The Unseen (39 page)

‘Yes, that’s right. The local charity school for the children of the poor. Once that closed another local school used it – for their home economics classes, I think it was.’

‘I don’t suppose you have any information about what was taught here? And by whom, back in the days of the charity school?’

‘No, I’m afraid not,’ Kevin said, and did look a little afraid not to have the answer. ‘I’m awfully sorry. I don’t know where you’d even look to find that out. I doubt that records survive, if there ever were records … I admit, I rather thought you’d be more interested in the
fabric
of the building itself?’

‘Oh, we are. It’s just always nice to get a bit of colour into the history,’ Mark said, clearing his throat. ‘It makes a book so much more accessible to readers.’

They walked into the centre of the single room inside the chapel. Pale daylight was streaming through a Gothic arched window in the east-facing wall, reflecting brightly from the whitewashed walls. The incandescence was surprising. Leah had been expecting darkness and gloom, age-old shadows. The windows facing the road were blocked off, as was the tiny side door, but still it felt open, alive. The breeze had followed them in and circled the floor, sending a few bundles of dust to scud around their feet.

‘I’ve always liked to imagine that window in its prime, full of beautiful stained glass …’ said Kevin, looking at them expectantly.

‘Oh, yes – it almost certainly would have had … a truly magnificent piece of artwork in place; before the Reformation,’
Mark agreed hastily. There were empty stone niches here and there inside, but little else to see. No plaques, no tombs. ‘And … er … I understand the building is being used as community space now? And there are plans to extend it?’ he floundered on. But Leah wasn’t listening. She was staring at the floor in abject disappointment. She walked to the far end of the room and turned to face the empty space, bathing herself in white light. Was this where Hester Canning had stood?
I know what lies beneath my feet
… Leah looked down again.
So there it stays, beneath the floor
. But this was not the floor Hester Canning had walked. Not the floor she could possibly have hidden anything beneath. Leah took a deep breath, filling with frustration. The floor was made of fresh oak boards. Entirely even, flat and secure; entirely modern.

‘When was the floor replaced?’ she asked, interrupting Kevin as he told Mark about the plans for the building.

‘Oh … fairly recently. Just last year. It was one of the first things we had to do in order to make the space usable, you see; grade one listing or not. The old boards were quite lovely, but entirely eaten away by wet rot and woodworm. They were loose and uneven. They just crumbled around the nails as they were lifted, I understand. We couldn’t even reuse them for anything. They were ruined,’ Kevin told her. Mark was looking down now, following the line of one board with his toe, and frowning.

‘Did they find anything underneath them?’ Leah asked. Kevin gave her a puzzled look. ‘It’s just, you know – with buildings this old you can often make … archaeological discoveries, just by doing something as simple as lifting the floor. Sometimes the original craftsmen have left something behind, something that can give an insight into the time of construction … that kind of thing …’

‘Yes, I see – or superstitious offerings, perhaps?’ Kevin said. ‘Children’s shoes are quite common, aren’t they?’

‘Probably. So, did you find anything?’

‘I’m afraid not. That is, not that I heard about. I wasn’t here every day, of course, while they were doing it, but I’m sure the
builders would have mentioned it if they’d found anything …’ Kevin looked at her crestfallen expression and smiled nervously. ‘I
am
sorry to disappoint you …’

‘Oh, no … it’s just, these incidental finds are a particular passion of mine,’ Leah said, woodenly.

‘Would you like to take some pictures? For your book?’ Kevin asked.

‘Great, thank you,’ said Mark.

A short while later they stepped back out into the cold daylight; Kevin Knoll locked the chapel and took his leave. Leah and Mark walked slowly back to where they had parked their cars. Leah had the tantalising feeling she was beginning to get somewhere, was beginning to track down the story behind the soldier’s letters, and the thought of losing momentum again was almost unbearable. While she had the ball rolling, she had a purpose. When it stopped all the vagueness, the limbo state of her life became obvious again. A heavy feeling of pointlessness; the needle of her inner compass swaying drunkenly to and fro. If Hester Canning had got locked into just such a state – if her life had got stuck on one particular thorn of a problem, never to be worked free, then perhaps it was fate that, in working it free, Leah could unlock her own life at the same time. And she wanted to be able to hand a complete report to Ryan when she saw him next. She wanted to succeed, and give him a name.

