Chalice of Darkness, page 6
FIVE
The morning was cold and sharp, but sunlight lay across the cobblestones of the village square, and Jack found it all attractive. He thought local markets – even small fairs – might be held here, and that all the locals would attend. There was a traditional green with several wooden benches, a stone monument commemorating something, and several shops, bow-fronted and looking as if they might date back to the middle of the last century, or even earlier. High-waisted gowns and poke bonnets, thought Jack, pleased with these images.
There was a wooden notice board on stilts, giving details of church services and events, and a poster advertising a choral concert at Chauntry School that evening. This struck a friendly note; everyone was please to come along and bring their friends – there was only a small charge for seats – and there would be some Schubert lieder to enjoy, and a selection of folk songs indigenous to the area, including ‘Bobby Shafto’s Gone to Sea’, and Chauntry’s own arrangement of the famous old legend, ‘The Lambton Worm’. As usual, the traditional favourite, ‘Blaydon Races’ would be performed, in which everyone was welcome to join, although please to refrain from too enthusiastic stamping of feet to the chorus, because after last Christmas it had been necessary to re-lay the entire floor of the concert hall.
Jack smiled at this, then said, ‘Gus, if you were planning to come to live in a place, you’d be interested in its activities and its residents, wouldn’t you? And Byron mentioned an empty schoolhouse in the grounds of Chauntry itself, so the concert would give us a good opportunity to investigate. I’m inclined to think we’ll go along.’
‘I suppose we’d better.’
‘I think so. We’ll ask at the pub about tickets and how to get out there. For now, we’ll see what the local solicitor has to offer.’
But once inside the small offices, with the legend over its door proclaiming it to be Solicitors, Conveyancers, Notaries Public, Wills and Probate, Jack thought it was as well he was not genuinely looking for a house to buy. Gus was consigned to wait in a dismal outer office, and Mr Joseph Glennon was shown into the office of Mr E. Meazle himself. Mr Meazle was seated behind a high desk, and regarded his unexpected visitor with disapproval. He wore an old-fashioned high wing collar from which a thin chicken neck protruded, and Jack committed his appearance to memory in case the Amaranth should ever revive Tom Taylor’s play A Nice Firm, with its tumbled scenes in a legal office, and picturesque untidiness of law papers and japanned deed boxes and cobwebs.
In response to Jack’s explanation about searching for a property, Mr Meazle did not think he could be of any help.
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Jack, in a crestfallen tone. ‘You see, I don’t know this part of the world, other than to pass through it on the train. En route to Scotland, generally.’ He considered throwing in Balmoral at this point, but thought Mr Meazle was unlikely to believe that Joseph Glennon moved in such exalted circles. He said, ‘But I’ve always felt it was a place where I’d like to live some day, and I thought a local solicitor might be the very person to know of any likely houses available. And, of course, to help with the legal side of a purchase. I’ve lately come into a very unexpected legacy, and I’ve got it in mind to lead a quiet rural life.’ He ventured a timid smile. ‘Someone at the pub – I’m staying at the Mercian Arms, you know – mentioned a Vallow Hall as being one of the large houses hereabouts. Do you know it? I thought I might call and introduce myself, and see if the owners know of any likely properties.’
‘There is a Vallow Hall,’ said Meazle. ‘The Vallow family have lived there for generations. But the present owner doesn’t see visitors – he’s virtually a recluse.’
‘Ah. An elderly gentleman?’ asked Jack. ‘Or in ill health?’
‘He won’t be so very old, although I have no idea as to his health. He was once quite active in the area – a justice of the peace – on several local committees. He was on the board of governors of St Botolph’s Orphanage, as well, in fact I believe they wanted him to administer an education programme they were setting up. But it was at the time he was giving up most of his public duties, so he declined. It was some considerable way for him to travel with any frequency, too – St Botolph’s is on the other side of Alnwick. The education programme was formed, though, and I believe it’s very well thought of. But Mr Vallow plays virtually no part in local life these days.’
‘Still, I might try calling on him. I’m grateful for your time. Good-day to you.’
Walking back across the village square, Jack relayed the conversation to Gus, who listened, then said, ‘So a recluse lives at Vallow Hall.’
