Thorn (16 page)

Something I'm not telling him. Something I can't tell him. Quincy stealing out here earlier this afternoon. Thalia talking to her dead son in his grave . . . People don't do that kind of thing, not normal, sane people. He'd either think I was mad or he'd think Thalia was. And I don't know, not absolutely and definitely, that Quincy got it right, or even how normal and sane Quincy is. No, I can't tell him.

The silence was complete, it was closing about them, wrapping them in intimacy. Imogen knew that Dr Sterne could not see, not fully, what she was thinking, but he could sense something. She could feel his mind reaching deep into her own, she could feel it like a thin radiance going back and back, lighting dark corners, illuminating deeply buried things, things you would never admit to anyone, things that you might not even admit to yourself. In a minute she would have to say something, she would have to give her reasons for being out here, and she would have to give a reason why her mother's coffin had to be dug up. And the reasons would have to be
good
.

She said at last, ‘Yes. Yes, I do know something.'

‘Yes? Something you've heard? Something you've seen? Imogen, tell me.'

‘I can't,' said Imogen, her mind working furiously, dodging the insistent arc of awareness. She looked at Dr Sterne very levelly. He was quite old, of course, probably about forty, but he had rather nice eyes. You felt you wanted him to approve of you. Was there a way of getting him to help? Because it had been mad – yes, she would use that word – it had been absolutely insane to think she could do this by herself. If Dr Sterne had really seen those frantic out-of-control minutes when she had flung herself forward and believed she could dig the earth up with her bare hands it was small wonder he had acted as if he was dealing with a full-blown lunatic.

She took a deep breath and said, ‘I'm really not mad. I know how it looks, but I've got to uncover my mother's coffin and I've got to do it now. And if you don't help me,' said Imogen, staring up at him, ‘I'll start screaming. I'll scream so loudly that somebody will hear and come out to see what's happening. And then,' said Imogen, hating herself, but going on, ‘and then I'll say you brought me out here and that you tried to rape me on the grave. If you don't help me, that's what I'll do.'

Dan had spent most of the afternoon working. The story was unfolding with almost frightening rapidity; several times he felt as if he was at the wheel of a car that was accelerating out of his control. He could not decide if this was a good thing or not.

He was starting to tighten the web about his Rosamund and it was tightening very satisfactorily indeed. The hysteria that had gripped her when she discovered the results of Margot's bloodthirsty machinations had sent her spinning into wild hysteria, which was exactly what Margot had been counting on, the bitch.

No one in the family had believed Rosamund's frantic sobbed-out story of human bones in the old wash house, shreds of flesh still clinging to them, and the distinctive wedding ring – ‘My mother's wedding ring which she inherited from her own mother!' – glinting amongst a spill of human finger-bones. No one had believed it, but it had to be investigated. A reluctant search was made by torchlight.

And of course by that time there was nothing out of place. Margot had laid her snare cunningly and well; she had disposed of all the evidence, and the wash house presented a blandly innocent face to the two hapless members of the family detailed to the task. That chapter closed with Margot standing exultantly on the river bank, the greenish water-light rippling across her face as she tipped the bones and the wedding ring into the water and watched the fast current take them downstream.

And so Rosamund was duly shut away for good by her sorrowing family. A very great pity, they all said. The thing they had tried to sidestep for seventeen years and protect her from – the curse, you might even call it – had finally overtaken the child. She was plainly mad, because sane people did not accuse their relations of gruesome murders. Sane people did not go scrabbling around in disused wash houses in the first place, for heaven's sake. What had the child been
doing
there? demanded the family, none of whom had the remotest suspicion of Margot, or of how she had lured Rosamund into the place and locked the door. Rosamund had perforce spent almost a whole night in the dark cobwebby outbuilding, with the boiled-down remains of her parents for sole company. Dan reckoned that this was sufficient to send anyone's reason spinning a bit off course.

Rosamund's asylum was in England's bleak north-east; a nightmare mansion with an appalling reputation, and its very name caused indrawn gasps of horror and blenching cheeks, not dissimilar from the enthusiastic hissings and booings of Victorian audiences at the entrance of the cloak-swirling archvillain. It had been important to avoid descending into melodrama at this point, but Dan thought he had avoided it.

