House of the Lost

CHAPTER TWENTY

Saturday morning brought a post delivery, which was a sufficiently rare event at Fenn House to be modestly exciting.

There was a card from Theo’s mother who had just got back from Paris, and wrote that it had been hot and indolent and she hoped he was enjoying Melbray and not working too hard. There was also a pamphlet inviting him to have solar heating fitted to his house, a leaflet reminding him that Jesus Saves, and a note from his agent wanting to know if he was still enduring the rigours of East Anglia, reporting some pleasantly high sales figures from a Dutch edition of his last book, and ending with a question as to how the ex-paratrooper’s exploits were coming along.

Lesley’s High Noon train was delayed and by the time they had collected provisions in Norwich, and Theo had negotiated the traffic, it was five o’clock before they reached Fenn House. Lesley paused in the hall, staring about her, and Theo tried to gauge her reactions.

‘D’you know,’ she said, ‘I was a bit frightened of coming to Fenn again. I suppose I was expecting to sort of sense Charmery’s presence. But I’m not sensing anything. I’m just remembering how much Charmery loved this house.’

‘We all loved it,’ said Theo. ‘After Helen and Desmond died, Charmery used to come here on her own for long stretches.’

‘I know. I always hoped she’d ask me to stay but she never did.’

‘I don’t think she asked any of the family,’ said Theo. ‘I think she liked to be on her own sometimes.’

‘If she was on her own,’ said Lesley, with a brief grin. ‘You know Charm.’

‘Yes.’

‘She did like being on her own here, though,’ Lesley said thoughtfully. ‘The family never understood that – they never really understood her, did they? You were the only one who did. Everyone used to wonder why you fell out.’

‘We didn’t fall out. It was just a cousin thing,’ said Theo lightly.

‘Was it? My mother once said it was because of Charmery that you stopped smiling.’ She was not looking at him and Theo was glad. ‘It’s so good to be here again,’ said Lesley. ‘I’m going to walk into the village tomorrow, I think, just to re-visit a few old haunts. But…’ She looked back at him.

‘But it’s sad, as well, isn’t it?’ said Theo, gently. ‘Coming back to Fenn like this, without her.’

‘I miss her so much,’ said Lesley, and then, as if shaking off the memories, said, ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to go all Gothic and gloomy on you. I’ll go up and unpack. Am I in my old room? Oh good. I’ll only be ten minutes.’

One of the nice things about Lesley was that she never expected people to fuss or run round after her. Charmery, arriving at Fenn, would say haughtily, ‘Could someone take my case up to my room? And I’ll have a bath before supper.’ She would come down to supper just as it was being put on the table, freshly bathed and shampooed, while everyone else had been peeling potatoes or looking for the corkscrew or dashing into the village for milk because the fridge had stopped working.

Lesley simply picked up her case and carried it upstairs before Theo could forestall her. He heard her opening doors and running the taps in the bathroom, then she came down again. She had on what looked like an Elizabethan tabard over purple tights and pixie boots. Theo thought she looked like a Tudor pageboy and wondered whether she would wear this outfit for the convent visit, and if so what the nuns would make of her over the shepherd’s pie.

‘Come and see the sketch before we eat,’ he said. ‘It’s in here.’

‘Why are you so interested in it?’ said Lesley, following him into the dining room. ‘You sounded really mysterious on the phone.’

‘Because whoever did it must have known Charmery quite recently,’ said Theo, noncommittally. ‘And I don’t think it’s an angle the police followed up.’

‘Isn’t it signed?’

‘No. And I’d like to know a bit more about the artist,’ said Theo. He switched on the light and stood back, seeing her eyes widen as she saw the portrait. After a moment, he said, ‘It’s extraordinary, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, it is. Not just the sketch, but – Theo, it’s almost as if a whole new persona took her over when that was done,’ said Lesley.

‘I know.’

‘It’s good,’ she said.

‘I thought it was. There are a couple of similar ones at St Luke’s Convent and I think it’s the same artist, but I’m not sure.’

