‘Is that what they do? Do they burn the …’ she shuddered, ‘the remains?’
‘I have no idea.’ He sounded cross. He should know, he realised. If such a fate was the result of a case in which he had been involved, it was his duty to know such things. As to Farquhar, he had tried to forget him. But it hadn’t worked. He was always there, at the periphery of his consciousness.
Gently he released her and stood up, walking over to the window. It was dark outside. He could hear the trees stirring in the wind. The owl had gone, winging its way no doubt over the lane and out across the neighbouring grounds of Kenwood towards the heath and a night’s hunting. In Scotland the owl was a messenger of death, carrying the souls of the departed to the underworld.
56
April appeared to be asleep when Timothy let himself out of the house into the cold wet dawn. He had spent yet another sleepless night sitting by the defunct Rayburn and only crawled out of his sleeping bag in the early hours when he was too stiff and uncomfortable to stay there a moment longer. He tiptoed towards her and stood looking down at her. She let out a sharp snort but lay still. Cautiously he reached for her purse. There was a twenty-pound note inside and some pound coins. Silently he extricated the money and replaced the purse, then he crept towards the door. Ignoring the car, still drawn up behind the ruined building they called home, he walked slowly and painfully away from the Dump. On autopilot he found his way towards the main road and the all-night burger bar and ordered himself a bacon butty and coffee before retreating to a seat in the corner as far away from the counter as possible. The place was empty, but it was warm, condensation running down the windows. The guy behind the counter retreated behind his newspaper. Timothy reached for the brown sauce with a heavy sigh.
Somehow he would have to persuade April to do something soon. He wanted to go to the Old Mill House. He couldn’t get Ruth out of his head. Either they could go to break in, in one last attempt to recoup their losses, or leave town and write off the whole stupid episode as a complete failure. Then they could start a new life in a new place. Yet again. Anything but go on staying where they were, with him working pointlessly day after day at holding back the tide of rot, while April sat there and watched. He sat staring down at his plate, fighting back tears of frustration and disappointment. April. Always April holding him back, getting in his way.
The door opened and two men came in. The place filled with cheery conversation. A huge lorry drew into the car park outside, turned off its lights and subsided with a hiss of brakes. Moments later the driver joined the others at the counter. There was more easy banter, laughter, the smell of coffee and frying and toast filled the air. With a wail of misery, Timothy pushed away his plate and stood up, staggering away from his table, unaware of the silence behind him as he pushed open the door and made his way out into the rain.
He hitched a lift from a lorry at the service station on the main road. He rubbed his face as he sat back in the high seat and breathed a sigh of relief. He was on his way. He need never see April again.
‘Where’re you going, mate?’ he asked as the driver leaned forward and fired up the engine.
‘Leeds do you?’ the man replied.
‘Sounds just about perfect,’ Timothy said. In minutes he was asleep.
When the fire had burned down and Ruth could no longer stay awake, she admitted her exhaustion at last. In the silence that followed the disappearance of their unwelcome visitor Mal had put his arms around her until she stopped trembling. The dogs had come back. Everything was normal again. Now he showed her upstairs to a guest room somewhere in the lofty heights of the tower. It was a small room, comfortably furnished. The windows were set deep in the thick walls and had shutters to close off the night. ‘You will be safe here,’ he said. ‘Call if you need anything. I’m just downstairs.’
When she made her way down the steep spiral staircase to the kitchen the next morning it was almost nine. The lights were on and the room smelt of coffee but there was no sign of Mal or the dogs. The table was laid and the coffee pot on the side of the stove was hot. She poured herself a mug and went to stand by the window. The rain in the night had blown away and the sunlit views were stunning. She was still lost in thought when Malcolm returned with the dogs.
‘How did you sleep?’
‘Surprisingly well.’ She watched as he sliced a loaf of bread for toast. He put butter and honey on the table. ‘Why can’t Thomas save me, Mal, if he’s an ascended master?’
