The Room Beyond (31 page)

He was wearing black trousers and an old shirt with the sleeves
rolled up; fully-dressed as if night and sleep mattered little to him. I
noticed for the first time how slim his arms were, all sinew and muscle, the
blue veins like streaks of lightning in his skin. Those thin arms had grabbed
me once; how surprisingly strong they were.

‘Can I have a word with you, in my room?’ he murmured.

‘Can’t it wait until tomorrow?’

‘No.’

‘Alright then... Did you switch that light on to get me up?’

‘Yes.’

I’d never been in Raphael’s room before. It looked out towards the
back of the house and had very little in it apart from a bed, a small table
cluttered with objects, an antique wooden wardrobe and numerous paintings
propped up against the walls all around the floor. In the dim light some of
them just looked like canvases painted jet black, presumably his own stark
creations, but there were many more: portraits, pictures of buildings, even a
humble impression of a jug of wild flowers.

‘Take a seat,’ he said, offering me the edge of his bed. ‘Would you
like a cigarette?’

‘Thanks.’

I could see even more of the paintings from this angle. One of them
looked like a portrait of Beth set on its side. The edge of another small
painting poked out from behind it, chipped and old, embellished in shades of
gold and brown. Raphael was watching me; his pale face lingered in the corner
of my eye.

‘Why do you want me here?’

He didn’t move.

‘I’d like to know what you meant earlier, about me leaving a
calling
card
.’

The gold and brown painting caught my eye again. I could just about
see the edge of a man painted in the middle of it, his head crowned by a halo.

‘Every time I see you, your arrival miraculously coincides with news
of a robbery: Habsburg gems, Celtic jewellery not dissimilar to the necklace
that you gave Beth, the painting in the church, the small antiques shop. And
who knows where that bike came from! It’s what you do, isn’t it? You’re not an
artist at all; you’re a thief.’

He laughed gently, a sad laugh. ‘Has anyone ever told you that you
look like an elf? Actually in this light you’re more like a beautiful slender
fairy. You’re not quite real, are you Serena? And you’re lonely, really lonely.
We’re so alike in that way. Let me take care of you.’

I turned my face away from him. The haloed figure was holding
something silver in his right hand: a fish. And the figure was Jesus, feeding
the five thousand. I swallowed hard, summoning up the strength to carry on,
willing myself not to look him in the eye.

‘I could threaten to tell your parents, but they already know don’t
they?’ I said.

‘How well you’ve come to understand my family.’

‘Why do you do it?’

‘Because I can. You found the book in the library? Read the
introduction about poor little Miranda? I’ve read the whole thing. I’ve been
studying it all my life. Balanchine was a genius you know. He understood the
susceptibility of the human mind and he harnessed it! That little man in the
antiques shop earlier, he was there the whole time, never even saw any of his
stuff go until it was too late.’

‘I don’t think that Walter Balanchine wrote that book to train
thieves.’

He pulled something from out of his pocket and cupped it in his hand.
I raised my chin to see. A cross, similar but larger than the one he’d given
Beth nestled there in the coils of its chain. It was intricately engraved and a
red stone glinted like a dark, knowing eye from its centre. Raphael drew a
tender finger across it.

‘I’m not a thief. I just like to have beautiful things about me.’

‘I could call the police right now.’

‘But you’re not going to, are you? You want something else.’

‘Yes.’

He let the cross slide gently from his hand onto the table and then
moved closer. His expression was calm, measured, and I raised my eyes to meet
his.

‘Take me there,’ I whispered and his gaze rushed through me like an
electric charge. My fingers twitched, I raised my arms towards him. ‘Take me to
the house next door.’

I could barely feel the pavement beneath my naked feet. Raphael’s
arm was around my shoulders, propelling me softly on, turning me to face back
towards the row of houses. Something had changed.

It felt so subtle, like the smallest adjustment to a much loved face
or an old family photograph; barely discernible at all but enough to turn the
familiar into something entirely alien. Number 36 was just as it was, nestled
at the end of the row against the old brick wall. But the house before it was
whiter than the one I knew. It had pots of orchids growing behind the drawing room
windows and on the door two brass numbers shone out proudly in the moonlight:
34.

