I frowned. ‘Maybe they’ve found a better menu elsewhere,’ I said lamely, refusing to believe there was any significance in the sudden lack of custom, but having a hard time of it. ‘I guess Rumbo’s been around, though, huh?’ I said hopefully.
She shook her head. ‘Not yet he hasn’t.’
That bothered me. There had to be something wrong if that greedy tyke hadn’t shown. Bob’s words over the phone came to me: ‘Bad vibes.’
Midge stood, my hand dropping away from her arm like a discarded accessory. ‘I have to get dressed and go into the village for some shopping,’ she said stiffly, and was already turning before I could scramble to my feet.
‘Hey, hold on a minute,’ I grabbed her arm again, pulling her to me. ‘We’re buddies, remember? Not just lovers, but good friends, the best either one of us will ever have. Don’t keep your feelings locked away, Midge, no matter how badly you think of me. Okay, I upset you with my views on a coupla things last night, but that shouldn’t prevent us talking, should it? Whatever I do concerning you, I mean it for the best. Christ, I love you more than I can say . . .’
At another time she might have added, ‘Love you every single day . . .’ and I’d come in with, ‘Love you twice as much tomorrow . . .’ and we’d have sung the rest as a duet. Not that morning, though. Not even a smile. All I got was a troubled silence.
Then the tenseness seemed to leave her body for a moment. She looked down at the ground, avoiding my eyes. ‘I love you just as much, Mike, nothing can ever change that. But I have to find out—’
I gripped her hard. ‘You’ve done nothing to be ashamed of.’
‘You won’t listen, will you?’
I controlled myself. ‘I’m only trying to make you see sense, don’t you understand? You know what I think? I think you feel guilty about your own happiness. You’ve got it so good now –
we’ve
got it so good now – you figure in some crazy way that your mother had to die so you could achieve it. That’s what’s bugging you, Midge.’
She shook her head vehemently. ‘That’s stupid.’
‘Is it? You got your freedom when she died—’
‘Committed suicide,’ she insisted.
‘Okay, committed suicide. You were young, you had a great talent, so maybe you did wonder how things would be with no ties, no liabilities. Who the hell wouldn’t in your position? But I said
wondered
, Midge. You never
wished
it. Ever. That’s something you’re just not sure of right now; it’s been so long you can’t be sure of how strong that
wondering
was. And I wouldn’t be surprised if it wasn’t this creep Mycroft who instilled that little doubt in your mind.’
‘He’s not—’
‘What d’you wanna do? Beg their forgiveness? When we first arrived here, you told me you wished there was some way of letting your parents know how happy you were. Remember that? Somehow that notion’s become warped so that you want their forgiveness for being so goddamn happy! How did your feelings suddenly go off in that direction? Did it happen the day you went to the Temple on your own? When I was up in London?’
She tried to twist away from me, but I held her firm.
‘He made me understand!’ she shouted at me. ‘You don’t know him—’
‘I don’t bloody need to. What I do want to know is why he’s doing this to you.’
This time she managed to tear herself free. She blazed at me, her body slightly bent at the waist like a recalcitrant child’s.
‘You said last night that there was something extraordinary about Gramarye.’ It was almost an accusation. ‘Those weren’t your words, but it’s what you implied. You also suggested that I was involved, I was a part of it.’
I vaguely remembered saying something to that effect, but right then I couldn’t focus on the exact proposition.
‘Do you imagine I’m a complete fool, Mike? Do you think I haven’t
noticed
everything that’s been happening around us?’
‘Then why haven’t—’
‘Because it’s too fragile to question! All right, I admit I’ve put up a barrier against it to some extent, but that was because I was frightened to lose . . . to lose . . .’
She shook her head in frustration, unable to find the words. Unable, I suspected, to clarify her own thoughts. I took a step towards her, but she backed away.
Her hands were clenched into small fists. ‘Mycroft is the only one who can help.’
‘No!’ It was my turn to shout.
‘He understands.’ Her hands unclenched and dropped to her sides. As was becoming her habit, she didn’t want to argue any more.
She slipped past me and I heard her bare feet mounting the stairs inside the cottage, a stairboard creaking noisily as she went. I thought of going after her, but the truth is, I didn’t want to argue either. My head was too sore for that.
