The Murder Dance, page 3
Quentin went eagerly across to double doors directly facing the main door, and pushed them open, revealing a long room. Zillah stayed where she was, watching him as he peered into corners, frowning and prodding at walls as if he knew all about buildings. After a few moments he came back into the hall and opened a second door a little further along, looked inside, then said in a pleased voice, ‘Two very large rooms alongside each other – they take up almost half of the entire ground floor, I should think. Come and see, Zill.’
Zillah walked slowly across the hall. It was ridiculous to imagine that there would be people in that long room – figures from The Tabor’s past, grey shadowy figures who would turn their heads to see who was intruding on their solitude … Osbert Rivers, standing up and holding out a thin old hand in greeting …
Quentin had gone back to tapping at the wall between the two rooms.
‘This is the dividing wall,’ he said, as if, thought Zillah, it was not glaringly obvious. ‘And I should think the two rooms could be knocked into one for the main restaurant. Hold on, while I look at the other room again.’ He went out to the hall again, and tapped and knocked from the other side.
‘All good,’ he said, coming back. ‘I don’t think that’s a very substantial wall at all. I wonder if these rooms used to be one – even whether this was the old tavern. Somebody could have put that wall there later – when the place was made into a private house again, I mean. I’ll ask if there are any plans or builders’ sketches showing the internal layout.’ He stood at the centre of the room, looking about him with a proprietorial air. Rivers of Reivers, thought Zillah. That’s how he’s seeing himself. Except that he isn’t. This house was promised to me. It’s mine.
‘Gloomy old furniture, isn’t it?’ Quentin was saying, disparagingly. ‘But I expect it can be polished up and it might fetch a few pounds. Oh – and there’s the remains of a terrace out there,’ he said, going over to one of the long windows. ‘Very nice. I’ll have it properly paved so that diners can take drinks out there in the summer.’ He reached for his phone, and flipped to its camera. ‘And there could be music playing just very softly, too – maybe loudspeakers positioned discreetly around.’ He took several photos of the overgrown terrace with its cracked paving, then began to get shots of the room itself.
Zillah watched him for a few moments, then went into the adjoining room. It was smaller, but Quentin was probably right that the two rooms could be knocked through into one large one. She walked round, looking at the paintings, moving slowly. You’re pretending it won’t be here, said her mind. You’re trying to believe it will have gone long ago. You know quite well that it is here, though.
And there, in a dim corner, away from the windows so the light could not touch it and cause it to fade, was the tapestry. She stood very still looking at it. It was exactly as she remembered – exactly as it was in the dreams she sometimes had.
It was not large as tapestries went, and compared to the huge famous ones like the Bruges tapestries or the Bayeux tapestry, it was quite small. Perhaps it was about two feet in width, and about eighteen inches high. The colours were soft and dim, but that would be because they had faded – when this had been created the colours would have been strong and vivid.
It showed a dance – men and women wearing what looked like medieval costumes, leaping into the air, waving and gesturing with their arms, and pointing their feet. Some of the dancers had musical instruments – there was a drum and a violin and something she thought was a lute. And behind the dancers was a house that was certainly meant to be The Tabor.
Zillah stood looking at the tapestry for a long time. If she half closed her eyes she could think they were moving, dancing through the gardens, playing the music, leaping and shouting and laughing.
They were real people, Zillah … They lived here …
The figures at the centre were not dancing. They were shown as bigger than the rest, and one of them was kneeling down, its head bent, hair falling over the face. Memory looped back across the years, and Zillah could hear again that voice whispering to her – a harsh voice that had made her think of a dry old wind stirring dead leaves.
The tapestry shows an execution, Zillah …
The memory of that dreadful whispering voice was as clear as it had ever been, but even without it, it was plain what the tapestry was depicting. Zillah shivered, then went back to the other room where Quentin was still making frowning notes and measuring bits of wall. She said, ‘While you’re doing that, I’ll take a look outside.’
‘All right, but don’t trip on that uneven ground. Perhaps you’d better wait until I’ve finished in here, then I can come with you.’
‘No, I’ll be fine,’ said Zillah, going out before he could try to stop her.
She went across the hall and outside. When she looked at the house from here it was remote and almost tranquil, but then she turned her head to the right, and there ahead of her was the stone archway.
Keep clear of the old stone archway that leads into the courtyard … That was what she had been told all those years ago. Zillah hesitated, then walked towards the arch. It was quite high up and it was quite wide, as well – three or four people walking alongside one another could go through. Beyond it was a semi-enclosed area, with high walls on three sides. The courtyard rooms, thought Zillah, and something sick and fearful twisted her stomach for a moment. Go on, said her mind. You’ve got this far, go on and confront the nightmare. She glanced back at the main house, then took a deep breath and went through the arch on the side, and into the semi-enclosed courtyard.
