House of Small Shadows

TWENTY-ONE

It had been twenty minutes since Maude closed the bedroom door. Catherine was still unable to do anything but stare around herself in astonishment. Nothing inside the room had changed since the early twentieth century.

Upon the single brass-framed bed the lace bedspread and scatter cushions were hand-made, and probably crafted a hundred years ago. In an alcove, beside the window and the dressing table, stood a vast ornamental washstand. One equipped with a patterned bowl, soap dish and water jug. She’d only seen them in the line drawings of ironwork catalogues stored in museum archives.

There was a single wardrobe, mahogany, with decorative mother-of-pearl wings either side of a long vertical mirror. An elegant table and chair for writing letters was positioned to the right side of the dressing table. The grate in the fireplace was clean and the room appeared free of dust or any noticeable wear. Varnished to resemble a hardwood, the floor was pine and mostly concealed by hand-woven rugs of red and green. Under the hem of the eiderdown was a chamber pot, which made her wonder if a bathroom had ever been added to the property. She wanted to laugh. The Red House was a goldmine.

She took pictures on her phone and desperately wanted to send them to her boss, but there was still no signal, and hadn’t been since she reached Magbar Wood. Which would mean no Wi-Fi either. The continuing absence of phone reception contributed to the unease she had failed to quell since her return; this was a time in her life when she needed to speak to the people who cared about her. She felt as if she had gone out over deep water inside a flimsy craft, without a life jacket.

Her room was on the second floor, at the rear of the property. Following the pattern of what she knew of well-to-do Victorian households, it appeared that family and guests slept on the second floor at the Red House, while the first floor was for entertaining and the ground floor functioned as a utility area. Such a tradition being maintained wasn’t charming either. It suggested a system was in place with strict rules she might not be able to second-guess. An extensive and complex network of codes of conduct might be strung across every doorway and point of contact with her hosts, like a vast web. Transgressions and humiliating oversights awaited like traps. Failure to observe the merest nuances of what was expected of a guest could cause outbursts or silences. And somewhere out there on the same floor as her bedroom, in the long, dark corridors of panelled walls, burgundy drapes and closed hardwood doors, was Edith Mason’s room. The idea of her being so close already felt like a permanent scrutiny. Now Catherine was inside the room, she didn’t want to leave it.

To keep her mind preoccupied, she unpacked her travel case, and set up her digital camera and laptop on the table, on which to record the inventory and write the catalogue copy while saturated by the building’s ambience. At some point she would need to call a professional photographer to do the house justice. People would marvel at what they saw inside the auction brochure. Rooms untouched since M. H. Mason’s death, their furnishings and furniture, the exquisite period details, the exhibits. It would look like a programme for a great international exhibition. The house didn’t need a valuer, it required a curator. How was this house possible?

And there were M. H. Mason’s marionettes Edith wanted to show her that afternoon, or as she had described it, ‘To introduce you to’. If Mason had been able to fool her with a preserved dog, she could only imagine the masterly craftsmanship of his marionettes. Edith had said they were the final part of his vision, cultivated behind closed doors and, it seemed, also starved of public scrutiny. More dolls awaited her too, of which she had only seen a portion.

Edith was broke. That’s why Catherine was here. Perhaps Maude hadn’t been paid in a while, and the presence of a valuer was an unpleasant reminder of their parlous fiscal state. It would explain why they were being difficult, so she must take into account the discomfort the situation was inflicting upon her hosts. Allowances needed to be made. Nerve had to be held.

With her unpacking complete, Catherine examined the intricate woodcuts on the walls of her room. Five framed originals placed about the dark-red paper. She didn’t recognize the artist’s signature, but they looked mid-eighteenth century.

Even with the overhead bulb on, the light was thin and winey, so she had to get close. The two pictures above the head of the bed featured a scene from vintage village life. Perhaps a satire, as the faces of the characters in the parade were grotesque, their features exaggerated into great noses and protruding chins, their expressions cynical, if not cruel. They milled around what looked like a cart with a platform or stage mounted upon it.

