Chalice of Darkness, page 12
‘I daresay you’ll be surprised to hear me speak against such places, sir, what with my past, but I worked alongside a girl who went to work in London – a house in Cleveland Street, it was, and the stories they tell about it – well, it’s a scandal and a disgrace for the man who’ll one day be King of England to go there.’
Saul had never heard of Cleveland Street, but the meaning was clear enough, and Agnes was prepared to do whatever he asked of her, which was all that mattered.
Bastle House, when he had gone quietly along to look at it earlier in the week, taking the keys from where Maude had hidden them, had turned out to be exactly right for his plan. A strange house it was, one of the old border fortifications. The deep cellar with its sturdy old door on to the scrubland would have seen a few violent incidents. It would soon be seeing one more.
Agnes, keeping their secret appointment in the early hours of Friday morning, thought the underground stone room was a very good hiding place. She would stay upstairs until she saw anyone coming across the fields, she said. Then she would dart down here to hide. She would leave the door ajar, and she would be able to hear everything that was said. She would not mind how long she had to wait. It was a dark old house, but she had brought matches and candles until it should start to get light.
She walked round the stone room, peering into the dim corners, and it was while she was turned away from him that Saul raised the heavy brass candlestick taken surreptitiously from a dresser upstairs, and crunched it down on her skull. She slumped to the ground, her eyes rolling up to show only the whites, and Saul bent over, feeling for a heartbeat. He could find not the smallest flicker of one, although it was difficult to tell through all the corseting and whalebone the woman had under her gown. He sat down on the ground to wait for a short while to be sure, and then felt for the heartbeat again. Nothing. She was dead. He pulled up the trapdoor of the cellar – it did not open easily, but he eventually managed it – and tipped her body into the yawning blackness. It hit the ground with a dull thud, and Saul nodded in satisfaction, then dropped one of the earrings taken from Maude’s dressing table into the cellar. In the light from his candle he saw that it had fallen close to Agnes’s body. Exactly right.
There was an iron ladder fastened to the wall beneath the trapdoor, but after shining the candlelight on it, Saul was satisfied that even if a prisoner could swarm up those rusting rungs, the trapdoor itself could not be opened from beneath. Not that it mattered, though, because Agnes was dead. He slammed the lid down, and heard it click into place. Then he placed the other earring on the ground near to it.
It was still very early when he got back to the Hall – barely five o’clock. No one was up yet, and he was able to plant in the kitchen the note he had written, supposedly from Agnes, about the sick relative. Then he went up to bed until it should be time to get up.
Hilda Grout, arriving at Vallow Hall, was startled to be told by Saul that they must go out to Bastle House at once – that Maude, poor, witless creature, had apparently gone running off, and they must reach her before she caused some harm, either to herself or to another. Miss Grout paused for long enough only to let Lily take her suitcase up to her bedroom, and to wash her hands after the journey since trains were always so grimy, and then set off with Saul along Candle Lane and the meadow path.
Once inside the house the story told itself. There were the earrings, which Miss Grout recognized as her own wedding gift to Maude – one near the cellar opening, the other down in the cellar itself. There was Agnes’s dead body. And there was Maude, huddled into a corner of the dusty cellar, her eyes wide and staring.
Between them Saul and Hilda Grout got Maude up the steps and outside. The keys were in Maude’s bag, and Saul locked the door, and made sure windows and doors were all secure, as well.
They wrapped Maude in his topcoat, and between them half-carried her as far as the old stile on the edge of the meadow. Miss Grout remained with her while Saul went back to the Hall to get the gardener to bring the trap as near to the stile as possible. It was a fair walk and he got quite cold without his coat, but it could not be helped.
Lily and Mrs Cheesely were shocked and round-eyed when Maude was carried in, still half-swooning, and seeming hardly to know where she was. In answer to their questions (Oh sir, whatever has happened?), Saul said as far as he could make out, the mistress had gone out for a morning stroll and been overcome by some sort of dizzy spell. They had found her by the stile – and as well that they had, for she seemed to have no memory of anything.