‘Someone local,’ said Lesley. ‘Yes, that might make a link to Charmery, mightn’t it?’

‘I’m hoping you can tell if they’re by the same artist,’ said Theo. ‘We’re invited to the convent for lunch on Monday, mostly so I can steal an on-line hour with their internet connection.’

‘And so I can prowl round the sketches. That’s fine, as long as I get the six o’clock train back.’

‘I’ll give you a spare key to the house anyway,’ said Theo, hunting out the extra keys the locksmith had cut and handing one to her.

‘Thanks. Can I have a closer look at the picture?’

Theo took it off its hook and Lesley studied it carefully, then turned it over to examine the back. Her expression was serious and absorbed and for the first time Theo saw her not as the small cousin who liked drawing pictures, but as someone who had studied art at the Slade, no less, and who might not be an expert in the accepted sense, but had considerable knowledge and also talent.

‘Have you seen it before?’ he said.

‘No, but I haven’t been to Fenn for years. Could I remove this backing paper? Only a corner of it. I’ll be very careful and I should be able to put it back intact.’

‘You can dismantle the whole thing if it’ll do any good.’

‘I don’t really think there’ll be a hidden signature,’ said Lesley. ‘But there might be a clue as to when it was done. A framer’s stamp or something.’

‘It must have been done in the last couple of years,’ said Theo. ‘It can’t be any older than that. Charmery looks at least twenty-five.’

‘Yes, she does.’ Lesley sounded puzzled, but she fetched a very thin palette knife from her case and with extreme care began to lift the backing. At first Theo thought it would not come away or that it would tear, but eventually it came free and she laid it carefully to one side. Then she loosened the frame so the sketch itself could be removed.

‘This is odder and odder,’ she said, staring down at it.

‘Why?’

‘Because this is old,’ said Lesley. ‘Everything about it is old – the paper, the ink, even the glue holding the backing paper – you saw when I removed it how hard and dried out it was. Whoever he was, this artist, he used a medium-soft pencil, then a very thin sepia ink for outlining. No fixative. Most people use some kind of fixative now, but it’s not a given.’ She ran a fingertip experimentally over the paper’s surface. ‘Theo, this can’t possibly have been done in the last two years. It’s at least twenty years old – probably more.’

Theo stared at her. ‘Are you sure? I thought it was just cobwebby. Everything in the house was cobwebby and faded when I got here.’

‘I’m not absolutely sure, but I’m reasonably so. Restoration – the dating of old paintings – were subjects of their own at the Slade so I know the theory. And I’ve been working at the gallery for the last four months and we do quite a bit of restoration work. That doesn’t make me an expert though, so don’t take what I’ve said as gospel.’

‘But this can’t be twenty years old,’ said Theo. ‘That would mean—’ He stopped.

‘Say it.’

‘That would mean it can’t be Charmery,’ he said, slowly. ‘Twenty years ago she would only have been seven or about six.’

They looked at one another.

‘But if it isn’t Charmery,’ said Lesley, ‘then who is it? Because it’s very similar.’

‘Could it be Helen?’ said Theo. ‘If Charmery found an early sketch of her mother after Helen died, she might have decided to have it on show. No, of course it isn’t Helen. The bone structure is completely different. Could it be a modern sketch on old paper?’

‘I don’t think so. There are tests that can be done on the actual ink but there wouldn’t have been any reason to use old paper. It’s not as if we’re in the Middle Ages where starving artists couldn’t get materials and had to recycle. I think the ink’s old anyway. If I make a very tiny scratch here – it’s only in the corner, it won’t show – it flakes. The new inks don’t do that – at least, not for a good few years they don’t.’ She sat back, still looking at the framed face. ‘Would you like me to take this back to London and see what my boss thinks of it? He’s very knowledgeable, and I’d take great care of it.’

‘Yes,’ said Theo. ‘Yes – would you do that? I’ll pay whatever fee’s involved.’

‘No, you won’t. I’ll parcel it up now – I expect there’s brown paper somewhere.’

