Touching the Wire (21 page)

The estate agent, a young
woman in a business suit, gestured with enthusiasm. ‘You could move in straight
away with a bond and one month’s rent.’

It was a thousand pounds
she’d no intention spending on making herself depressed. She thanked the woman
who was waffling pointlessly about schools in the catchment area. ‘I’ve another
property to view.’

‘I have a couple viewing
this one this afternoon, Miss Masters.’

She wouldn’t be forced into
a snap decision. ‘I’ll ring you later, then.’

The other property, a
cottage near Brockenhurst, had it not been tiny, would have been twice the
rent. As it was, the agents were asking an extra hundred pounds per calendar
month. In a thatched terrace of stone cottages, Sunnybank’s chocolate-box image
was described as “bijou”. It comprised one room downstairs with a log-burning
stove, an oak beam low enough to give her a headache, and a red and black
quarry-tile floor begging for chess pieces. A kitchen not big enough to swing a
woodlouse adorned the back of the cottage, and steep stairs led off it to a
low-ceilinged bedroom with en-suite shower room and toilet: en-suite because
there was nowhere for a landing.

The agent was calling lack
of space character. She opened the back door and the smell of summer filled a
small garden that cascaded with roses and honeysuckle; an outside privy had ivy
growing over the door and swallows nesting. It was perfect.

‘I’ll take it.’

‘That’s wonderful, Miss
Masters. You’ll need to let us have references, the bond and one month’s rent.’

‘When can I move in?’ She’d
sleep on the floor if she had to.

‘About a week?’

‘A week? I’m sleeping on a
sofa at my sister’s house. I’m… separated.’

The agent was sympathetic.
‘I’m sure we can hurry things up, especially if you pay cash. Leave it with
me.’

‘I’ll call in with the cash
and references.’ She drove, anxious to catch the bank before they closed, her
mind already imagining pictures on the walls, summer evenings in the garden.
Hopefully, she wouldn’t be here for the winter but, if the worst happened, she
would have cosy winter nights in front of the fire with a good book… no
arguments, no making up…

***

Charlotte slammed the car boot on the cleaning
materials she was taking to Sunnybank, and hurried indoors to answer the
ringing of the phone.

‘This is Adam Bancroft. I’m
phoning about the photographs you left with my colleague. I’m afraid they’ve
been misplaced… I don’t know your name.’

Her hope of news died as
quickly as it had surfaced. ‘It’s Charlotte Masters. Would you like me to
e-mail more copies?’

‘I may have found a carving
like the ones you have… at the Imperial War Museum at Duxford.’

‘You have? That’s
brilliant.’ She swung round and almost knocked bottles of cleaning fluids out
of Lucy’s arms. ‘I’d like to see it. Is that possible?’

‘It’s on public display.’

‘Will there be someone there
I can talk to about it?’

Silence suggested a moment’s
hesitation. ‘I shall be there on Friday afternoon, if that suits you. I confess
I’m curious about it myself.’

‘Friday will be fine. What
time?’

‘Shall we say three
o’clock?’

‘Dr Bancroft, there could be
a letter that belongs with the carving. Is it possible for you to find out if
one exists?’

‘I’ll look into it. I’ll see
you on Friday… in the coffee shop at three?’

‘Yes, thank you so much.
I’ll be there.’ She rattled the receiver onto its hook, her hand shaking.

‘Well?’

‘They’ve found another
carving.’

Friday: Charlotte followed the signs to the
coffee and gift shops. She had twenty minutes before her meeting with Dr
Bancroft.

She rounded a corner and
jarred to a halt, the hairs on her neck prickling: a carved wolf, fangs bared
and lips curled in a snarl, had its eyes on her throat. A sudden movement at
her side made her twist round: grey eyes fixed her with a cold stare.

The man who’d attacked her
at the Imperial War Museum in London glowered at her. ‘Not you again… What did I
do to deserve bumping into you twice in my life?’

She took a step backwards.
‘Are you following me?’

‘You must be joking. I still
have the scar from our first meeting.’

‘And I still have the
bruises. Leave me alone.’

‘With pleasure.’ He
swivelled on his heel and walked away.

She needed a coffee. She
ordered a cappuccino and chose a table. Five minutes: she tried to spot someone
who looked like a historian. His voice on the phone had sounded youngish,
friendly,
intelligent
. The wretched weasel was across
the room, sitting alone and searching the customers, as if looking for someone.
His eyes met hers and her heart thudded. He picked up his coffee cup and
threaded his way between the tables towards her.

‘Please, don’t tell me
you’re
Charlotte Masters.’

‘I won’t, if you don’t tell
me you’re Dr Bancroft.’

 His lips twitched into
a smile. He held out his hand. ‘Shall we begin again? I apologise for having
you arrested, and I’m sorry if I hurt you.’

She took his hand. ‘Apology
accepted.’ Her words sounded begrudging.

He sat opposite her and
regarded her over the rim of his cup. ‘Is the carving the one you were looking
for?’

She needed him on-side. She
experimented with a smile. ‘It could be. It’s… scary.’

