‘Twenty-six,’ he said.
Some water slopped over the rim of Frannie’s glass and trickled down between her fingers and thumb.
He studied her, registering her lost composure. ‘It’s a rather interesting number in numerology.
Two
is a number that has a lot of evil significance. And so does
six
. The combination of the two digits, making twenty-six, is twice thirteen. Thirteen is a two-six number. Two times one is two. Two times three is six.’
‘I think you’re losing me,’ she said.
He pushed some hair from his forehead then traced the contours of his face with his fingers, as if to reassure himself that he was still intact. ‘I’m lost half the time as well; there are layers and layers. A sort of multiple palimpsest.’
‘Why the number twenty-six though?’ she persisted. ‘Is there a reason for that particular number?’
‘That’s what I’m trying to find out. I came up with
one connection that’s quite curious, although it doesn’t mean anything. I mentioned to you that the second Marquess was into numerology?’
‘He was the evil one?’
‘Yes. I’ve discovered he was very keen on this number for some reason – it was sort of his signature, his mark. Except it didn’t do him much good in the end. He was executed – murdered, whatever – on 26th March, 1652.’
Frannie smiled weakly.
‘Does twenty-six mean anything to you?’ he said.
‘Yes it – might. Phoebe Hawkins warned me off it just before her accident, but I couldn’t get much sense out of her when I saw her later in hospital. She was too shattered. I need to see her again.’
He frowned, returning to his previous line of thought. ‘My wife, Sarah, also died on 26th March. And it was her twenty-sixth birthday.’
Frannie absorbed the words in silence. Her mouth felt dry. She looked at Oliver for an explanation, for an assurance which he couldn’t give. Fear rose up her spine then spread like cold water across the base of her scalp. She bit her lip before she spoke again, tried to affect a normal tone of voice and failed.
‘It’s my twenty-sixth birthday next week,’ she said. ‘On the twenty-sixth.’
In the morning, Frannie left Oliver’s room for her own shortly before six. At breakfast, they were all subdued.
The police came back whilst they were clearing up, took a lengthy statement from Frannie and increased her feeling of guilt, and were then closeted in the library with Oliver and Edward for over an hour.
When they finally left, Oliver said that he had to go to the farm and give Charles a hand as his brother was in no fit state to do anything. Frannie and Edward spent the remains of the morning mooching around the estate hunting fossils, and by lunchtime had collected a dozen good samples, which Edward proudly washed and told her he would be taking back to school with him.
She tried more than once to steer him back to the conversation they had had yesterday in the library but, each time, instead of answering her, he plied her with questions about fossils, about archaeology in general. And she had to promise, with a heavy heart, that if she was down next weekend they would do a mini dig in the grounds, just the two of them, somewhere around the site of the old Roman villa.
Then she turned and confronted him directly. ‘Edward, in the library yesterday you told me how you could make things happen to people just by thinking about them. Did you have bad thoughts about Tristram before he got hit by the propeller?’
His response startled her. His eyes became hard and fierce, and his face tightened into a similar expression
of fury. ‘
No!
’ he said in a voice that was almost a shout. Then he burst into tears and ran upstairs.
Frannie waited some minutes then followed him. She found him in his bedroom, sitting in a chair, sobbing. She put her arm around him and talked quietly. ‘Tell me more about this bad thing, Edward.’
He reached out a hand and picked a small white sports car off a shelf beside him; he pressed a switch underneath it and the rear wheels began to spin.
‘Want to dry your eyes?’ she said.
He shook his head.
‘Do you have any bad thoughts about anyone else? Do you have any about me?’
He switched his car off then on again without replying, back in one of his silences again.
Frannie tested him. ‘What would you like for lunch? Shall I make you something nice?’
He stayed silent. Eventually she left him and went back downstairs. She hesitated in the hall, listening hard for any sign of Oliver, then walked through to the kitchen, and listened carefully again. Then, as quickly as she could, she removed one small shot of Edward from the photographic collage, and slipped it into the pocket inside her handbag.
At six o’clock they dropped Edward back at school and he went off glumly, his fossils carefully wrapped in paper in his small bag, having reminded Frannie of her promise of the dig. Then they drove to London.
