The Silence (23 page)

‘Ralph West, bachelor, importer and exporter of china and porcelain, married Julia Margaret Susskind, spinster, in the county of Derbyshire, 1888.’

Susskind, thought Michael.
Susskind.
He rummaged for his notebook and the scribbled notes he had made earlier in The Pheasant’s attic. That name had been in the indictment, he was sure of it. Yes, here it was.

‘The Crown, for our lady the Queen, by the Grace of God, presents and charges that the defendant, Isobel Mary Acton,
née
Susskind, did kill and murder her husband.’

The corrupt judge had mentioned the name as well when he bribed George Poulson. Michael made a further search in his notes, turning pages, fielding several inserts that fell out, wondering how other people seemed able to arrange their research so neatly. Here it was, and he was right. ‘All that Susskind brood were willing,’ the judge had said.

Michael closed the notebook thoughtfully. Susskind. It was the same family. It had to be. Susskind wasn’t a name you’d trip across every day of the week, not in an English village in the nineteenth century. It sounded foreign, in fact.

So. So Ralph’s wife had been related to the alluring murderess of Caudle Moor. It was a curious link to discover, but, again, was it a relevant link? Had Julia Susskind, who became Julia West, also been willing in the same way as Isobel? Had she been killed by a jealous husband who had caught her with a lover? I’m straying into the realms of fantasy, thought Michael, impatiently. It’s more likely that Julia was a respectable Victorian matron, and after her death Ralph simply wanted to come to a place where she had connections – even though those connections might be somewhat unsavoury. But Isobel had been acquitted. There was nothing unsavoury about being wrongly accused and honourably exonerated. Or had there been then? That had been a time when people’s outlooks and values had been vastly different.

None of this took Michael any nearer to finding out what had happened to Esmond. He looked back at the screen where the Registrar’s website was still open, and typed in a search request for a death entry for Esmond West, between the years 1901 and 1906.

There was nothing. Michael tried the next five years, then the next, which took him up to the start of the Great War. He tried again for the final years of it and the years following. Again nothing.

It was possible that Esmond had lived to a ripe old age, and his death was recorded much later. But if that had been so, Emily West, that diligent chronicler and keeper of family records, would have mentioned it. Charlotte, too, would have known. Which lead to the inescapable conclusion that Esmond had vanished and his body had never been found.

Michael wrote down the details of Isobel and the Susskind connection and folded them firmly into his wallet so they would not become mixed up with the miscellany in the notebook. By now it was four o’clock, so he logged off, went out to thank the helpful constable, and set off back to The Pheasant.

Nell was glad that Beth was keen to return to Stilter House. As they drove down Gorsty Lane, Beth talked about the photograph they were going to take at the piano, exuberantly planning how they would do it.

‘I’ll sit ezzackerly as Dad sat, and it’ll be the same photo, but with me instead of him. And we’ll get a really cool silver frame for it.’

‘We’ll get bankrupted if we aren’t careful,’ said Nell, smiling. ‘But we’ll see if Mr Jessel has anything when we get home.’

‘I thought I’d ask Sergeant Howe if I could take a photo of him as well,’ said Beth. ‘He said he’d be at the house this afternoon, and I don’t expect he’ll mind. Then I’ll send it to Ellie. They don’t have policemen like ours in Maryland, so it’d be really good.’

But when they reached the house there did not seem to be any sign of Sergeant Howe’s reassuring figure. Nell hesitated, but the sergeant was most likely around somewhere. In any case, in the afternoon light Stilter House had emerged from its mysterious and haunted mood and come out into the sunshine like the sunken church in the fabled Island of Ys that was said to rise up from the sea on clear mornings. Even the gate, when Beth opened it, creaked in a friendly way that might almost be saying,
Welcome
. Brad, I can see why you liked it here, thought Nell, parking in front of the house. With the thought she had the sudden comforting sensation of someone quite close to her smiling approvingly. She waited, but nothing happened, and she thought if there were ghosts here they were only ghosts in her own mind.

Nor were there any ghosts in the music room. Sunlight poured in through the French windows, warming the dim old chintzes, and lending colour to the faded wallpaper. Nell suddenly liked the room enormously.

