Catherine Fisher - The Slanted Worlds

Or a spy.

End of term confidential report; Compton’s School; G. Wharton

London!

I had never imagined a place so frantic. My soul thrilled to the motor cars, trains, horses and carriages! The thronged pavements of people—beggars, thieves, duchesses, bankers—all strolling among a bedlam of street vendors who cried every ware from violets to soap to ointment that would remedy hair loss for the modern gentleman.

But when I finally walked under the ancient archway of Staple Inn, I found myself in a sudden haven of quiet; an old stone courtyard surrounding great trees, their leaves just budding in the spring sunshine.

I was ushered into the offices of Messrs. Queenhythe and Carbury, Solicitors at Law, to find a very tall young man with a walrus mustache who introduced himself as Marcus Queenhythe. I must have looked terribly tired from my bewildering journey, because he instantly poured me tea from a brown china pot.

“And you walked all the way from Euston? My dear Miss Symmes . . .”

“I had no idea which omnibus to take.” I drank the tea thirstily. “There were so many.”

“Of course. Well, we will have a cab to your house. That is if you wish me to attend you.”

“Oh please. I would so like it.”

Your house.

My heart beat with quiet pride. I sat up straight and tried to look like a woman of property. But I could not help but be aware that Mr. Queenhythe seemed unaccountably nervous. He stroked his mustache with inky fingers. “There is a little . . . that is . . . you may be a little disturbed by the . . . er, state of the property.”

“In what way?” I tried to sound confident, but my heart sank, as if at some hidden dread.

“It has been unoccupied for many years. And your late father was a noted eccentric. There are heaps of books and papers . . .”

I was relieved. “Oh, papers. I can deal with those.”

“And . . . um, machinery. There seems to be some sort of peculiar invention. In the study. Wiring and such. It fills the room.”

I waved a hand. “It can be dismantled and sold. Shall we go now?” Because I was burning with impatience.

He sent the clerk for the keys, and sat at the desk. He did not meet my eye. “I think . . . If I may be so bold as to advise you, Miss Symmes, perhaps a hotel would be better. Until . . .”

“No hotel.” I rose, so he had to scramble up, startled. I kept my voice firm. “I intend to sleep in my own house. Mr. Queenhythe, may I ask what it is that you are not telling me?”

I detected a certain panic in his voice. He stood, turning his back and arranging his cravat in the mirror. Finally he said, “In point of fact, Miss Symmes, though I consider them foolish, there are rumors about the house. We have found it impossible to keep a servant there. They all leave very quickly. They say . . .”

His hand shook a little on the tie. “. . . that the house is haunted.”

He watched me anxiously in the glass.

I must admit to a certain cold shiver around the heart.

But I drew myself up. “Ghosts, sir, do not trouble me.”

However, when the cab arrived before the dilapidated frontage, I admit to being a little daunted. The house was a fine Georgian building in a grand square, but trees had been allowed to grow and overshadow it, and the shutters were closed and dark, like blind eyes. Ivy obscured the upstairs, and strange scorch marks starred from what must have been the study window. As I climbed the steps and waited for Mr. Queenhythe to undo the padlocks, I felt as if my mysterious father was still here, gazing down at me curiously from some attic. When I glanced up, the panes were dark.

We entered the hall. A peculiar smell of charred metal seemed to hang there, even after so many years.

“This was the drawing room. The dining room is in here. The morning room. And this was Mr. Symmes’s study, I believe.”

He opened a door onto a room crowded with dark masses of sheeted furniture. I put a hand out and touched an armchair. My fingers came away covered with a film of brown dust. “Does no one clean?”

“As I said, we have had problems. The last cleaner refused to return. She spoke of footsteps. Movements where no one was.”

I opened the shutters. Pale daylight fell on my father’s desk, his chair, and revealed by it, suddenly, there in the corner, I saw her. A gangly awkward young woman, drably dressed, her face thin and pale, her glance startled. I moved, and so did she. And then I realized this was no ghost but myself, reflected, and I put a hand to my cheek in dismay, because for a moment I had seen myself as a stranger sees me, a lost girl, away from all the certainties and fixtures of my life.

I recovered myself because Mr. Queenhythe was observing me, and stepping forward, removed the rest of the sheets.

To reveal the mirror.

It was tall and made of some curious glossy black glass.

It reflected the room as a slanting, warped space, the walls distorted, the windows bulging outward. Coils of wiring led from it into the heaped and piled corners of the room. I picked one up, and it curled in my hand with a strange friction that made me drop it, quickly. Behind me, the mirror showed Mr. Queenhythe laying a pile of documents on the desk.

“These are your father’s will, his diaries and letters. If you would care to sign here, and . . . just here, our business is concluded.”

He wanted to be out of the place. I could sense his nervousness. I crossed the room and signed the papers with what I hoped was a defiant flourish. He put the keys down on the desk, gathered his effects, and hurried into the hall. I trailed after him.

“If there is anything you need,” he said, his look suddenly intent and urgent. “Anything at all, Miss Symmes, please don’t hesitate to contact us. At any hour.”

Rather unnerved, I put out my hand and he shook it.

At that moment a soft sound startled us.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

It echoed through the empty hall and dusty stairwell.

We looked at each other. “Now who can that be?” he said. He marched to the front door and flung it open.

There was no one there.

Mr. Queenhythe stepped out and looked up and down the street. The pavements were empty. But I thought I heard, as if from somewhere far, the giggle of children.

“Some scoundrel playing tricks,” he said. “Well. I wish you the best of luck, Miss Symmes. The very best of luck.”

It was only when I had closed the door on his hurried departure, and turned to face the dark stair and the silent house, that I allowed myself a secret smile.

Ghosts were just what I needed.

I was my father’s daughter, after all.

Allenby took another pull at the cigarette and stared at Jake through the coil of blue smoke. “Let me get this straight. You want me to take you—a prisoner on remand—out of here, across the bomb craters of London, to a smashed-up house in a street that no longer exists?”

Jake nodded.

“You really have a nerve, Wilde.”