Sarah Rayne - House of the Lost

‘No longer recognizable,’ said Theo, half to himself, and Innes said explosively, ‘Oh God, her face was almost entirely gone and the eyes had been eaten—’ He stopped and swallowed hard. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘I honestly didn’t mean to say that.’

‘It’s all right,’ said Theo, knowing it wasn’t all right for either of them.

‘The police surgeon concluded she had been held down in the water, probably with a boathook,’ said Innes. ‘She had lacerations on her shoulders where the hook had torn into her flesh. I don’t think they ever found the boathook. I think they agreed it was probably thrown into the river after – after the killer finished.’

He stopped, and Theo, who was feeling slightly sick, but who was also feeling sorry for Michael Innes, said, ‘Let me make you a cup of tea. Or something stronger if you’d prefer.’

‘Tea would be welcome.’ He looked up gratefully, and his eyes widened suddenly, as if he had seen something behind Theo’s chair that startled him. Theo half-turned and realized it was the framed sketch of Charmery.

‘It’s a startling likeness, isn’t it?’ he said.

‘I’ve never seen it before.’ He seemed unable to take his eyes from the sketch.

‘It looks quite a good drawing, although I’ve no idea when it was done or who the artist might be. It isn’t signed or dated and there’s nothing on the back – I looked. I thought I might get it appraised some time – I’ve got a cousin who’s just finished studying art at the Slade – she might know how to go about it.’

‘Lesley?’

‘Yes. Did you know her?’

‘No, but Charmery mentioned her,’ said Innes, still staring at the sketch.

‘It makes her look quite different, doesn’t it?’ said Theo, going out to make the tea. ‘But then my cousin Charmery possessed a chameleon-like personality.’

‘Able to be all things to all men,’ said Innes, half to himself.

‘Exactly.’

After Innes left, Theo did not attempt to reclaim Matthew, or Mara’s forest cottage. Instead, he sat at the table, his chin resting on his hands, staring through the French windows.

Darkness was creeping across the garden, as if a veil was being drawn down slowly over it, and the small courtyard was already in shadow. In the old days they usually had breakfast there in the summer because it caught the morning sun. Charmery always wore a huge 1920s sunhat; it made her look like something from a soft-focus romantic film. But the wrought-iron table and chairs were covered in moss now, and the rose garden Helen had planted – the garden that had scented the air every summer – was choked with weeds and smothered in shadows.

Charmery had said summer twilight was deeply romantic – black-bat nights and poets entreating their ladies to come into gardens, she said. Moon rivers and the deep purple falling over sleepy garden walls. It was a secret time, she used to say, her long narrow eyes smiling. It was a time when no one quite knew where anyone else was, and when you might vanish for a magical mysterious hour of your own… ‘Let’s run away to the boathouse, Theo…’

It was on the crest of this memory that Theo saw, quite definitely, a flickering light inside the boathouse.

He unlocked the French windows and stepped outside. Cold night air, dank from the nearby river, breathed into his face and he stood on the step, listening and trying to see. Was the light still there? Yes. But who was creating it? How mad would it be to investigate on his own? Should he try calling the local police? But a vagrant light in an old boathouse was hardly cause to call out the cavalry. In any case, by the time they got here the light would probably have disappeared. He frowned and went back into the dining room to pick up the poker. Twice in two days, he thought wryly. He tried to remember where a torch might be kept and could not. He would have to trust to luck that he could see the way.

Once outside he locked the French windows behind him and pocketed the key. Then he went warily down the twisting path that he had once known as well as he knew his own reflection. Here was the little rockery where the lavender bush had been, and here were the four mossy steps to the lower level. Once down the steps, a big old apple tree screened the boathouse, and Theo could no longer see the light. Supposing he reached the boathouse to find someone waiting for him? Charmery’s murderer? Or Charmery herself? ‘Let’s run away to the boathouse,’ she had said that afternoon, giving him the shining smile that had always melted his bones. She’s dead, said Theo silently. She’s been dead these four months and the dead don’t return.

But supposing they did? Supposing they came back to a house they had loved and set its heart beating again…?

There was no longer a light, and Theo paused, his heart pounding. I’ll have to go inside, he thought, and taking a deep breath, walked up to it and peered into the dank interior.

It was very dark inside. The far end of the small structure was open for the boats to come and go and a faint misty radiance came in from the river itself. Waterlight rippled on the walls and on the staging where a small rowing boat used to be tied up. The memories rose up like a solid wall but Theo pushed them away and scanned the shadows.

There was nothing here. He could see traces of the police investigations – some polythene sheeting rolled up and presumably forgotten, and tattered remnants of tape that had probably once said crime scene and been wound round the entire structure. But there was nothing else. If I saw anything it was simply a shaft of moonlight, he thought with relief, and turned to go back up to the house. The dining room light shone like a beacon, and Theo unlocked the French windows and stepped thankfully inside. The warmth of the room closed round him, and he locked the windows again and drew the curtains against the night. Safe.

He was crossing the room to the hall, thinking he would make some supper, when he saw that the portrait of Charmery was no longer in its place. He looked round, wondering if it had fallen off its hook.

It had not fallen off its hook. It was on the table, near his laptop, set upright against the desk lamp. This was surely not possible, because he had absolutely no memory of putting it there. Had Innes done so? No, they had not even taken it off the wall when he was here. Walking a bit unsteadily Theo went over to the table. The desk lamp was still on; it shed a golden glow over Charmery’s enigmatic stare. But something had changed about the sketch. Was it just the light? Was the frame damaged? But even as the questions formed, Theo saw what was different and his mind tumbled in disbelief.

In front of the sketch, half propped against it as if it had been placed there very carefully, was a dried flower. Its colour was faded and cobwebby, and although Theo knew very little about flowers, he recognized this one. Several times in those long-ago summers he had cut one and laid it on Charmery’s pillow for her to find when she went to bed.

It was a Charmian rose.

Theo had no idea how long he stood staring at the fragile, sinister outline of the flower against Charmery’s portrait. He had managed to convince himself that the chiming clock in the bedroom was due to some quirk of the weather or the house itself, but there could only be two explanations for what he was seeing now. One was that someone really was managing to get into the house and that someone had waited outside and crept in while he was investigating the boathouse light. But this was so elaborate and pointless, Theo could not bring himself to believe it.

But outlandish as it was, the other explanation was so bizarre Theo did not intend considering it, even for a second. It was that Charmery herself had returned.