House of the Lost (19 page)

Theo had been rather touched to find how carefully the sisters had prepared for him, and he was pleased Sister Catherine was there. As she took him across the big polished hall and up the stairs to Reverend Mother’s study, he noticed again how smooth and clear her complexion was. It made him think of lightly polished ivory.

‘Thank you for all the trouble you’ve gone to,’ he said.

‘It was no trouble. The study’s along here.’

‘Is this floor the nuns’ living quarters?’

‘Yes. Common room, TV room, a couple of small extra studies for private visits. The bedrooms are on the top floor – they’re converted from the attics in the main. The chapel’s along that corridor.’

‘Do you have a – what would the term be? A house priest?’

‘We share him with four other villages,’ said Catherine. ‘It means daily Mass is a moveable feast but it’s surprising how easily you get used to that.’

‘Is this the lion’s den?’ said Theo, as they stopped in front of a door.

‘Much worse. Reverend Mother’s study. But she won’t eat you, especially since the Bursar will already have told her you didn’t preach the doctrine of the Antichrist or advocate smoking cannabis in your talk.’

While Theo was thinking how to reply to this, she knocked on the door, then opened it and left him to it.

The room was half study, half office, with a large, extremely tidy desk, glass-fronted bookcases mostly containing religious works, and framed prints – again of religious subjects – on the walls. There were several modern filing cabinets and, unexpectedly, a computer and printer with scanner.

Theo found himself liking Reverend Mother, who was fairly elderly but had bright intelligent eyes, and he also liked the Bursar who came in a few moments later and was sturdy and forthright. They both thanked him for sparing time from his busy schedule to talk to their patients. The Bursar said she had enjoyed his talk and found it very instructive. She added that she had read his last book and found it perceptive and well constructed. ‘You have a remarkable insight into people’s emotions, Mr Kendal.’

‘Thank you,’ said Theo, not daring to ask which of his characters’ emotions the Bursar had in mind.

‘The Bursar writes a little on her own account,’ said Reverend Mother.

‘Dabbling,’ said the Bursar gruffly.

‘She wrote and edited our centenary booklet last year,’ went on Reverend Mother serenely, ‘and made a very good job of it.’

‘Is it still available? I’d like to have one,’ said Theo.

They looked pleased, and the Bursar promised to look one out. There was a box of them somewhere around.

‘And,’ pursued Reverend Mother, ‘she has long planned to write a history of this area. Its folklore and legends and so on.’

‘Only for local circulation, you understand.’

‘I like folklore and legends,’ said Theo. ‘They spin a tapestry more or less by themselves, but they’re the fabric of a country’s heritage. Any country.’

‘One day I’ll get round to it,’ said the Bursar. ‘Although not if it means learning how to operate that machine.’ She indicated the computer in the corner. ‘None of us are very well-versed in the ways of modern technology. I typewrote the centenary material and just handed it over to the printers, smudgy erasures and all, I’m afraid. Sister Catherine attended a one-week course about computers last year, though.’

‘So that we could send and receive emails,’ explained Reverend Mother. ‘People expect it nowadays.’

‘And we don’t want anyone thinking we’re living in the Middle Ages, still using quill pens and parchment,’ added the Bursar.

‘Of course not,’ said Theo, secretly entertained. ‘But you must get round to your history. People like reading about the place where they live. Don’t forget the centenary book for me as well, will you? And I’ll expect an invitation to the launch party of your local history book when it’s published.’ He was pleased when they both smiled appreciatively at this.

It was as the Bursar ushered him back to the ground floor and across the hall that he saw, in a rather shadowy corner, a pair of framed sketches: one of St Luke’s, the other a view of the Chet’s tributary from one of the banks. They were quite small, each one roughly fifteen inches by ten, executed in what looked like charcoal and neatly framed in narrow surrounds. The convent was shown against one of the lowering skies so typical of this area, and behind it the fields looked bleak and unfriendly. But both sketches had a quality that was distinctive and Theo’s attention was caught.