The piano was still open, and the tapestried stool where Michael had found Ralph West’s notes was open as well. Nell closed the stool, and Beth handed over the camera, explaining that her mother should stand in a particular corner so as to get the French windows into shot.

‘Over there,’ said Beth, pointing.

‘All right.’ Nell obediently squashed into the corner Beth indicated. ‘This angle takes in the corner of the fireplace – is that all right?’

‘Could you take one with the fireplace and one without?’

‘Only if I climb up to the ceiling or swarm up the curtains.’

‘I don’t s’pose you could do that, could you?’

‘Not without bringing the whole ceiling down.’

‘You’re always making difficulties,’ said Beth, grinning. ‘Are you ready? I’m going to put my hand on the keys now.’

Nell took several shots with Beth in various poses. She was remarkably unselfconscious in front of the lens. ‘The battery’s flickering,’ she said at last. ‘But I think we’ve got some really good photos.’

‘Double good.’

‘Ready to set off back?’ said Nell.

‘Yes, only . . .’ Beth got down from the stool and looked round the room. ‘Could I go upstairs to look at those old books again? The ones with the schoolgirls who play lacrosse and stuff? Or did you pack them up?’

‘I didn’t pack them because we don’t know yet if the aunts want to actually sell them,’ said Nell. ‘I just listed them all.’

‘I’d really like to have another one to read tonight,’ said Beth. ‘If I’m extra careful could I take one?’

‘I should think so. Let’s get one, then we really will have to get back.’ Nell did not say she wanted to be out of Stilter House before darkness started to fall. The afternoon sun was still pouring through the windows, but as they went upstairs she felt a flicker of unease. It was no more than a faint ruffle across her mind – like the first warning pinprick of a bad headache – but she was glad that it would only take a few minutes to get one of the books for Beth. Then they would leave Stilter House to the ghosts. Whoever those ghosts might be.

In the bedroom Beth seized eagerly on another Malory Towers book, looked at the first page with a smile, then stood for a moment studying the room.

‘All right?’ said Nell, softly.

‘I was thinking about Dad being here. Sleeping in this room and using that desk.’

‘So was I.’ Nell reached for Beth’s hand, and for a moment they stood together, not speaking. Then Nell said, briskly, ‘We’ll go back now, shall we?’

‘Um, yes, OK.’

Nell glanced round the room as they left. Goodbye, Brad, she thought. If you’re still here you aren’t the Brad I knew, but you’re the Brad I’d like to have known. The small boy with hair and eyes like Beth’s, and that eager delight in life. Oh God, I do still miss you.

But these thoughts could not be allowed to take over, and alongside them was the deeply pleasing knowledge of Michael waiting for them. He might suggest again that they stayed for another night, and mention the possibility of The Pheasant’s having a double bed. Nell thought she might even accept the suggestion this time. After the ghosts it was a very tempting idea.

They were halfway down the stairs when they heard the music.

T
he astonishing thing, to Nell, was that Beth was entirely unafraid. She said, happily, ‘That’ll be Esmond. He said he’d—’ She broke off and looked guiltily at Nell. ‘Can I go down to say goodbye and explain we’re going home? Esmond gets upset if people leave without saying goodbye.’ Before Nell could even think what to say, she was running eagerly down the stairs and along the hall.

Esmond, thought Nell, and in the frozen moment before she followed, she was realizing Beth had known all along that Esmond would be here. She did not dare think how Beth had known, but clearly it was why Beth had wanted to come back – she wanted to say goodbye. Esmond gets upset if people leave without saying goodbye, Beth had said. And twenty-five years ago, in a letter to Esmond, Beth’s father had written,
I know you hate it when people go away without saying goodbye . . .
But there was not time to worry about Beth’s small, understandable lie – Nell would sort that out later.

The music room door was half open, and the music was still being played. But is it Esmond as Beth believed, thought Nell? Or is it Anne-Marie who vowed never to leave this house?

As she reached the hall she heard Beth’s voice.

‘I don’t think it’s any good you doing this over and over again,’ Beth was saying. ‘Because I don’t believe you should try to – um – call back the dead. I wish I could call my Dad back and I know Mum does, too, but I wouldn’t try to do what you’re doing and she wouldn’t, either.’