‘We don’t know that he can’t save you. And we don’t know that he’s an ascended master. Or perhaps he is, but it’s part of his remit that he cannot interfere with the world he left behind.’ Mal refilled her mug.
‘You mean there are rules?’
‘Of course.’
‘Set by whom?’
He laughed. ‘God? I’m not sure of the hierarchy, but there is one. For millennia the teachings of adepts in every corner of the world have told us of the structures and progressions of spiritual beings.’
‘Like cherubim and seraphim?’
‘Exactly.’
She sat down. ‘And you believe all this is real.’
‘I’d like to think so, but I know no more than the next man. Or woman,’ he added hastily.
She acknowledged the amendment with a movement of her eyebrow. ‘You’re supposed to be the expert.’ She helped herself to a slice of toast.
‘But I’m not an expert, that’s the trouble. Not at this.’
‘As far as Farquhar’s concerned, obviously the garlic didn’t work.’
‘It worked temporarily, but long term it apparently did no more than get up his nose,’ Malcolm’s mouth twitched. ‘Sorry, bad joke.’ He sat down on the chair opposite her. ‘We need to find out what we’re dealing with. I think we can assume he’s not one of the world’s brightest. Powerful, yes, but he appears to be motivated by the basest of emotions and instincts.’
‘So you, we, should be able to outwit him.’
‘In theory, yes; but he’s working to a different set of laws and in a different space and time to us.’
Ruth sighed. ‘How do we find out what we need to do?’
‘You know the answer to that as well as I do.’
‘Ask Thomas?’
He nodded.
‘I have,’ she hesitated before going on, ‘I have tried to speak to him, and he has sort of spoken to me, as he seems to have spoken to my father and to some of my ancestors, but I don’t think we were having a conversation. I think it’s like a crossed line on an old-fashioned telephone. I felt as if I was dropping in on a dialogue that happened a dozen lifetimes ago.’
‘An echo through time.’ He was thoughtful.
‘It was relevant to what’s happening, but we were out of sync.’
‘That sounds like a good description. So, when you talk to him, or listen to him talking, how do you do it?’
‘I just sit at my desk.’
He waited. ‘And?’
‘And that’s it. Sometimes nothing happens. Sometimes, after I’ve been reading some of his letters and journals, he seems to go on with the story in my head.’ Her voice tailed away.
His face had lit with interest. ‘His journals? You have some of his journals?’ he said eagerly.
‘One or two,’ she said cautiously.
Some of them had been written by Fanny. She had only realised when suddenly the writing had changed. Fanny’s were delightful, humorous, honest. Riveting. Ruth had sorted the letters, the little journals, the larger notebooks, all from those cupboards at Number 26, chronologically, so that she could follow the story day by day, month by month, sometimes year by year. There were letters from other lives, other dates, but for now she had put them aside, saving them for later. After all, it was Thomas’s story she was following.
Mal was watching her intently. ‘Will you show me? Please.’
She hesitated.
‘Oh, come on, Ruth!’ he said. ‘Don’t believe what Harriet’s to
ld you.’ He had picked up on her thought immediately. ‘I’m not going to poach your information. But I do want to know. I want to see. Do you realise what a priceless resource you have? And not just for their history, but because touching these things, holding them, puts you in touch with the people who wrote them. First-hand. Literally. You are touching what they touched, feeling what they felt, being a part of their lives.’
Ruth looked away uncomfortably. ‘I see that, yes.’
‘I hope they are somewhere safe. Timothy couldn’t have found them?’
‘Timothy wouldn’t have been looking for them,’ Ruth said slowly. ‘He was looking for valuables. But no, he wouldn’t have found them.’
Malcolm nodded.
‘Why don’t we go back to your chapel?’ she said after a moment. ‘Assuming Thomas is all in my imagination,’ – she glared at him, daring him to contradict her – ‘perhaps he could be persuaded to appear for real there. You must have created some kind of channel into the next world with all those crystals and statues and candles.’
