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  ‘Apparently not, BS,’ she said. ‘You just had a nasty turn.’

  ‘Nasty turn?’

  ‘The doctor says you had a panic attack.’

  ‘Panic attack? Of course I didn’t. If I’d had a panic attack, why did they have me in the coronary care unit? Answer me that?’

  ‘Because you’re over sixty and overweight, I should imagine. They said you can come home this afternoon.’

  ‘Surely not.’

  At least they had the decency to wheel him out of the hospital in a wheelchair, one of the nurses pushing him and Patricia following along behind carrying his clothes of the night before in a plastic bin bag. He had refused to get dressed. He said he was too exhausted and was feeling breathless again, but the twelve-year-old doctor didn’t seem to be taking him seriously and told him to try some relaxation techniques.

  When they got home, Patricia insisted he spend the rest of the day in bed where he lay trying to read and feeling thoroughly bored and agitated. His wife didn’t reappear until the afternoon when she came up with a cup of tea for him. He asked her to get in touch with Donna and tell her to bring his work diary over.

  ‘You’re meant to be resting, BS,’ Patricia said. ‘And that doesn’t mean entertaining a horde of adoring women from the Hall.’

  ‘It’s not a horde. It’s only Donna.’

  ‘Your Donna kebab, you mean.’

  ‘That’s not very kind, dear.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Why are you being so disagreeable?’

  Patricia whipped the pillows away from behind him, thumping and puffing them up before shoving them back in position. He meekly submitted to her manhandling, trying to work out why she was upset. She caught his eye and stopped fussing with the bedding, then sat down heavily on the foot of the bed. ‘I’m sorry, BS.’

  ‘It’s so unlike you,’ he ventured, reaching forward to touch her shoulder.

  She looked up at him, and her eyes were moist. She burrowed a quivering hand into the pocket of her cardigan and pulled out a cotton handkerchief. He caught the faint smell of lavender as she shook it out and blew her nose. ‘I thought we weren’t going to make forty years after all,’ she said in a small voice.

  ‘Forty years?’

  ‘Our anniversary.’

  ‘That’s weeks away.’

  ‘I got such a fright last night.’

  ‘So did I!’ She looked sharply across at him and he regretted bringing the subject back on to himself. ‘But equally alarming for you, my love,’ he added.

  She looked out of the window and continued, ‘I saw the snow was worsening. I rang your office and the answerphone was on and I thought you were on your way home, but the time ticked on, and still you didn’t come. And I looked out into the drive and the snow was getting so bad I began to think you must have had some sort of accident, or worse. And then the phone rang. No one rings after ten o’clock at night unless it’s bad news. And it’s that supercilious Maureen on the phone, and she keeps on prevaricating and spinning things out and I can’t get her to cough up the story. I know she’s enjoying every minute of my agony, but she’s wrapping it up with all that cod sympathy and condescending claptrap about Jesus, and I want to scream “What’s happened?” But I don’t. I wait. I refused to thank her for her pompous condolences, but she blathered on for so long I honestly thought she was building up to telling me you were dead, and she was there with you. She didn’t say where you were, where she was, or why she was with you at that time of night. Honestly BS, my imagination was running completely wild.’

  ‘Patricia!’ BS exclaimed. ‘I can’t stand the woman, and she can’t stand me.’

  ‘But she did find you, and if she hadn’t, you could have died.’

  ‘I know, dear. I know.’

  Patricia looked down at her hands and massaged her knuckles. ‘She found you, and now I have to be grateful to her. I fully expect her to be on the phone again this morning, crooning in that haughty way of hers, pretending to be full of concern for you, and, even more nauseatingly, for me.’

  ‘Well, let’s forget about her now. It was only human nature for her to help me – anyone would have. If she hadn’t been ...’ and he paused, remembering the figure in the dark, the figure who might have been fleeing but who didn’t, and something made him not want to tell his wife about it. ‘If she hadn’t come along, Pugh would have found me. Or even Dean. She did what any normal human being would have done. Heavens above, you’d have to be fairly inhumane to walk away and leave someone lying in the sort of state I was in.’

