Hannah walked past Madame Sarou, the wooden fortune-teller who would shuffle tarot cards with her wrinkled hands, choose one and show it to the spectator. Although she tried hard not to look, Hannah couldn’t help glancing at the gypsy’s terrifying effigy. Suddenly the fortune-teller’s eyes opened and she extended a card towards Hannah. The card showed the figure of a red demon wreathed in flames.
A few metres on, the torso of the masked man swung back and forth. The automaton would peel off one mask after another, never revealing his invisible face. Hannah looked away and hurried on. She’d been down this corridor hundreds of times during the day. They were all just lifeless machines that didn’t deserve her attention, let alone her fear.
With this reassuring thought in mind she came to the end of the corridor and turned the corner into the west wing. On one side of the passage stood Maestro Firetti’s miniature orchestra. If you put a coin in, the figures in the band would play their own peculiar version of Mozart’s ‘Turkish March’.
Finally, Hannah stopped in front of a huge oak panel. Every door in Cravenmoore had been carved with a different pattern, depicting a famous tale: the Grimm brothers immortalised in the most intricate woodwork. To Hannah’s eyes, however, they were, quite simply, sinister. This last room in the corridor was one she had never set foot in. And she wouldn’t have gone in now, unless she had to.
She could hear the shutters banging on the other side of the door. Cold night air filtered through the gap between the door and the frame, whispering over her skin. Hannah took one last look down the corridor behind her. The faces in the orchestra stared back through the shadows. She could hear the sound of the rain, like thousands of small spiders scuttling over the roof of Cravenmoore. She took a deep breath and stepped into the room.
An icy gust of wind enveloped her, slamming the door behind her and snuffing out the candles. The sodden net curtains flapped about in the wind like tattered shrouds. Hannah rushed over to close the window, securing the latch the wind had unfastened. She searched her dressing-gown pocket with trembling fingers, pulled out a matchbox and lit the candles once more. The flickering flames lit up the gloom, revealing what looked to be a child’s room. A small bed stood next to a desk. Books and a child’s clothes laid out on a chair. A pair of shoes neatly lined up under the bed. A minute crucifix hanging from one of the bedposts.
Hannah took a few steps forward. There was something disconcerting about these objects and this furniture, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. Once more she scanned the room. There were no children at Cravenmoore. There never had been. What was the point of this room?
Suddenly, it all became clear. Now she understood what she found so disconcerting. It wasn’t the room’s tidiness. It wasn’t because it was so clean. It was something so simple, so obvious, you wouldn’t even notice it. This was a child’s room, but there was something missing . . . Toys. There wasn’t a single toy.
Hannah raised the candlestick and discovered something else, on one of the walls. Small bits of paper. Clippings. She put the candlestick on the desk and took a closer look. A mosaic of old cuttings and photographs covered the wall. In one of the images was the pale face of a woman. Her features were dark and angular, and her black eyes held an air of menace. The same face appeared in other pictures. Hannah concentrated on a portrait of the mysterious woman holding a baby in her arms.
Hannah’s eyes moved along the wall, examining the fragments of old newspapers. There were items about a terrible fire in a Paris factory and the disappearance of someone called Hoffmann during the tragedy. The entire collection, spread out like a row of tombstones, seemed to be imbued with this character’s presence. And in the middle of the wall, surrounded by dozens of illegible scraps, was the front page of a newspaper dating back to 1890. On it was the face of a child, his eyes filled with panic, like the eyes of a wounded animal.
Hannah was completely shaken by the image. The boy couldn’t have been more than six or seven – and he seemed to have witnessed some horror he could barely comprehend. She felt an intense cold, a numbness, take hold of her as she tried to decipher the text surrounding the image. ‘Eight-year-old child discovered after spending a week alone, locked up in a dark basement,’ read the caption. Hannah looked at the boy’s face again. There was something vaguely familiar about his features, perhaps in his eyes . . .