At once the air felt cooler and some of the bright morning was dimmed. That would be because the tall walls were blotting out the sunshine, of course. A rickety staircase went up to a kind of gallery that extended the full length of the main wall, and then along part of the shorter wall at the far end. There was a door halfway along. It would open slowly because it was heavy, and it would not open inwards like other doors, but outwards … Beyond it would be a wide inner hall with doors opening off …
She had not brought the bunch of keys, but this door did not need a key, because it had been made so that it could open from the outside, but not from the inside … She shivered, but she would go on, because she needed to make sure that nothing lingered that might drag the past out into the light.
The steps creaked and sagged, and Zillah tested each tread before actually stepping on it. The staircase seemed relatively sound though, apart from the railing, which was not very secure. She would have to be careful with that on the way down.
It felt strange to be walking along the wide old balcony. In places the floor had rotted away, showing what Zillah thought were steel struts underpinning them. That would not be part of the original structure, of course. There were deep scores and dents in places, as if chairs or tables had stood out here for a long time and left their imprint. Zillah went cautiously along, and as she walked past the first of the windows, she thought a movement came from within. Her heart leapt with panic. Someone in there. Someone creeping through the shadowy rooms … Watching and waiting …
‘Why don’t you come inside, so I can see you more clearly …’
There was a stab of panic, then Zillah saw that it had only been her own reflection. And the words she had heard had been inside her own head. After a moment she was able to walk towards the door. She would not try it to see if it opened, of course—
But her hand went out to the handle, twisting it, pulling it backwards, contrary to how most door handles had to be turned. It grated slightly, and then Zillah felt the lock spring back. Flecks of rust showered onto the ground, but the door swung slowly outwards. And there it was, exactly as in the nightmare. The wide, inner hall, the doors opening off. The smell of age and dust came at her, and the memories stirred again.
‘Evelyn?’ Zillah heard her own voice whisper the name, very softly into the waiting silence, and she heard the echoes whisper back at her, very faintly, as if mocking her. But of course there was no one here, and it was already obvious that nothing had been here for a very long time. Even Osbert Rivers would not have been out here for years. Still, she would take a quick look round. To make sure there’s no one here? said a small sly voice in her head. Zillah pushed the voice away, and reached in her bag for her phone, flipping on its torch. The small light cut through the dimness, showing up thick cobwebs dripping from the ceilings. In the current of air from the open door, they stirred, and floated towards her, like grey ragged fingers. Like hands reaching for her, only they were not like other people’s hands …
Beneath the scents of age and dirt was the scent of old timbers that once had been polished with beeswax, and that had soaked up the sunlight of decades. A few pieces of furniture still stood around – a small table, and a carved oak chest under the window. There was a deep hearth facing the window, with alcoves on each side, and drawn up to it was a rocking chair, the upholstery of the seat faded and tattered, but still intact. Zillah had a sudden image of a figure rocking in that chair by the fire, and for a moment so strong was it that she could see the figure turn its head, and she could hear the whispered words …
‘Why don’t you come inside … I like to have a visitor …’
If she stared at this image any longer she would start to think the shadowy figure was standing up and walking towards her, arms outstretched, exactly like the grey cobwebs had seemed to stretch out earlier …
But the rocking chair was covered with dust, and no one could have sat there for a very long time. It moved slightly when she touched it, with a creak that sounded like old bones struggling into life, and Zillah recoiled, and went back out of the rooms, slamming the door hard, and back down the rickety steps, and into the main house again.
THREE
Quentin was waiting for her – had he been listening and watching, wondering where she had been?
Zillah said, ‘The gardens are massive, aren’t they? Dreadfully overgrown, but they could be made really lovely.’
‘I wondered where you were. I’ve been thinking,’ said Quentin, ‘that it’s only just after eleven – what d’you think about making a start on clearing some of the stuff out while we’re here? I don’t mean lugging furniture around, but it looks as if there’s masses of old papers and things in the cupboards. We could tip it all into rubbish bags – there’s sure to be a recycling centre somewhere. It’s got to be done, and any clearance firms coming in will probably charge by the hour, and it all mounts up.’
Zillah thought, resentfully, you’ve just inherited an Elizabethan mansion, and you’re talking airily about borrowing huge sums to turn it into an upmarket restaurant, but you’re carping about a few extra pounds for a house clearance firm.
But she said, temperately, ‘Yes, we could do that. How about if I make a start and you go back to the pub and put on some jeans and a sweater – you’ve got your good jacket on, haven’t you, and you don’t want to get it all cobwebby. You could get my flat shoes from my bedroom as well, if you wouldn’t mind. Easier to scoot around than in these heels.’
Please agree, she thought. Leave me here on my own, even for a short while, so I can confront the nightmare. ‘And you’ll be much quicker than I would,’ she said. ‘You know what I’m like with directions – I’d be sure to take a wrong turning somewhere.’
He hesitated. ‘You don’t mind being here on your own?’
‘Oh, no. It’s a friendly kind of house, somehow. And you’ll only be half an hour or so, won’t you?’
‘All right. I’ll pick up some sandwiches for lunch, shall I, then we can work straight through.’
‘Good idea. And see if you can get three or four of those big garden waste bags as well. The pub might have some they’d let you have,’ said Zillah, as he went out.
