The Sin Eater(67)
‘Oh God, was there?’ Michael’s thoughts switched from the spectral threat of the chess piece to the more temporal one of burglars and muggers. ‘Have you reported it?
There was a perceptible hesitation, then she said, ‘Yes, but it was such a vague sighting they weren’t inclined to send out the cavalry. The on-duty sergeant logged it and said they would ask the duty patrol car to drive round during the evening, but that’s all.’
‘Would you like to bring your things over here and stay for a few nights?’
‘And shock your students?’ The familiar note of irony was back in her voice.
‘You could creep out at dawn,’ said Michael, smiling. ‘Like a Feydeau farce. But how about if I stay with you for a few nights? As a security guard, I mean.’
‘Would you wear a uniform?’
‘Would you like me to?’
‘It depends on the uniform,’ she said, and chuckled.
‘No, but seriously, I could sleep in Beth’s room if you’d prefer, and I could be the one to do the sneaking out at dawn. I should think Quire Court’s seen its fair share of furtive lovers over the centuries anyway. Tiptoeing over the cobblestones among the flowerpots.’
‘You’d trip over the flowerpots and set off the shop alarms,’ said Nell. ‘And that would be more like a Carry On film than a French farce. No, I’ll be perfectly safe, it was only that once and I haven’t heard anything since. I’m probably overreacting.’
‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘Yes.’ There was a pause. ‘Michael – you will be there, won’t you?’
‘At the station?’
‘Well . . .’ She paused, and something seemed to shiver on the air between them.
‘My dear love,’ said Michael softly, ‘I’ll always be there.’
Michael was vaguely worried by Nell’s mention of a prowler. He was even more worried when he thought about the semi-isolation of Quire Court. It was so quiet, so enclosed in its own gentle atmosphere that it did not seem a place that would be targeted by vandals or burglars. Tomorrow evening he would take a look at the locks and bolts on the doors of the flat behind the shop.
What about the other threat, though? The chess piece. Unless Fergal McMahon’s memoirs were false – nineteenth-century Gothic fiction presented in an unexpected way – the Abbot and his gang had clearly believed the chess set held a very dark power. And Fergal’s account of the thirty-two shadows performing their own dance macabre in a dim old library was extraordinarily chilling, no matter what one believed.
Michael glanced back at the book’s publication date: 1904. Presumably Fergal had been dead by then, but it was entirely possible that he had simply stashed the memoirs away, and they had not come to light until many years later. Perhaps some member of Fergal’s family – a niece or nephew – had found them and wanted the world to know the old boy’s strange story. Or the Church might have suppressed the memoirs, of course. Michael thought, with a touch of irony, that the Catholic Church was probably second to none when it came to hiding what it considered to be contentious or disreputable incidents.
How much danger might Nell be in from that single chess figure? For pity’s sake, thought Michael angrily, it’s a lump of wood with a few semi-precious stones stuck on to it!
He made himself a toasted sandwich, poured a glass of wine to go with it, and carried the tray through to his desk. Opening the latest Wilberforce file he worked solidly for the next two hours and by eleven o’clock had almost written an entire chapter. He diligently saved the work to a memory stick, which Nell’s Beth had given him for Christmas, tied up in a huge scarlet ribbon. Last December the real Wilberforce had sat on the computer keyboard while Michael was pouring a cup of coffee, and had activated the log-off key. The computer had obediently shut itself down and Michael had lost four pages intended as an insert for the American publishing house, which had recounted Wilberforce’s exploits at a Thanksgiving turkey dinner, when Wilberforce had fallen into the cranberry sauce and it had died his whiskers crimson. Ellie, thousands of miles away in Maryland, had loved this, and Beth had said they could not risk losing any of Wilberforce again, so a memory stick would be a really cool present.
Michael reread the chapter he had just written and thought it was not bad. But before he let his editor see it, he would email it to Beth and Ellie. They loved being in on the birth of a new Wilberforce exploit and they would be completely honest about whether it made a good story.
As he got into bed, he wondered if Benedict Doyle had traced any of the people in his story. He had been going to get the Title Deeds to Holly Lodge – perhaps he would ring to let Michael know about that.
Lying in bed, his mind was full of fragments of Benedict’s curious story and the vivid collection of people who seemed to have been its major players. It was an extraordinary tale.
He began to drift into sleep, and as he did so, a half-memory nudged uneasily at his mind. He was toppling over into sleep when it clicked fully into place. It was of Benedict sitting in Michael’s study that day, the sinister glint of blue in his brown eyes, saying Nell should not go to Holly Lodge.
Because we both know who’s inside that house, Benedict had said and his voice had once again held the soft Irish overlay.
TWENTY