‘I think it’s just stuck down with dirt,’ said Nell. ‘We need something to scrape it out— Something that won’t damage the wood. A nail file would probably do it – pass my bag, would you, I think there’s one in there.’
By dint of scraping at the seam, the accreted dirt of the years came free in minuscule flakes and filaments. Nell worked her way round the rim of the lid with infinite patience, and Michael watched, feeling vaguely useless.
‘I think that’ll do it,’ said Nell, straightening up at last. ‘Let’s try again.’
This time when they pushed at the lid, it moved, and at the third attempt a faint line of blackness showed under the lid.
‘Be careful,’ said Nell. ‘The hinges could be rusted almost to nothing, and we don’t want to send the lid smashing against the floor.’
The seams of the old oak creaked loudly as the lid came up, and the hinges shrieked like a soul in torment. As the air within was released there was a sighing sound, and something dry and infinitely sad seemed to breathe outwards.
The faint whispering came from the shadows, and they both paused.
‘Stephen?’ said Nell softly, scanning the darkness.
‘I don’t know. I expected – I don’t know what I expected,’ said Michael. ‘But I thought that opening this would trigger something.’
He thought they had both been trying not to think about what might be inside the chest, but at first sight it looked as if there was nothing more than a yawning blackness, with a length of cloth folded at the bottom.
Then Nell reached down into the deepness of the chest and moved the cloth. There was the pale blur of bone, the impression of a human outline lying quietly beneath the cloth, and the glint of something bright. Nell recoiled, dropping the cloth over the bones, and straightened up.
‘Stephen,’ she said. ‘It’s his body. Oh, Michael—’
But Michael had reached down and, careful not to touch or disturb what lay partially covered by the cloth, drew out a small crucifix on a thin gold chain.
‘I don’t think it is Stephen,’ he said. ‘You’d know better than I do, but this looks like a very feminine thing.’
‘Yes.’ Nell took the small crucifix and looked at it. ‘Yes, it’s the kind of thing a lady would wear.’
‘A lady who had spent her formative years inside a convent?’
They look at one another. ‘Leonora?’ said Nell.
‘I think it might be.’ Michael looked back at the dark well of the oak chest. ‘Let’s not move anything,’ he said. ‘We’ll have to report what we’ve found, but for now let’s quietly close the lid and leave it to the professionals to lift her out.’
‘The annoying thing,’ he said as they sat in the library, waiting for John Pargeter to arrive, ‘is that we still don’t know what happened. We’re still only seeing shadows; we still haven’t got down to the reality. “Shadows inside the rain,” Stephen said somewhere in Luisa’s journal – or Luisa thought he said. And that’s what we’re getting.’
‘We probably won’t ever see or know what the reality is,’ said Nell, sadly.
But they did.
Pargeter and Associates
Solicitors and Notaries Public
Walsham
November 201—
Dear Dr Flint,
RE: ESTATE OF LUISA GILMORE (dec’d)
It was very pleasant to meet you at Fosse House recently, although the circumstances, of course, were sad. However, my colleagues and I are very grateful for all your help over this somewhat complex matter.
We are also very grateful to Mrs West for her excellent advice and assistance over the selling of some of the more valuable furniture, china and glassware, and we are delighted that we have now been able to confirm the arrangements for her to handle the sale of the items discussed. (A separate extract regarding this has been sent to Mrs West at her Quire Court shop.) The sketch referred to as the Holzminden sketch is, I understand, already attracting some interest, and we will probably accept the suggestion that it is sold at auction by a specialist firm.
I am extremely sorry, however, that you and Mrs West had the distressing experience of finding human remains in the house. As you know, the police had to be notified of the discovery – any dead body has to be reported, no matter how long it might have been dead – and a post-mortem was conducted. I do not yet have the results, but hope to let you know when I do. I can tell you, though, that the small crucifix you found in the oak chest is thought to be around a hundred years old, and possibly French in origin.
However, knowing your research into the Gilmore family history, I think you will find this next information of interest. Found beneath the body, at the very bottom of the oak chest, was a small sheaf of papers. They are handwritten and in English – very good, even colloquial English, although the writer appears not to have actually been English. I have taken photocopies and am enclosing them with this extract. They raise a number of interesting possibilities, and certainly suggest the identity of the body.
The funeral for Miss Gilmore is to be next Thursday, at the local church. Do please let me know if you, or anyone from Oriel College, would care to attend.
Kind regards,
John Pargeter
Michael read John Pargeter’s extract twice. Then he read the opening lines of the enclosure. After this he reached for the phone to ring Nell.
Twenty-Four
‘We ought to read it together, I think,’ said Michael, having provided Nell with a drink and seated her on the small sofa, where the light of the desk lamp fell across her hair. Wilberforce, who liked Nell, but would not admit it sufficiently far to actually sit on her knee, had positioned himself on the sofa arm.
‘This is like old times,’ said Nell, curling her feet under her and accepting the drink. ‘Are these papers going to provide any answers, though?’
‘I don’t know. I only read the first sentence, then I tripped over Wilberforce to reach the phone to tell you,’ said Michael. ‘I don’t know if this will give any more answers. But I think it’s our last shot.’