Ruined 2 - Dark Souls (12 page)

“Just faded away,” mused her father. Miranda shook her head. Did he know something on
every
historical topic? “The greatest city of antiquity, lost.”

“The interesting thing about this engraving,” Lord Poole said, giving the elaborate frame an unceremonious tap, “is the artist’s connection with York.”

“Really?” Jeff and Miranda said at the same time.

“He was from the north, but most of his career was spent in London. His older brother, Jonathan, moved to York sometime in the 1820s, though I’ve never been able to find out exactly where he lived.”

“Oh,” said Miranda. The story wasn’t turning out to be quite as interesting as she’d hoped. But Lord Poole was still talking.

“There was a lot of instability in that family. Emotional instability. Mental illness, I’d suppose we’d call it today.
John Martin was a volatile character, but Jonathan — well, he was mad as a hatter. He started hearing voices in his head, or some such thing, and decided to burn York Minster down.”

“I remember this!” Miranda thought about
Tales of Old York
and the caption
The Madman’s Fire.
“In the book you lent me. I haven’t read it all yet. But someone was telling me —” She glanced at her father. “I mean, I heard about the fire. When I was in the Minster yesterday. It destroyed the Quire completely, didn’t it?”

Lord Poole nodded. “If the roof hadn’t collapsed, the entire Minster would have burned to the ground. People watching the fire said it looked just like one of John Martin’s pictures — the huge flames engulfing the building at night. Not realizing, of course, that the arsonist was his brother.”

“Did they hang him?” Jeff asked matter-of-factly. Away from Miranda’s mother, he’d obviously forgotten the don’t-mention-death rule. “Jonathan Martin?”

“The people of York wanted him to hang,” Lord Poole said. “But at his trial he was judged to be insane. So they locked him in Bedlam for the rest of his life.”

“Bedlam — that was an asylum, right?” Miranda asked. Another thing she didn’t realize she knew.

“That’s right. A lunatic asylum, as they called them in those days. The fire was in 1829 and Jonathan Martin died — let me think — about nine or ten years later.”

Jeff gave a low whistle.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Hanging doesn’t sound so bad compared with ten years in Bedlam.”

“Those places,” said Lord Poole. “They were terrible then. Not much better now, I have to say.”

The grandfather clock by the door chimed, and Jeff checked his watch.

“He that hides a dark soul and foul thoughts, benighted walks under the midday sun,” said Lord Poole in a quavery voice, and it took a second for Miranda to realize he was quoting from something, rather than just waxing lyrical. “Himself is his own dungeon.”

Even Jeff looked puzzled at this.

“Milton,” said Lord Poole. “It’s a passage from Milton, from his poem
Comus.
Jonathan Martin quoted it at his trial, though no one was quite sure why. I think he felt that the fire had cleansed him in some way. So even though he would be imprisoned in Bedlam, he’d be free.”

“As you said, crazy,” said Jeff. He tapped his watch. “I’m wondering if we should be getting back soon. I feel terrible asking you to make another two-hour round trip, especially in weather like this. And it’ll be getting dark by the time you’re driving back.”

Lord Poole protested, but although she could have happily stayed in this library — despite the fading light and lack of heat — for hours and hours, Miranda knew her father was right. These weren’t great roads to be driving along after dark. She picked up her discarded boots
and followed the others into the high-ceilinged hall, where Lord Poole had lain their jackets and bags on an enormous coffinlike chest. There were more pictures on the wall here, ones she hadn’t noticed on the way in, small family photographs in black frames, hanging askew.

One old picture was of a man in military uniform who looked exactly like Lord Poole, including the beard: He
had
to be Lord Poole Senior, Miranda decided, wrapping her scarf around her neck. The next photo was much more recent — a snapshot of a skinny teenaged boy leading a horse, a grinning younger kid perched on it. Both boys were dark-haired and barefoot, and the older boy was holding his hand up to the camera, as though he was protesting having his photo taken. Next were several photos of floppy-eared spaniels, presumably the pet predecessors of the Labradors racing around outside.

And then there was a photo that made Miranda gasp out loud and press a hand against the wall to steady herself. A photo of a lanky teenage boy: an older version of the little boy who’d sat on the horse. His dark hair was tousled and he was dressed in a school uniform. He was smiling at the camera in an uncertain, almost sardonic way.