  ‘I can’t bear to think of you lying there, on that cold stone floor.’

  ‘I know. It was awful.’

  ‘And I don’t want that wretched woman on the phone every day asking how you are.’

  BS sighed. ‘It’s probably best to feel sorry for her, really. She’s hoping this will put her at the centre of attention, but she’s making a fool of herself by milking as much drama out of it as she can.’ He leaned forward in the bed and patted Patricia’s knee. ‘We know the truth. We can see through her.’

  He sank back into his pillows and reached out for his teacup which rattled in the saucer as he moved it towards him. Sipping the tea, he watched his wife to monitor her mood. Over the last few years she had developed a very slight tremor which caused her head to move like that of a toy dog in the back of a car, and this made her body language difficult to read.

  ‘I would, however, like to make contact with Mrs Westbrook, just to make sure that she has everything she needs to carry on with the exhibition.’

  Patricia stared at her husband and the movement of her head increased until he realised she was now shaking her head at him, her expression one of extreme irritation. She got to her feet and removed the teacup from his hand in a movement akin to a snatch. BS knew he had read the body language incorrectly. ‘You’re the limit, BS. The giddy limit. I am not contacting the Hall, and neither are you. That job puts too much strain on you and too much strain on me. You reneged on your promise, BS. You promised me nearly twenty years ago that you would retire.’

  ‘I did. From teaching.’

  ‘You did not. You were pushed.’

  ‘I was not pushed. I took early retirement.’

  ‘What about Candida Cochrane?’

  BS rolled his eyes and sighed. ‘That was years ago. How many times have I got to say it? The girl was lying.’

  ‘That’s not what her mother thought.’

  BS took a sharp breath in and placed his hand on his chest to strike an anguished pose. ‘Oh dear,’ he said. ‘Another little twinge, I think.’

  The following morning Patricia agreed to him getting up and dressed only because he promised to take it easy once downstairs.

  ‘I can’t find my keys, dear,’ he said.

  ‘They’ll turn up.’

  ‘I think I may have dropped them when I fell in the undercroft. Could I just give the Hall a quick ring to make sure they’re safe?’

  ‘I’ll do it, BS. You rest.’

  ‘It’s bothering me a lot. If they fell into the wrong hands, someone would have security keys for anywhere in the Hall.’

  Patricia dried her hands on a tea towel and took off her apron. ‘I’ll ring them now for you,’ she said. ‘Quite safe,’ she called through from the hall a few minutes later. ‘Bunty said they’ve been handed in and she’ll hold on to them for you.’

  ‘Thank you dear,’ he called back, modulating his tone to prevent himself sounding as irritated as he was.

  For the rest of the morning he bided his time, knowing that Patricia would eventually have to leave him alone for a few hours at least if only to carry out the weekly shop which she always did on a Wednesday afternoon with their daughter-in-law Jane. He sat in the small conservatory reading his newspaper and watched her moving around the kitchen trying to keep his waves of impatience at bay. She showed no signs whatsoever of getting ready to go out. When she came through again with his cup of decaffeinat
ed coffee he could stand it no longer.

  ‘Shall we make a list, my love?’ he said casually.

  ‘What for dear?’

  ‘Well, I thought we could make a shopping list for you for this afternoon. There are a few things I wouldn’t mind you picking up for me.’

  ‘No, dear, you mustn’t worry yourself about that, it’s all organised. I phoned my list through to Jane and she has ordered everything we need online. Very clever. They will deliver any time today between one and three o’clock.’ Patricia smiled over at him and he sensed a flicker of victory in her face. ‘So you see, I don’t need to leave you alone for a minute.’

  ‘Well, thank you, my love, that’s very thoughtful of you,’ he said, bringing his paper up between them with a snap to disguise his expression of pique. After about five minutes of listening to the gentle click of her knitting needles he crumpled the paper noisily into his lap and said, ‘For goodness’ sakes Patricia, let me ring the Hall.’