‘I’ve been thinking hard all day about a priest I could contact,’ Oliver said. ‘I have met the Archbishop of Canterbury; we’re both in the House of Lords. I could have a word – but –’ he shrugged. ‘I don’t really know if that’s such a good idea. If he believed the story he’d probably delegate and it would take time.’
A lorry thundered past, its slipstream rocking them. ‘But I could go and see the Bishop of Lewes tomorrow. He’s quite a reasonable chap.’ He squeezed Frannie’s hand. ‘It’ll be OK.’
‘And I ought to go and see your brother,’ she said.
‘Not for a bit; I don’t think he can cope with seeing anyone.’ He put his hand on her shoulder and stroked it lightly. ‘Come with me tomorrow; we’ll go and see the Bishop of Lewes. I’ll ask him if he can see us tomorrow evening?’
She nodded bleakly.
‘Stay with me tonight?’
She tilted her head and pressed her cheek against his hand. ‘Could we make a detour?’
‘Where to?’
‘I’d like to pop in just for a few minutes to see Phoebe.’
The linoleum floor of the ward was spongy beneath Frannie’s shoes. A trolley laden with surgical instruments rattled and she stepped aside to let it pass, the discomfort of being in a hospital adding to the leaden fear inside her.
There was a young woman sleeping deeply in the bed next to Phoebe, her face a sickly grey. Phoebe’s table and the tray across her bed were stacked with flowers and cards, and more cards surrounded a massive basket of fruit. She was sitting up in bed, looking a better colour than Thursday, and even greeted Frannie with a smile.
‘Thank you for the flowers you sent, Frannie – they’re really beautiful.’ She pointed to one of the vases on the table.
‘You’ve got some life back in your face.’
‘Drugs,’ Phoebe said.
Frannie saw her dilated pupils and realized she was right, doped up; reality was at bay. She looked away so Phoebe could not see her grimace. Declan O’Hare had talked about the warriors who wore masks into battle so as to hide their fear. Frannie hoped she was not going into battle but knew that she had looked away to hide her fear from Phoebe just now.
‘You went to see Susie,’ Phoebe said.
‘Yes.’
‘I’m glad. I spoke to her today.’
Frannie sat down heavily on the chair beside the bed. ‘When you rang me on Tuesday, Phoebe, you asked me if the number twenty-six meant anything to me, and you told me to be careful of it. Why exactly?’
‘I always remembered it from the Ouija session. It stuck in my mind.’
‘What was my message?’
‘I seem to think that was it.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘
Twenty-six
. Or maybe it was
the twenty-sixth
.’
‘Just the number?’
Phoebe nodded. ‘I think so.’
‘That was the whole message?’
‘I don’t know if it was a message, Frannie, or a prophecy.’
Frannie closed her eyes, then opened them again, afraid of the thoughts that waited behind her lids. ‘Seb Holland,’ she said, weakly. ‘Do you remember what he was told?’
‘No, Susie asked me that. I can only remember mine, yours, Jonathan and Meredith’s.’
‘Do you think all this is just chance? Coincidence?’
‘No.’
‘What is it?’
‘I don’t know.’
Frannie pushed some strands of hair from her face and glanced down evasively, waiting for some moments before speaking. ‘How did your accident happen, Phoebe?’
‘I’m not sure. I don’t understand.’
‘Understand?’
‘Why I didn’t stop.’
The expression in Phoebe’s eyes changed as Frannie watched them; her blinking became faster and the lids quivered.
‘Was it your brakes? Did they fail?’
‘I didn’t try to brake. I didn’t put my brakes on at all.’
Frannie studied the dilated pupils. ‘Why not?’
‘That’s what I don’t understand.’
‘Are you sure you’re not still a little confused – the anaesthetics can – you know –?’
Phoebe shook her head. ‘It’s not the happy pills either. They think I don’t know they’re giving me happy pills.’ Her voice was slurring as she raised it in anger. ‘But I do know.’ Her face contracted and the anger scared Frannie. ‘I know. Right? I know.’
Frannie smiled gently, trying to defuse her anger. ‘Yes, I’m sure.’
‘They won’t pull fast ones on me. I know which way’s up in here.’
Frannie heard the sharp clack of a curtain being pulled around the bed next door. ‘You saw the lorry, but you didn’t brake; is that right?’
Phoebe shrugged and the stump rose and fell. ‘Maybe I thought that if I stopped I would be late.’
‘Late for what?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t remember. Late for the game.’
