last surviving romantics, aren’t you? But we’re going to have lunch here later and they’ll let me use their Internet connection. I want to send photos to one or two colleagues – there are a few things that are a bit outside my province. I won’t ring your mobile because you either won’t have it switched on, or you won’t be able to find it, but if you get this message in time you could email me. Beth’s emailing you anyway – she won’t tell me what it’s about, she says it’s a big secret. She’s written it all out to copy-type so you’ll probably get quite a missive – you know Beth! I’m guessing you’re planning a surprise for my birthday next week, so I’m not going to pry and spoil it. Hope to be back on Wednesday evening.’

It was annoying to have missed Nell’s call which she had made while Michael was in Henry’s shop, but it was very good to know she was all right – that she and Beth had spent an apparently untroubled night. Michael was inclined to believe Emily West suffered from a too-vivid imagination, or even that the orchid essence had been laced with cannabis.

He felt he was now free to give his mind to College matters, and he reached purposefully for the Music Director’s memo, which bore one of Wilberforce’s paw marks where Wilberforce had absent-mindedly walked across some spilled marmalade in the kitchen. The memo, which fortunately was still readable, turned out to be a tentative request for Michael’s collaboration on a publication the Director was writing on the influence of the Romantic Poets on late-nineteenth-century music. Was there any chance that Michael might be free this afternoon for a preliminary discussion?