  Patricia removed her reading glasses and looked him straight in the eye. ‘BS! I have told you once and I will tell you again, every day if necessary, you are not ringing the Hall. It may be a difficult concept for you to grasp, but you are not indispensable at the Hall. You are, however, indispensable to me. You are going to rest and you are going to get better.’

  ‘How can I get better if you put me under this sort of strain?’ he shot back crossly.

  Patricia replaced her reading glasses and recommenced her knitting. ‘You’re being peevish BS, and it doesn’t suit you.’

  ‘Nastiness of the very worst order!’ he muttered, scrabbling for the remote and turning on the cricket.

  Noel reluctantly called it a day at five because he and his wife were off to see a performance of The Caucasian Chalk Circle at the Guildhall in Oswestry. ‘A favourite of the amateur theatre companies,’ Noel said gloomily to Sam. ‘Can’t stand the play myself.’

  Sam worked on for another couple of hours before leaving the sealed chamber and making her way carefully down the spiral staircase, her laptop case slung across her back to leave both hands free for the descent. She locked the door and looked down into the great hall beneath. Pugh had left a dim light on for her on the desk below to illuminate her way down the staircase, but when she started along the statue corridor towards the music room she wished she had taken a torch with her in the morning. The marble statues loomed out of the darkness to left and right of her, punctuated by deep shadows and she felt a tingling in the hair follicles at the sides of her head. She paused and turned, fearful of what she might see, but all she could make out were the profiles of stone gods and goddesses staring with their white and sightless eyes. She hurried on towards the door into the music room and out through the exit on the other side into the great courtyard.

  The mist from the Red Lake had once more stolen silently up the valley and into the courtyard. The night air hung motionless and tangy with a mineral odour, water from a gutter somewhere in the courtyard was tapping out a metallic bock-a-da-bock. With the aid of a weak light above the exit, Sam locked the door and made her way over the gravel towards the stairs up to her flat. The sound of her footsteps bounced around the old stones and she looked across to her right at the cheerful yellow light flooding from the windows of the private apartments on the opposite side of the courtyard. She imagined Dean and the rest of the staff below stairs having a meal together, and envied them.

  Once inside her flat, she put a match to the fire and went into the kitchen to fetch a glass of wine. She could hear the kindling cracking and spitting next door and caught the scent of resin as a wraith of smoke puffed into the room. Pugh had been right when he assured her that the fire would draw properly once the chimney warmed and she had come to like the smell of woodsmoke in the flat. She was soothed by the sight of a full fridge – it looked almost as good as Max’s.

  Max. She was thinking about Max again and she realised she was smiling. She wondered if she should reciprocate his hospitality and kindness by offering to cook a meal for him tonight, but then decided he might read the offer the wrong way. He wasn’t her type at all.

  She carried her wine back into the sitting room, closed the curtains on the night and wondered why Max wasn’t her type. He made her laugh and he was undeniably a nice looking man, intelligent, clearly interested in her. In fact the candour of his pleasure to see her was very appealing, so much more attractive than a man who retains a cool aloofness when in reality you know he is boiling with desire. Perhaps it was nothing to do with type, perhaps it was more to do with an overwhelming feeling of ennui that enveloped her at the thought of investing all that emotional energy into yet another relationship that would most probably end badly. Friendship seldom ended in that way.

  The moment Sam heard the knock on her door she was sure it was Max. She sprang to her feet, hurried over to the door and flung it open without a moment’s hesitation.

  A woman swathed in layers of clothing, her head covered with a scarf that swaddled her hair, stood in the dark a few steps down and away from the door. She must have knocked and then retreated before the door opened. Sam couldn’t see who it was.

  ‘Do you have company?’ the woman asked.

  ‘No. Who is that?’

  The woman came back up the steps towards her and as she travelled into the light flowing through the open door Sam recognised the pale face as one of the guides.

  ‘Maureen Hindle?’

  The eyes, heavily lined in kohl, loomed out of the darkness and Sam had to stop herself from retreating back a step. ‘Won’t you come in?’ she said.

  ‘No. No, I won’t. I wanted to give you this,’ and from beneath the layers of clothing she drew out a large leather-bound book which she held towards Sam with both hands.

