The Murder Dance, page 23
‘It’s really signed and sorted out?’ said Zillah, her eyes huge. ‘It’s all legal?’
‘It is.’ It was lovely to see her wide-eyed fascination. Quentin said, indulgently, ‘So if I fall under a bus tomorrow, you’ll be quite a rich young lady.’
‘Goodness.’ She seemed to withdraw for a moment, then she said, ‘D’you know, Quen, I’ve been thinking about those courtyard rooms. The ones you said we could turn into our own living quarters. I think it could be brilliant.’
‘I think it could.’
She clasped her hands together, and said in a kind of breathless rush, ‘Let’s go out there now. Can we? Just the two of us. To look inside those rooms. It’s only three o’clock – even if there isn’t any electricity in there, it won’t start getting dark for ages and we’ll be able to have a good look round.’
Quentin thought how wonderful it was that their thoughts had been running along the same lines. He said that certainly they could go out there right away.
‘I’ll just get the keys from my room – I won’t be a minute. I’d better take this jacket off and put on a sweater. I don’t want to get it covered in cobwebs.’
‘Oh, just get the keys – don’t bother about the jacket,’ said Zillah, glancing around the bar. In a quieter voice, she said, ‘Arabella and Phin are searching church records – it sounded as if they were going to spend the whole day on it. And Toby said something about trying to find some old theatre that Phin had found a mention of – some old actor he thought might be linked to The Tabor. He suggested I went with him, but I said I had to help you. But any one of them might come back at any minute and we don’t want to find we’ve got to take them with us. I’ll wait for you outside.’
As Quentin ran up the stairs to his room and scooped up the keys, his mind was alight with pleasure because Zillah had made these plans for the two of them to go out to the courtyard rooms together.
As Quentin turned into Drum Lane, Zillah was aware of the most tremendous sense of excitement. This was how she had felt all those years ago – on that afternoon when she had understood that someone called Evelyn stood in the way of The Tabor being hers, and that if only Evelyn could be got rid of, this marvellous house would one day belong to Zillah. And incredibly, within about an hour of that, there Evelyn had been. It had been so easy – laughably so – to give Evelyn that push, and see the flailing figure fall down on to the courtyard. It had been even easier to appear terrified and bewildered. She had thought they had believed in her fear – Osbert and her grandmother. But then Osbert had written that spiteful letter with those vicious accusations, and he had reneged on his promise to Zillah’s grandmother, and The Tabor had gone to Quentin. The letter could not be helped, but it was so long ago that there would not be anyone still alive who would know about it. Zillah was perfectly safe on that score. As for Quentin owning The Tabor – she smiled inwardly. Not for much longer, Quentin.
He parked near to the stone arch and Zillah hopped out, and waited patiently for him to lock the car, which he always did, even inside his own garage. Her heart was pounding, and for a really bad moment she thought she was not going to be able to do this. But then she glanced back at the house, which, even in this desolate state, was beautiful, and remembered that Quentin had no right to a single brick of it.
As they neared the arch, she suddenly stopped and said, ‘Damn, I’ve left my bag in the car – my phone and keys and wallet, and you never know who’s around. I’ll just nip back for it – let me have the keys, will you? And actually, now I think about it, you ought to take that jacket off before we go up there after all. It’ll probably be pretty dusty. I’ll put it on the back seat for you.’
He hesitated, then nodded, and slipped the jacket off. ‘Make sure you lock the car.’
Zillah put Quentin’s jacket on the seat, sliding a hand into the pockets as she did so. If his phone was still on him the plan might have to be abandoned, because he could not be left with the phone in his possession … But it was all right. The phone was in the inside pocket. She picked up her handbag, so carefully left on the floor, then locked the car, making sure Quentin saw her do it. She dropped the keys off-handedly into the pocket of her coat. Her beautifully simple plan was working out beautifully. She slung the bag over one shoulder, caught him up and slipped a hand through his arm, feeling his start of surprise, because she hardly ever made any kind of physical move.
As they went towards the stairway, she gazed up at the windows, and said, ‘It would be really great if we could convert this for ourselves, wouldn’t it?’