Nick.

O
n the car ride back to York, Miranda thought she was going to explode with curiosity. She
had
to ask Lord Poole about the picture in his hallway. But how could she, without revealing that she knew Nick? Finally, her father made some remark about the holidays, and Miranda grabbed her chance.

“Does your family come home to Lambert House for Christmas?” she asked, her voice trembling with excitement. “I mean, your children and grandchildren?”

“My daughter lives abroad now,” Lord Poole said, his tone neutral. “She rarely returns to England.”

“That’s too bad,” said Jeff. “How about your grandsons?”

Thanks, Dad,
Miranda thought, relieved that her father was inadvertently helping out.

“My grandsons?” Lord Poole sounded startled.

“The ones in the photos — sorry, I just assumed they were your grandsons.” When Miranda was standing staring at the photo of Nick, Jeff had walked over to look as well. She’d managed to keep calm — on the outside at least — and not give anything away, even though she wanted to scream and point and jump up and down.

“Yes, you’re quite right. My grandsons.” Miranda felt a little sorry for Lord Poole. Part of her hoped he would say more, to confirm or refute the story Nick had told her. But she liked Lord Poole: He was kind, and generous, and probably a bit lonely as well, rattling around in that big cold house by himself. It would be hard for him to have to disclose his sad family history to people who were, basically, strangers.

“Unfortunately,” he said, negotiating a particularly tight corner, “my grandsons … well, it’s a long story.”

“Say no more,” Jeff said quickly. “I know how family relationships can change, especially as kids get older.”

“Alan Bennett, the playwright — do you know his work?” Lord Poole asked, and Jeff mumbled a vague assent. “He has a very good line about this. Every family has a secret, he says, and that secret is that they’re not quite like other families.”

“Very true,” said Jeff, with an overly hearty laugh. Miranda sat quietly in the back. It would be rude to ask any more questions. More than rude: It would be cruel. But Lord Poole wasn’t changing the subject.

“I’m afraid our family, rather like that of John Martin, has had more than its share of unhappiness. We
saw a lot of the boys when they were young. They spent large parts of every summer at our house. But my eldest grandson — he died seven years ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Jeff. He glanced over his shoulder at Miranda, a wary look in his eyes. She wasn’t sure if he was concerned that the forbidden subject had come up again or if he was trying to tell her not to ask any more nosy questions.

“Yes — it was terribly hard on the whole family, but especially on his younger brother. Richard — that was my eldest grandson’s name — he’d had a very troubled adolescence. Let’s just say … well, when I was talking about mental institutions earlier today, we were unfortunate to have a lot of experience of them.”

“Ah,” said Jeff. Miranda was rigid with tension. Richard — that was Nick’s older brother, the one who had killed himself seven years earlier. Nick
was
telling the truth.

“Yes, well — he was away in one hospital or institution of one kind or another from the age of seventeen, when his brother was only nine or ten. They never saw each other again. Mabel and I believed that was a terrible mistake, but their parents thought it best at the time.”

“Well, you never know whether you’re doing the right thing,” Jeff said evenly.

“He idolized his older brother, I suppose,” said Lord Poole. He sounded tired now. Old and tired. Miranda felt bad knowing that after he dropped them off he’d have to turn around and make this drive again, in the dusk,
with fog swirling in, maybe even snow. “He was very upset. Very upset with all of us. He has very little to do with any of us now. The last time I heard anything, he was living in London. I hope he’s all right.”

Miranda resisted the impulse to tell him that Nick was alive and well and staying in York. If Nick wanted his presence there to be a secret, that was his decision. But she did feel terribly sorry for Lord Poole.

“What about last year, when Mabel died?” Jeff asked.

“His mother got some kind of word to him, I believe. But he didn’t attend the funeral. He was very close to his grandmother — to both of us, when he was a child.”

“Very sad,” Jeff said, and then there was silence in the car for quite a while, in a way that made Miranda incredibly tense. Women, she thought, would have changed the subject and talked about something — or someone — else. She wished her mother were there.

It was awful to think of Nick all alone and bitter and saying he had no family when Lord Poole was right here, desperate to see his grandson again. Lord Poole had nobody now: His wife and one of his grandsons were dead, his daughter lived overseas, and Nick was AWOL. It wasn’t fair that Lord Poole had to spend Christmas alone; Nick
had
to forgive him for what happened all those years ago. It wasn’t Lord Poole’s fault that Nick hadn’t been allowed to see Richard, or that Richard had committed suicide.

