The White Devil (19 page)

“Matron will be on us in no time,” he hissed. “She can see the stairwells from her apartment. Let’s hope you haven’t woken her.”

Andrew checked his watch. It was just after ten.

They approached the still-unpatched hole in semidarkness, their way illuminated only by the glowing red
EXIT
sign. The yellow caution tape left by the workers sagged.

“You’re not going down there,” Roddy said in disbelief.

Andrew checked to make sure the ladder was still there, and hesitated. “I saw the ghost here. I
felt
it here. From the very beginning.”

Roddy gaped. “You mean that’s true? You believe all that? About the Lot ghost?”

Andrew stared back at him.

“My God, you
are
mad. And here I’ve been defending you! Telling everyone you’re misunderstood.”

“I think it wants me to find something.”

“It? You mean the ghost? You’re communicating with it now, are you?”

“Stay here, then. I don’t give a shit. I’m going down there anyway.”

Roddy grew nervous. He had few opportunities for fellowship and adventure, and seemed loath to miss out on this one.

“Now hold on. You’ve got my flashlight.” He retied the belt of his robe. “All right. I’ll come. But only because you need someone sensible with you. If they fished you out of there dead, what would I tell Matron?”

ANDREW DESCENDED WHILE
Roddy held the light. With considerable cursing, Roddy followed, then swung the flashlight around them. “God, it is grotesque down here.”

Reg had cleared out the boards and plaster. It had become the cramped cistern room of Andrew’s dream again: a tiny, circular bunker lined with hewn stones and filled with a nose-chilling damp and the drip of trickling water.

Drawn by the same instinct, they both moved toward the cistern mouth. Andrew got on his knees and peered over. He took the flashlight from Roddy and pointed it down. The stone cistern walls were caked brown with decades of cobwebs, fungus, dirt, and rust. They fell some ten feet. The bottom shimmered. A layer of water.

“Gutter water gathers there,” observed Roddy. “Just like the one my dad found. Still has a seal. They don’t do construction like this anymore, I can tell you.”

Andrew leaned over the edge.

“Careful.”

He leaned farther. His waist now balanced on the lip of the cistern.

“For God’s sake!” Roddy put a balancing hand on Andrew’s hamstring. “Do you have a death wish?”

“See that?” Andrew pointed with the flashlight.

“I’m keeping you from falling in; of course I can’t see.”

Andrew scrambled back. He handed the flashlight to Roddy. “Right-hand side.”

Roddy leaned over to take a look.

“Is that a handkerchief?” said Andrew.

“Handkerchief?” scoffed Roddy. “What are you on about? That’s metal.”

Andrew squinted and saw that Roddy was right.

“I’m going to get it,” he said.

AFTER THE EXPECTED
bickering and protests, Roddy the mechanic, gear collector, and petty-problem solver became intrigued by the puzzle and began to help. How to get a hundred-sixty-pound guy down a ten-foot hole and back again in one piece, without rousting Matron. They found a nylon rope tied to the ladder (for pulling up tools) and estimated it could hold Andrew’s weight, then discovered that when holding the rope—hands wrapped with his T-shirt against rope burn—Andrew could tie the cord around his waist and under his buttocks in a makeshift saddle and rappel down the cistern without injury.
Worst case, you’ll hand the ladder down and I’ll get up that way
, Andrew reasoned. So he rolled up his khakis and started down. Roddy, the heavier one, braced himself against the stone cistern lip and lowered the cord for Andrew. With some grunting, Andrew inched his way down.

“How deep is the water?” said Roddy, aiming the light down.

“Should I step in it and see?” Andrew called up.

“Shhh,” said Roddy in a stage whisper. “Don’t shout. Matron.”

“Are you kidding? We’re practically underground. No one can hear us now.”

“Watch for nails. My dad stuck his foot through, once. Spent a night in hospital.”

Andrew gave a sudden squeak.

“What is it?” called Roddy.

“Cold!”

“Go
on
—squealing like a girl!”