As if reading her mind, Mark spoke. ‘Shame. I thought we were really starting to get somewhere then. So, have you got a deadline for this investigation?’

‘Not exactly … the sooner the better. I … my contact at the Commonwealth War Graves Commission is here in the UK in about ten days’ time. I said I’d meet him and hand over whatever I’d found out.’ Leah kept her eyes to the front as she said this, and was trying so hard not to give herself away that she felt self-conscious, as if her every inner thought was written large across her
face. To her dismay, she felt heat in her cheeks, and sensed Mark’s gaze, thoughtfully taking all of this in.

‘Your contact?’ he echoed, and left the question hanging between them. Leah sniffed. The breeze and bright light were making her eyes water and her nose run. She thought about changing the subject, and about saying nothing. Neither seemed appropriate, somehow.

‘My ex. He got in touch a few weeks back, for the first time in ages. He’s been working over in Belgium, near Ypres, and they found the body – the soldier’s body. When he found Hester’s letters, he called me in to investigate.’

‘Your ex? An ex, or
the
ex?’

‘Oh, quite definitely
the
ex. My friends are furious with me for going over there. But it’s the story I’m interested in. Truly. I’ve been so blocked since … well, for a while. Having something to work on again is … just what I needed,’ Leah said, quite truthfully.

They stood in silence for a while, by the parked cars. Mark was frowning, thinking.

‘It’s meant to be the same process as grieving, you know. Breaking up with a long-term partner. You supposedly go through all the same phases – shock, denial, anger, depression, acceptance …’

‘Really? I’m not so sure. When somebody dies, they can’t butt back into your life half a year later and kick you off that neat trajectory, after all.’ She shook her head.

‘True, true. Better not to see them again, I suppose, until you’ve been through it all, and come out the other side,’ he said carefully.

‘Now you sound like Sam. My best friend,’ Leah said. She stared along the busy Bath Road for a few seconds, squinting at the cars pushing impatiently by. ‘But that’s just life, I suppose.’ She shrugged. ‘The best-laid plans, and all that.’

‘Sorry. It’s none of my business.’ Mark looked away and pulled his car keys out of his jacket.

‘It’s OK,’ Leah said. She changed the subject. ‘Mark, about what your dad said – do you really think there was a murder at The Rectory?’

He raised his eyebrows, the sun making his grey eyes pale, as glossy and hard as polished granite. ‘If there was, I never heard anything about it.’

‘But he did say it was some big family secret.’

‘He also thought you were Mandy Rice-Davies.’

‘Yes, but what if there was? That would be bad enough for Hester to write those letters about, wouldn’t it? She keeps mentioning guilt and a crime and her silence making her complicit, doesn’t she? And finding something in the library?’

‘It would be bad enough, for sure. But it’s equally possible that Dad was remembering an episode of Inspector Morse …’

‘I don’t think so. He seemed … really convinced. Excited, just like a child would be if they overheard the grown-ups talking about something like that.’

‘Well, who do you think was murdered?’

‘I’ve no idea. But I mean to find out.’

‘Shall we walk somewhere for a while? I feel like some fresh air,’ he said.

They made their way south along The Broadway, over the railway crossing at the station, and down onto the towpath beside the canal. The cloudy green water slid silently by, flat and smooth. The path was busy with cyclists and joggers, dog walkers and young mothers. They walked eastwards by unspoken consensus, back towards Cold Ash Holt. The sun blanched the water-coloured sky and soaked the landscape with a sudden warmth that made the air muggy with moisture. Leah stripped off her jumper and tied it around her waist, only for Mark to pull it free again, throw it over his shoulder.

‘You’ll ruin it that way. The sleeves will stretch,’ he said, absently.

‘Sorry,’ Leah said, bemused. A few narrowboats were moored
near town, but they soon left them behind to walk between high banks of vegetation. Trees to the north of the water, fields of spindly brown stalks, as high as their shoulders, to the south. Yellow catkins gyrated in the breeze, and each and every twig ended in a shiny bud; waxy, ready to split. The horse chestnut blossoms were almost out – tall candelabras of fresh green stems, the white flowers still furled, waiting. A breeze scudded westward along the water’s surface, so that it felt as though they were moving faster than in reality.