All the awkwardness and embarrassment at the
Minster yesterday — Miranda resolved to forget it. Tomorrow, she had to find Nick and try to talk to him. Whether he wanted it or not.

On Friday morning, Miranda left the flat immediately after breakfast. Luckily, everyone was distracted, talking about the latest bad news from Sally. There’d been another break-in overnight at the White Boar. Once again, the cellar had been trashed — barrels overturned, beer sloshed all over the floor, and a new development: graffiti daubed on the walls. Once again, there was no sign of a forced entry. Rob couldn’t possibly be suspected this time because he didn’t have a key to the cellar anymore. Not that Sally’s parents ever thought he’d had anything to do with it: Sally’s mother had told Jeff and Peggy that Rob was “a lovely lad.”

Miranda slipped away from the table, murmuring something about shopping she needed to do. She tugged her coat off the peg by the door, and shoved
Tales of Old York
into one of the pockets. Before anyone could ask any questions, she was out the door and bolting down the street.

She’d woken up that morning feeling almost elated with anxiety, her mind spinning with what she’d discovered yesterday. It wasn’t going to be easy, Miranda knew, but she
had
seen Nick in the street twice before. The first time was when she’d arrived in York, and he was lurking
in that boarded-up doorway in the Shambles. The second time was when she was in King’s Square, watching the juggler, and he’d waved to his Goth friends. True, since then he’d tended to surprise her by materializing — usually behind her — in a startling and often disconcerting way. But York wasn’t a big city like Chicago, and if she wandered the streets for long enough, Miranda was sure she’d find Nick again.

This was the theory, anyway. Miranda spent all morning roaming central York, drifting down Coney Street, hanging around St. Helen’s Square, pretending to watch the enthusiastic troupe of street dancers entertaining people shivering in the line for the Jorvik Viking Centre. She strolled past the Treasurer’s House, staring through its locked gates for a while and thinking about the Roman soldiers marching every night through its bowels. She walked the city walls from Bootham to Monk Bar and back, even venturing briefly into the Richard III Museum, just in case. She strolled up and down Stonegate so many times, she could have recited the name of every shop.

In the Minster, where Miranda had to pay the entrance fee to get in, wiping out half her remaining cash, she saw the ghost stonemason working on the door of the chapter house. She gave him a nervous smile and was surprised when he smiled back. His little dog stood up, wagging his tail, and gave an explosive bark in greeting. Miranda nearly jumped out of her skin, as did two women walking past at that moment.

“Someone must have brought a dog in here,” one
murmured to the other. “These British take their dogs everywhere!”

Then one of them walked right through the dog, seeing and feeling nothing.

Miranda wished that Nick was as easy to spot as the stonemason. After half an hour dawdling in the Minster, she was even considering walking back to Clifford’s Tower, though nothing would persuade her to climb those stairs again. She hadn’t even told Nick about that experience yet. Not about the ashy, scary ghosts in Clifford’s Tower, or St. Margaret Clitherow, or the handsome guy in the attic window. And now she might never see Nick again.

Finally, in desperation, Miranda decided to seek out his friends, but the Goths weren’t hanging out in King’s Square today. Maybe they took Fridays off. Maybe it was the day they all sat at home polishing their piercings and re-dyeing their hair.

That was it: home. Miranda realized, with a mental smack to the head, the first place she should have gone today. The flat with the green door, at the end of High Petergate. Nick had said he spent “some nights” there, at least. If he wasn’t home, maybe one of his friends would know how to find him.

Miranda was almost running down Petergate, dodging shoppers and delivery vans, her breath puffing out in steamy bursts. But on the doorstep of the green door, she hesitated. Maybe Nick wouldn’t appreciate her just turning up like this. He was so intensely private and enigmatic. He might think she was still trying to persuade him to go
to the concert with her on Sunday night, like some desperate stalker.

Too bad. She summoned up all her courage and rapped the brass door knocker — once in a sort of pathetic, muffled way, and the second time giving it more gusto. Miranda waited. Nobody seemed to be home, but she decided to try again. Three raps this time, as loud as she could manage. Still no answer. Just as she was about to turn away, Miranda heard footsteps thudding down the stairs. After some mumbled swearing, and the jingling of keys, the door squeaked open, just wide enough for someone to poke his head out.