‘And then we’ll have an early meal,’ said Theo.

‘Good. It’s hungry work, trying to solve mysteries.’

They wrapped the sketch up, then grilled the steaks Theo had bought in Norwich, companionably drinking a glass of wine as they did so. They ate at one end of the dining table, but several times Lesley glanced through the uncurtained window to the dark gardens, and Theo saw the faint glint of tears in her eyes. He had been thinking he might tell Lesley about some of the curious things that had been happening – it would have been a relief to talk about it – but seeing the sadness in her expression as she stared at the smudgy blur of the boathouse, he knew he could not.

Instead, he got up to close the curtains, and said, ‘More wine?’

‘Yes, please. You only gave me about a quarter of a glass while we were cooking the meal.’

‘And you already look like a naughty twelve-year-old who’s been at the plonk.’

Catherine did not want to be present at Monday’s lunch with Mr Kendal and his cousin.

It was only an informal arrangement, the Bursar had made that clear.

‘He’s coming to use the computer,’ she said on Sunday evening, after the Polish nuns had left. ‘Sister Catherine can show him where to switch it on. But I thought it would be courteous to invite him to lunch, we’d all enjoy meeting him again, I daresay. He’s bringing a cousin with him – she’s at Fenn House for the weekend.’

Sister Agnes, informed there would be two extra for the meal, said her shepherd’s pie was more than equal to the occasion but she would whip up an apple pie by way of pudding. Most men liked apple pie. Reverend Mother thought Sister Miriam could show him their library: they had a couple of signed first editions of George Borrow and the children’s author Anna Sewell, both of whom had lived in Norfolk.

Catherine was appalled to realize she was considering staging a minor illness in order to miss the whole thing and that she was even subconsciously planning the details of a fictitious stomach bug. She was so disgusted with herself she went along to empty the ortho-bins by way of penance. It was hard work because the bins were large metal containers, and it was disagreeable because the discarded plaster casts were usually grubby and sweaty, but it should help to drive out all thoughts of Theo.

But it did not. The idea of seeing him again – of showing him the computer’s intricacies in the enforced intimacy of Reverend Mother’s study – made her stomach bounce with such pleasurable apprehension, that at one point she thought she might really have a stomach bug, which would serve her right. She wondered about the cousin he was bringing. ‘Cousin’ might be a polite euphemism, of course, and if you wanted to be facetious you might remind yourself that nine – nearly ten – years ago Theo Kendal had been very partial to cousins, to the extent that he had made his cousin Charmery pregnant. He would never know that on that long-ago afternoon, Catherine had held his son in her arms and felt the warmth of the small body and looked down at the vulnerable little head with the soft dark hair. And then watched the tiny body swept away by the muddy flow of the Chet…

She still offered prayers for the little lost David on the anniversary of his birth and death: each year she thought how old he would have been, and how he would be celebrating his birthday, going to school when he was five, learning to read and write, exploring the world around him. At other times she thought about him lying in the green depths of the river. Or had his body been washed up somewhere miles away, and found by people who had never heard of the Kendals or Melbray?

She wondered if any of the other nuns experienced this kind of struggle over a man. It was impossible to imagine Reverend Mother or Sister Miriam or the Bursar lying in bed and staring up into the darkness, with wild thoughts of romance rioting through their minds. No, let’s be honest, thought Catherine unhappily, what I’m imagining is a whole lot stronger than romance. It isn’t moonlight-and-roses stuff, it’s double beds and unclothed bodies. And Theo Kendal would not have given Catherine a second thought. He probably had scores of women in two separate continents panting for his attention, to say nothing of assorted cousins queuing up.

But when he came into the dining room on Monday, his eyes went round the room as if looking for someone and stopped when they saw her. A smile of unmistakable intimacy lit his face, and he gave her a nod of greeting that seemed to set her apart from the others. Catherine’s heart leapt with delight and she was glad she had fought down the idea of faking illness, but at the same time came the thought that she did not want this, she did not want to feel like this.

