Sarah Rayne - What Lies Beneath

I’ll count the seven days ahead of me, of course, although I’ll try not to count the hours. But there’s a clock in here and I can hear it ticking the seconds away. I suspect I might have to find a way to muffle that clock before the end.

I don’t think it will be a very comfortable death and if I had any courage I’d find a way of putting a swift and clean end to myself beforehand. But there are no sharp knives here, no cut-throat razors, no pills that could be downed in huge quantities. No gas ovens to turn on or lengths of rope to fashion into a noose. And there’s just a chance I’ll escape, and although I was never a gambler in the accepted sense, I’m certainly going to gamble on that tiny chance.

I’ll think I’ll be reasonably comfortable in the time that’s left. It’s knowing what’s ahead that might tip me over the edge. That and the ticking clock. I could simply not wind it, but then I might lose all track of the days and I don’t think I can do that.

Perhaps I can pretend the ticking is something else – something small and unthreatening and friendly? A small mouse behind the wall, or an energetic house martin building its new home under the eaves somewhere. Yes, I’ll create a pretence that it’s a house martin, flying to and fro.

Actually, when I look back I can see I was always very clever at pretence. I certainly fooled all the Cadences – the entire smug, self-satisfied clan. Or did I? I’d have to say there were times when I wondered if Crispian sensed what I was thinking. He had a way of looking at people, a sort of speculative appraisal.

I knew from quite an early age I was going to kill Crispian Cadence, and I suppose if you’re intent on killing someone, it’s possible your victim might sense danger, even without realizing the exact nature of the danger.

Danger. It was remarkable how anything I ever had to do with Crispian always spelled danger.

The Present

Ella’s mother used to say anything to do with the Cadences, no matter how remote, always spelled danger.

Faced with the unsealing of Priors Bramley, Ella was forced to admit her mother had been right. This was a danger she wanted to ignore, but other people were involved – two other people to be exact, and both were still here living in Upper Bramley. She invited them to her house that evening, confident they would accept; they had always looked to her for guidance and leadership, right from childhood. Derek would be safely out of the way because he had a rehearsal with the Operatic Society. They were doing The Mikado this year, and Derek was playing Nanki-Poo, the hero. He was a bit stout for the part, but Ella would make sure he slimmed down in time. Some people said he was a bit old as well, but there was nothing anyone could do about his age.

She tidied and polished her sitting room, which Derek still called ‘the lounge’ despite all her reminders, opened a bottle of wine, and set out a few canapés. They were actually bought frozen from the supermarket, but no one would know that. Arranged on good china plates they looked home-made and quite classy.

Clement Poulter was the first to arrive, and although he was not exactly nervous, he was certainly not very comfortable. Ella noticed a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead and the top of his head where the hair was thinning.

‘I suppose this is about the reopening of Priors Bramley,’ he said.

‘It is,’ said Ella, firmly. ‘I thought we should have a little meeting about it. Just the three of us. In case of any… awkwardness that might be ahead. They really are going to bring it out of quarantine, aren’t they?’ She had tried out several acceptable phrases before lighting on this one, which seemed to reduce the whole thing to nothing worse than a dose of chickenpox.

‘They are,’ said Clem, nodding. ‘They’re going to fumigate it, sterilize it, disinfect it – however you want to word it. But I’m seeing it as the village being brought out of purdah.’

‘Whatever you call it, it’s being done on the tenth,’ said Ella, before Clem could become carried away with one of his annoying fantasies.

‘I know. We were sent a poster to display in the library. I’m going to arrange one of my little exhibitions – the village before they poisoned it.’ Clem liked arranging little exhibitions at his library; he always had one for the Operatic Society’s productions, with photographs of the cast and notes about the plot. ‘I shan’t call it that, of course,’ he said. ‘Just “Old Bramley”, or something like that. And it’d be a shame not to make some kind of written record of Priors Bramley before they demolish it. There’s masses of material lying around. Remember that local ghost story about people hearing organ music from within the old church on some nights? I do love that tale, don’t you?’

‘That’s just people’s imagination,’ said Ella. It was typical of Clem to miss the threat in all this – to focus on unimportant details: the stupid ghost tales that had grown up about the village, and his diaries, which he was always telling people about.

‘Yes, but people like a ghost story,’ Clem was saying. ‘Specially something about a really old church like St Anselm’s.’

St Anselm’s church. Despite the warm April evening, Ella shivered.

‘If you walk to the highest point of Mordwich Bank you can see the sun glinting on the stained-glass windows,’ said Clem. ‘It looks sort of remote and unreal. The lost church in the Poisoned Village.’ He contemplated this phrase approvingly for a moment. ‘It’s absolutely classic English ghost stuff.’

‘Derek says the only people who hear anything are the ones walking home from the Red Lion late at night,’ said Ella tartly. She had never told Derek or anyone else that she sometimes dreamed she could hear the organ chords, menacing and achingly lonely.

‘Yes, but it’s still a good story,’ said Clem. ‘Is Veronica coming?’

‘Yes, of course. She should be here by now.’

‘Oh, she’ll be late. She always is – she likes to make an entrance.’

But Veronica was not particularly late, although Ella was sorry to see that as usual she was overdressed for the occasion.

‘I see you’ve got some of those frozen canapés,’ said Veronica, having ostentatiously arranged her unsuitably short skirt over her thighs. ‘They’re good, aren’t they? I bought some last week for a – a friend who was coming to supper.’

There was no call for Veronica to bat her eyelashes in that simpering fashion: it was clear she meant a man. Nor was there any need for Veronica to say the canapés had been on special offer. ‘Two for the price of one; they’re very cheap, aren’t they?’

Ella handed Veronica a glass of wine, and said, ‘We need to talk about Priors Bramley.’

‘I thought that was why you phoned,’ said Veronica. ‘It’s a bit worrying, I suppose. It’s good about the motorway, but opening up the village made me feel quite shivery. Didn’t you feel shivery, Clem?’

‘Well, personally I seldom shiver over anything these days.’

‘Did either of you ever tell anyone what happened that morning?’ said Ella.

‘Oh God, no.’ But Clem poured himself another glass of wine with a hand that shook.

Without even being asked, thought Ella, annoyed, but she only said, ‘Veronica?’

‘I’ve never told a soul,’ said Veronica at once. ‘Not a soul. We said we’d take it to the grave with us, and I shall do so. We made a pact, don’t you remember? We swore on all we held sacred never to tell.’

‘I don’t think we did that exactly,’ said Ella. ‘There’s no need to be so dramatic. What we did was to promise each other we would never tell anyone.’

The promise had been made over fifty years earlier, when the three of them were children. It had started with a dare, although afterwards none of them could remember whose idea that had been.