‘Game?’
‘Playing fruit machines.’ Phoebe’s voice was slurring and her mind was drifting. She smiled.
Frannie summoned up a smile in return, but as she did, Phoebe’s face changed, began to rumple and crinkle as if she were an inflatable doll from which the air was leaking. Changed from adult to child; to a pink-faced baby bawling in its cot.
Frannie pulled out her handkerchief, dabbed Phoebe’s eyes, trying to staunch the flow of tears. She squeezed her hand, cradled her face, trying to stop the sobs.
A nurse came over. ‘I think I’d better give her something.’
Phoebe shook her head fiercely. ‘Go away. I don’t want your fucking pills. I want my fucking arm back.’
She sobbed some more and then the tears subsided and she lay back, spent, against the pillow, her mouth open, gulping air as if she had emerged from swimming several lengths underwater. ‘Sorry. Sorry, Frannie,’ she whispered hoarsely.
‘It’s OK,’ she whispered back and stroked her hand.
In the distance a floor polisher whined. ‘Fruit machine,’ Phoebe said. ‘One-armed bandit. Obvious, wasn’t it?’
Frannie hesitated. ‘Phoebe, I want to ask you something. This might sound silly – but – did you see a small boy before the accident?’
Phoebe looked at her, puzzled. ‘A small ginger-haired boy?’
Frannie stiffened.
Phoebe’s mind seemed to clarify; her eyes brightened. ‘Yes, Frannie, I did. He’s been on my mind quite a lot.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘There was a boy standing on the kerb. I passed him
just before the accident. I remember thinking it was strange that he was out there on his own – and the way he was standing there – as if he wasn’t wanting to cross the road, but was waiting for something.’
‘Strange?’ Frannie echoed, but her thoughts were elsewhere. Oliver’s words last night.
It’s you … That’s where it’s coming from
. She was remembering the Latin she learned at school. Remembering the Latin teacher who was a crabby, elderly man with a voice like a saw. Remembering when she was thirteen and asking him why it was necessary to learn a dead language. He had exploded in rage. Then, when he had calmed down, he had made her learn by heart, first the names of dozens of plants, then dozens of animals. Made her recite them out loud to the class. She was remembering Edward giving the plants their Latin names as they had both walked through the grounds of Meston. Edward reciting the names of the animals in the Range Rover driving back to London last Sunday night.
Frannie removed the photograph from her handbag and handed it to Phoebe. ‘Is this him?’
Phoebe studied it carefully, then stared back at her suspiciously. ‘Is he a witness? Has he said anything?’
Frannie was trembling. ‘Is it him? Is it the boy you saw?’
Phoebe looked again. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Definitely. Because I can remember him so clearly. When I saw him, it was like one of those freeze-frames on a video – as if time had stopped. He didn’t look real. It was almost as if I was imagining him.’ She smiled distantly. ‘Or as if he was a ghost.’
The boy was curled in a foetal position, face downwards in a scooped-out hollow of rock inside the glass case. Urns and vases lay in there with him, as well as some metal bangles and an earthenware drinking-vessel. His face had long gone and his desiccated skin had hardened so that he looked more like a grotesque wooden sculpture than someone who had once been flesh and blood.
Declan O’Hare patted the top of the case with a paternal air. ‘Egyptian Predynastic, this fellow,’ he said. ‘Gebelein. We date him around 3250
BC
. The baubles and jugs are typical of the grave goods that would have been buried with him at the time.’
Frannie stared through the glass; she had done so several times before and she was never comfortable with the sight. There was something she found both morbidly fascinating and at the same time deeply disturbing about a dead human being in a display cabinet.
She watched the reactions of the other two research assistants who had been assigned to the preparation of the exhibition: Hermione Wallis, a friendly but slightly dozy girl with a beaky nose, hair swept back by an elastic band, hands rammed into her dungaree pockets, was glancing uncomfortably round the mummy room; Roger Wencelas, in Doc Marten boots, starched blue jeans and a pristine white T-shirt, was peering fiercely through his wire-framed spectacles at the corpse’s tiny buttocks.
Mummies lined the walls of the room: several in
upright showcases, and one in a rotting wooden box. Frannie was tired. The monochromatic overhead lighting in the exhibit rooms became oppressive after a while. You forgot whether you were above ground or below it.