His lips twitched again.
‘Product of a disturbed mind?’

Her smile faded. ‘My
grandfather had nightmares.’

‘I’m sorry.’ He took a long,
slow sip of coffee. ‘What’s the carving’s history?’

‘My grandfather made several
of them over thirty years ago. We found the first recently, when my grandmother
moved house. My… it got broken.’

‘Didn’t Roger say it had
something inside it?’

‘Two wooden candles, packed
in human hair, and a message.’

‘Interesting.’

‘I think so. The letter with
the carving had the name of a local solicitor, who had a second carving.’

‘So this is the third? Did
the second one have anything in it?’

‘Yes, a message of sorts…
and the initials IWM, among others.’

‘That’s what led you here?’

She nodded. ‘That’s all I
know, really.’

‘Do you have the others with
you?’

‘I brought the photographs
and copies.’

His features relaxed into a
sheepish grin that lit his eyes. He looked at the photos briefly. ‘Yes, Roger
showed me them... before he mislaid them.’ His fingers traced the scratch on
his cheekbone and the smile faded.

She finished her coffee.
‘I’d like to hold the wolf, if that’s possible.’

‘I’ll see if they’ll let me
have the key.’

She followed him back to the
display case. The wolf was minutely detailed. A wide curve swept along one side
of the carving’s base, opposite two rounded bumps. The back of the base was
straight and the front angular. It was the strangest of all the carvings.

Dr Bancroft returned,
unlocked the case and put the wolf in her hands. Ice tingled down her spine.
‘It’s almost alive. But why choose a shape like this?’

He leaned closer, his eyes
serious. ‘Why do you think he carved them?’

‘I remember Mum saying
something once.
Dad wasn’t one for doing things without a reason
. He
wouldn’t talk about himself, but I always felt…’ She shrugged. ‘My mother
thought the others looked like flames of hell.’

‘The detail is
amazing.’ 

Grandpa’s hands had touched
this: shaped it, polished it. He’d put his soul into his wolf and she wasn’t
leaving without it. ‘I have paperwork to prove my grandmother’s right of
ownership. Do you have the authority to release it or do I need to speak to
someone more senior?’

 The grey eyes widened
with concern. ‘I’m not sure you’ll be allowed to take it away, Miss Masters. I
mean, can you prove he carved it?’

‘Not exactly. But… but I
have to see what’s inside.’

He stiffened. ‘I can’t
sanction it being mutilated.’

She took a deep, calming
breath. She had to convince him. She clutched the carving and straightened. ‘
This
is Grandpa’s nightmare.’ He still looked unconvinced. ‘
The truth shall be
uncovered and I pray for those I love
.’

‘They’re words from one of
the carvings?’

‘Yes. The reason for his
nightmares is in here. I’m certain of it.’ She clutched it tighter, the wolf
digging into her breasts. ‘He did nothing without a purpose. I can feel him
calling me… I have to know.’

Dr Bancroft unglued his eyes
from the carving with apparent difficulty. ‘I can’t let you take it without
proper authority.’

‘There should be a letter.
Did you look for one?’

‘I asked.’ He shrugged. ‘If
I have the opportunity I’ll look personally.’

Her shoulders sagged. ‘Thank
you. I suppose it has been thirty-odd years. I could show you the other two
carvings. That will convince you.’

He gave her a lopsided
smile. ‘You show me your carvings and I’ll think about putting in a word for
you.’

Was he teasing her? 
She held the carving protectively in both hands.

‘I have a second interview
for a job in a few minutes. Give.’ He locked the wolf in its case and pocketed
the key. ‘I shouldn’t be long. Can you wait?’

‘I’ll be here. Good luck.’
Her last words came too late. Dr Bancroft had gone.

She sat in the corner of the
café, and made coffee and cake last half an hour. She walked back to the
display case and waited. His lithe, leather-clad form approached with an easy
lope, his mobile to his ear. He was wearing a huge grin: it was obvious that
no-one, absolutely no-one, was going to wipe it from his face. She smiled back,
relieved.

‘See you soon, Effie. Give
Gabrielle my love.’ He flipped off the mobile. ‘I’ve got the job.’

‘Congratulations. I’m really
pleased for you.’

‘Thank you.’

She arched an eyebrow
hopefully. ‘Does this mean you’re authorised to release the carving?’

He laughed. ‘I’m prepared to
come and see the others.’

‘And can I take this one
with me?’

‘No.’

‘Why not? I have the
paperwork.’

‘But I haven’t seen this
letter you say we should have.’ He brought the key from his pocket, and
fingered it as if weighing a decision. ‘They are intriguing. I’d like to see them
together. Maybe you’d agree to the museum displaying them all at some time?’

‘I don’t see why not.’

‘I’ll bring it with me, my
responsibility. As an employee of the IWM it won’t be a problem.’

‘When do you want to come?’

‘I’m officially on holiday.’
He looked at his watch. ‘I can come now. Where did you say you live?’ He
unlocked the cabinet and removed the carving. Taking a pen from his inside
pocket, he wrote something on the back of the label.