‘Yes, very.’
‘I like knowing that this is our family home,’ said Zillah, with a sigh of happiness. ‘And when it’s all done, you’ll be working in the restaurant, and I’ll be in our rooms out here. Well, not all of the time, I don’t suppose, because I can help with some of the management stuff, can’t I? Maybe taking bookings. Or helping with table design – flower arrangements and things. I think I might be quite good at that.’
She almost gave a little skip, but it might be over the top to do that, and she did not want to make him suspicious.
But he was not suspicious, of course. He had no reason to be, and all she had to do for the moment was to be enthusiastic. And to put from her mind the memory of that sinister figure unfolding from the rocking chair and coming towards her, and reaching out with those hands …
Quentin was saying something about the stairway being a bit wobbly. ‘It doesn’t look at all safe; in fact we should maybe wait for Grindall to take a look before we go up there—’
‘Oh, no,’ said Zillah, at once. ‘Now we’re here, let’s see what the place is like. I think the stairway’s safer than it seems. We’ll go up one at a time. You go ahead and once you’re up there, I’ll follow.’
‘All right. I’ve got the keys,’ he said.
Zillah thought: you won’t need the keys, because the lock on that door is a special one – it twists around from the outside and the door clicks open. She did not say this, of course; she stood at the bottom of the stairway and watched. He was going quite cautiously, and halfway up he called back.
‘They are safer than they look. But the railings aren’t so good. Be careful not to hold on to them too much.’
‘I won’t.’
‘And parts of the floor have fallen away altogether. So watch for those.’
‘I am watching,’ said Zillah, going slowly up the stairs. ‘Goodness, it’s higher up than it looks from below, isn’t it? But this balcony’s probably been here for centuries – it’ll last for another half-hour. Is this the main door – yes, of course it is. Let’s go in. It’s exciting, isn’t it?’
Quentin hesitated again, but reached for the keys, then frowned.
‘There’s no keyhole in the door,’ he said.
‘Isn’t there? How peculiar.’ Zillah pretended to peer at the door. ‘I suppose it won’t open without a key, will it? But I can’t see how a key could be used—’
‘Of course it won’t open without a key,’ he said, a bit impatiently. ‘But there’s nowhere I can see for a key to be used.’
‘Try the handle anyway,’ said Zillah, and by this time her heart was racing with excitement. Quentin shrugged, then, as if humouring a slightly stupid child, reached out to the handle. Zillah watched, willing him to twist it backwards, like putting a car into reverse. Easy. Just use common sense, Quentin.
He said, ‘Ah – got it,’ and the door swung open, clearly surprising him when it swung outwards. But he stood for a moment peering in, then he said, ‘It’s quite dark in there – where’s my phone? Damn, it was in my jacket, wasn’t it? I wanted the torch, but … I think I can see … No, it’s too dark. Let me have yours, will you?’
Zillah pretended to rummage in her bag, then said, ‘Oh, but there’s daylight coming in from that door – on the right, d’you see? Open that. Much better if we can see everything by natural light.’
‘Yes, all right.’
He went forward, and Zillah stepped back on to the balcony, grasped the edge of the door, and slammed it shut. As it clanged into place, she gave a cry.
‘Quentin? Quen – are you all right? The door slipped – or maybe the wind blew it back—’
‘Of course I’m all right,’ he said, from inside the rooms. ‘Open the door, though.’
‘Yes – yes, of course …’ Zillah rattled the handle, deliberately and carefully turning it the wrong way so he would hear and think she was trying to get the door open. ‘I can’t – Quen, it won’t open.’
‘It opened a minute ago,’ he said. ‘Turn the handle backwards like I did.’
‘I am turning it backwards, but it won’t move. It’s jammed or something’s snapped.’ She managed to get a note of panic into her voice. ‘Are you sure there’s nothing on your side to use?’
‘Yes, I am sure. Hold on, though, I’ll open that door and see if any light comes in … God, it’s dark in here …’
His voice was slightly distant, and Zillah imagined him feeling his way along the passage to the door that opened on to the big room with the hearth. And the rocking chair, where Evelyn had been sitting that day …
‘Any good?’ she said after a moment.