The arm around my shoulders tightened. ‘Come on.’

The door wasn’t locked; it fell open with a single stroke and inside
the air tasted of wretchedness. Its putrid haze filled the rooms like a grey
cloud, smothering the antique furniture, the chandeliers, the threadbare
curtains and moth-eaten carpets. It stung my eyes so that they filled with
tears but Raphael’s arm drew me on and I floated through it all, mouth agape, a
century of dust clinging to the soles of my feet.

The walls felt cool and firm against my fingers, no less real than
the house I lived in right next door. He lead me to the dining room, its table
set with plates and glasses, as if awaiting a dinner party. And on the wall
there hung a portrait of a young couple. The woman gazed out of it with anxious
eyes, her mouth and chin slightly askew as if she might have needed some
convincing to sit for the painter. Miranda.

But the man next to her. Oh God, I knew those eyes so well.

‘Tristan Whitestone,’ came Raphael’s voice.

‘Miranda’s husband.’

‘Yes. He had an affair with Lucinda Hartreve, Mrs Eden. And then he
imprisoned her up in that room where you sleep now, pregnant with his child.’

‘Did she survive?’

‘Only just. Miranda saved her, helped her escape. But childbirth
finished her off. She left the baby, a boy, in Miranda’s care and they went
away.’

‘What happened to Tristan Whitestone?’

His breath quickened into small gasps. ‘Tristan Whitestone has never
really left.’

We glided up the stairs, passing gaping corridors filled with closed
doors, the grey air washing around our limbs. Raphael’s touch kept me hostage;
we moved as one and when his heart began to beat faster and his body began to
tremble a little, then mine followed suit. I couldn’t speak, I couldn’t move, I
couldn’t breathe without him.

Right at the top of the house there was a room like my own; a lonely
little turret with nothing more than an empty desk inside and glass doors
leading out onto a balcony.

‘Just like your bedroom next door, isn’t it?’

‘Yes it is,’ I whispered.

His mouth brushed briefly against the back of my neck. I felt his
hands glide over me and my back arched in response.

‘This can be our room if you like, for now,’ he said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘You wanted to come here so badly. Well now that you’ve finally made
it, you should stay awhile.’

Our lips met and, just like in the dream, I felt my hungry hands
grasp hold of him, ripping at his shirt, as if I were incapable of doing
anything else. The haze grew up around us; a whirlwind of grey, stinking fumes.

But even though my body ached for him and I felt my limbs wind
themselves around his, a cry rose up in my throat from somewhere deep inside.

‘Seb!’ I yelled with all the strength I could summon, although my
voice came out as nothing more than the faintest whisper.

He drew away from me, his eyes incredulous, aching with hurt and
rage. I began to cry.

‘Seb?’ he spat, holding me at arm’s length like a rag doll. ‘Do you
really think he’s going to help you?’

His face blurred through my tears.

‘Seb... who destroyed my sister’s life, ripped her world apart as
well as the rest of the family. Has he ever done anything to help us? No! Then
why the hell would he help you?’

He slammed me against the wall, urging his hard body against me:
lips cloying against my face, hands reaching between my thighs. ‘I’ve got you
now.’

‘No!’ I mouthed. ‘Please.’

‘You know... you have to be my best prize yet,’ he murmured
breathlessly in my ear. His eyes were blacker than ink now, blacker than the
darkest cave. ‘Did you know that? Did you know? I told you once that I have a
habit of getting what I want.’

I whimpered inside but, as he smothered my helpless body, the
growing haze suddenly surged up behind his head. It spread out like a great
hand, its fingers just discernible, flexing to the ends of their tips.

‘Not this time,’ I whispered back.

The hand curled its fingers and slammed down over him, sending
Raphael tumbling to the floor and dragging me down close behind. My ribs turned
to fire as they collided with the ground and Raphael’s head bounced against the
floor until there was blood and his eyes were closed. When I turned to look up
a scream filled my throat once more, crying out loud and shrill this time like
a blade of glass severing the haze.