It was clear to Saul that neither Lily nor Mrs Cheesely were in the least suspicious. It was also clear that neither of them cared overmuch for Hilda Grout. This did not matter; Saul did not care overmuch for her himself, but you used what tools were to hand.
He went into the drawing room where Miss Grout was sipping tea. She was deeply shocked by what had happened.
‘If I had not seen it with my own eyes, Mr Vallow … To think that my own niece was capable of taking the life of another creature. But there was no mistaking what she had done, was there?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ said Saul, sadly. ‘It’s dreadfully clear that Maude had killed that poor woman before we got there, and that she was going to slam the trapdoor down.’
‘And leave the – the body there, assuming no one would find it for a very long time? That empty old house – I don’t suppose anyone goes in there from one year to the next.’
‘Exactly so.’ It was very gratifying how Hilda Grout was working all this out for herself. Saul hardly needed to lead her along his plan at all.
‘But why would she do such a thing, Mr Vallow?’ said Miss Grout. ‘For I presume that even the insane have some kind of reasoning behind their actions?’
‘Maude had developed a deep distrust of Agnes,’ said Saul, who had prepared for this question. ‘She had begun to believe Agnes was spying on her, although Agnes had never shown her anything but loyalty and kindness. A most trustworthy servant. But these last weeks Maude became convinced that Agnes had some malicious intent towards her. That was when I began to suspect her mind was going – that was when I wrote to you. But now …’ He broke off, pinching the bridge of his nose with his forefinger and thumb. ‘I can’t let her suffer the consequences of what she’s done, Miss Grout. I can’t …’
Hilda Grout said, slowly, ‘But need there be consequences? I would not, you understand, normally advocate any kind of conspiracy to cover up such an act, but—’
‘I would not normally advocate it either,’ said Saul. ‘As a Justice of the Peace I am sworn to uphold the law and punish the guilty. I take it very seriously. But this is my own wife …’ Again he broke off, as if overcome by emotion, then said, ‘I’m afraid that discovery is almost inevitable. When the owner of Bastle House – whoever he is, wherever he is – returns, he will find Agnes’s body. And since Agnes has been a servant here for some time, Vallow Hall will not escape investigation. I should be questioned. I would do my best, but I am not a good liar, Miss Grout. And there was the earring down in the cellar. We had to leave it down there, you remember. Neither of us could have got down there to retrieve it.’
‘The earring – I had forgotten about that.’ Miss Grout’s hand flew to her mouth in consternation.
‘Were Maude to be questioned, she would never stand up to it. Her mind is already flawed. They would break her,’ said Saul. ‘She would have to stand trial.’
‘And found guilty?’
‘I believe there would be no doubt about that. They would hang her.’
‘Or,’ said Hilda Grout, ‘they would put her in some institution. One of those grim places—’
‘Which is as unthinkable as letting her be hanged,’ said Saul. He paused, then said, slowly, ‘But there may be another solution.’
ELEVEN
Jack enjoyed the short journey to Chauntry School. The showman in him appreciated how the carriageway was lit by lanterns and flares, judiciously placed so that the school’s wagonette and the rattletrap that was the Nithercott cart drove through soft pools of radiance, and then through swirling misty shadows cast by the trees. It crossed his mind that whoever was responsible for the organizing of this had almost a theatrical eye for an effect. When they reached the house, double doors at its centre were folded back, with two men both in academic gowns positioned there to direct where coats and cloaks could be left and point the way to the school’s concert hall. There would be supper afterwards in the dining room, but everyone was please to feel free to look around the entire ground floor. They were proud of Chauntry, said one of them, and they enjoyed showing it off.
As Jack and Gus took their seats in the assembly hall, Jack noticed that a good many people were in evening dress, and he was glad he had worn a dinner jacket. Gus had thought it a good idea to do so. ‘You want to look prosperous, Mr Jack, and you always look so distinguished in evening things. Specially now, with the beard.’