“I’m going to step in.”

A few moments later: “It’s shallow. Less than a foot. Holy shit is that cold.”

“Careful.”

The line stretched. Then: “Got it.”

“Any nails?”

“It’s a tin box. I can’t climb with it. Pull it up first, then I’ll come next.”

RODDY PEERED OVER
and aimed the light while Andrew tied the rope around the box. Roddy pulled it up. For a moment, Roddy, at the top, beamed the flashlight on the box as he untied it and examined it. During those two minutes, Andrew stood at the bottom of the cistern, alone, in near total darkness, shirtless and shivering, standing in eight inches of freezing water. His feet went numb and he quietly fought a growing panic. What if Roddy, for whatever reason, left him? Or had an accident up there?

“Roddy?” he called, anxiously.

“It’s an antique. This must have been there for bloody ever. I mean a
long time
.”

“Roddy.”

“What do you think is in it?”

“
Roddy, throw down the rope!
”

“All right, all right. There you go again, totally spastic.”

TEN MINUTES LATER,
wrists and biceps exhausted, Andrew stood on the stone floor again, puffing and shivering next to Roddy.

“Look at the craftsmanship,” Roddy said, turning over the tin in his hand and admiring it while Andrew held the light. The box curved like a violin. “No rust. Must have been submerged all this time.”

The lid bore a painting of a coach and horses trotting down a country road, with two men in tails and a dog looking on, woods in the background. The sides bore bright stripes—burgundy and gold—and a decorative pattern.

“Anything inside?”

Roddy shook it. “Not gold anyway.” A light bump came from within. Roddy wedged his fingers under the edge. “Hinges still work!” he marveled. “Made in England. That’s what it is. Nowadays it’d be made in bloody China, out of toxic waste. Melt in your hands just before it melted you.” He pulled the lid off and retrieved a narrow bundle.

He put it under the flashlight beam.

“Paper,” he declared.

Andrew wiped the grit from his hands. “Let me see.”

Roddy handed over a small rectangle of a thick-edged paper, tied with ribbon.

“There’s writing on it,” Andrew said. He tilted his head. The writing went in two directions—crossways, and up and down. The lines were bunched closely together. But they made little sense. The handwriting stretched and curled in childish script, and one line did not seem to lead to the next.

“Is this what you were looking for?” asked Roddy.

Andrew stared at the bundle in his hand. Scanned the lines at the top of the page.

When you quit me you think forever but this is not so—I follow you

two cups of blood at least caught in my hand

He tried to make sense of them, and some others, but gave up. He shook his head. “I’m not sure.” He tugged at the corners. The paper had become gluey with age, and the leaves stuck together.

“Don’t rip it, man,” scolded Roddy. “You’ll need an expert to pull those apart. Someone who knows about old documents. Know anyone like that?”

13

Awesome Aunty

FATHER PETER WATCHED
Piers Fawkes with pity. Most of the beaks and administrators at the school had at first been in awe of Fawkes, and the chaplain had been no exception. Fawkes had been a household name in England for a time. He had been interviewed on television. His image appeared in magazines. Father Peter remembered a particular cover photo, in fact: a black-and-white portrait of Fawkes perched on a stool in a sweater, holding a burning fag between dirty fingernails, looking greasy and very debauched with his heavy-lidded eyes. But that was years ago. Increasingly, people at the school (those who chattered about such things) wondered what Fawkes was doing there. He was not quite the career housemaster type. Not quite a visiting dignitary or poet-at-large.
Rather confused
is how someone had described Fawkes to Father Peter. Now that confusion seemed to have spilled over into something terribly wrong. Perhaps it was the boy dying, Father Peter mused; yes, that must be it. Poor man—he got more than he bargained for, in this job. Fawkes was now squirming on Father Peter’s sofa as if something were eating him from within. His skin was pale. He was sweating—there were big rings under each armpit, coming
through
his jacket, and dampness rimmed his hairline. But with English and clerical reserve, Father Peter chose to ignore all this; let the man bring it up, if he liked.