At that precise moment, Hannah thought she heard the echo of a voice whispering behind her back. She turned round, but there was nobody there. She heaved a sigh of relief. The soft rays of the candles trapped specks of dust floating in the air like a purple haze. She walked over to one of the large windows and wiped away some of the condensation. The forest was submerged in mist. The lights in Lazarus’s study, at the end of the west wing, were on, and she could clearly see his profile silhouetted behind the curtains.
Suddenly she heard the voice again, this time clearer and closer. It was whispering her name. Hannah turned to face the dark room and, for the first time, she noticed the glow coming from a small glass flask. Black as obsidian, it stood in a tiny niche in the wall, yet it was enveloped in ghostly radiance.
The girl slowly moved towards it. At first glance, it looked like a bottle of perfume, but she’d never seen one as beautiful as this, nor had she seen glass so delicately cut. Its stopper formed a prism, casting a rainbow of colours all around it. Hannah felt an irrepressible urge to hold the object and touch the perfect lines of the crystal.
With utmost care, she placed her hands around the flask. It weighed more than she expected and the glass was icy cold, almost painful to touch. She raised it to eye level and tried to look inside but all she could see was an impenetrable blackness. And yet, when she held it against the light, Hannah had the impression that something was moving inside it. A thick black liquid, perhaps a perfume . . .
With trembling hands she clasped the cut-glass stopper. Something stirred inside the flask. Hannah hesitated. But the perfection of the bottle seemed to promise the most exquisite fragrance she could imagine. Slowly, she twisted the stopper. The dark contents stirred again, but she no longer cared. At last, the stopper yielded.
An indescribable sound, like the shriek of pressurised gas escaping, filled the room. In less than a second, the black mass issuing from the mouth of the flask had flooded the air, like an ink stain unfurling over water. When she looked at the bottle again, Hannah realised that the glass was now transparent and that, thanks to her, whatever had been lodged inside it had been released. She put the flask back in its place and felt a draught of cold air sweeping across the room, blowing out the candles one by one. As the darkness spread, a new presence emerged through the gloom, a dense form covering the walls like black paint.
A shadow.
Hannah slowly tiptoed backwards towards the door. She placed a trembling hand on the doorknob, then carefully, without taking her eyes off the pool of darkness, she opened the door, ready to sprint away. Something was advancing towards her, she could feel it.
As Hannah left the room, pulling the door towards her, the chain she wore round her neck got caught on one of the carvings. At the same time, a piercing sound echoed behind the closed door. It sounded like the hiss of a large snake. Hannah felt tears of terror sliding down her cheeks. The chain snapped and she heard the pendant fall, freeing her. She turned to face the tunnel of shadows before her. At one end of the corridor, the door leading to the staircase of the rear wing was open. There was that ghostly whistle again. It was closer now. Hannah ran. A few seconds later she heard the doorknob starting to turn behind her. She cried out in panic and hurtled down the stairs.
The descent to the ground floor seemed endless. Hannah was leaping down the stairs three at a time, panting and trying not to lose her balance. By the time she reached the door leading to the back garden, her ankles and knees were covered in wounds, but she barely felt any pain. Adrenaline ignited her veins like gunpowder, urging her on. The back door, which was never used, wouldn’t open. Hannah smashed the gla
ss with her elbow and forced the lock from the outside. She didn’t feel the cut on her forearm until she reached the shadows of the garden.
As she ran towards the woodland, her sweat-drenched clothes clung to her skin in the cool night air. Before taking the path through Cravenmoore forest, Hannah turned to look at the house, expecting to see her pursuer rushing across the garden. There was nothing. Not a trace. She took a deep breath. The cold air burned her throat, searing her lungs. She was about to start running again when she caught sight of a shape clinging to the façade of Cravenmoore. The profile of a face emerged from the darkness as the shadow crept down through the gargoyles like a giant spider.
Hannah threw herself into the dark maze of the forest. The moon shone through the clearings, lending the mist a bluish hue. The wind awoke the whispering voices of thousands of leaves, the trees standing by like petrified ghosts, their branches transformed into threatening claws. She ran desperately towards the light that beckoned at the end of that tunnel, a channel of brightness that seemed to move further away the more she tried to reach it.