‘Yes, and I wonder how long he’s been a recluse – and why he became one in the first place, because if it started fifteen years ago …’ Jack frowned, then said, ‘Have we got Ambrose’s sketch map with us? Ah, thanks.’
He unfolded the map, remembering to don the spectacles in case anyone might be watching, and studied it. To an onlooker this would be quite natural – Mr Glennon studying the layout of the village where he was hoping to buy a property.
Ambrose had taken trouble over the map, and had added approximate distances between salient points. Vallow Hall was clearly shown, with the approach to it along Candle Lane. The name conjured up bobbing carriage lights and the old tradition of link boys carrying lanterns to light the way. Byron had added a few touches of his own, including a little drawing of how he thought Vallow Hall might look. Typically, he had got carried away and had drawn in gothic arches and gargoyles, so that Vallow Hall looked as if it might make a good setting for a play about any one of a dozen dark old houses from the gloomiest gothic fiction.
‘What we need to do,’ said Jack, folding up the map, and looking about him, ‘is find Candle Lane. According to the map, it leads directly off this square, so … Yes, there it is by the saddler’s shop. And if Ambrose’s calculations can be trusted – and I should think they can – Vallow Hall is within reasonably easy walking distance.’
As they crossed the square and turned into Candle Lane, Jack was aware of a thrum of excitement. Vallow Hall, he thought. In a very short time I’m going to see it. I’m going to walk up to its front door and request admittance. The chalice might be in there or it might not. But I could find out a bit more about Maude.
He had expected Candle Lane to be wreathed in mystery and heavy with secrets, but it was an ordinary country lane – there would be hundreds like it the length and breadth of the land – the ground rutted from carts, the hedges on each side thrusting forward. In the autumn there would be blackberries, which the local children would pick. For a moment Jack almost wished he really was Joseph Glennon, hoping to live out here, intending to pursue a peaceful rural existence. Then he remembered the Amaranth and the thrill of a first night, and the acclaim and applause of audiences. Hard on the heels of that he remembered how it felt to enter some rich luxurious house without being caught, and to delicately and judiciously remove pieces of jewellery or silver. The vision of a rural idyll ceased to hold any attraction.
They reached a high greystone wall, and Jack stepped back to look up at it.
‘The wall enclosing the house,’ he said. ‘Eight feet high, but no more. And we packed the silk ladder with the grappling hooks, didn’t we?’
‘We haven’t brought it this morning, but it’s at the bottom of the luggage,’ confirmed Gus. ‘There’re gates farther along, though. They might be open.’
The gates were tall and had elaborate iron scrollwork. When Jack reached for the latch it lifted smoothly, and the left-hand gate swung inwards. As they stepped through, he paused to examine the latch more closely.
‘Simple mechanism,’ he said. ‘Easily dealt with if I come back and the gates are locked.’
They walked along a wide curving carriageway fringed with thick shrubbery, then rounded a final curve. And there was the house. Jack stood still for a moment, studying it. It was built of the same dour grey stone as the wall that enclosed it, and it had a brooding air, as if there might be secrets inside it, and as if it hugged the secrets to itself and frowned on any intruders. Trees had been allowed to grow up around it; their branches would tap on the upper windows, like skeletal fingers. It was not quite a Bronte-esque Wuthering Heights, or Austen’s Northanger Abbey, but Jack thought Byron had not been far off the mark with those gothic touches. As they got closer, though, this impression faded a little, and perhaps after all it was nothing more than a rather sad old country house that must once have seen better days.
He said, ‘Let’s see if we can get ourselves invited in. The main door’s more like a church porch, isn’t it? Will there be a doorkeeper who we’ll have to ask to raise a portcullis, do you think? Or an oubliette we’ll have to step around, or …? Oh, no, there’s a bell rope. Very mundane.’
When he pulled the twisted iron rope there was a second or two of silence, and then the sound of the bell clanging inside the house. It was a mournful sound, and Jack felt something akin to fear scrape across his skin. To counteract this, he said to Gus, ‘Ideally we should now hear dragging footsteps, and a leering face peering through a tiny chink in the door.’