“How about a sherry, Piers?” he said brightly.

At this, Fawkes started a fit of violent and prolonged coughing.

“Are you all right?” asked Father Peter.

Fawkes waved him off. “Fine, fine,” he croaked. “I’ll be fine.”

Father Peter’s smile was rather thinner than before. “Then how can I help you?”

“I, uh . . . ,” began Fawkes. “Do you know how to, uh . . .” He resumed coughing.

“Water?” offered Father Peter. He stood and poured him a glass. Fawkes sucked it down.

“Something in my throat.”

“Yes.”

Father Peter waited. At last Fawkes was able to blurt it out. “Do you know how to get rid of a ghost?”

The priest’s smile collapsed. “I’m sorry. Did you say get rid of a ghost?”

“Yes,” Fawkes said, as casually as he could. “Is there a prayer? Some kind of ceremony?”

“Do you mind sharing with me why you’re asking, Piers?”

Fawkes gave a rambling and vague answer . . . about the Lot ghost, a legend in the house, a tradition . . . but with Theo Ryder’s death, he said, there was a resurgence of interest . . . something to blame; you know; explain the unexplainable.

“You’re saying,” Father Peter said, carefully, “the boys are blaming the ghost for Theo Ryder’s death?”

“Some boys,” clarified Fawkes.

“And you thought having a prayer, or exorcism, will calm them down?”

Fawkes nodded. “I must ask you to keep this in priestly confidence,” he quickly added. “The head man thinks I’m a bit crazy on this point.”

“Hm,” said Father Peter, regarding his sweaty guest. “Yes. Well, that’s extraordinary. I’ve heard about the Lot ghost, of course. But I wouldn’t want to be seen to lend credence to a . . . a superstition. Do you understand?” He paused. “And you, Piers? You think there’s something to it?”

At last Fawkes stopped writhing. “I think,” he said slowly, “I need to take every precaution. And I think my duty is to the boys.”

Father Peter hesitated. “Have you . . .
seen
something?” Perhaps this would explain the poet’s strange demeanor. Perhaps he was in terror.

“Seen something? Not personally,” Fawkes said, dabbing his forehead. “But some boys in the house have. One boy in particular, I should say.”

“And you believe him?”

“I do.”

“Hm. Extraordinary.” Father Peter chewed his lip. He was piecing together what Fawkes had told him so far. “I’m sorry. Forgive me if I seem a bit thick about this.” He hesitated. “But if the boys believe the ghost is responsible for what’s been happening, for Theo Ryder dying . . . and you
believe
them . . . then
you
believe a ghost is responsible for Theo Ryder dying.” He watched Fawkes carefully. “Do I have that right?”

“Now,” said Fawkes with a small smile, “if I were to say yes to that, I would have to be mad, wouldn’t I?”

“Quite,” Father Peter replied, but his tone was even, and he used the word the way only the British can: to mean
maybe
or
I’m withholding judgment
. He locked eyes with Fawkes, feeling they had reached the crux of their interview.

“And if I were mad, while in charge of the safety of eighty boys, I would be, well, in the wrong spot, wouldn’t I? The headmaster would be correct to relieve me of my duties.”

Father Peter said nothing.

“Yet at the same time,” Fawkes continued, “if I truly believed that something supernatural, and harmful, were afoot,
and I did nothing
,” he said, measuring his words, “then I would be responsible for whatever happened.” The two men regarded each other. “Am I making myself clear?”

“Very much so.” Father Peter was pensive. “If I were to say a prayer in the Lot,” he said, “just as a precaution—as a way of providing support for the boys in a troubling time—that might do the trick?”

“That’s precisely what we need,” Fawkes said.

Father Peter beamed, clear at last.

He had always liked Father Peter. Youthful, thin, a runner; cheerful and social, but never one of those simpering clerics who sought to climb the status ladder. He would think better of the priesthood and their spells if all this worked out.