  Automatically Sam put her own hands out to receive it. ‘What on earth is this?’ she said.

  Maureen did not immediately let go of the book, so the two of them stood facing one another and holding the great tome between them. Eventually she released her grip and Sam caught the full weight and gathered it up on to the crook of her elbow. She looked down at the book and back up at Maureen, waiting for an answer.

  ‘I think it’s a list of the Dywenydd Collection, but I didn’t like to read it.’

  ‘Where did it come from?’

  ‘The muniments room. I found it the night Mr Moreton was taken ill.’

  Sam paused. Something was wrong here. ‘Why didn’t you hand it in to the office?’ she asked. Maureen took two steps backwards and put her foot on a lower step.

  ‘I thought you should have it. Things have a habit of getting mislaid here. It’s safer with you.’ She moved a few steps further down. ‘I have to go now,’ she said.

  ‘No, wait. Please come back,’ but Sam was calling down the dark stairwell at a retreating figure. She heard a car door slam and an engine cough into life and accelerate away, and silence flowed back up the stairs towards her with the mist from the Red Lake.

  - 14 -

  The events in the undercroft the night the snow came catapulted Maureen back into those dramatic surges of buoyancy and despair that she had hoped and prayed she had vanquished. Once more, thoughts of BS Moreton filled her mind, unbidden and without warning. It seemed that every waking minute was an opportunity to revisit evidence from the past and the romantic obsession – her limerence – which she had fought so hard to keep at bay, blossomed once again under this new stimulus. She wondered if perhaps she was going mad, but comforted herself with the thought that if she was struggling with a psychosis she should feel like a normal person in a crazy world, and this was not how she felt. She knew her behaviour had no logical explanation, but it gripped her with such ferocity she could not set it aside.

  It was initially triggered by a series of sensory events that drew her back to the evening two years ago when she had had her accident. There was something about the light in the Hall that evening, the smell of snow in the air, the emptiness of the great hall, that stripped ba
ck time. That night two years ago Bunty had left early and asked her to stay behind until Pugh had finished locking up. She agreed to do so, but in fact it was incredibly inconvenient because she had promised Michael she would be home on time to take over the elderly parents while he went to preach. She remembered feeling stressed, rushed, out of control. Whatever the reasons, when she saw that Pugh had missed one of the shutters in the lower dining room, she was furious. His duties weren’t exactly onerous, he was a salaried member of staff on a good wage with benefits, and he had that lovely house at Dolley Green Gate all for free. It was beyond unfair. The least he could do was remember to close the shutters at the end of the day before he slunk off for his tea.

  She battled with the leaden wood and eventually managed to unfold each stubborn side and as she struggled to raise the heavy locking bar, feelings of ferocious helplessness overwhelmed her, so much so that when she slammed the iron bar down across the shutters, she knew the middle finger of her right hand was still on the bracket. As the noise of metal clanking into position shocked along the state rooms, an exquisite pain flung her away from the window and on to the floor. For a moment it was so intense that it disconnected her utterly from everything – her stress, her hatred, her fury, and this disconnection was even stronger when she looked down at her hand and didn’t recognise it. The tip of her finger was missing and as she watched, blood as thick and black as pitch pushed out from the wound and the pain, already unbearable, washed in sickening agony up her arm and she filled the room with a full-throated animal roar.

  It was BS Moreton who found her. Back then she only knew him by sight and this great man, this oracle of the Hall, fell to his knees beside her and gathered her up into his embrace. He rocked her and soothed her, he helped her up and along to the office, he praised her for her bravery and stayed with her all the way to the hospital, leaving only after her husband Michael had arrived. He visited her daily at home, short visits to bring her a book she might like to read, or just to sit with her and share a piece of gossip about the Hall. When her own guilt forced her to admonish him for the time he was spending, he explained to her that as a Catholic this pastoral care was a duty required of him which he was happy to give, but she knew it was more than that. No one, not even Michael, and certainly none of her family, cared for her the way BS did. That had been the start of her feelings, and even though subsequent events had warped them, BS Moreton remained extraordinarily important to her.