He gave her a quizzical glance. ‘There are only a couple of crystals,’ he said, his tone reproachful. ‘But it would be worth a try.’ He drained his mug and stood up. ‘Now?’
‘Now,’ she said. She wanted to get outside, away from his intense scrutiny, away from her sudden need to confide in him, to believe in all this.
The dogs went with them, racing through the trees, barking with excitement. The sun was shining and the wind had dropped a little, making it seem warmer, but the chapel itself was shadowy; the light was green and flickering, full of shapes and silhouettes cast by the ivy over the windows. He reached into his pocket for some matches and lit the candle. ‘This is just to create a relaxed, welcoming atmosphere. So, what do you say when you want to talk to him?’
Yes, what do you say when you want to talk to him?
The voice was in her head, amused, rough, sarcastic.
Ruth looked round in fright. ‘Did you hear that?’
‘Hear what?’
‘The voice, asking me … Oh God! It’s him. It’s Andrew Farquhar. He’s in here with us.’ She clutched at Malcolm’s arm. ‘I’ve brought him to your chapel.’
He wasn’t coming back. April waited all day for her brother, huddled in her coat as the rain poured down the windows and through the leaks in the roof. She hadn’t given it a thought when she found the sleeping place next to her empty and his sleeping bag discarded. Neither of them slept well here, but she had drifted off in the end, overwhelmed with sheer exhaustion in the early hours. When she opened her eyes it was after nine. She assumed he had gone to fetch them both some breakfast and lay huddled under the covers, shivering, waiting for him, looking forward to coffee and perhaps a bacon sandwich. An hour passed and she climbed out of the improvised bed, needing to have a pee. The car was parked outside, which meant he was on foot.
He should have been back by now. She was beginning to have a bad feeling about him. She went over to the chair in the corner where she had left her shoulder bag and groped for the purse which should have had about twenty quid in it. It was empty. ‘Bastard!’ she swore. He must have gone through her things while she was asleep. She turned and went over to her shake-down bed. There was a loose board under it, one of many in the house, and she had stashed the rest of her cash in there. He wouldn’t have been able to get to it while she was asleep on top of it, even if he knew about it. Sure enough, the envelopes were still there. She smiled grimly. If he thought he could get the better of her he could think again.
It didn’t take her long to go through their meagre belongings. The car keys were still in her pocket. His rucksack with some clothes in it was leaning against the wall. So, he hadn’t planned to leave, else he would have taken that at least. She stood for a while, jingling the keys in her hand, thinking. The car was a liability. The police knew the new number by now and it would be picked up by the first APNR she drove past. Better to leave it. She began to pack her stuff carefully into Tim’s rucksack. There wasn’t much she wanted to keep. There was more than enough cash to see her through for a while and she would find a way of getting more. She always did. Strangely the thought of being on her own filled her with exhilaration. Tim dragged her down. She had been looking after him since they were children. Now he had made a choice and she was free of him.
The last thing to go into the rucksack was the small bag of trinkets from Ruth’s jewellery box. She had flogged a couple of the rings, both set with diamonds in heavy Victorian 24 carat gold, which had brought her several hundred quid Tim didn’t know about. She smiled. The rest, the smaller rings, the locket, the brooch set with pearls and plaited hair, she would keep until someone made her an offer. They were in her shoulder bag, securely held against her body by a strap. Pulling on her coat, she looked round the room without regret. The one thing he had been right about: the place was a dump.
The last thing she did before she left was to pull out a box of matches and set fire to some rubbish in the Rayburn. The cracked stove would spew the flame onto a pile of old newspapers and it would spread fast around the room to wipe out all traces of them, and by the time anyone bothered to come and look she would be well on her way up the road to the petrol station where, unbeknown to her, Tim had thumbed a lift twelve hours before.
