Property of a Lady(15)

Eventually, I stood at the foot of the stairs. They were in semi-darkness, but some light came in from a tall window on the half-landing. A hundred years ago, ladies would have sat there to recover their energy after the effort of rising and dressing each morning, or to rest on the way up the stairs in the evening. No one was there now, of course. Or was there? My heart began to bang against my ribs, and I peered through the gloom, hesitant to advertise my presence by shining the torch. But, of course, there was no one there. It was the large, damp stain on the upper wall that was creating the illusion of a figure again – the stain that earlier on had looked so much like a thickset man.

But it was not the discoloured patch at all. Someone was there. A man – his features in deep shadow – was standing at the head of the stairs, his head bowed as if looking down into the stairwell.

I bolted back into the library and slammed the door shut. It resounded like the crack of doom, and plaster showered down from the ceiling. A ridiculous thing to do, of course, for when did a closed door ever keep out a ghost . . . ? Particularly one with the spell to open doors . . . Open lock to the dead man’s knock . . .

It’s a few minutes before two a.m. and I’m sitting here with my eyes on the closed door, trying to make some order of my tumbling thoughts. There’s no doubt in my mind that I really did see that figure at the top of the stairs.

I’ll finish this sentence, then I’ll tear these pages out of the notebook and fold them inside the old clock – the oak floor inside the case is slightly loose, and a section tips up like an insecure floorboard. I’ll wait until the clock has chimed the hour though. For some reason I flinch from touching it while it’s chiming.

It’s not at all like me to do something so whimsical as hide a diary, but I’d like to leave a record of sorts for people to find. Just in case something happens to me tonight . . .

Nell’s skin was prickling with horror. It’s Beth’s rhyme, she thought. The rhyme about the dead man knocking on the door, and the spell that opened all the locks.

Open lock to the dead man’s knock . . .

She was just reaching out for the glass of wine at her hand when screams rang out from Beth’s room.





SIX




Beth was huddled against the wall in the bedroom, clutching the pillow against her as if to shield herself from something, and staring in wild-eyed terror at the far corner.

Nell was across the bedroom in two strides, scooping up the small, frightened figure and hugging it to her.

‘Darling, it’s all right, whatever it is, you’re absolutely safe. I’m here, you’re safe, you’re safe.’

Beth was shaking so violently that Nell was afraid for a moment she was having some kind of fit, and she seemed scarcely to recognize her mother. Nell sent an uneasy glance to the corner, where Beth was still staring. Was there something there that had frightened her? A spider? But Beth would not scream and shiver like this for a spider. She held on to the small figure, repeating the words about being safe, praying the reassurance would get through, and at last Beth drew a deep shuddering breath and clutched her mother’s hands so tightly that Nell nearly cried out.

In a faltering voice, Beth said, ‘There was a man in the room.’

Nell’s pulse skipped a beat or two, then she said, ‘Bethy, there’s no one here. You had a nightmare.’

‘He was here,’ said Beth. ‘I woke up and he was standing there, watching me.’

‘There’s no one here, sweetheart. You’re safe and no one can get in, and I’m here.’

The fear was gradually fading from Beth’s eyes. She sat up a bit straighter and looked about her. ‘There’s nobody here, is there?’

‘No, nobody at all.’

‘He couldn’t be – um – hiding anywhere, could he?’

‘No, but we’ll look so you know for sure,’ said Nell. She opened the door of the wardrobe and then the cupboard built into one side of the old, blocked-up chimney breast. ‘All right?’

‘Um, yes.’

Nell said, ‘How about if we put your dressing gown on and you come downstairs and I’ll make some hot milk.’ Beth liked it if she ever had to be downstairs after her bedtime. She said it was being allowed into the grown-ups’ world.

But tonight she hesitated.

‘I could bring the milk up to you, and we’ll read a bit of your book together,’ said Nell. ‘You can tell me about the nightmare if you like. Telling a thing makes it go away.’

This seemed to help. Beth said, ‘He really isn’t here now?’

‘No one’s here,’ said Nell. ‘He was in the dream.’

‘No, he was in the room,’ said Beth, and Nell felt her shudder again. ‘He got in ’cos he knocked on the window. The dead man’s knock, like in the rhyme.’

Nell glanced involuntarily to the window, which was closed.

‘An’ he stood in the corner an’ that’s when I woke up,’ said Beth. ‘He was looking for me.’ She was making a valiant effort not to cry, and Nell’s heart contracted. ‘Could I come downstairs after all, Mum?’

‘Of course you can.’ Nell reached for the dressing gown and wrapped it round the small, shivering figure. She would crush a junior paracetamol in the hot milk. That would calm Beth down and help her to go back to sleep.