There was a pause, as if Beth might be listening. Then she said, as if explaining something very simple, ‘Well, because once they’re dead they belong in another place, like I belong in Oxford now. They’re not meant to come back.’

Pity washed over Nell, and she wanted to reach out to the strange little creature who was so heartbreakingly like Beth, and who was so clearly trying to call back his dead mother. She wanted to wrap her arms around Esmond and keep him safe. But he doesn’t exist, said her mind frantically.

Beth was saying, quite briskly, that she did not know where dead people went. ‘Heaven or something, I think. But that person who said you could bring your mum back through the music was really bad. I’ll bet it doesn’t work, either. If it did, everybody would do it, and there’d be dead people everywhere and that would be gross. But listen, I’m going home soon, so I came to say goodbye. And I thought before I go, what we’d do, we’d play that duet. I’d really like that, only I’m not as good as you, so you mustn’t get cross if I go wrong, OK?’ She appeared to listen again. ‘Well, because I haven’t had as many lessons as you, and I’ve got school and homework and stuff so there isn’t as much time to practise. But if we play it now, I’ll practise it like mad when I get home, and I’ll remember you every time I play it. That’s a promise. And I know it’s Chopin, but for me it’ll always be called Esmond’s Nocturne.’

There was the sound of a rustle and a faint creak. She’s got onto the tapestry stool next to him, thought Nell. Oh God, I don’t believe this is happening. It’s a fantasy – she’s made up a friend and she’s pretending to talk to him. Maybe she found Brad’s letter and she’s built it on that. But there’s the music, said her mind. Both of us heard the music when we were upstairs.

She thought Beth said something else but she did not catch it. Then the music started again, and cold fear swept over Nell because it was being played by two people – there could be no doubt about it. Two pairs of hands were playing this music – one assured and smooth, the other a bit stumbling and hesitant.

He’s in there, thought Nell. Esmond is in there with Beth. They’re side by side at the piano, playing that duet. And Esmond thinks it will call his dead mother back.

The horror and the unreality of it tightened around her, but this was Beth, her beloved and precious Beth, and moving quietly, Nell stepped into the doorway.

Strong sunshine slanted into the room, lighting up everything it touched, but leaving parts in shadow. Beth was in the light, her bright hair glinting, her small face absorbed. But the pouring radiance only lay across half of the piano, creating a division between her and the boy. Esmond was sitting next to Beth, but he was outside the shaft of light, and his outline was so insubstantial it might have been a tissue-paper cut-out or a reel of threadbare ciné film projected onto old glass. But it was possible to see that he and Beth were so alike they could have been brother and sister – twins, even. He’s not real, thought Nell. Or is he?

There was no immediate threat to Beth, though, and Nell did not want to intrude or break the fragility of the moment, or signal to Beth that there might be anything alarming or sinister.

Even as these thoughts tumbled through her mind, the music stopped, and Esmond turned to smile at Beth. A deep pain wrenched at Nell, because it was Brad’s smile. Esmond got down from the stool, and went towards the French windows. He paused, silhouetted against the gardens, and looked back at Beth. He made no gesture, but Beth responded as if obeying a command. She went towards him, and for a moment the two children were silhouetted in the doorway, then ran together into the gardens. In those seconds, the sun went in and the gardens tumbled down into mysterious, shadows. The ghosts were reclaiming Stilter House . . . And Esmond was taking Brad’s daughter with him.

Nell ran across the room and out onto the moss steps beyond the windows, then paused, trying to see which way Beth and Esmond had gone. But the shrubbery was overgrown and her eyes were still slightly dazzled from the bright sunlight moments earlier. She thought there was a faint laugh from somewhere on the right, and she ran down the steps and through the deep grass with the thrusting weeds, calling to Beth as she went.

The laugh came again, light, brittle, like splintered glass, and Nell jerked round, listening, trying to see. She said, ‘Beth?’ but there was nothing. Had it been Beth she had heard? She went towards the sound and, as she came in sight of the ramshackle outbuildings, a figure darted across her vision. It was too tall for Beth, and the sight of it sent Nell’s mind looping back to the night when the ravaged-faced woman had stalked them through the dripping gardens. Could it be the same woman? Oh God, did she want Beth? Was Esmond a decoy?