Deadlight-Hall(74)

Michael knelt down to see the rest of the small collection. And there it was. A small, leather-bound book, exactly as his mind had presented it to him. The pages were uneven, as if they had worked loose or never been firmly anchored in the first place – or as if extra loose pages or notes had been thrust into them.

Michael drew it out from its place, and very carefully opened it. Yes, it was handwritten – had he actually looked inside it last time? He did not think he had, but he could not remember very clearly; he could only remember the sick blur of his vision, and the storm raging overhead.

But the writing was clear and firm, and Michael knew it was the writing he had seen in Maria Porringer’s letters, and in the old Poison Book.

It was completely reprehensible to put the book into his jacket pocket – it was certainly not in keeping with conduct expected of a senior member of Oriel College, and it was undoubtedly committing a felony, albeit a minor one. Michael did not care if he was committing all the crimes in the Newgate Calendar; he could not have left this book on its unobtrusive shelf if it had been guarded by the three-headed Cerberus on temporary secondment from the entrance to the underworld.

With the book firmly in his pocket, he went back down the stairs, hoping he would encounter Jack Hurst so he could explain his presence here.

The two lower floors were still deserted, and when he reached the main hall that, too, was silent and empty. As Michael went across to the big double doors, he saw a large dusty van going down the drive, away from the house. Jack Hurst’s van.

Apprehension clutched him, and he reached for the door handles. Neither one moved. Jack Hurst, conscientious and responsible builder, having finished work for the day – presumably for the weekend – had secured the house before driving away.

Michael was locked in.

There was no need for panic, of course. He had only to phone Jack Hurst and explain, and Hurst would come back to let him out. There was even a display board on the drive, displaying Hurst’s phone number. Michael sat down on the window seat and dialled it. He was greeted by a recorded message, saying Hurst’s were closed until Monday at 8.30 a.m., but please to leave a message. Not very hopefully, Michael left a message.

There was still no need to panic. Estate agents were handling the actual selling of the flats, and they would certainly have a key – or they would know where one could be reached. Michael tried to remember who the agents were. There had certainly been a large For Sale board at the head of the drive, by the turning to the main road. He peered through both windows, and although he could just see the board, it was turned towards the road, and there was nothing on the back of it. But phone numbers could be obtained, and he rang one of the directory enquiry services. They were helpful and efficient, and said there were nineteen estate agents in the immediate vicinity. Michael wrote them all down, then asked if they had a number for Hurst’s Builders. They had, but it was the mobile number he had already tried. How about a home number? They were very sorry, but no other number was listed.

Michael rang off, and saw with some concern that it was ten-past five. All those nineteen offices probably closed at half-past, in which case it would probably be quicker to phone Nell and ask her to look the name up in the local paper.

He dialled the shop, which went to voicemail. Then he dialled her mobile, which did the same thing. Michael swore, realizing that at this time of the day Nell would be collecting Beth from school. She did not have a hands-free attachment for the phone in the car, so the mobile would be switched off. No matter, he would leave a message, explaining briefly what had happened, and asking her to call him as soon as possible. She would get back pretty soon; she was very good about returning calls.

Was there anyone else he could contact? What about the professor, who might know the name of the estate agents? But the professor’s phone also went to voicemail, and Michael remembered he was giving another of his lectures at the Radcliffe – one of a series on Philosophy.

It was twenty-past five, and he had better at least make a start on the nineteen estate agents. The first four on the list said no, they were not handling the Deadlight Hall flats. No, they were sorry, they did not know who was. The fifth firm said, rather sharply, that it was not the business of estate agents to give out information about other companies. Michael rang off, chastened, and ploughed on. But the seventh firm he rang answered with a recording saying they were closed until 9.a.m tomorrow. The eighth and ninth had similar messages.

Michael cursed, and thought he would simply have to sit here and wait for Nell to call back. She might have Jack Hurst’s address or a home phone number for him – she had mentioned contacting him for a quote for the shop. He hoped he would not end up phoning the police to get him out. If it came to it, he would have to break a ground-floor window and climb out.