Thomas
Our lives in Hampstead progressed with much happiness. My darling Fanny, as confidently predicted by the stalwart Abi, produced another gorgeous daughter, whom we christened Mary, and two years later a second son, who we named for my brothers and my father, Henry David. I had builders provide more room for my growing family and in addition had them design and enlarge a top-floor entertaining room which my friends teased me by calling the banqueting hall. It was in the latest style with elegant square windows, giving views across the heath. In the garden I procured more trees from Kew and grew vegetables and flowers and, finding the gardens too small for my ambitions, negotiated with Lord Mansfield to buy a further area of land from his estate across the lane from my house. We had them dig a tunnel under the road, from behind my wall to behind his to create an easy and private access to our extended estate which was safe for the children and gave them – and, I own, me as well – a place to play endless games of secret pirates and hide and seek. The games were greatly enhanced by a gorgeous macaw that we taught to talk.
We entertained often and in style, Fanny sometimes content to sit quietly at the end of the table listening to the conversation of her guests, sometimes contributing witty and amusing asides, absorbing their opinions and anecdotes and later writing them in her journals. When she showed me an extract we would laugh and enjoy the evening anew. I saw mention of my own practical jokes: I brought to the table one evening the jar in which lived the leeches with which I had been bled after a short illness. I told the assembled company they were as much my pets as the dogs. One of the ladies swooned. It was very diverting, as was the effect produced by our wicked macaw. Unknown to me, Davy had added to its vocabulary. Fanny and the ladies were not amused and the bird was banned from parties thereafter.
Those parties were always a great success. I invited literary ladies like Hester Thrale and Fanny Burney, political friends, Fox, Burke, Sheridan. Lord and Lady Mansfield came and my friend James Boswell with many other writers over the years and painters like Sir Joshua and Lady Reynolds. I was pleased to call the Prince of Wales a friend, and hoped he might one day come to join us. He didn’t, but his brother, Prince William, did. More than once, now that I moved in such circles, I was to remember my brother David’s insistence we forget any romantic attachment to the Stuart line and cleave to the House of Hanover. However unpopular, even despised, they were in many quarters, theirs was a patronage one needed and I was prepared to court it. Within reason.
Another trial of conscience was to come, however, and this one brought me almost to disaster. The shade of Andrew Farquhar reared its ugly head once more in our household and brought me and my beloved Fanny near to breaki
ng asunder. It was in the year 1786.
57
Thomas was working in his chambers in Lincoln’s Inn when his clerk brought in a letter; the seal was broken. ‘I believe we should turn down this brief, sir,’ he said. ‘This is not a case for you.’
Normally he would look up from his reading and wave away anything Bevan advised against. The old man was a sure barometer and they had so many requests it wasn’t possible for him to read through them all. On this occasion, however, he held out his hand. ‘I’ll take a look, Charles, while I wait for my coffee. The office boy has sent out for it to help me wake up after last night’s late hour.’
The old man smiled tolerantly. ‘It was a roisterous time, sir?’ he asked.
Thomas laughed. ‘Interesting. Political discussions of the liveliest kind at Carlton House.’ He unfolded the piece of paper Bevan handed him and began to read. Bevan bowed and withdrew, leaving Thomas in the silence of the room.
Bevan was right. This was not the kind of case with which he would normally become involved. It was a squalid and unfortunate tale of assault and rape in a Sussex town. He began to read, sitting comfortably at ease in his chair, looking up only when the boy brought in the jug of coffee. He set it down on the side table, poured a cup and put it at Thomas’s elbow then hesitated as though awaiting further instruction. Thomas waved him away. He had not lifted his eyes from the paper.
The complainant was an army officer, on behalf of his daughter, a young lady of sixteen. She had gone with a friend to her first ball. They had returned together in the friend’s carriage and the young lady had been dropped off at her father’s front door when she returned at ten o’clock that night. It appeared that the defendant, lurking nearby, had grabbed her before she could reach the door and dragged her to the local churchyard where he had raped her. There appeared to be no doubt about his guilt. The man had a bad reputation, and was, besides, deformed and ugly and highly unpopular locally.