‘A bit. There’s quite a big room, and – oh, it’s the window on to the balcony.’ There was a movement at the window, and Quentin’s face came into view. His hands came up as if to beat angrily on the glass. ‘Zillah, for heaven’s sake get the door open – it’s dark in here and cold and disgustingly dirty.’
‘I’m trying,’ said Zillah, forcing a sob into her voice. She was gripping the door handle with both hands, making sure he could see. ‘It won’t budge though … Quin, what do we do? Are you sure you can’t free the door from that side?’
He disappeared from the window and she heard him on the other side of the door again. ‘I can’t,’ he said, after a moment. ‘You’ll have to get help – a locksmith.’
‘But—’
‘George Grindall,’ said Quentin. ‘He’ll be able to free the door. Phone him now.’
‘Yes. Yes, I will. Have you got the number?’
‘On my phone,’ he said, and the angry impatience was strong in his tone. ‘In my jacket in the car.’
‘All right. I’ll be as quick as I can.’
She went down the stairs, being careful not to touch the railings, and across the courtyard again. Quentin would not be able to see her from the courtyard rooms, but Zillah got into the car anyway. She would give it ten minutes, then she would go back. She glanced at the sky, and then at her watch. Four o’clock. Not starting to get dark yet, but not far off. Good.
‘Well?’ said Quentin, when she climbed back up the stairs fifteen minutes later.
‘I can’t get him.’ Zillah was pleased at how anxious she sounded. ‘It’s just voicemail. I left a message, but it’s anyone’s guess when he’ll pick it up. Don’t builders and plumbers and people usually have a mobile with them? He didn’t, though. But there’ll be someone at the yard, surely?’
Quen said, ‘There’d have to be. Listen, can you drive out and find him? Bring him back?’
‘Well—’
‘Zill, it’s the only thing I can think of! Unless we can get this door open, I’m trapped.’
‘Yes, of course it’s the best thing.’ Zillah was extremely glad the suggestion had come from Quentin. She said, ‘Good thing I’ve got the car keys, isn’t it? I’ll go out there now. I’ll be as quick as I can.’
As she set off, she thought it was a pity it was not yet dark enough to put into action the next piece of the plan, but whatever she did on the balcony in this light would be seen through the barred window by Quentin.
TWENTY-ONE
At half past one, Phin and Arabella took a brief break from the church records, and ate rolls and fruit sitting on Walter’s bench outside the church.
‘I wonder how Toby’s getting on,’ said Arabella. ‘He was very keen to dash off to find out about old theatres in Norwich, wasn’t he, although I have a feeling he planned it with the aim of taking Zillah with him and spending the day with her. Pity she wasn’t interested. But he went anyway. He’s got some idea of trying to locate the theatres where that flamboyant old actor appeared. Peregrine Pond.’
‘Sir Peregrine Pond,’ said Phin, grinning. ‘And The Victoriana, wasn’t it? And that other one that was burned – The Thespis. Where Pond reckoned he found that old playbill he said had belonged to one of Shakespeare’s men.’
‘Could it have been Kempe?’ said Arabella.
‘I’d like to think so, but I wouldn’t put money on it. I wouldn’t put money on Pond’s story about rescuing a priceless bit of theatre history from a burning building, either.’
‘Nor would I. But never say die. And we’ve still got plenty of avenues to explore. Have you had enough to eat? Shall we renew the assault on the church records?’
As they walked back to the rectory, Arabella said, ‘Rev Pilbeam’s being very generous and open-house, isn’t he? Letting us have a free hand with all the records and things. Actually, I think he’s quite intrigued. We’ll have to make sure we tell him what we find.’
‘Depending on what we do find,’ said Phin. ‘All kinds of scandals might come to light.’
‘I shouldn’t think he’d mind a bit of scandal, providing it’s far enough in the past.’