‘Mr Jack, do hush, or they’ll hear you— And someone’s coming.’
The footsteps approaching the door were brisk and sharp, although the door was only opened halfway. A rather harsh female voice said, ‘Yes?’
Against the dimness of the hall Jack made out a tall, well-built lady with large features but a thin mouth. She was wearing a high-necked gown – there was an impression of whalebone and no-nonsense. She might be some kind of housekeeper, although the house’s condition did not suggest it had much of a household staff. Possibly she was a dependent relative assigned to answer the door if no one else was available.
He took this all in, then with an ingenuous smile said, ‘Good morning to you. I’m Joseph Glennon, and this is my manservant, Mr Augustus Pocket.’
‘Well?’ There was a quick backward glance over the lady’s shoulder, either as if she had been engaged on some vital task and wanted to get back to it, or as if she was looking to see if anyone was in earshot.
‘I apologize for calling without an introduction, but I’m in Vallow for a few days, looking for a country house to buy in the area,’ said Jack. He spread his hands in a rueful gesture. ‘I don’t know this part of the world, so I thought I’d approach one or two local landowners, to see if they might know of any possible properties. Is the master – or the mistress – of the house at home and perhaps available to have a word with me?’
This had sounded quite good, quite believable when he had worked it out earlier, but in the face of the woman’s stony stare it lost some of its credibility.
She said, ‘I don’t know of any houses for sale. I can’t help you.’
As she made to shut the door, Jack took a step forward, and she paused and looked coldly at him. But before he could say anything else a door on the left of the hall opened, and a man’s voice called out, ‘Cousin Hilda, I heard voices – are there visitors? I wasn’t informed of any.’
A figure walked across the hall towards them. It would be absurd to think the hall’s dimness clung to it like strings of ancient cobwebs, and it would be nothing more than the uncertain light in the house, probably coupled with Jack’s too-lively imagination. But the really curious thing – the unsettling thing – was that as the man came into the light and the illusion of cobweb strands dissolved, a sense of extreme fear scraped across Jack’s mind. It was so strong that he thought he might actually have flinched.
And yet the man was ordinary, if not especially appealing. He looked to be in his fifties, but he had a slight stoop. Strands of sparse hair like dried straw were combed over balding sections of his narrow head, and his eyes had a slightly hooded appearance. Jack tried not to think that coupled with the hunched-over shoulders they gave him a slightly predatory look.
‘It’s only someone looking for a house to buy,’ said Cousin Hilda. ‘I’ve told him there aren’t any.’
The dismissive tone of this annoyed Jack so much that he nearly forgot Joseph Glennon’s mild personality, but Gus nudged him with a foot, and he managed to say, ‘Good morning, sir. As the lady has said, I’m engaged in a search for a house to buy hereabouts. I’ve had a word with the local solicitor, and I’m calling on several of the local people to introduce myself. Everyone has been very friendly, so I thought it would be acceptable to come out here. Would you be Mr Vallow?’ He might easily be Brigadier Vallow or Sir Somebody Vallow, or even a Lordship, but you had to start somewhere.
The man said, ‘I’m Saul Vallow.’ His voice grated on Jack – there was a dissonance that made him think of a cracked piece of china. But he said, ‘How do you do, sir. I’m Joseph Glennon.’
‘Joseph Glennon.’ It came out as if the man was trying it to see how it sounded. It would be absurd to think there was a suspicious note in his voice – even a note of disbelief. He did not take Jack’s proffered hand; he just studied him with an intensity that was disconcerting. Then he said, ‘Miss Grout is right to say there are no properties available to buy hereabouts. I’m sorry we cannot be of any help. Good-day to you.’
Jack said, ‘I should apologize for having taken up your time.’ He stepped back as if preparing to go, then turned back just as Hilda Grout was starting to close the door.
‘There was one house I wondered about,’ he said. ‘I saw it from the train on the way here. A strange old place it looked. It was over the fields.’ He made a vague half-pointing gesture, not indicating any specific area, since Mr Glennon had no sense of direction. ‘Someone said it was probably Bastle House I saw, and that it had been empty for years. Do you know it?’
