Deadlight-Hall(7)

But to make sure there was no one here, he went over to the door in the corner and tried the handle. It resisted, but the second time he tried, a soft voice from the other side of the door – a voice that was within inches of him – said, ‘Are you there?’

Michael leapt back from the door, as if it had burned him, then took a deep breath and called out, as he had done earlier: ‘Hello? Is someone there? Are you trapped?’ His voice sounded strange in the enclosed space. ‘Is someone there?’ he said again, a little louder.

The lightning flickered again, showing up the worn joists and the crumbling floorboards, and thunder growled again. Then silence and blackness closed down once more. Michael, his vision still fuzzy, was momentarily dazzled by the flickers of light. But he waited, and after a moment the voice came again.

‘Children, are you here? I shall find you, you know …’

Prickles of unease tinged with fear scraped across Michael’s skin, but he tried the handle again, this time pushing harder. It protested and creaked like the crack of doom, then it opened.

The lightning tore through the attic again, showing up the small, sad room beyond. At the far end was a pallid figure, its head bowed over, the shoulders hunched. It moved slightly, and Michael gasped. The flare came a second, then a third time, and he let out a deep breath of relief, because after all it was only a swathe of old, pale curtain, tattered and almost in shreds, that had caught in the old roof timbers.

There was no one here. Anything he had seen or heard had been his imagination – tricks played by the storm and the house’s strange atmosphere, and by his thudding headache. With the idea of proving this, he stepped into the room and looked around. It was not too dark to see that it was much the same as the outer attic. The floor was worn and uneven, with what might be burn marks in a line across one corner. There was a dismantled bed and a small table, and an old-fashioned, marble-topped washstand. Beyond the bed was a little stack of books, leaning against one of the roof supports. Michael knelt down to examine them. The livid crackles of lightning and his headache were still blurring his vision, but he was able to make out a row of titles, some of which were vaguely familiar, others which were not. At one end were a couple of battered-looking volumes with rubbed leather covers. He ran a finger lightly along the spines. It did not seem very likely that there would be any valuable first editions amidst this dereliction, but he would mention the books to Nell, who might want to speak to Godfrey Purbles, the antique bookseller at Quire Court.

The lightning sizzled again, briefly turning the thin old curtain into a drooping figure once more. Michael closed the door on it and went down to the second floor, and then the first. He was thankful to see that the oblongs of sky through the windows looked lighter. The thunder seemed to have growled into the distance, and he stood on the first-floor landing for a moment, leaning against the cool window pane, feeling fresh air coming in through the small opening at the top. His headache was starting to recede, and in another ten minutes he would be fine to drive home.

Below him were the cheerful voices of Jack Hurst’s men. Somebody was being told to pick up a takeaway order, and never mind about driving through a bit of rain, and somebody else was compiling a list of what was wanted, making the ribald most of the choice of pork balls, and lugubriously wondering how long Darren would take to fetch the food, because they were all starving. The normality of this made Michael feel better.

Several rooms led off the big hall, all of them large with high ceilings and ornate fireplaces. Most were in various stages of renovation, with high stepladders and tubs of paint or cement lying around. If they were intended to eventually form more flats, they would be rather grand ones.

But there was one room that caught Michael’s attention. It led off what he thought must have been the main drawing room, which had got as far as the redecoration stage of its renovation. The smaller room beyond it had not yet received much attention. A squat old stove, probably originally for heating, crouched in one corner, its flue corroded and leprous-looking. The plasterwork around it was dry and flaking, but near to the floor was something that caught Michael’s eye. A sketch? A date? He bent down to examine it, briefly curious. It was not a sketch; it looked as if it had been carved very precisely into the plaster itself. It might be an initial, or a date. Or was it more than that? He moved round, so that the light from the narrow window fell more directly on to the wall, and saw it was an apparently meaningless pattern, perhaps slightly abstract, but not seeming to signify anything. It looked like something a child would draw, without having much regard to its meaning.