“One more thing,” said Fawkes.

“Oh dear. Go ahead.”

“Rather tricky. Ah,” Fawkes mumbled. “Can you wait a bit?”

“Sorry?”

“Can you wait? Say, a week or two?”

“It will take me at least that long to prepare. This is what I would call specialist work. The Church of England
does
do it, but not without some inquiry. Rather like getting an estimate from a contractor.” Father Peter smiled, trying to be disarming. “To make sure you’re getting the right solution to the right problem. Do you feel the ghost is dangerous, then?”

“Very much so.”

“Then I’ll look into it immediately.”

“A week or two would be marvelous,” said Fawkes. “I’m grateful for your discretion.”

“Not at all,” said Father Peter.

He saw his guest out. As he opened the door onto the High Street, he paused. The two of them stood facing each other with the chilly breeze blowing between them.

“If you think it’s dangerous,” the priest said, with sudden clarity, “why do you want me to wait a week or two? That seems rather a contradiction.”

“I want to study it first,” said Fawkes. The priest’s eyes widened. “I think the ghost has to do with Lord Byron. If you get rid of it too quickly, I won’t get any original material for my play.”

“Surely you’re joking.”

Fawkes said nothing. Father Peter regarded him coldly.

“Your priorities are all wrong, Piers.”

“I know.” The poet shrank into his jacket, against the breeze. “I’m used to it.”

DR. KAHN TOOK
the bundle from him suspiciously, as though Andrew had just handed her a paper bag full of pound notes.

“I wrapped the letters, so the oil from my fingers wouldn’t get on them,” he said.

“Well done,” she said evenly. “And you found these where?”

“In that cistern. Underwater, in a tin box.”

“May I see the box?”

He produced it from his backpack. “Is this a special box for letters or something?” he asked.

Dr. Kahn’s office was a brightly lit rectangular box set behind the elongated eastern windows of the library, with a close-up view of the stones of the chapel. A cross between an administrator’s command center, a researcher’s lair, and a storeroom, the office was lined from floor to ceiling with hanging shelves, each neatly sectioned and labeled, carrying books, files, or folders. She presided from a desk—a wooden monstrosity, some six feet wide, sipping tea from a gnarled homemade clay mug painted with the words A
WESOME
A
UNTY
.

“Letters?” She turned over the tin box in her hands, smiling. “It’s for biscuits. Lucky for us. It’s airtight for the pastries to keep. It can hardly have been the preferred solution. Your letter-writer must have been in a hurry. Or perhaps I should say, your letter receiver.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You tell me,” she commanded, in that iron-firm way of hers.

She snipped open the twine around the letters with a pair of scissors. Andrew winced. He had been treating every part of the discovered letters gingerly, including the twine.

“Because . . . the person receiving the letters would be the one to have them, and therefore the one to store them.”

“Just so,” she murmured, and reached into her drawer for a small box. From this she retrieved two wads of white material and pulled them over her hands—latex gloves. She cleared a wide patch on her desk.

“Why does the writing go like that?” he asked. “Crossways? And in bunched-up lines?”

“Writing paper in the nineteenth century was harder to come by than today. Letter writers would write horizontally, as we do; then when they ran out of paper, they would write vertically, over top.” She traced the writing going left to right with her finger, then the lines of script going from the bottom of the page to the top. “This writer had a lot to say, but little paper; and seems to have added a second set of horizontal lines. I’ve never seen this before.” She frowned. “Maddening to read.”

“Is there a signature?”

She flipped. “No.”

“Are they from Byron?”

“Unlikely. Barons tend not to skimp on stationery, especially when they’re also poets.”

“Are they from Harness?”

“Why would you think that?”

“Why else would he lead me to that room?” Andrew asked.

“I do not like John Harness,” grunted Dr. Kahn. “And I do not trust him.”

“I know. But it’s a clue.”

“A clue to a murder, from a murderer,” she said. “Why would he show us? Is he trying to reveal himself? Trying to come clean?”