She waited until she heard the car start up and go back down the overgrown drive, then glanced towards the stairs. Going up them brought the memories tumbling all over again – here was the smooth-as-silk banister that was like that because so many people had slid their hands along it … And now the half-turn of the stair with the narrow latticed window that looked across to the courtyard rooms and the old stone arch …
She went unhesitatingly into the large bedroom on the right. It was a big room, dustily dim, but Zillah crossed to the two windows and pulled back the curtains. Sunlight poured in, sending the dust motes dancing, and showing up the faded carpet and the old-fashioned wallpaper. It fell across the massive bed, showing up the faded colours of the old-fashioned bedspread.
The bed belonged to Rosalind Rivers … Your ancestor, Zillah … the most beautiful Rivers lady ever … All the men used to fall in love with her … And then, remember how you lay in that bed, and pretended you were Rosalind? said the echoes.
Facing the bed was a massive chimney breast, and on each side were cupboards – dull and scuffed with age, but with the figuring of the oak still visible. And what might be in those cupboards …? Zillah opened the right-hand one warily, flinching slightly as the smell of old paper and dust came out at her.
Papers and old folders and newspaper cuttings, all of them yellowed and tattered. Probably none of them held anything in the least bit damaging, but it would be as well to get them stacked into a kind of rubbish pile, so that Quentin would not be able to look through them. He had already talked about seeing if there were any odds and ends of the house’s past that he could use for publicity.
The left-hand cupboard held piles of folded linen, and Zillah dragged out a couple of thin old sheets, and spread them on the floor. Then she began to sweep the crumbling old papers from the cupboard, tipping them all onto the centre of the sheets. Even seeing them like this reassured her, because they were mostly old catalogues and inventories and receipts. A few newspaper cuttings about local events. Nothing else. It’s all right, thought Zillah. There isn’t going to be anything in here I need worry about.
But there was.
It was at the very back of the cupboard in an old shoebox that held several letters. Zillah sat on the side of the bed to flip through them. The dates were fifteen or sixteen years ago, but the odd thing was that the top one seemed to have been sent by Osbert Rivers, and from this house. This was strange, because when you sent a letter, it stayed with the recipient; it did not come back to the sender. It took several moments for her to realize that what she was seeing was a carbon copy. How long had it been since people typed letters on a typewriter, and slotted a sheet of carbon in to make a copy? Zillah was not even sure if you could buy typewriters and carbon paper these days. But sitting in this faded quiet old room, she could suddenly visualize Osbert Rivers in his declining years, impatiently waving away computers and laptops, and hunched over an old-fashioned typewriter, pecking at the keys.
The carbon copy was quite smudged and the print was blurred in places, and Zillah was about to consign the box and its contents to the sheet, when a name on the letter caught her eye.
The letter was addressed to Mr Codling’s firm, but the name that leapt out was Elwen.
Elwen.
Zillah stared at it for a moment, then took the blurred letter over to the window where the light was better, and sat in the padded window-seat to read it.
My dear Codling,
After our meeting last week I have accepted that it’s my responsibility to leave my affairs in a tidy state for when I am gone. Therefore I am yielding to your many persuasions, and I shall finally make a will.
As you know, I made a promise to Elwen all those years ago, and the promise was that I would leave The Tabor to her granddaughter. However, even then I think I knew I would not honour that promise, and now that Elwen is dead, I no longer feel constrained by my word. So I am going to name Quentin Rivers as my heir. I don’t know anything about him, and he’s very young, but he’s the most direct in line after Elwen’s girl. I trust you to keep an eye on him when the time comes.
My good old friend, you know the taint in this family. You know how Juliette Rivers – and later, Evelyn – both had it, and you know it’s a truly dreadful thing. It cropped up in the family long before Juliette and Evelyn’s day, of course – stories still linger of the Murder Dance, and of how and why the courtyard prison was originally created, and why those bars had to be put at the windows. I don’t know the details though, and after all this time I shouldn’t think anyone knows them.
I almost managed to convince myself that Elwen’s granddaughter did not deliberately commit murder that afternoon. And yet …
And yet I have never been able to forget the look on her face when we found her with Evelyn’s body. I don’t need to describe that look to you – we both saw it on Evelyn’s own face all those years ago, and although neither of us remembers Juliette, we both know from people we can trust that she had the same look years earlier. A gloating. Incredibly, even, a look of enjoyment. And along with all of that, a sly awareness of cleverness and a belief that there will be no retribution, no punishment.
I have no idea how much the child knew of what we did to cover up what had happened, and to protect her. I wonder now – I have frequently wondered – if it was the right thing to do, but Elwen was distraught, sobbing and begging me to help her. At the time I felt I had no choice.
We took the child upstairs to lie down – to get her out of the way – but when Elwen eventually took her away from The Tabor, she still had the look, and I swear it was more strongly marked. She looked at me very directly, as if she felt we shared some huge and exciting secret. As if it bound us together.
Elwen died believing that her granddaughter would inherit The Tabor. It’s possible the child heard me make that promise, and that she grew up believing it. I have always hoped not, but I can’t be sure.