“What?” said the guy in the doorway. He looked as though he’d just woken up — or been woken up by Miranda’s knocking. He wasn’t one of the Goths, she registered with surprise. He had wavy, sandy hair and his blue T-shirt read
BATH RUGBY
. He frowned at Miranda. “If you’re looking for the door to the English Language School, it’s the next one up Petergate. Just past the gallery, number One-A. I should put a bloody sign up.”

“No,” she said quickly, because he seemed to be closing the door. “I’m not looking for the language school. I speak English already.”

“Not properly,” he sniffed. He sounded like a member of the royal family, Miranda thought. “Look, I’m not interested in talking about becoming a Mormon, okay?”

“I’m not a Mormon,” Miranda hastily assured him.

“I thought all Americans were Mormons.”

“We’re not. I’m just here looking for Nick.”

“Who’s Nick?”

“Nick … Gant.” Miranda’s heart sank. His real friends might know what his real last name was, but Miranda didn’t.

“Never heard of him.”

“He’s been staying here,” Miranda pleaded. “This week.”

The sandy-haired guy rubbed his face, yawning so wide Miranda could see his fillings.

“No one’s been staying here this week,” he said. “Classes have finished for this term. Everyone’s gone home for Christmas.”

“Dark hair, really tall, really thin. Wears a long black leather coat. You don’t remember him?”

“No. Oh — hang on.”

“Yes?” Miranda was desperate.

“Do you mean Jim’s friend — Nick Fullerton? The one he went to school with?”

“Maybe,” said Miranda uncertainly.

“I remember that coat. He never took it off. Said it belonged to his dead brother or something creepy like that.”

“That’s him,” Miranda blurted, her heart thumping. It had to be Nick. It just had to be.

“He hasn’t been here in ages. More than a year, at least.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. This is my flat!”

“But … but …” Miranda didn’t know what to ask next. This guy was her one lead to Nick, and he wasn’t leading her anywhere useful.

“Look, I don’t want to freak you out,” he said, leaning against the doorjamb. “But I thought Jim said that Nick Fullerton was dead.”

“Then we can’t be talking about the same person,” Miranda told him. She felt a horrible churning in her stomach — nerves and dread and fear.

“Maybe not,” shrugged Sandy Hair, as though he didn’t care one way or the other. “But he’s not here, anyway. Sorry.”

He didn’t sound sorry, Miranda thought. She stepped back into the street, not sure of what to say or where to look, almost as dizzy as she’d felt in Clifford’s Tower. If the guy they were talking about was the same Nick, and Nick was dead …

Then Nick was a ghost.

It had started to rain, but Miranda didn’t care. She was wandering now without a purpose, without even trying to look for Nick. What was the point? If he was a ghost, he would show himself when he wanted to be seen. Wasn’t that what he’d said to her, when she said she’d see him around? “I’ll see you first.” Of course he’d see her first. She was a real live person. He was a ghost. He could decide when, and when not to appear.

Lord Poole hadn’t said anything about his younger grandson dying, but maybe he didn’t know. He hadn’t
heard from Nick in years. And the Goths in King’s Square had seemed to “see” him, but maybe they were all ghosts themselves. Miranda had no idea. Obviously, she couldn’t tell a ghost from an orangutan.

Her face was wet — rain, tears, whatever. She’d been completely duped. She’d thought she’d figured out the code, that she knew when someone was a haunting rather than a human. Nick’s hands were cold, but not
that
kind of cold. He’d touched her hand, and she’d felt him — not just his presence, but his actual hand, his actual skin. She’d leaned against his shoulder! He’d felt completely real.

The strange thing was this feeling that Nick had betrayed her. Miranda knew it wasn’t rational or fair. He simply hadn’t mentioned that he was a ghost, that was all. She didn’t know why she was crying. Maybe the cold rain was stinging her face, making her miserable. Or maybe it was … no. That was ridiculous. Today was Friday. A week ago, she’d seen Nick for the first time. Just one week. Only today, courtesy of the sandy-haired rugby fan, had she discovered his real last name. Miranda had no right to be
sad
about Nick. But sad was exactly how she felt.