A third picture featured a stage again with curtained wings and a backdrop, upon which a motley assortment of small, tatty figures pranced. Their dress was Tudor period, but she could not tell whether the figures were travelling players wearing masks, or marionettes. The indistinct faces of the actors only defined themselves with sharp white eyes and unappealing grins. The audience was depicted crudely as uncouth, ribald, even feral, with great open mouths and wild eyes.

The other two scenes featured a market square filled with children. Ragged children. Urchins. Skeletal creatures with huge eyes. Some supported themselves on crutches. One was pulled along the rutted earth in a wooden cart by an older girl in a tatty dress. The theatre the children were drawn to was in the background, and at a distance, the action upon the stage indistinct.

Catherine moved to open the window to allow more light into the room, and to see the rear garden. The window was another Gothic tripartite, hinged inside the casement.

Against the outside of the leaded panes of glass, a number of flies bumped and nudged with their plump bodies. She had encountered the flies again on her way into the house that morning. It was nearly winter. The summer had been late, but the number of flies was as unseasonal as the warm weather. They had the building surrounded.

At the window she studied the flies’ antics more closely until a flash of white motion from below distracted her. She leant against the casement and peered out.

In the distance, at the far end of the overgrown garden, between a row of untended apple trees, she located the movement. A figure in white, moving back and forth across a short area, as if busy with some task.

She wondered if it was Maude, but then realized the figure was too thin and tall. Maybe a gardener. No, because the grounds had seen no attention in years. The wooden arbour was mostly collapsed and the garden walls were concealed by brambles and ivy. Mounds of vegetation covered several objects she assumed were lawn ornaments or furniture. The edge of a stone sundial, or perhaps a bird table, could be glimpsed through a motionless torrent of tree branches.

The figure that paced back and forth wore brilliant-white clothes. It disappeared for moments and then partially reappeared amongst the dark greenery engulfing the garden, until it seemed to be trapped and tugging at something to free itself. Adjusting her position and screwing up her eyes, she became more sure that the person was male, a tall man.

Momentarily he appeared at a break in the choking foliage and turned in the direction of the house. He’d spotted her at the window. But Catherine could not see the raised face, or even a head, because it was covered.

Once she understood the mask to be the gauzy protective headgear of a bee-keeper, she relaxed. Slowly, the figure raised both arms into the air. The large hands concealed by protective gloves wavered, or possibly even beckoned to her. To come down. No, because the man then pointed at the meadow, and repeated the gesture vigorously, as if indicating that she should go. Leave.

As if caught spying, she withdrew from the window and returned to the gloom. Then felt a sign of recognition should be returned, a friendly wave. Somewhere below in the house, a door slammed shut. And when she looked out again the figure in white had gone, along with the flies.

Ten minutes later, an abrupt knock at the door gave Catherine a start. She turned, touched her hair and patted her skirt down. It must be Maude, sent to collect her. But she really didn’t want to be alone with the housekeeper, who had yet to speak to her or explain the note.

The warning.

‘Yes?’ Her voice was frail. She cleared her throat. ‘Come in.’

A second quick knock. Followed by silence.

Maude wasn’t coming inside, but she had been summoned.

Outside her room, the only light in the passageway dwindled the further it seeped from the pointed arch of the dark stained-glass window at the far end. Further down the corridor the squat and cumbersome silhouette of Maude was some way from her door, but Catherine could not tell which way Maude was facing, or whether the housekeeper was looking at her.

When she established that Maude was in retreat from her door, Catherine followed the woman, accompanied by the clack of her shoes against the bare wooden floorboards, a commotion that rebounded noisily from the panels of the walls. Her sounds were unwanted and intrusive. The rest of the Red House remained silent, as if commemorating the passing of some great personage while she disturbed the mourning like a feckless and unwelcome guest. Maude’s movements issued nothing but a distinctive shuffle. Catherine reminded herself to wear shoes with softer soles.

Below, from the landing that circled the hallway, Edith’s bell pealed.