A thunderous noise filled the forest. The shadow was ploughing through the undergrowth, destroying everything in its path. A shout froze in Hannah’s throat. Her hands, arms and face were covered in cuts from branches and thorns. Exhaustion clouded her senses, and a voice inside told her to give in, to lie down and wait . . . But she had to go on. She had to escape. A few more metres and she would reach the road that lead to the village. There she would find a passing car, someone who would help her. Her salvation was just a few minutes away, beyond the edge of the forest.
The distant lights of a car approaching along the Englishman’s Beach swept through the gloom. Hannah straightened up and screamed for help. Behind her, a whirlwind surged through the undergrowth then rose up the trees. Hannah looked up towards the treetops shrouding the face of the moon. Slowly, the shadow unfurled. She was scarcely able to let out one last moan. Then, raining down like a torrent of tar, the shadow swooped on Hannah. She closed her eyes and pictured her mother’s smiling face.
Moments later, she felt the cold breath of the shadow on her cheeks.
5
A CASTLE IN THE MIST
Ismael’s boat emerged through the veil of sea mist that coated the surface of the bay. Irene and her mother, who was sitting calmly on the porch with a cup of coffee, glanced at one another.
‘I don’t have to tell you . . .’ Simone began.
‘You don’t have to tell me,’ replied Irene.
‘When was the last time you and I spoke about men?’ her mother asked.
‘When I was seven and our neighbour Claude persuaded me to give him my skirt in exchange for his trousers.’
‘Cheeky little rascal.’
‘He was only five, Mum.’
‘If that’s what they’re like at five, imagine when they’re fifteen.’
‘Sixteen.’
Simone sighed. Sixteen. My God. Her daughter was planning to run away with an old sea dog.
‘So we’re talking about an adult.’
‘He’s only a year and a bit older than me. What does that make me?’
‘You’re a child.’
Irene smiled patiently at her mother. Simone Sauvelle didn’t make a good sergeant major.
‘Don’t worry, Mum. I know what I’m doing.’
‘That’s what scares me.’
The boat crossed the entrance to the cove. Ismael shouted a greeting. Simone observed him, one eyebrow raised in alarm.
‘Why don’t you ask him to come up so you can introduce us?’
‘Mum . . .’
Simone nodded. She hadn’t expected that ruse to work.
‘Is there anything I ought to say?’ asked Simone.
Irene gave her a peck on the cheek.
‘Just wish me a good day.’
Then, without waiting for a reply, Irene raced down to the jetty. Simone watched her daughter grab hold of the stranger’s hand (he didn’t look much like a boy to her) and jump onto his boat. When Irene turned to wave at her, her mother forced a smile and waved back. She watched them head out into the bay under a brilliant, reassuring sun. On the porch, a seagull, perhaps another stressed mother, was looking at her with resignation.
‘It’s not fair,’ Simone said to the seagull. ‘When they’re born nobody ever tells you that they’ll end up doing the same things you did when you were young.’
Unaware of such considerations, the bird followed Irene’s example and flew away. Simone smiled and got ready to return to Cravenmoore. Hard work conquers all, she told herself.
An easterly wind filled the sails of the Kyaneos as she ploughed through the shimmering emerald ripples, with glimpses of the seabed just visible below. Irene, whose only previous experience on board a boat had been the short journey a few days earlier, gazed open-mouthed at the hypnotic beauty of the bay. Far away, the tail of the night’s storm rode off towards the horizon. Irene closed her eyes and listened to the sound of the sea.
Once their course was set, there was little for Ismael to do but fix his eyes on Irene, who seemed bewitched by their surroundings. With scientific precision, he began by observing her pale ankles, then slowly moved upwards to the point where her skirt inconveniently covered the tops of her thighs. He then went on to assess the pleasing proportions of her slender torso. This process continued for some time until Ismael’s eyes unexpectedly met Irene’s and he realised his inspection hadn’t gone unnoticed.
‘What are you thinking about?’ she asked.
‘I was thinking about the wind,’ he lied. ‘It’s moving south. That usually happens when there’s a storm brewing. I was wondering whether you’d like to go round the headland first. The view is spectacular.’