‘Are you interested in art, Mr Kendal?’ asked the Bursar, as he paused.

‘Only in a general way.’ He paused, then said, ‘There’s a sketch at Fenn House that I think might be done by the same hand as these.’ Charmery’s portrait, he thought, but he only said, ‘I wonder if it’s someone local.’

‘I’ve no idea. I don’t even know how long we’ve had these,’ said the Bursar. ‘This hall had to be completely cleared last month – we found woodworm in the panelling and everything got moved or tidied away or swapped round. I don’t think anything is back in its original place yet. Never let anyone tell you the Church is a rich institution, Mr Kendal, because after paying that bill we’re verging on bankruptcy, and— Yes, what is it?’ She turned as a very young nun came into the hall.

‘Sorry to interrupt, Bursar, but they’re on the phone from Norwich about the fractured pelvis. He wasn’t due here until Friday, but the ambulance service can only manage the journey tomorrow. Sister Catherine’s with a patient and I can’t find anyone else.’

‘Wretched people. Are they holding on? I’ll speak to them. Mr Kendal, would you . . .’

‘I can find my way out,’ said Theo at once. ‘Take your phone call.’

‘Would you mind that? The outer hall’s just through there and the door won’t be locked at this hour. You’ll come to see us again?’

‘I’d like to,’ he said, meaning it. ‘Thank you.’

He waited until she had gone, then looked at the pictures once more, seeing the similarities to Charmery’s picture even more strongly. There were the same light pencil patterns – almost like the random scribbles of a child – indicating shadows. And there were corners of darkness that contained different and more intricate patterns, suggesting there might be something slightly sinister hiding within them. There was a faint suggestion of drowned faces just beneath the surface of the river and of sightless eyes staring upwards into the gunmetal sky. Charmery, dead under the boat-house, thought Theo, her body in the cloudy green water for three days before it was found. What had she thought in those last frantic moments before she died? Had she thought about the child – had she wanted to survive because the child was somewhere in the world? If so, where was it now?

It was very quiet in the hall. Theo glanced about him, and then reached up carefully and lifted the sketch of St Luke’s from its hook, turning it over. The back was covered with the same brown paper as Charmery’s portrait, and taped in place in the same way. But the back of Charmery’s portrait had been completely blank and anonymous. This was not. Across the lower corner was a slanting signature. ‘Matthew Valk’.

Theo stood in the dim hall for a very long time, staring down at the signature, aware of a feeling that something had reached out to clasp his hand.

When he finally forced himself to replace the sketch he felt as if he had severed a very fragile link, although he was not sure what the link was. He made sure the picture was hanging exactly as it had been, then crossed to the main doors. As he did so, somewhere behind him an inner door closed very softly. Theo looked back, but everywhere was wreathed in shadows and nothing moved. Or did it? Probably he had simply heard one of the nuns going about her lawful business. He was getting neurotic about being followed and watched, but after last night’s scare and the bizarre confession on the computer, he thought this hardly surprising. He opened the main doors and went out into the dark afternoon.

It had started to rain again, but he scarcely noticed. His mind was filled with Matthew. Matthew existed – or had existed in the recent past. More than that, he had been in Melbray. He had not only sketched Charmery, he had sketched St Luke’s and that view from the bank. How recently had he done that?

Theo went down the narrow road leading back to Fenn House, his feet making squelching sounds on the rain-sodden road. He and Lesley had always liked squelching through the rain; they had worn wellingtons and vied with one another to see who could make the most spectacular splashes. Charmery had had wellingtons as well, but they were patterned ones, bought specially from one of the big London stores. Lesley had drawn Charmery in the wellingtons, making a semi-cartoon of it. Charmery had at first been furious, saying Lesley had made her look ugly, but later she had laughed at the cartoon, and said she would keep it and when Lesley was a famous artist, she would sell it for a lot of money.

