Deadlight Hall (Nell West/Michael Flint #5)(24)

With kind regards,

Yours sincerely

Inspector Geo. Fennel.

The soft chimes of one of Oxford’s many churches broke into Nell’s absorption. Ten o’clock. She slid the letters back into their envelope, forced her mind into the present, and went through to the front of the shop to unlock the doors. She stood for a moment, looking out into the court.

She liked Quire Court at this relatively quiet time of the morning. Michael, when he was caught up in one of his romantical flights, sometimes said this was the hour when any lingering ghosts were whisking themselves back to their shadowy half-worlds, shamefaced and rather apologetic, like guests who suddenly realized they had stayed too long at a party. If you had opened your door a few seconds earlier you would have seen them, he said, spinning one of his stories for Beth, who loved them. And they were not ghosts you would ever have to be afraid of, he explained; they were all the people who had once lived in Quire Court, and who liked to occasionally pop back to see how it was getting on.

Beth, round-eyed, had wanted to know more about this. ‘Do dead people sometimes come back like that? Might my dad?’

Nell had paused in the act of serving out food, trying to think how best to answer this, but Michael had been ahead of her. He said, ‘Yes, certainly he might, Beth. Don’t expect to ever see him though, will you? But he could be around now and again. Just briefly, just to know how you’re getting on. And I’ll tell you something else. If he does, he’ll be so pleased to see you doing well at school and being happy. He’ll be really proud of you.’

‘Um, well, good,’ said Beth, with the awkward shrug she accorded to most emotional topics and particularly to anything to do with her father.

Without missing a beat, Michael had merely said, ‘Yes, it is good. Nell, is that casserole ready, because if so I’ll open some wine to go with it, if you want. Beth, shall we chunk up some of that French bread, as well?’

Nell, looking out at Quire Court, remembering that conversation, suddenly wished, deeply and painfully, that she could have talked to Brad about extending the shop into Godfrey Purbles’ premises. But whatever I do, I can make the decision myself, Brad, she said, in her mind. And if you do ever nip back, like the ghosts in Michael’s story, you’ll be able to see I’m doing all right. I really am.

Across the court, Henry Jessel, the silversmith, was unlocking his door. He waved to Nell, and pointed skywards, turning up his coat collar and miming a shiver. Nell grinned, and went back inside to hunt out soft cloths and beeswax to give the curled and carved walnut frames of the Regency sofas an extra buffing before the Japanese customers arrived. There was a small inlaid table of around the same date: she would set that alongside the sofas with something tempting on it. There was a really beautiful Feuillet workbox with enamelled painted panels, which might be sufficiently unusual to attract them.

She might bring one or two things in from the small workshop at the back of the shop as well, in preparation for the weekend. Saturdays were often busy in Quire Court.

But her mind was still filled with the 1940s, and that strange, sinister enquiry about the owner of the silver golem.

There was no point in wondering, all these years later, if the anonymous person had been successful.





EIGHT


There were three emails in Michael’s in-box on Monday morning. The first was from Owen Bracegirdle in the History Faculty, responding to Michael’s request for help in tracing Deadlight Hall’s past.

‘A good source would be Land Registration documents and Searches or Transfers of Title, at the Rural Council Offices,’ wrote Owen. ‘They’re publicly accessible documents, and it’s a legitimate request to look at them – particularly if the place is being chopped into flats and sold off piecemeal. Tell me you aren’t chasing spooks again – no, on second thoughts, don’t tell me that at all, because I love a good mystery, and you and Nell do seem to get into such intriguing situations.’


Michael replied suitably to Owen, then consulted his diary, and found that apart from the weekly meeting with his faculty head, he was free until late afternoon. This meant he could spend most of the morning tracing Deadlight Hall’s past. Professor Rosendale would certainly not be expecting him to spend so much time delving into the subject for him, but Michael was curious. There was something strange about the place, and he wanted to find out more. If he could uncover anything that would help or reassure the professor, all to the good.

The next email was from the photographer, who had called the previous day to take the publicity photographs of Wilberforce for the new book.

Hi Michael

Great to meet you yesterday – just love the shots we got of your fantastic rooms.

I’m sure we can get the camera stand and the light meter repaired – again, please forget about paying for that, I’ve got oodles of insurance, and if I haven’t your publishers will probably stump up the dosh, although don’t tell them I said that.

I hope Wilberforce’s tail hasn’t suffered too badly. My word, he can yowl when he’s annoyed, can’t he? And I hope you can get the curtains mended and the cushion re-stuffed.

I’ll come back early next week to photograph him properly. It would be good if you can actually get him to sit down this time. Have you thought about trank pills – most vets do them. I’m sure they’d help.