‘Which view?’ she asked innocently.
This time there was no doubt, thought Ismael: Irene was teasing him. Ignoring her subtle joke, Ismael guided the boat to the outer edge of the current that flowed past the reef, a mile off the headland. From this point, Irene could see a vast beach, wild and deserted, extending as far as Mont-Saint-Michel, a castle rising through the mist.
‘That’s Black Bay,’ Ismael explained. ‘So called because its waters are much deeper than those of Blue Bay. Blue Bay is shallow, more of a sandbank really, only seven or eight metres deep. A natural harbour.’
The rare beauty of the landscape made the hair on the back of Irene’s neck stand on end. She noticed a recess among the rocks, like jaws opening out on to the sea.
‘That’s the lagoon,’ said Ismael. ‘It’s like an oval cut off from the current and it connects to the sea through a narrow opening. Behind it there’s something the locals call the Cave of Bats – do you see the tunnel going into the rock? Apparently, in 1746, a storm drove a pirate ship right into that cave. The remains of the ship, and of the pirates, are said to be still in there.’
Irene looked at him doubtfully. Ismael might be good at captaining his ship, but when it came to lying he was a mere cabin boy.
‘It’s true,’ Ismael explained. ‘I sometimes go diving there. The cave goes right inside the rocks.’
‘Will you take me there?’ asked Irene.
Ismael blushed slightly. That sounded like a commitment.
‘There are bats in there. Hence the name,’ he warned her.
‘I love bats. Little rats on wings,’ she remarked, determined to carry on teasing him.
‘Whenever you like,’ he said, giving in.
Irene smiled warmly. Ismael was utterly thrown by her smile. For a few seconds he couldn’t remember whether the wind was blowing from the north or whether a keel was some sort of pastry. And the worst thing was that Irene seemed to have noticed. Time to change course. His hand on the tiller, Ismael turned the boat almost full circle, causing the other side of the mainsail to fill with wind. In doing so, the boat tipped so far over that Irene’s hand touched the surface of the sea. A cold tongue. She laughed and let out a shriek. Ismael grinned at her. He still couldn
’t make out what he saw in this girl, but of one thing he was sure: he couldn’t take his eyes off her.
‘We’re heading for the lighthouse,’ he announced.
A few seconds later, riding on the current and with the invisible hand of the wind behind it, the Kyaneos slid like an arrow over the reef. Ismael felt Irene clutch his hand. The sailing boat flew along, as if barely skimming the water, leaving behind a chain of white foam. Irene glanced at Ismael and noticed that he was looking at her too. For an instant his eyes were lost in hers and Irene felt him press her hand gently. The world had never seemed so far away.
It was around mid-morning when Simone Sauvelle walked through the double doors of Lazarus Jann’s personal library, which occupied a grandiose oval room at the heart of Cravenmoore. A whole universe of books rose in a imposing ornate spiral towards a tinted glass skylight. For a few seconds, Simone stood spellbound. Then, suddenly, she realised she wasn’t alone.
A figure, neatly dressed in a suit, sat at a desk directly below the skylight. When he heard her footsteps, Lazarus turned, closed the book he was consulting – an ancient volume bound in black leather – and smiled kindly at her. It was a warm, contagious smile.
‘Ah, Madame Sauvelle. Welcome to my refuge,’ he said, standing up.
‘I didn’t mean to interrupt . . .’
‘On the contrary, I’m glad you did,’ he continued, ‘I wanted to talk to you about some books I need to order from Arthur Feldmar . . .’
‘Arthur Feldmar in London?’
Lazarus’s face lit up.
‘You know the company?’
‘My husband used to buy books there when he travelled. It’s in Burlington Arcade.’
‘I knew I couldn’t have chosen a more suitable person for this job,’ said Lazarus, making Simone blush. ‘Why don’t we talk about it over a cup of coffee?’
Simone nodded shyly. Lazarus smiled again and put the thick volume he was holding back in its place, among hundreds of similar books. As he did so, Simone couldn’t help noticing the title, embossed on the spine. A single word, and one she was not familiar with: Doppelgänger.