The concert was professionally presented, and Jack thought the performances were of a high standard. One boy of perhaps fourteen or fifteen played particularly well – Jack did not know the music, but the programme stated it to be Frédéric Chopin’s Fantaisie-Impromptu, and it was a complex piece. He was pleased when the boy received rapturous applause, and as it died away he glanced at his programme, interested to see who the organisers might be. At the top of the first page were the words: Concert and musical arrangements by Chauntry School precentor, Dr Declan Kendal. There was a list of letters after Dr Kendal’s name, none of which meant much to Jack.
Mr Glennon joined rather hesitantly in the choruses of the folk songs at the end. He had something of a liking for folk songs and their traditions and he knew the words of most of them. When the audience filtered happily out, heading for the dining room, Jack followed them, collected a glass of wine from a lavishly spread buffet, then said quietly to Gus that he was going to explore.
‘But you stay here, and listen for any bits of conversation that might be useful.’
Gus nodded, and Jack wandered out to the big hall. Several doors opened off it, most of them bearing neat lettering, proclaiming them to be the Common Room, Precentor’s Study, Library …
Library, thought Jack, and he walked casually along the hall, apparently examining various prints and framed sketches that hung on the walls, before going, with a somewhat abstracted air, into the library. Joseph Glennon was interested in libraries – he would like to see what books lined the shelves.
But the instant Jack entered the room it was as if something reared up to strike him across the eyes. He flinched, then forced himself to look about him. It was a long room with a brick chimney breast on one wall, and it was lit by several soft wall lights. They cast small islands of light, and it was a quiet and restful room – a good place for study, and perfectly ordinary and unremarkable.
Except that it was not ordinary and it was not unremarkable, because it was the room from the photograph.
It was unmistakable. The furniture – the fireplace – the bookshelves … The big desk in the bay window, with the leather inlay and gold scrollwork around the edges … All were instantly recognizable. There were the chairs with tapestry coverings, and the heavy curtains at the bay window in the same distinctive fabric. Most recognizable of all was the piecrust table standing partly in the bay window – the table where the chalice had stood in the photograph – and where Maude had rested her hand, as if to emphasize its presence.
Jack stood very still, struggling to fight back the overwhelming feeling that he had stepped into the past. But it’s not my past, he thought, looking about him: it’s Maude’s past – might it be a fragment of my father’s past, as well? As he stood there, he had the sensation of something or someone wanting to take him by the hand and lead him back and back until he saw and knew and understood what had happened all those years ago.
He was pulled back into the present by the sound of the door behind him opening, and the realization that someone had come into the room. He took a deep breath, reminding himself that there was no reason why he should not be here – the audience had been invited to go anywhere on the ground floor – and also that Joseph Glennon was a scholarly gentleman, irresistibly drawn to libraries.
The man who had entered was perhaps in his middle or late forties. He had a thin face and soft dark brown hair that flopped over his forehead. His eyes were intelligent, and he had a sheaf of notes in one hand and a glass of wine in the other.
Jack, his mind still slightly off-balance, managed to smile and nod, and say, ‘Good evening. I seem to have wandered in here without realizing it. I hope that’s all right.’
‘Perfectly all right. We like showing off all of Chauntry to visitors.’
He appeared to wait for Jack to say more, so Jack said, ‘This has been an excellent evening’s entertainment. I’ve greatly enjoyed it. That young pianist was especially gifted.’
‘Yes, he’s very talented. That Chopin piece is very complex, but we simplified it a bit and I was proud of his performance. He’s what we call a scholarship boy – we have several such; Chauntry has an arrangement with St Botolph’s Orphanage, which we’re very keen on.’ He closed the door and leaned against it, his eyes on Jack. ‘I’m Declan Kendal,’ he said, ‘and I was more or less responsible for the concert, so I’m pleased to hear you enjoyed it.’