‘Mr O’Malley?’
‘Speaking.’
‘Mike Stringer here.’
‘Mr, er, Stringer?’
‘You worked on our cottage. Gramarye.’
‘Ah, Mr Stringer.’ Then more slowly. ‘Yes . . . Gramarye. By the forest. What can I do for you, now?’
‘I’m afraid a few problems have come back.’
The lilt of his accent hardened slightly. ‘I can’t imagine what they could be, Mr Stringer. We did a thorough job there.’
‘Yeah, well, the wall in the main bedroom is cracked again. And some of the doors aren’t shutting properly . . .’
‘Hold on a sec, Mr Stringer. Let me find the worksheet on your property.’
A
clunk
as the receiver was put down at the other end. I stood in the small hallway at the top of the stairs, free hand tucked into my jeans pocket, and wished the three Paracetamols I’d taken twenty minutes earlier would get to work on my headache. The mustiness in the atmosphere wasn’t helping to clear my head, either.
‘Right then, let’s have a looksee . . .’ came the Irishman’s voice again. Static on the line made me hold the phone away from my ear for a moment or two. ‘Ah well now, we did a splendid job on that bedroom wall. I’m surprised to hear it’s opened again. I take it y’haven’t had any other structural work done on the place since, Mr Stringer?’
‘Not a thing.’
‘I see. Well, that’s queer. What was the other item you mentioned?’
‘The doors. They must have warped again.’
‘There’s no mention of doors on my list.’
‘You had to plane them before painting.’
‘No, no, it’s not down here at all. We’d have smoothed them, of course, rubbed them down as needs be, just for the painting. I remember now, yes, I remember you mentioned them when we quoted for the job. Wasn’t there a few cupboard doors and all?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Ah well, my foreman told me the doors were fine. Nothing needed doing to them apart from smoothing the surfaces. Some of your window casements were terrible rotted, and we replaced them. It was all on my invoice to yourself, Mr Stringer.’
There was a noise from over my head.
‘Uh, can doors warp with warm weather, Mr O’Malley?’
‘Now that depends. In direct sunlight maybe, or sometimes in very damp weather. Sure that’s a very old house you’re living in, and the timber’s not so young any more.’
‘I’ve noticed some of the pointing on the outside doesn’t look too good. It seems to be crumbling away.’
I heard him draw in a long breath, an indication of weariness rather than surprise. ‘Now that’s a different matter entirely. I can send someone over to take a look at that for you, but I’m afraid I can’t spare anybody for at least a week or so. It’s a busy time of year for us, with the weather so good.’
‘There’s something else that needs urgent attention, I’m afraid.’
‘And what would that be?’
‘The stone lintel over the range in the kitchen. There’s a crack in that, too, and I’ve noticed the stone is beginning to sag in the middle. Only a fraction, but the whole thing looks pretty dangerous to me.’
‘So it’s a new bit of work you’ll be wanting. As I say, we’re very busy right at the moment . . .’
‘The lintel was on my original list for repair. We noticed the break before we moved in.’
‘I don’t recall . . . ah, wait a moment. That’s right, I remember more details now. You had a whole list of repair jobs, Mr Stringer, that required no attention at all. That’s why our price was below the quotation figure; my men couldn’t locate half the faults you mentioned.’
‘That doesn’t make sense.’
‘Neither to me does it. My foreman remarked at the time that mebbe you’d confused your list with another property you had on your mind to buy. Any other firm that was a bit Tom Mix—’
‘What?’
‘ – cowboy – would have charged you for the lot and not said a word about it. Still and well, I can send someone to take a look, but not in a hurry, I’m afraid. How about Tuesday week? Does that suit you?’
‘That lintel’s dangerous . . .’
‘D’you use that range at all? I thought not. Prop up the stone and keep away from it, that’s all y’have to do, Mr Stringer. Now I’ll send my man over first thing Tuesday week and we’ll see what we can do. There, I’ve written it in the book. He’ll have a look at anything else that needs doing and we’ll soon have you right as rain again. Good day to you, Mr Stringer, hope you’re enjoying y’self down in that lovely part of the forest.’