Even after a few hours, there was a pleasant sense of familiarity in returning to the study and to the sight of the church records on the table, and Arabella’s red hat adorning the pottery head of the vicar on the mantelpiece.
They sat down, and the silence that had fallen on to the room earlier that morning came back. Phin, working his way through columns of names – of past Savorys and Grindalls and other names of people who all seemed to have played their part in the running of the village – thought it was extraordinary restful to be working like this, with Arabella nearby. Once she got up to take down another of the registers, and twice she frowned and turned a page back as if to check something, but when Phin looked up questioningly, she shook her head as if to say, Nothing, or, False Alarm.
The slanting graceful writing – writing in several different hands over the months and years – was starting to blur slightly. Then Arabella suddenly said,
‘This probably isn’t relevant, but it’s interesting.’
‘What?’
‘At the end of 1920 – December, in fact – Walter registered the birth of a child. Evelyn.’
‘That might be someone else to trace. If she was married from this church, it would be recorded—’
‘It wasn’t a she,’ said Arabella. ‘It was a son.’
‘Unusual for a boy to be called Evelyn,’ began Phin. ‘What are you looking for?’ he said, as Arabella delved into the large shoulder bag she had brought.
‘That book I found in the Savorys’ shop – the one on local history, written by someone called H.J. Marplot. Because,’ said Arabella, ‘it gives a description about a member of the Rivers family being executed during the Peasants’ Revolt. Thirteen hundred and something, and I’m sure the name of the ringleader of the local rebels was Evelyn … Yes, here it is.’ She pushed her glasses more firmly on to her nose. ‘It describes how several local people signed up for the Peasants’ Revolt because Evelyn Rivers did so.’
‘Evelyn,’ said Phin. ‘So it was a family name, and Walter and his wife revived it.’
‘Yes. Evelyn and his gang went stomping off to London to help with sacking the Tower of London and storming bishops’ palaces and things,’ said Arabella. ‘It says they were called “Belligerents” by some people, and they rampaged through the streets, shouting warlike cries.’ She glanced up from the pages. ‘What would they have shouted? “Death to the greedy land-owners”, maybe?’
‘You can hear very similar shouts on a protest march today,’ remarked Phin.
‘They killed the Lord Chancellor,’ said Arabella, returning to the book. ‘Which I should think was a hugely serious crime all by itself.’
‘What happened to Evelyn?’
‘Wait a minute … Yes, this looks like it. Evelyn was hunted down by the King’s men after the rebellion had been more or less squashed.’ She turned a page. ‘They marched out to The Tabor, stormed in through the gardens, and carried out the execution there and then. According to the author, there was no trial, no warning, nothing. Evelyn was put to death in front of the whole family.’ She turned to the book’s title page. ‘H.J. lists a few primary sources, but he says the account of Evelyn’s execution is credited to a Rivers lady from the early 1600s, which was handed down to him from an ancestor of his own.’ She frowned, then said, ‘Phin – the inventory! That reference to a tapestry depicting the execution and showing the Murder Dance. Where are my notes – I typed them on to the tablet, and it’s in here somewhere … Yes, here.’ She flipped on the tablet, and scanned the documents. ‘This is it. The inventory was attached to Jasper Rivers’ will: “1675. Framed tapestry, believed to have been worked by Jasper Rivers’ mother. Showing the villagers gathered to watch the Reivers Dance, which enacts the tragicke fate of the rebel, Evelyn Rivers, executed by the King’s men in 1381, which tragedie shadowed and tainted the Rivers family for generations. Embroidered date 1603, initial R”. I don’t know that finding a modern-day Evelyn gets us any further, though,’ said Arabella, sitting back and frowning at the small screen.
‘Other than that the first Evelyn was still remembered in the early twentieth century,’ said Phin, thoughtfully. ‘They certainly kept that legend alive, didn’t they?’
‘I wonder what happened to Walter’s Evelyn,’ said Arabella, and looked at the bookshelves with the registers stacked on it, all neatly labelled. ‘Would it be all right to take down a couple more of those, do you think?’
‘I should think so. Rev Pilbeam gave us a free hand. What are you after?’