The face came towards me, its gaping mouth like a deep well. I dug
my nails into the floor, my teeth chattering through my cries. It pressed
itself against my cheek, the putrid mouth oozing down my neck.

‘I’m so lonely,’ it murmured, in a deep droning scar of a voice. ‘So
lonely.’

The eyes were agonizingly blue, its nose a dark recess that began to
run down the length of my body, sniffing me in like a hungry wolf.

Next to me Raphael stirred. I shifted my head closer to him.

‘Help me!’ I implored through my sobs.

As he tried to raise himself up the face loomed forwards again,
snarling through the darkness and sweeping me aside.

‘No, no!’ Raphael screamed. ‘I thought you’d be pleased. I’ve got
her now. See, I’m just like you! Don’t you understand?’

I grappled backwards into a corner, hugging my knees up into my
chest against the hard floor.

The mouth shrieked with fury and Raphael began to whimper. ‘You have
her then, if that’s what you want. I thought you’d be pleased...’

But up came the clawed hand again. And then the air filled with the
thunderous roar of glass smashing and Raphael’s shrill screams as his body
plummeted into the dark night air. I buried my face in my hands and all turned
to whiteness.

1893

Another turning, now left, now right. The doors on either side
watched their quiet march as candles in the walls flickered obediently to their
passing. Walter’s back lurched on before her, cloaked in a dark shade of gold
that looked brown in the dim light: a monk in his cloister. Only the contents
of the small tray he was carrying cut through their silent journey with its
gentle clinking sounds.

Her hands were freezing cold in spite of the spring day she’d left
outside.

There were no windows here, only closed doors and the smell of wax. No
possible connection to the world beyond. Her heart fluttered at the thought of
her boy, waiting out there for her with Mrs Hubbard.

At last his lurching back came to a halt before a pair of doors. He
lowered his chin towards her, smiled thinly.

‘Are we here at last? I cannot believe that we are still in the same
house!’

‘Yes.’

‘I am – perplexed. Who would ever have thought of such a thing?’

‘Me.’

‘Walter... I don’t think I can!’

‘Now now. Look at me, look carefully. There you go. When you came to
my lodgings you asked for my help. You put your trust in me. Would I ever abuse
such a precious thing? Would I Miranda? This is the best and only way, I
promise you. Hold onto your bravery; he won’t do anything to hurt you. Even
though he can appear brash, he is a kind and gentle man. Have faith in me,
please. Do come in and try not to be dazzled.’

He clasped her hand and drew her into the room but the light inside
nearly knocked her back into the corridor. She screwed her eyes up as tightly
as they would go without closing them entirely.

‘If you would remain here for now, I will just have a few words with
Lord Hartreve first,’ Walter murmured.

She edged back against one of the walls, hands outstretched, and
gradually eased her eyes open so that the full extent of the room blossomed
into view. It was a mammoth, circular library crammed with all manner of
collections and crowned with pane upon pane of glass. How on earth was it
possible for such a place to exist within that murky warren of tunnels out
there?

‘Walter, is that you? I must have nodded off,’ muttered a shaky old
growl of a voice.

‘I am sorry to disturb you,’ came Walter’s softer tone.

‘Never mind, never mind. What time is it?’

‘Gone two o’clock in the afternoon.’

He was over at the far side of the room, huddled up and almost
unnoticeable in the depths of a winged armchair. His whiskered face looked
mottled, his hair just a few remaining strands and there must have been three
or four blankets wrapped around his knees.

So this was the man whom Lucinda had so despised: her father, Lord Hartreve.

‘Have you brought me some tea?’ he barked.

‘Yes sir.’

‘Bring it over then. I’m parched, positively parched.’

But Walter seemed to be in no hurry. He strode casually over to a
small table some distance away, lowered the tray upon it and then proceeded to
haul the table and its contents together across the room to his master.

‘Good gracious, surely there must be an easier way?’ grumbled the
old man.

‘In fact, no.’

‘Really? Astonishing.’