“Maybe he wants us to solve it.”

“If John Harness committed the murder, it is unlikely that he requires it to be solved,” she observed tartly. Andrew shrugged. “
Two cups of blood at least caught in my hand
,” she read from the parchment through her reading glasses. “I will box these up and send them to a friend. Miss Lena Rasmussen. A friend of my niece’s; an archivist. An archivist because of me, in fact.”

“You make it look cool.”

Dr. Kahn made a face. “She’s at the Wren Library, a library for rare manuscripts of great distinction, at Trinity College, Cambridge. Byron’s alma mater. They occasionally take a break from worshipping Sir Isaac Newton, long enough to pay attention to Byron. I think she’ll know what to make of this.”

“Thanks,” said Andrew, as enthusiastically as he could muster. He felt anxiety allowing these letters to go to someone else. “Will she . . . will she be able to get to them in time?”

“If I ask her, Lena will do it right away.”

“How long will it take to get them to her?”

“I will send them overnight. All right, Andrew?”

“Yes, thanks.”

“Now, I have something for you,” she said. She nodded to a stack of battered and age-worn hardcovers at the corner of her desk. “They are the best sources I can find on Byron. I was going to allow you to take them to the Lot, as a special favor—since we do not lend.” Andrew smiled at the imperious plural Dr. Kahn employed whenever the subject was the Vaughan Library. “But upon reflection I would like you to read them here.”

Andrew slumped. “Why? You don’t trust me?”

She peered at him. “The atmosphere of the Vaughan seems to be healthier than that of the Lot, just now,” she said. “I would rather keep you with me. And away from
him
.”

ANDREW RETURNED TO
the Vaughan every evening he did not have a rehearsal. On the first night, he found that Dr. Kahn had cleared a carrel for him in the corner of her voluminous office, with his books stacked neatly on its shelf. On the second night she handed him a large, white I H
EART
L
ONDON
mug, steaming and practically sizzling with sugar, along with a bundle of biscuits in a napkin.
You look pale
, Dr. Kahn explained.
I cannot cook, but I can brew
. On the third night, there were more books waiting for him, and he had the office to himself (Dr. Kahn was attending an event in London). He flipped pages but was distracted by his cell phone vibrating incessantly.

Have permissn frm housemaster aka Dad to go London Sat.

Andrew texted back.

I have rehearsal! Can we go at 1?

A long pause. Andrew examined the yellowed gluey pages. He suspected Persephone did not like his last message and was either intentionally stringing him along or was giving up on the idea of their getaway entirely. He became panicky.

I can try and get out of it

he offered, at last.

Which of your girlfiends
, she typed—he wondered if the typo was intentional—
is it with?

Not sure. Rebecca?

The phone then went silent for twenty minutes. Andrew strained to concentrate.

Maybe you’ll want to go to London with her

No no! I’ve been waiting . . .

To what?

He grabbed the volume of Byron poetry on the shelf above his head and flipped to find a page he’d marked.

. . .
for your nameless grace which waves in every raven tress

he typed.

He waited a few seconds.

That’s all right then

came the response.

He smiled.

Then another:

Quote Byron to me and I will definitely fuck you
.

Whoa. That was
out there
. He started to laugh. But he quickly stopped, as something caught his attention. It was as if Dr. Kahn’s office were slowly filling with an invisible gas, starting from the floor and rising quickly, until it reached the ceiling. A presence, thick and repressive, stole the thrill from Andrew’s throat. Those subtle, tiny noises that arise from a human being when they stand nearby—the rustle of clothing, the creak of a floorboard—came whispering through the thickened atmosphere. And yet it made no move to reveal itself. Just throbbed with a desire to watch. Predatory. Silent. Then, bit by bit, came the breathing. It started softly, as if being hidden by an arm over the mouth, or a handkerchief. But it came. And finally it emerged fully into Andrew’s hearing. As if, once observed, the watcher stopped bothering to hide itself.