‘Brockenhurst.’ Her voice
was a whispered squeak. ‘Now?’

He grinned. ‘I booked myself
a fortnight off. I’m between jobs. I can spare you a day.’

‘I’m between lives.’ Why had
she said that? She needed his help. ‘Yes, why not?’

‘Brockenhurst… the New
Forest?’

‘Yes.’

‘Lead on McDuff.’

‘My name’s Charlotte.’

Pale eyes crinkled in a
smile. ‘Pleased to meet you, Charlotte. I’m Adam.’ He held out a tentative
hand. ‘Truce?’

She took it cautiously.
‘Truce.’

***

Charlotte reached Lyndhurst, past thinking
about cooking. She stopped outside the chip shop and Adam’s motorcycle growled
to a halt behind her. She waited until he removed his helmet. ‘Fish and chips?’

‘I’ll get them. My treat.’
Adam ordered and reached for plastic forks.

‘We may as well eat at home.
It’s only a few more minutes.’ She put the carrier bag in her car.

He raised an eyebrow.
‘You’re not running off with them are you? I’m starving.’

‘You can have your share
when you give me the carving.’

He laughed. ‘You can see the
carving when I’ve had my fish and chips.’

A bottle of wine stood on
Sunnybank’s doorstep: she picked it up and unlocked the door.

Adam ducked under the
lintel. ‘Have you got something against tall men?’

‘Why?’ Robin was tall…

‘This place is only suitable
for dwarves.’

‘Oh, I see what you mean.’ She
locked the door behind them, and tested the lock, a habit picked up from
Grandpa. What had he been afraid of? ‘Yes, it is a bit low. I have to duck
under this one. Mind
your
…’

‘Ouch, bugger.’

She tensed involuntarily.
‘…head on the beam.’

‘Sadist. You could have
warned me.’

‘Sorry.’ She read the card
tied to the neck of the wine bottle. ‘Good luck in your new home.’

Adam rubbed his head. ‘You
think I’d want to live
here
? I can stand up in my broom-cupboard.’

‘I don’t even have a broom-cupboard.’
She put the bottle on the kitchen worktop. ‘It’s a house-warming present. Grant
must have dropped it off on his way home from work.’

‘Your boyfriend?’

‘My sister, Lucy’s, husband…
They live in Lyndhurst. I only moved in here yesterday.’

The corner of his mouth
pulled another smile. ‘It’s cosy.’

She’d spent a day searching
second-hand shops to furnish it. ‘You mean small.’ She smiled back but Adam was
staring at the two carvings on the coffee table.

He was tall, good-looking in
a craggy sort of way, and seemed relaxed in his own skin. He wore his
black-leather bike jacket with a casual air: muscles shaped the way it fitted.
Blonde hair curled over his collar, an effect his stubble enhanced rather than
detracted from. She looked away, aware she was staring and put the fish and
chips in the microwave. ‘You could open the wine, Adam.’

‘Corkscrew?’

‘In the drawer, I think.’
She moved aside to find plates and they knocked elbows. ‘Sorry.’ She passed him
the corkscrew and two glasses. ‘We’ll have to use the coffee table.’ She
carried the food into the lounge suddenly aware she only had a two-seater sofa.
She handed him a plate, sat next to him and raised her glass.

‘Thanks. What are we
celebrating?’

‘Your new job?’

‘And your future in your new
home.’

Their glasses chinked; it
was almost the same toast she’d raised with Robin. ‘To the future, then.’

She pointed a forkful of
chips at the two carvings. ‘What do you think?’

‘Truly disturbing.’ He
looked sideways at her. ‘I’d be interested to see exactly what was in them.’

She finished her meal and
fetched the contents of the carvings from upstairs. Adam refilled both glasses.
Robin often plied her with wine. Why had she invited a stranger into her home?

He placed the Duxford
carving between its sisters: the wolf leapt from flames of hell. ‘There’s
something…’ He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck.

She placed the two wooden
candles in front of the carvings and handed him a polythene bag. ‘These were
inside them.’

He fingered the two blonde
curls tied with ribbons. ‘Yours?’

‘They could be mine and
Lucy’s. I don’t know.’

 He picked up the slips
of paper. ‘I didn’t read these properly before. This is fascinating, Charlotte.
Do you have any idea what your grandfather means?’

‘Absolutely none. I’m just certain
he had a purpose.’

‘Had… A message from beyond
the grave?’

She sipped her wine.
‘Exactly.’

‘What was his name?’

‘William Walter Blundell.’

‘Was he local?’

‘Northamptonshire.’

‘Did he have other family
anywhere? Someone who might know about these?’

‘I don’t know.’ It shocked
her to realise how little she actually knew about Grandpa. ‘I asked him once
why Lucy and I only had relations on Gran’s side of the family. The look in his
eyes… I didn’t ask again. He was a very private person. The nightmares…’ She
fell silent. She’d heard his cries in the night, and Gran’s voice calming him:
anxious, sometimes impatient.