The cousin was introduced as Lesley Kendal. She was a few years younger than Catherine, perhaps twenty-three, and she had short hair, the colour of autumn leaves, and wide-apart eyes. She was wearing a long green velvet coat, with, beneath it, an ankle-length black skirt and sweater with a rope of amber beads wound round her neck. Every time she looked at Theo her eyes seemed to take colour from the amber. Catherine could not decide if she regarded him as a much-loved surrogate elder brother or a lover. Theo’s hair was slightly damp although Catherine did not think it was raining. Perhaps they had been making wild love all morning and reluctantly broken off because they were committed to eat shepherd’s pie with a crowd of nuns, and he had taken a shower before coming out.

She listened quietly to Reverend Mother enquiring how Mr Kendal’s work was progressing. He did not say much, other than that it had taken an unexpected turn and sometimes an author had to sit back and give the characters their heads and see where they took the story. Sister Miriam for once joined in with the discussion, offering some opinions about modern novelists which Mr Kendal seemed to find interesting.

The Bursar wanted to know what work Lesley Kendal did, and on hearing she had recently left the Slade, said they had a few paintings at St Luke’s. Nothing valuable, she didn’t think, but Miss Kendal might like to look at them while her cousin pursued his research on the computer?

‘I’d like that very much,’ said Lesley. ‘All paintings are interesting and this part of the country has a terrific heritage. Alfred Munnings and Cotman. And Turner, of course. So I’d love to see your paintings.’

Catherine saw Theo glance at Lesley with a brief smile as if he was proud of her for making such a very good answer. Was it an avuncular smile – an older cousin, indulgently pleased with a younger one? Or was it the smile of a lover, proud of his lady’s knowledge and warmth?

After lunch Catherine was expected to take Theo to Reverend Mother’s study where the computer lived. She booted it up and explained which internet provider they used, and which email programme. He didn’t really need her help, of course, but Catherine sat next to him for a few minutes, watching his hands operate the keyboard. After a moment, she said, ‘If you’re all right now, I’ll leave you to get on with your research. Feel free to print anything you want. The printer’s on that table.’

‘Thanks, I might do that. My writing’s practically illegible.’

‘Is there anything else you need?’ Let him say there is, she thought. Let me have a bit longer sitting with him like this.

But he said, ‘No, nothing. Thanks for this.’ The smile showed, briefly.

I was wrong about that moment of intimacy earlier, thought Catherine, but as she got up to go, Theo said, ‘It’s been nice seeing you again, Catherine – sorry, I probably shouldn’t call you that.’

‘It’s my name. These days most of us keep our own names.’

‘Well, then, Catherine, will you call at Fenn some time for another cup of coffee?’

Catherine stared at him and felt the telltale colour flood her face. I’ll have to refuse, she thought. I daren’t accept. Probably he doesn’t mean it. Even if he does… I really will have to refuse.

‘If it wouldn’t interrupt your work, I’d like to call.’

‘Good. Any morning is fine. I’m not being polite, you know.’

‘Aren’t you?’

‘I’m never polite,’ he said, and this time the smile was a mischievous grin.

Catherine, her heart racing, the treacherous blood singing through her veins, managed to get outside the door.

Theo had no idea why he had issued that invitation to Sister Catherine, or why he had used her name in that way. But he had the impression that she was a good listener, and he had suddenly felt a strong wish to pour out everything that was happening at Fenn House.

He brought his mind back to the task in hand, consulted his notes, and began typing in search requests. Nicolae and Elena Ceauşescu came under this heading as well, although there would be no shortage of information about those two. As he worked, St Luke’s and its inhabitants ceased to exist for him. He travelled to a country with a violent and vivid history, and to an era when an iron dictator had held its people in poverty and fear.

