Sarah Rayne - What Lies Beneath

Amy stared at the remains of the instrument. Parts of it had rotted, and in places had fallen away from the main structure, but a metal frame with what looked like a couple of dozen tubes was still in place. It was inexpressibly sad, like seeing something that was not entirely dead, something that had lain quietly here for half a century, determinedly clinging to its hold on life, hoping all the time that it might be found and rescued. She shivered, and became aware of how desolate and cold the old church was.

Jan was kneeling in front of the frame, the briefcase open, a sheaf of rather untidy notes half spilling out.

Amy said, ‘What are those lengths of old drainpipe?’

He smiled. ‘They’re the organ pipes – the ones that have survived. The wooden ones have almost entirely gone, but these are some kind of alloy and pretty much indestructible.’

‘They’re all different sizes.’

‘Yes, of course they are.’ He reached up to tap one of the pipes, and a faint sound thrummed through the small space. Amy had the impression that something within the ruined organ shivered slightly.

‘Would they still play properly?’

‘If the pump was working, they might,’ said Jan. ‘They work on the principle of any wind instrument. I can’t see the pump anywhere – it was probably one of the old bellows kind, though, and it’s most likely rotted away altogether. But if I took a couple of the pipes down and blew through them they’d produce a musical note. Like a flute or a recorder. Didn’t you play a recorder in a school orchestra when you were small?’

‘I bashed the drums,’ said Amy, and he smiled.

‘See these pipes with the wide diameter? If I blew through those they’d produce a flute tone. The narrow ones would sound more like strings. Over there are the reed pipes and…’ he looked at her and smiled, ‘I’m getting carried away. But in layman’s terms, these would sound like the pipes of Pan and those larger ones would be more like the QE2 coming in to dock or the Last Trump on Judgement Day.’

‘Well, if you’re going to try any of them, don’t make it those in case the graves start opening up and disgorge the walking dead.’

‘You’ve been watching too many late-night horror films.’

‘I’d rather have the QE2 than the walking dead. They’re pretty cobwebby, aren’t they?’

‘Cobwebs can be cleaned.’ He reached for the organ pipes again, and began to wipe them with a handkerchief.

‘Jan, they’re filthy,’ said Amy in horror, as he selected three and peered at them more closely.

A look of unmistakable mischief showed on Jan’s face, making him suddenly look much younger. ‘I’ll risk it,’ he said, and before Amy could say anything, he raised the two small pipes and one slightly larger one to his lips and blew softly through them.

The sound that tore through the ruined church was like the wail of a creature in its death throes, but Amy had to admit it was recognizably a musical chord.

Jan lowered the pipes and looked at Amy. ‘That wasn’t exactly the still, sad music of humanity, was it?’ he said.

‘Not even close, in fact it was nearer to the QE2 after all.’

‘I’d like to have made it the opening chords of The Deserted Village ,’ he said, rather wistfully. ‘That would have been really appropriate, wouldn’t it?’

‘You’re a closet romantic,’ said Amy, as Jan tried another set of chords. ‘I tell you what, though, I’ve still got Gramps’s camera in my bag. We’ll have a shot of this before we go, shall we? Because—’ She broke off and they both turned sharply at the cry of unmistakable fear from beyond the church.

‘Someone’s out there,’ said Jan, going to the head of the stair and peering down.

‘Oh God, yes, I thought I heard footsteps a few minutes ago, only then you called me up here and I forgot about it. It was probably only a forensic police guy or a curious local, but whoever it was I bet you’ve spooked him for life.’

‘I’d better go out and explain,’ said Jan, starting down the stairs.

‘OK. I’ll go and get the camera from my bag. I left it by the altar. You go ahead and I’ll catch you up. After that I really must get back to Gran.’

Ella had not paused in her headlong flight to Cadence Manor.

The trees surrounding it had the same diseased look as the trees in the churchyard, and in places the high brick wall had fallen in. Through the gaps the house looked stark and unprotected. Ella glanced across at the lodge and hesitated, wondering if it would be a better place to hide. For a moment, threads of the present came to the surface of her mind and she remembered the police investigations. Were they still working here? They were not in the lodge, that was clear, but might they be at the manor? No, everywhere seemed quiet and still.

He would find her if she hid inside the lodge but he might not do so in the manor. She went down the once-smooth carriageway. This was the way they had come all those years ago, she and Veronica and Clem. Were they with her now? No, of course they were not: they were dead. But people who were murdered walked, everyone said that. Ella glanced nervously over her shoulder, but nothing disturbed the brooding stillness.

Here was the house. She picked her way through the rubble, grateful she was wearing boots, but frowning for a moment, because hadn’t she come out in her good sandals? No, that was for school. And it was in the past. She must keep the two things separate. But ever since that painful struggling music had brawled out of the old church she had had the feeling that something had been torn and that the past was spilling out.

She had reached the terrace and saw the opening in the walls of the manor where the big French windows had been. Ella looked over her shoulder again. There was nothing to see, but he was out there, of course. He was stalking her, she knew that. She took a deep breath and stepped inside. Everywhere was cool and dim, and there was a faint sound of water dripping somewhere. One of the marble columns had collapsed, and lay in great splintered sections on the ground. Beyond it, near what was left of the staircase, was what looked like the remnants of a chandelier.

Even though Ella did not believe in ghosts, she knew there were ghosts here. Old Lady Cadence with her ravaged face, dead in the dim, over-scented room. She was here, all right, pointing an accusing finger at Ella. ‘Get that bastard out of my house,’ she had said. That bastard, that bastard… The ugly shameful word still resonated on the air, just out of hearing, and with it the sound of the faint scratchy gramophone with the needle that had stuck and played the same few chords over and over… Someone had played that exact music just now in the church.

Here was the room directly beneath the bedroom where she had hidden with Veronica and Clem, and where she had pushed the man to his death. She stood in the doorway, thinking it was a smaller room than she remembered. The sound of water dripping was louder in this part of the house; it was a desolate sound, but it was also slightly annoying in the way a dripping tap was annoying. After a moment the drips formed into a series of horrid jabbing words: I’m not dead, Ella… I’m not dead…

‘I know that,’ whispered Ella. ‘You’re still here – I heard your music in the church. I saw you coming towards me.’

He had stayed in the shadows of the church today, just as he had always done, but it did not matter because she knew it was him. His face was etched on her mind like acid. Distorted features, with mad eyes… The terror and fury she had felt all those years ago welled up, and at the same time she heard a faint footstep outside. She turned sharply. His footstep? Of course it was.