And years afterwards, she had sat in front of an artist called Matthew and looked at him with that warm and vulnerable intimacy.

Catherine had had to fight with herself not to stand at a window and watch Mr Kendal walk away down the drive. Even so, as she went about her normal tasks, tending to the various patients for whom she was responsible, she watched him in her mind: he would walk with his shoulders slightly hunched against the cold, and the soft dark hair would be misted with the thin rain. When he got back to Fenn House he might towel it dry in front of the fire, in the room where he worked that smelt of memories. Later in the evening, he might cook himself some supper and eat it by the fire on a tray. He had seemed to be on his own when Catherine called, but he could have been joined by a female companion since. Catherine still did not know if he was married or in a relationship. But if someone was with him tonight, after they had eaten and perhaps shared a bottle of wine, he might talk to her about his work. And at some point during the evening they would find themselves lying on the thick soft hearthrug together. What would Theo Kendal be like in that situation? What was any man like in that situation?

I don’t mean any of that! thought Catherine, appalled. None of those are serious thoughts! I chose this way of life ten years ago and it was the right choice and I knew exactly what I was doing. (At eighteen? said her mind, sneakily. Are you sure about that?) And, thought Catherine firmly, I’m entirely content and my faith is strong enough to deal with these insidious images.

She made her way determinedly to the sluice room, where there was always something to do on any given day. No one could clean out a sluice room and harbour impure thoughts at the same time, not even about Theo Kendal. But even amid bleach and disinfectant her mind stayed with Fenn House. It was raining quite hard now – she could hear it pattering against the windows – and it would be wonderful to be in the slightly shabby living room at Fenn, with the curtains drawn against the night and that bottle of wine and the hearthrug. Catherine frowned and dug her fingernails into her palms in the hope that the small jab of pain would dispel these thoughts. It was just as likely that Mr Kendal would be impatient and wanting to get on with his work which had been interrupted by this afternoon’s talk. He would shrug off any solicitude and tell her not to make a fuss.

Exactly as his cousin, Charmery Kendal, had told Catherine, nine years earlier.

‘Don’t make a fuss,’ Charmery had said on that early March afternoon when Catherine had called at Fenn House to see if any of the family would support a charity afternoon St Luke’s was holding in its grounds.

‘I have no idea which of the Kendals will be there,’ Reverend Mother had told Catherine. ‘They come and go, particularly during summer – sometimes in autumn as well and the odd Christmas. But I saw lights on last evening, so somebody’s definitely in the house at the moment.’ As Catherine hesitated, Reverend Mother said, bracingly, ‘They’re very nice people, and you don’t have to be shy, Sister,’ and added a little homily about shyness not being permissible when one was doing God’s work. Humility, on the other hand, was a different pair of shoes, said Reverend Mother, and something they should all strive to achieve although not when they were having a charity afternoon with stalls and tombola and the nice old-fashioned pursuit of bowling for a pig.

‘Oh, and on that subject,’ she said, ‘Sister Agnes wants it making clear to everyone that the pigs are in the form of chops and joints and sausages for the freezer. Don’t forget to explain that, will you?’

Catherine had promised not to forget, but as she walked up to Fenn House, she was wondering if she would be able to explain about the pigs if she were confronted with the severe-looking lady who was sometimes seen in the village, usually admonishing shopkeepers for sending the wrong groceries to Fenn. But perhaps it would be the nice bumbly gentleman who was often here, or the plump domestic-looking lady Catherine thought was Helen Kendal. She had a rather vain, rather supercilious-looking daughter who was around Catherine’s age. Catherine had encountered her once or twice in the lanes; she had given Catherine an offhand nod and very coolly looked her up and down as if to say, How
can
you go about looking such a frump? Catherine had had to remind herself very firmly about the marvellous thing she had in her life which was God and all His people, and how that was immeasurably better and would last far longer than looking like a Burne-Jones painting.