House of the Lost (24 page)

That seemed to sum up Elena fairly well and to provide all the information Theo needed, but he read to the end of the section.

Orphanages. Theo went back to the laptop and recovered the earlier chapter where the small Mara, trying to escape from the Black House, had accidentally stumbled on the room with babies in cages. It had horrified her, just as the newsreels of the Romanian orphanages would later horrify the Western world. It had horrified Theo when he was typing it.

He was about to close the book when he saw the footnote, in a typeface so minuscule he had to take it across to the table to read under the desk lamp.

Annaleise Simonescu.
Annaleise.
Theo stared at the printed name and tried to remember whether he had ever read this book, but was sure he had not – he thought he would have remembered. He turned to the front, curious to see if Guff, the sentimental old spaniel, had written in it, or even if the Ukrainian girl had done.

There was no message either to or from Guff. There was just the title page, various acknowledgements to people who had helped with research, and the date of publication: 2003. That settled the question of whether he could have read it and forgotten. He had not been to Fenn House since that half term when Helen had caught him and Charmery together. It had been the autumn of 2001, two years before this book was even published, which meant he could not possibly have read it. And yet he had chosen the unusual name of Annaleise, and had described how she and Elena Ceau
escu had worked together to hunt down Elisabeth Valk.

He put the book back, frowning and wondering where he went from here. Back into the plot, he said to himself at once. Just dive back in and don’t worry about where any of it’s coming from. Don’t worry, either, about how a young boy, mixed up in Ceau
escu’s bleak Romania, could have drawn scenes in Melbray, as well as that remarkable portrait of Charmery. Theo looked across at the sketch. Matthew had lived in the grim Romania of Ceau
escu’s rule, somewhere between 1960 and 1989 and Charmery had not been born until the mid-1980s, and had died at the age of twenty-six earlier this year. Theo supposed it was possible they had met, but it did not seem very likely.

But even if they had met, it was still curious the way that Romania and its troubled history was tumbling so insistently and so consistently into Theo’s mind.

Romania, early 1960s

As the car with Elena, Annaleise and Zoia drove across the countryside, the cold monochrome morning gave way to a watery sunlight.

This was the longest journey Zoia had ever made – she had been born in the little village on the east side of Resita, and had only ever travelled to the university town some thirty miles distant. That had seemed a huge undertaking, filled with terrifying prospects and unknown horizons, but it had been a journey she had wanted to make because it represented escape. This jolting drive across unfamiliar countryside, with dark forests and brooding mountain ranges, represented the opposite of escape: it represented imprisonment for Elisabeth Valk. Zoia stared out of the window and thought how Elisabeth must have made this journey many times. Had she been planning the things she would say on the wireless as she travelled, or had she been wondering if her husband was all right at home without her? Did they have any children?

It was a lonely road to travel – presumably Elisabeth had made the journey by car. Not many people had cars and very few could actually drive, but Elisabeth was the kind of privileged creature who might actually own a car.

They stopped in a small market town just beyond Pescari for coffee and food. ‘A delayed breakfast,’ Elena called it. Both Elena and Annaleise were disdainful about the primitive lavatories behind the cafe, and Zoia wondered what they would have thought of the privy in the garden of her childhood home.

As they went on again a distant church clock struck ten – Zoia counted the chimes – and Elena said, ‘There’s the Yugoslav border,’ and indicated a checkpoint a few miles ahead. Zoia knew a moment of panic because she had no papers of any kind with her – nobody had told her to bring anything – but Elena simply showed the soldier some kind of document, and he sketched a respectful half salute and they were through. At Zoia’s side, Annaleise murmured something about the power of the Party, and Zoia nodded.

The mountain smudge had moved round to the west and the sun streamed down making it uncomfortably hot in the car. But presently they drove through a cluster of narrow streets, not unlike the streets of the university town, and this seemed to be their destination. The driver stopped to consult a map with Elena, stabbing a finger questioningly at it. Elena studied the map then nodded, and the car moved off again. Ten minutes later they drew up in front of a tall narrow house, four stories high, with a chipped and peeling facade and long windows, most of which were shuttered. Annaleise touched Zoia’s arm and indicated the thin metal structure on one of the roofs.

‘Wireless transmitter,’ she said. ‘This is it, all right.’

‘Are we sure she’s there?’ asked Elena.

‘Yes. Our people on the ground here were very clear. She’s here for these two days – working out the filthy treason she intends to broadcast, I suppose. She goes home, then comes back for the evening broadcast twice a week.’

‘Will anyone else be in the house?’ asked Zoia, eyeing it doubtfully.

‘Our people said not. There’s only ever one – at most two others – with her, and that’s for the actual broadcast. Even if they’re here now, Vasile is armed.’