The phone clicked and that was that. Problems solved as far as O’Malley was concerned.
And again that funny noise from upstairs.
Two steps and I craned my head around the stairway. I knew what that sound was.
But now there were other noises. From below.
I listened intently, undecided as to which I should investigate first and feeling disinclined to investigate either.
More from downstairs. Scraping sounds, then rustling paper.
‘Midge?’ Maybe she was already back from the village. No reply, but then she could still be annoyed at me.
‘Midge, you there?’
Someone certainly was, but they weren’t saying who. I stood at the top of the stairway and leaned precariously around the bend, looking down towards the kitchen. My favourite place.
A teacup rattled on the dresser (I hadn’t left any on the table).
I refused to allow myself time to ponder, sick of my own funk by now, and marched down there bold as brass (limped down really; my bee sting was still throbbing).
I stood at the kitchen door and sagged with relief.
‘Rumbo, you silly beggar.’
From his perch on a dresser shelf he scolded me for giving him a scare too. A biscuit packet lay torn on the table, contents scattered, most of the biscuits gnawed into.
‘At least you haven’t deserted us,’ I said. I picked up a broken biscuit and held it up to him and he snatched it from my hand, still complaining noisily.
‘So where is everyone today?’ I interrupted. ‘Can they sense bad vibes in Gramarye too? Is that why the birds have missed out on breakfast?’
He was probably as puzzled as me.
‘Takes more than that to frighten you off, though, right? But I oughta warn you – things aren’t the same around here any more, and I’m a little scared myself. It’s in the atmosphere – d’you feel it? Like something’s creeping up, but ducks outa sight every time you turn around to see. Know what I mean?’
I don’t think he did. He just nibbled away, cocking his head at me every so often in that dog-like way of his, but paying no particular mind to what I was saying. What did I expect from a squirrel anyway?
The door to the attic room was stiff in its frame (although the thought that someone was leaning against the other side crossed my mind).
I was on the step below, twisting the handle and pushing with my other hand at the same time. Rumbo had kept me company on my cautious journey up the winding stairway, as curious about the odd sounds drifting down as was I. Each time the noise came – there were long, long, pauses in between – his head had shot up as if on a pole, and he’d looked this way and that in fast, jerky movements. The sounds had a musical
thrum
to them, and that’s why they were familiar to me.
They were sounds of a thumb playing across open guitar strings.
Yet softer even than that, a resonance only, the vibrations dying slowly, leaving what seemed a deep and brooding silence before the strings were disturbed once more.
Fortunately – having used up my bravado when I’d marched boldly down to the kitchen – an explanation had already occurred to me. A bird, or possibly even an insomniac bat, had somehow found its way into my music room and the creature’s wings were brushing against the guitar every time it did a fly-past. Other than that, a mouse family could have nested inside one of the acoustics, members scraping past strings when they left or entered the soundhole. Both explanations felt reasonable to me, and I was still prepared to believe in reason (even after all that had happened).
I pushed harder and the door gave a fraction. There’d been silence inside for well over a minute now.
Next attempt I butted the door with my shoulder and, wood scraping against wood, it opened; my grip on the handle preventing it from flying wide, I gently shoved the door the rest of the way.
At first glance the low-ceilinged room appeared empty. At second glance there was no change. But I moaned aloud when I saw the condition my two acoustic guitars were in. I ran into the room and dropped to my knees before them, my moan turning into a wail of anguish.
The neck of the Martin, the instrument on its stand and set close to a shaded wall, bent towards me as if bowing at my entrance. The Spanish concert lay nearby on the floor, obviously having toppled at a time when the crash couldn’t have been heard; its neck curved upwards like a thin man trying to rise. First and second strings had snapped on both, the rest stretched taut from head to bridge, pulling in the neck, the incredible tension in them almost palpable. I didn’t understand how it could have happened: neither one had been left in direct sunlight, which might have caused the wood to warp – and that would have slackened the strings, not tightened them – and neither had been tuned to a high pitch – I kept the strings at normal tension, unless I knew I wouldn’t be using the guitars for a time, in which case I always loosened them. Nylon strings could shrink if subjected to extremes in temperature and providing they didn’t break first; but the steel strings of the Martin? Not likely.