‘Then I must congratulate you. It’s good to meet you, Dr Kendal.’
Declan Kendal said, ‘And to meet you, Mr …?’
‘Glennon. Joseph Glennon.’
Somehow the name came out wrong. It struck a false note. Jack heard the falseness at once; it was as if a cracked bell had chimed. As a musician, Dr Kendal must have heard it, too. To cover the strangeness up, he said, ‘From the programme notes it sounds as if you’ve spent most of your life with music.’
‘I have. Chauntry has been my family – I can’t imagine having had any other life. Although,’ he said, carefully, ‘I do have a few other interests beyond music.’ A pause. His eyes had not left Jack’s face. ‘Photography is one of them,’ he said, softly.
Photography. He knows, thought Jack at once. He can’t possibly know who I am, but he knows I’m here because of the chalice – he’s realized I saw those photographs. How on earth does he know that, though? He’s being cautious – he’s giving me the opportunity to open up about my real purpose in being here. Hell’s teeth, what do I do? Dare I trust him?
After a moment, Dr Kendal said, ‘Mr Glennon, forgive me if I’m mistaken, but I think there may be a link between us.’
‘A link?’
‘Yes.’ A pause, then, ‘I would rather be honest with you – I think the link may be Aiden Fitzglen.’
The quiet library blurred slightly, as if Jack was seeing it under water, then, from what felt like a long distance, he heard Declan Kendal say something about talking more privately.
‘Have you time to come along to my study? It’s only just beyond the hall. I needn’t detain you longer than you can spare.’
Jack, his mind still tumbling, was grateful to be led, without fuss or awkwardness, across the hall. He saw Gus, who gave him a half nod, and found it reassuring. It reminded him that Gus was on hand, that life was not so very much out of kilter.
Dr Kendal took him into a room near the back of the building, closed the door, and gestured to him to sit down.
The room had a comfortable feel. There was a sense of it being a place of work and of music – the desk was strewn with sheet music, most with copious handwritten margin notes, and there were thick, bound music scores stacking the shelves. An upright piano, its lid open, stood against one wall, and two violins and a flute lay on a chair. On the walls were framed programmes, some of which looked like Chauntry’s own events, but others that Jack saw were of performances at several well-known concert halls. He remembered that he had thought there was a professional feeling about the evening.
‘It’s all a bit untidy,’ said Declan Kendal, taking the chair facing him, ‘but it’s where I work for a good part of the day – when I’m not teaching or rehearsing – and we won’t be interrupted in here.’ He paused, then said, ‘You might not want to talk to me at all, of course, and if that’s so, please say, and we’ll end it now and be perfectly amicable about it. But if you are who I think you are—’
The decision seemed to have already been made. Jack said, ‘I’m Jack Fitzglen. Aiden Fitzglen was my father.’
‘Yes, I thought that must be it. You’re astonishingly like him. For a moment, seeing you, I even thought … Well, for a moment it was as if Aiden had walked into that library. As if the past had suddenly broken into the present.’
‘I felt something of that, as well,’ Jack said at once. ‘But it’s a past I know hardly anything about.’
‘Fifteen years,’ said Declan, almost to himself. ‘But I still remember it clearly. I remember Aiden and the Amaranth Theatre.’
It felt odd to hear this stranger talk about his father and about the theatre, but Jack was aware of a sense of kinship. He said, eagerly, ‘The Amaranth is still going strong. It had to be restored after a fire, and I’ve done my best to keep up my father’s tradition – and the tradition of his father and his father before him. The rest of the family do so, as well.’
‘I knew about the fire. I’m glad it’s all been restored. Aiden would have been pleased.’ Declan frowned, then said, ‘You recognized the library, didn’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘But – you’ve never been here before, have you? Stupid question – I know you haven’t. Which means,’ he said, slowly, ‘that you could only have recognized it from a photograph.’
He waited, and at last, Jack said, ‘I found two photographs recently, both showing that room.’