There was a wealth of material about the years of Ceauşescu’s reign – which had begun in 1965 and ended on Christmas Day 1989 – and also of the years leading up to his election as leader. Matthew and Mara’s years, thought Theo. There were also several first-hand accounts written by prisoners who had been incarcerated in Pitesti Gaol or in the equally grim-sounding Jilava Gaol, and he read these carefully. They were written with varying degrees of literacy by people from widely different walks of life. Some of the automatic translations read a bit oddly, but the emotion and the suffering came through so strongly that Theo felt his throat constrict with the pity and horror of it. One account, apparently an extract from a book published by a survivor of Jilava, told of the physical and mental torture inside the prison.

They called it by many names but, boiled down to the bones, it was brainwashing. They employed torture to remove our real natures and beliefs and loyalties. One of the names they used for it was ‘re-education’, but in fact they were systematically turning us into robots and making informers of us. We had to work for exhausting periods doing humiliating tasks – I often had to clean the floors with a rag clenched between my teeth. Our food pans were seldom washed, and sometimes we were forced to eat from them with our hands bound – that doesn’t sound much, but to kneel down and lick food off a dish like an animal is degrading.

I protested, and was punished. They shut me into a tiny coffin-shaped room with a bright light permanently on, making it impossible to sleep. After three days, I managed to reach the light bulb and unscrew it – I was exhausted and dizzy; I thought I would give anything for a couple of hours’ sleep. But they came in before I could replace the bulb, and I was punished even more. They tied my hands behind my back, and pushed me to a sitting position on the floor, leaning against the cold stone wall. Then they jerked my lips wide open and pushed the glass light bulb straight into my mouth, with the narrow brass end jutting out and the wide bulbous part scraping against my teeth. I couldn’t move. If I tried to dislodge the bulb it would have splintered in my mouth and glass pieces would have gone down my throat.

They left me for an hour – I knew it was that because I counted the seconds and added them into minutes. The darkness was an added torture because earlier I had craved darkness in order to sleep. I could not sleep now. After only a few minutes my jaw ached intolerably with the strain of keeping my mouth open and still, and saliva ran from the corners of my lips. The pain was so fierce I wanted to cry with the misery of it.

When finally they came back and removed the bulb, I broke down, sobbing. I was so grateful for the ending of the pain, I confessed to whatever they wanted to hear. Years afterwards, trying to rebuild my life, I learned that the light-bulb treatment was an old Nazi trick.

It was the most detailed account Theo found from inside any of the gaols, although there were several others, brief and scrappy in the main, but all telling of physical and mental torture: sparse food, cramped and dirty cells, medical attention which consisted of the dispensing of an aspirin or strychnine shots.

As he read, an image formed in his mind of the woman in Andrei’s photograph. Had she existed in real life, that dark-haired rebel, who had been Matthew’s mother? He tried reminding himself that Elisabeth had been forged out of his own imagination, but it did not help. Matthew and Annaleise had been forged from his imagination as well, but they were also real people. He was starting to have the feeling that Elisabeth Valk was real as well, and that if he stretched out his hand he would feel her take it. He began to read a set of documents grouped under the heading of ‘Student Movements in Communist Romania’. The translations were heavy and confusing and by the time he reached the fourth one he was thinking it was a blind alley. He would check this last account, however.

The final document was not a blind alley at all. Rearranged into an English structure of sentences, it read:

A radio station, thought Theo, recalling his story. ‘The October Group calling,’ she had said. ‘Elisabeth Valk here, wishing a very good evening to all my friends…’ That beautiful voice challenging and defying, and calling people to a rally. But she’s imaginary, he thought angrily. I gave her a beautiful voice and dark hair and eyes – she’s my creation, she’s not real! None of them are real, they can’t be. He read on.

Oh God, thought Theo, staring at the screen. The October Group. He plunged back in.

Theo’s mind had spun into whirling confusion. Krivaca, he thought. That’s where I sent Zoia, Annaleise and Elena Ceauşescu that morning. That bleak frozen grey morning, when they drove across the border and found the thin tall house and dragged Elisabeth out and took her to Pitesti Gaol. He had never heard of Krivaca – he had simply looked it up in an atlas. He might easily have picked any of a dozen places near the border.

The names were set out alphabetically, but her name seemed to leap from the page and deal a blow straight into his eyes.