Sarah Rayne - What Lies Beneath

‘I suppose so,’ said her mother, her eyes on the smudgy photograph. ‘She lived through two world wars, although she did so in extreme comfort while the rest of us struggled and scraped to put food on the table.’ Ella heard the vicious note in her mother’s voice, and she was so worried that Mum’s face would take on the snarly look again that she mumbled it was very interesting and thank you for showing her the article.

The article had not told the truth, though. Ella knew that, and she supposed her mother knew it as well. But the newspaper people would not be able to write that Serena Cadence had been a vicious old woman who called people bad names and frightened them half to death.

The really strange thing, though, was that the newspaper said Lady Cadence had died from her long and debilitating illness. It did not say she had died because someone had dealt her a vicious blow and she had smashed her head against a marble fireplace.

Everyone at Ella’s school had to go to the memorial service at St Michael’s. The family deserved the community’s respect, said the teachers. There had been a time – not so very long ago, either – when the Cadences had brought considerable work and prosperity to the area.

Only a few of the Cadence family were at the service. Clem’s father said that was because the Cadences had almost all died out. Serena Cadence had not exactly been the last of her line, but there could not be many of them left. There were one or two distant cousins, he believed, but they were scattered around the world. Italy or Spain, so someone had told him.

Ella, seated near the back of the church, tried to get a good look at the members of the Cadence family, but it was impossible. They came in very quietly by the side door and sat at the front of the church, and all she could see was three or four dark-clad people. After the service the family went out through the same side door and were driven away in waiting cars. Ella wondered how she would feel if the man from St Anselm’s was there, but he did not seem to be. She had not really thought he would be – he didn’t seem like someone who’d be part of a crowd – and anyway he might not even be one of the family.

The school choir sang at the service and Derek Haywood had a small solo halfway through. Several of the congregation remarked on what a nice voice he had.

‘I thought he screeched a bit on the high notes,’ said Veronica afterwards, but she said it quietly because they had all been told to be solemn and quiet as a mark of respect to Lady Cadence.

‘I thought he screeched a whole lot,’ said Clem, who was still smarting at not being picked to play the prince, and not very inclined to admire anything Derek Haywood did. ‘I should think Lady Cadence would come back from her grave to haunt him for screeching like that at her funeral.’

‘People don’t come back from the grave,’ said Ella very sharply.

‘How do you know? My father said she was an old witch. I’ll bet she comes back to haunt Cadence Manor.’

The Present

Ella had not, of course, taken any notice of Clem’s words, not then and not since. Lady Cadence had not haunted the manor, nor had she haunted Ella herself.

It was the music that had haunted her. She had never been able to forget how the needle had stuck on the record that day, and how the music had played the same section over and over.

The Deserted Village . She had not known then what it was called, of course. What she had known was that it must have been the man from the church who had taunted her on that last morning when she and Clem and Veronica had walked through Priors Bramley. He had known Ella was there and he had deliberately played that piece in St Anselm’s for her to hear. Remember this, little girl , he had been saying. Remember the last time you and I heard this music…? In Cadence Manor, when your mother committed murder…?

Once or twice since that day Ella had wondered if she had been wrong, and if he had played it simply because he liked it. But she always pushed away this idea, because she did not want to ascribe to that sinister figure any of the softer qualities. When you have killed someone, you do not want to realize afterwards that they liked music.

What she had never been able to understand was how she could have heard the music on the day her mother went inside the poisoned village to find the lost wristwatch – the day the Geranos had burned her face. Because the man had been dead, he had been dead for a whole week. Ella had seen his body, broken and twisted at the bottom of the ruined chimney shaft, and her mother had seen it as well.

But on that afternoon someone had been playing his music in the deserted grounds of Cadence Manor.

The Present

Gran had seemed pretty fed up since Amy played The Deserted Village CD last night, although Amy thought she was trying to hide it.

She wondered if she ought to ask Gramps if there was anything wrong. Dad would never forgive her if she did not keep him in the loop about Gran’s health; he did not get emotional or embarrassing about her, but once or twice he said she had given him a really good, really secure childhood, which was something children did not seem to get so much these days.

Gramps was rehearsing tonight. He had gone out after supper, and Amy had been intending to go down to the Red Lion who were having a quiz night. One or two people from the library would be there, and Clem Poulter had suggested Amy join them. But Gran was looking white and pinched, and it seemed mean to leave her on her own, so Amy suggested she came along to the quiz too. It would mean Amy could not chat up any likely men, of course, though she was not sure she was yet back in a chatting-up frame of mind, even if there had been anyone around worth chatting up, which there was not.

But Gran said she would stay at home. She was not much of a one for quizzes. ‘You go, though, dear. What time does it start?’

‘Eight.’

‘It’s half-past seven already. You’d better go up to change.’

Amy was wearing her favourite scarlet cheesecloth shirt and jeans, and it had not occurred to her that she needed to change just for a couple of hours in a pub. But she brushed her hair and added a bit of lipgloss.

When she got to the Red Lion there were quite a lot of people there. Clem Poulter waved to Amy and beckoned her over to join his table. He made vague introductions to the people he was with, most of whose names Amy did not hear.

‘I’m so glad to see you,’ said Clem. ‘I tried to get a couple of the local teachers to come along, but they couldn’t or wouldn’t. I tried to get Dr Malik as well, but a snowball in hell would have more chance. I don’t think he’s even heard of pub quizzes.’

‘Who?’

‘Didn’t you say you spoke to him at that music lecture?’ said Clem. ‘He’s staying here, so you’d have thought he could have been bothered to just walk downstairs and sit at a table, wouldn’t you? He’d have been brilliant, and we’d like to win this quiz, wouldn’t we, chaps?’

There was a rather half-hearted assent from the people round the table.

Amy said, ‘Oh, him. I thought he was just somebody who wandered in out of the rain.’

‘Eccentric academic,’ said somebody on the other side of the table. ‘He’s some sort of expert on early church music or something.’

‘You know my definition of an expert,’ said Clem. ‘Somebody who lives more than thirty miles away.’

‘No, really, he’s supposed to be very distinguished and knowledgeable.’

‘What’s he doing in Upper Bramley, then?’ asked someone else, cynically.

‘He’s here to study St Anselm’s musical history now that it’s accessible again,’ said Clem impatiently. ‘I told you. Amy, what are you drinking? Oh, and we’ve ordered food for later.’