He gathered the tea up into his shaky hands. Just beyond his chair
there was a large painting on the wall, so vibrant and energetic that it seemed
to beckon her towards it. The man in it was clearly Lord Hartreve himself:
younger, stronger and far more bullish looking than the frail figure in the
chair now. And there was Lucinda as well, sitting on the horse beside him. Beautiful
young Lucinda with all that hair, laughing at the world around her.

‘You have a visitor sir,’ said Walter, taking the man’s hand fondly
into his own.

‘What are you talking about? You know that I don’t see anyone.’

‘I do know that, but you will make an exception today I’m sure. And
she is already in this room. Your visitor is a lady called Miranda White.’

‘Miranda White?’

‘Yes. And she is of the utmost importance. This I know will come as
a great shock to you but Lucinda’s child, the baby she was carrying when she
fled to France, has survived. And Miranda is his legal guardian. She came to me
in London for guidance and I have brought her here to you. They seek your
help.’

The old man fell forwards, wheezing loudly and in spite of his
apparent feebleness Walter had to use both arms and enough puff to turn his
cheeks red to grapple him back into his chair.

‘This tincture will sooth you sir, take a little,’ he said and like
a baby Lord Hartreve drank directly from one of the small phials about Walter’s
neck.

At last, when his breathing had slowed down again into soft regular
gasps, Lucinda’s father whispered something to Walter. Walter patted his
shoulder with a reassuring hand and glanced over at her.

‘Lord Hartreve will see you now. Please do come over here.’

Her legs quivered beneath her.

‘Stephen Hartreve is a kind man.’ Walter had said it over and over
again.

‘But he will hate me! He will turn me away.’

‘No. He will do what is right by his grandson. You must trust me. Please.’

Lord Hartreve seemed less frail at closer quarters. Although he was
hunched down and too thin for a man with such a sturdy frame, his eyes still
glistened brightly and as soon as she tiptoed closer they fell on her like a
hawk.

‘So you claim to be in possession of my grandchild?’ he growled.

‘That is correct.’

‘How do I know that you’re telling me the truth?’

‘I have it all here: a birth certificate and letters from Mrs Eden
to her lawyer.’

He grasped at the papers, leafing through them one by one, his hands
now as steady as a young man’s.

‘You have the child here?’

‘Yes, outside in the care of my cook who has become a close friend. I
also have a personal letter from your daughter, if you’d like to read it.’

He took the crumpled letter with tender fingers, his eyes devouring
every line and as they reached the end they filled with tears. His hands began
to shake again.

‘You nursed my Lucy!’ he whimpered.

‘I did, for the first few days until her husband was able to find
her a proper nurse.’

‘Sit down Mrs White,’ he sighed, all that sternness suddenly
retreating from his face. ‘Now, explanations,’ he continued softly. ‘You call
yourself Miranda White. Have you changed your name from Whitestone?’

‘Yes, I changed it shortly after my husband died; it suits me better
I think. I believe that I’ve endured enough associations with that man.’

His eyes widened. ‘And yet you were able to forgive my daughter her...
dalliance with him?’

‘Quite frankly, if I may be blunt, I was horrified by both of them
at first. Please forgive me when I say that I disliked your daughter thoroughly
for her behaviour. But my husband Tristan was a foul man and he treated her in
an abominable way. He trapped her in one of the rooms of her house, drugged her
into senselessness. I couldn’t allow it to go on; no one deserves such
punishment.’

‘So you are the woman Walter told me about. The woman who helped her
escape from him?’

‘I am. I tampered with Tristan’s wine one evening, sent him off into
a deep sleep, and Mr Eden and I smuggled her out. We took her to Dover but she
was so weak that I agreed to stay until the nurse came.’

‘And what was she like then, my Lucy?’ His eyes filled with tears
again.

‘Muddled, weak, astonished to discover that she was even carrying a
child. She seemed to think that she would be a bad mother.’

‘Then why didn’t she come back to me? I would have cared for her! Why
on earth did she leave my grandson to you?’

‘You’ve read her letter, she seemed to trust me. Forgive my
forwardness, but although your daughter conducted herself with great exuberance
in her lifetime, I think that she was in truth a very troubled soul. We both
had the misfortune of becoming involved with a despicable man and I think that,
for her at least, this formed some sort of perverse bond between us.’

