Property of a Lady(48)

‘So please ring me as soon as you get this and I’ll explain properly.’ He added his direct number at Oriel College, in case Jack had not taken an address book with him, and remembered to add his own mobile as well.

Then it occurred to him it was possible to dial remotely into a phone to pick up messages and that Jack might do so, so he rang the home number again and left the same message there. It was annoying that he could not ring the cousins in New Jersey, but although he had met one or two of them at Jack and Liz’s wedding – including Liz’s redoubtable godmother – he had no idea of any surnames. But Jack and Liz were both efficient; one of them would ring him as soon as they picked up the message.

It was now one o’clock, and he phoned Nell at the shop. She sounded pleased to hear from him. She was fine, she said, and Beth had gone happily off to school that morning.

‘Although I had to beat down the impulse to run after her to make sure she was safe. Shouldn’t you be lecturing or studying or something at this time of day?’

‘I’ve got a tutorial in half an hour,’ said Michael, ‘but I’ve found something out, and I think you might be able to track it to its source.’

‘What have you found?’

He took a deep breath. ‘I’ve found Elvira.’

Even over the phone he was strongly aware of her reaction. She said, ‘Where? How?’

‘I’ll tell you properly later if that’s all right. I’ll have a bit more time this evening.’

‘I’ll be in all evening,’ said Nell. ‘What d’you want me to track down?’

‘Have you ever heard of a place called Brank in that area? Brank Asylum it used to be. Maybe it’s just known as Brank House now.’

‘No. But I can look for it.’

‘I can’t tell you much about it, other than I don’t think it was very far out of Marston Lacy, and it certainly existed around 1905.’

‘Nineteen oh-five,’ she said. ‘All right, I’ve got that.’ And Michael had a sudden pleasing image of her in her shop or the sitting room on the first floor, her face serious as she wrote down the details. ‘Was Elvira in an asylum?’

‘It seems like it. I’ve even got her date of birth. She was born in 1880, and she died in Brank Asylum in 1937.’

‘Fifty-seven. No age at all,’ said Nell. ‘The poor woman. And asylums were grim places then, weren’t they? Well, they’re grim places in any era. But it might make it easier to trace her. I’ll see what I can turn up.’

‘I’ll phone around eight if that’s all right.’

‘Miracles might take a bit longer than that,’ she said, and he heard the smile in her voice. ‘But eight will be fine. Even if I haven’t found anything out I’d like to know what’s behind this.’

‘I’m looking forward to telling you,’ said Michael.

‘I’m looking forward to hearing.’

As he put the phone down, it occurred to him that there could sometimes be a remarkable intimacy in a phone call. All physicality was absent, and everything became concentrated into your voice and the voice of the other person. And barriers were lowered.

He got through the tutorial, had a cup of tea with a colleague in the History Faculty, then thought he could allow himself a couple of hours with Harriet Anstey’s journal. As he took the handwritten pages out of the desk, he found he was smiling at the prospect of discussing Harriet with Nell.





22nd February 1939


8.45 a.m.

Despite what I happened at Charect House, when I awoke this morning I found I was smiling at the prospect of returning there. And today is the day of the builder’s visit, arranged by the solicitor. I’ve had breakfast – beautiful fresh eggs from some nearby farm – and I’m about to go downstairs to await the taxi.

2.00 p.m.

It took considerable resolve to go into the library, I have to admit that. It had to be done though, and eventually I drew a deep breath and opened the door. I have no idea what I expected to see, but there was nothing there. Whatever unquiet dream had surrounded me two days ago it had left no trace or taint. The library was bland and silent, save, of course, for the steady ticking of the old clock in its corner.

The builder arrived at eleven, trundling up the lane in a noisy and battered-looking lorry. He was a lugubrious person, given to gloomy silences as he surveyed a wall or a section of roof. He made copious notes in a small book, shaking his head dolefully, and my heart sank lower with each room we visited. I asked about the dripping tap or gutter I heard on my arrival, but he didn’t seem to find anything to account for it. The plumbing would all have to be ripped out, though.

‘Old soft-lead pipes, you see. Can’t have those any longer.’ The water tank, when he finally tracked it down, almost rendered him speechless, but he rallied and said it could be replaced with a nice modern one, sited in the roof or one of the attics.

We tramped up to inspect the attics on the crest of this idea, and that was when we found the worst of the neglect.

The attics are vast, and several roof joists seemed to have fallen in, so there were piles of rubble everywhere.

‘Wattle and daub, these walls,’ said the builder dolefully. ‘Horsehair and lime in the main. I’m surprised to find such penny-pinching work in a house of this age and size.’ He looked so disapproving, I wondered if I should apologize.