Bastle House. The name dropped into the dim old hall like a stone plummeting into a dark pond, and Jack had the impression that shock went through Saul Vallow. At his side, Miss Grout drew in a sharp breath and made an involuntary movement with one hand, as if pushing something away. He glanced at her, then said to Saul Vallow, ‘Have I got the name right?’
‘There is a house with that name. You could well have seen it from the train.’
‘Would you know who owns it? Or how I might trace the owner? If it’s been empty for a while, he might be interested in an offer.’
‘I don’t believe anyone knows who owns it,’ said Vallow. ‘I’d forgotten about it, as a matter of fact. It’s something of a – a blight on the countryside.’
‘Something to ignore as much as possible,’ put in Cousin Hilda. ‘An appalling place.’
‘And probably dangerous,’ said Saul Vallow. ‘It would certainly need a great deal of money spending on it.’ His tone indicated that he did not think Joseph Glennon’s means would be anywhere near enough to fund such work.
‘I might take a look at it anyway,’ said Jack. ‘Thank you very much again. Good-day to you both.’
He was aware of Gus giving a small, respectful nod, but neither Vallow nor Miss Grout said anything in the way of farewell, and they were scarcely out of the deep old porch before there was the sound of the door closing, and of a key turning in the lock.
Vallow Hall retreated into its brooding silence and its secrets.
As they retraced their steps along Candle Lane and came into the village square, Gus said, ‘You didn’t like him, did you, Mr Jack? Mr Saul Vallow?’
Jack said, ‘No.’ The strange fear brushed his mind again, and he had to make an effort to push it away. He said, ‘And it’s a curious thing, Gus, but I was relieved when he didn’t take my hand. I’m going to get a look inside that house, though. One way or another.’
‘When?’
Jack thought for a moment, then said, ‘Not tonight, I don’t think. It’d be too soon after our visit. If anything went wrong – if old Vallow even only half-suspected someone was lurking around he might connect it to the unexpected visit of Mr Joseph Glennon. Also, tonight is the Chauntry School concert, so there could be people out and about until quite late. But we’ve still got the afternoon ahead of us, and we could go out to Bastle House. Empty houses are ideal to hide secrets. And that reaction from Saul Vallow and the Grout female when I asked about that place—’
‘They didn’t like it,’ said Gus, at once. ‘And they fell over themselves to tell you how unsuitable it would be for you.’
They crossed the square, and as they went into the Mercian Arms, Jack said, ‘It’s just on mid-day. Let’s see if we can get an early lunch, and then work out how we can get to Bastle House. It doesn’t look so very far on Ambrose’s map.’
Mrs Gurning greeted them, appeared keen to help Gus divest himself of his scarf, and expressed herself as delighted to provide luncheon for them.
‘There’s cold roast beef and home-made horseradish, and a pot of soup that’s been simmering on the stove this last two hours. I daresay Mr Pocket will be glad of that, for you need feeding up to my mind, Mr Pocket, what with you being so poorly last evening.’
‘That sounds excellent,’ said Jack. ‘And is it possible to hire a conveyance this afternoon? So that I can see a bit more of the area and look at likely houses?’
‘Well, Ned Nithercott can usually oblige,’ said Mrs Gurning. ‘Him as brought you from the station in his cart yesterday. But I don’t know as he’d be able to do so today, on account of the concert up to Chauntry this evening. Lot of to-ing and fro-ing there always is for a Chauntry concert. Things being delivered up to the school – always a real good supper they lay on – and then folk arriving at the station. Parents, come to see their sons sing on the stage, and having to be collected from their trains. Ned takes them back and forth. Quite run off his feet he is, if you can believe what he says. But it’s quite an event for Vallow, a Chauntry concert, and a grand evening.’
Jack said, ‘I saw the poster about it in the square. I thought I might go along.’
‘Oh, you’d enjoy it,’ said Mrs Gurning at once. ‘And we’ve got tickets at the bar – I have an arrangement with the housekeeper at Chauntry about that. Folk often buy tickets here, what with us being in the centre of Vallow. I can let you have two – I daresay Mr Pocket is as partial to a bit of good music as the next man.’