Lord Hartreve made no reply. His expression was fixed towards the
floor, his chin nestled within clasped fingers.

‘I have one final question,’ he said at last. ‘If my daughter left
her son to you, then what are you now doing in my house?’

She breathed deeply; this was the moment she’d been dreading.

‘Just tell him the truth Miranda.’

Walter’s last words when the carriage had drawn to a halt before
Druid Manor’s stark walls.

‘He’ll think I’m mad.’

‘Perhaps. But I will support you.’

She leaned forwards towards the old man. ‘This is a very hard thing
for me to explain.’

‘I imagine that few things could be more difficult to say than what
you have already told me.’

His voice was soft and coaxing, nothing like the growl she’d first
heard.

‘Yes, you are right, absolutely right. You see, first of all, I have
no other suitable place to go. Tristan’s family have turned their backs on me
and my sister too, who is my only close surviving relative.’

‘Presumably you have some money and property of your own?’

‘A very small amount of money. In the last few months of his life
Tristan frittered most of our fortune away. I have the house, but it is
becoming somewhat of a burden.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘We lived next door to your daughter, in Marguerite Avenue. As you
know the houses there are rather fine, the envy of many I believe. But since my
husband’s death in there, something about our home perturbs people. In spite of
all my efforts I cannot sell the place.’

His eyes narrowed. ‘Have you a more precise explanation for this odd
resistance? Surely a man’s death cannot be enough to render a property
abhorrent to the entire metropolis?’

‘You would be surprised.’ She glanced at Walter who nodded gently
for her to go on. ‘Sir, you may never wish to see me again after you hear what
I am about to say. It is perhaps in vain that I implore you for some level of
understanding of my plight, but I’m doing so nonetheless. My husband Tristan Whitestone
died by his own hand in the kitchen larder of our house. My cook discovered his
body, but I saw it too: he was smiling, in fact grimacing would be a better
word for it.

‘Ever since that ghastly episode I have been plagued by regular and
increasingly vivid visions of him within the walls of my home. At first I truly
believed that my superstitions were overcoming my grasp of reality and even
now, when I hear myself saying these words, a part of me still feels as if I’m
doing my own sanity a disservice. However, when I discovered that he was not
only haunting me but also persecuting his defenceless child, a baby I now love
as my own, I finally became convinced of the truth.

‘There is a vile and haunting aura in that building that revolts and
terrifies everyone who moves within its shadow. I would rather live in the
workhouse than spend another night of my life in there and as proof I am
handing over the keys of my home to you now. Confirm my words for yourself,
take the house, I never want to see it again. I have nothing left but the love I
bear towards a small boy and the hope of your guardianship.’

Lord Hartreve regarded the keys beneath his heavy brows and said
nothing for a long time. ‘I’ve witnessed many things in my rather long and
tortuous lifetime,’ he answered, finally. He was breathing heavily again,
struggling it seemed to speak coherently. ‘You must understand that I too am
haunted by ghosts; most human beings are, although few are willing to admit to
such a thing.

‘What you have said is indeed shocking and somewhat sensational and
yet I still feel as if I’m in the presence of an honest, if not bruised and
distressed woman. I doubt whether you have descended into the realms of lunacy
yet!’

He smiled at her with such reassuring warmth that her heart melted
towards him.

‘Walter will look at your house; he understands the way this world
works far better than I do. But in the meantime, for both our sakes, let’s not
talk about this again for awhile.’

He pulled himself up and out of his chair, clenching his fists
firmly together behind his back as if to separate himself physically from the
subject.

‘When was the last time I left this library?’ he called out. ‘Two,
three years ago?’

‘Closer to four,’ Walter replied.

His legs shook uncertainly and then he tottered forwards as if about
to turn head over heels. She dashed towards him, grasping hold of his arm.

‘Ah. Thank you... There is a small lodge cottage on the estate. It’s
a little rundown, but Walter will arrange for its refurbishment. You can live
there if you like.’