About a mile out of town they turned south across one of the fields near the village, where the stream had been marshalled into neat, manmade cuts between the gravel pit lakes. They watched the water birds, squinting as the sunlight shone from the water’s surface. There was nobody else in sight now, and no noise.

‘It’s strange to think how much this has all changed since your great-grandmother was here. None of these lakes. The A
₄
still just the London Road, with hardly anything on it that wasn’t pulled by a horse,’ Leah said. She felt so close to the woman, when she read her letters. Could almost hear her voice. Then she looked around and found herself a hundred years, a whole world, away. ‘And The Bluecoat School, full of children, full of life. It looked kind of sad today, didn’t it? Sitting there with all that traffic thundering past it.’

‘Well, that’s what the council is trying to change. There’s a charitable trust now as well, raising money to extend it and use it as community space,’ said Mark distractedly, snatching up a long stem of grass and picking last year’s dry seeds from it, a thumbnail full at a time. High above their heads two buzzards circled, their faint cries carried down on the wind for a split second, and then blown away.

‘Are there any pictures of Hester? Or Albert? Back at the house?’ Leah asked suddenly.

‘I don’t think so. Sorry. I think I remember some from when I was a child, but … I haven’t seen them for years. It’s possible Dad got rid of them. When the dementia started he did some odd things. We could look, if you like?’ he offered. Leah nodded. She
was putting her piece together already, though there were more blanks to fill in than filled. A long article, with pictures, and extracts from the letters. Laying it all bare, making it all clear. And without thinking about it explicitly, Leah felt she would be doing this for Hester Canning; a favour for a long-dead stranger.

‘How did it start? His dementia?’ she asked gently.

Mark took a slow, deep breath. ‘So gradually. Around about the time I went up to university, I suppose. That’s the last time I remember him just how he used to be. And Mum was still alive – they were so chuffed. Nobody ever thought I’d make it through A-levels.’ He smiled, wryly.

‘Why, were you a tearaway at school?’

‘No, I was as meek as anything. But I’m dyslexic, and the school I was at didn’t believe in dyslexia.’

‘Oh, I see. Forward thinking of them.’

‘Quite. But numbers – numbers I can deal with. So I did maths, and then went into investments … it all worked out better than anyone had predicted, and they were
so
happy for me. By the time I graduated, Dad was starting to forget words. He’d get halfway through a sentence and get stuck, trying to find the next word. Not difficult words either. “Car”, or “then”, or “February”. Random little words that just sneaked away from him. We all laughed about it for the first couple of years,’ he said, bleakly. Leah had no idea what to say.

‘At least,’ she began, hesitantly, ‘at least the care home seems nice. You hear such horror stories … at least you’ve found him a clean, friendly place where they look after him,’ she ventured.

‘Sometimes I think it’d be better if he’d died,’ Mark said, bleakly.

‘Don’t say that.’ Leah frowned. ‘You don’t know what he’s thinking – it’s quite possible that a lot of the time he’s quite content.’

‘Do you really think so?’ he asked, with an edge of desperation in his voice. They stopped walking, and turned to face one another.

‘Yes, I do. Wrong to call it a blessing, of course, but at least
with dementia the person suffering from it is unaware of it. At least, most of the time,’ she said gently.

‘Very wrong to call it a blessing,’ Mark said sadly. ‘I just … whenever I go and see Dad I get into a spiral of … rotten thoughts. Why him? Why so young? What did he ever do to deserve this?’

‘I don’t think it works that way. Not unless you believe in karma. Which I don’t,’ Leah added, firmly. Mark nodded slowly, his face so stricken that Leah’s heart ached in sudden sympathy, and she touched his hand briefly, running her thumb across his knuckles. ‘Come on. Let’s go and look for photos,’ she said.

They walked back to their cars in Thatcham and drove to The Old Rectory, made coffee and started to search the house for family photographs. Leah thought of the boxes in the attic rooms, but after a fruitless hour she had searched barely a fraction of them, and her nose and eyes were streaming. She gave up and went downstairs, her jeans smeared with dust, her fingers grimy. In the library, they shamelessly rifled through the many drawers of the vast desk, but to no avail.