The most recent chapter had seen the appearance on the scene of a somewhat questionable doctor, who was currently the ruling figure at the asylum. Physically he was not unattractive, but his methods were unexpected and his intentions towards Rosamund somewhat ambiguous. Dan had toyed with the idea of making him a leftover from the Nazi concentration camps but had finally decided against it. Don't let's ladle on the gore too thickly and don't let's stretch the credibility of the plot too much either, Daniel. Mind games can be just as scary as blood and guts. And on consideration, he rather liked the idea of Dr Bentinck playing sinister mind games with Rosamund, and probably finding her sexually attractive at the same time. You could not write a book without having a good dash of sex in it; well, you could, but not if you wanted it to sell.

It was unfortunate that this chapter had seen further signs of rebellion on the part of the typewriter, which was developing an amiable habit of creating its own fantasy world by switching unprompted to its in-built foreign print wheel, so that you found you had typed half a page in Cyrillic or Greek script without realising. Dan had made cautious inquiries about the purchase of a new one, which had been greeted with hilarity. Nobody used typewriters these days, it seemed; they all used word processors. In fact, said the salesman, speaking in the indulgent tone of one contemplating a lost culture, he did not know where you might buy a typewriter any more, not for love or money. At this point Dan had said, very crossly, ‘Angels and ministers of grace defend me,' and walked out of the shop.

It was seven o'clock when he reluctantly put Rosamund and her attendant villains away. Oliver had listened without comment to the explanation that Dan would be out to dinner tonight, and had gravely said that he would be perfectly all right on his own. He had some work to do on his own account anyway, he said; students' essays to go through, and a lecture for a postgraduate group to prepare.

As Dan was leaving, Oliver said, with the air of one endeavouring to appear immensely worldly, ‘I suppose you'll be pretty late getting home, won't you?'

‘Pretty late tonight, or pretty early tomorrow morning,' said Dan, and grinned at his brother's disconcerted expression.

T
halia had suggested they meet at Ingram's small company flat just off Great Portland Street. ‘I'm half living there for the moment,' she had said. ‘And it would be so much more relaxed than a restaurant.' There was the slightest pause, and then her voice slid an octave lower. ‘Also we can talk in privacy,' she said, as if, thought Dan, she visualised the Soho bistros as seething with eavesdroppers, all vying for the inside dirt on Ingram's. Which either meant that dirt was there for the uncovering and she was prepared to uncover it or she was setting the scene for a grand seduction. Dan was still trying to decide which would be preferable when he arrived at the flat.

It was just on eight and the sun was setting over Regent's Park when he announced himself over the door intercom and went up to the third floor. The interior had a prosperous air; the stairs and landings were carpeted and there were anonymous but pleasing flower prints on the walls, and tubs of cheese plants and aspidistra.

The flat was a fairly typical company
pied à terre
; clean and modern and comfortable, but a bit characterless. There was a small hall, a surprisingly large sitting room with adjacent kitchen and, Dan presumed, a bedroom. He found himself remembering Margot again, because Margot might very well take a flat like this for her various nefarious activities.

Thalia greeted him normally, asking what he would like to drink and whether he could eat caviare. Dan, who normally opened a tin of whatever came first to hand, said with pleasure that he could eat any amount of caviare. It came rolled inside thin wafers of smoked salmon with lemon wedges and brown bread and butter, and it was followed by cold game pie with three different kinds of salad. There was Montrachet to drink, and fresh fruit and Stilton and Brie to round things off. Thalia appeared to regard it as a semi-business occasion, and seemed to expect the interview to take up where it had left off in Ingram's. That will teach you to read mental thigh-stroking and carnal appetite at every corner, Daniel.

While they ate, Dan asked about the founding of Ingram's. ‘Eighteen thirty-five, wasn't it? That has to make it one of the oldest publishing houses in London, surely.'

‘It isn't as old as Collins – HarperCollins it is now, of course – or some of the Scottish publishers like John Murray or Blackwood's. But it's quite old.' She ate with a kind of fastidious sensuality that was alarmingly erotic.

‘Do go on,' said Dan.

‘We started with halfpenny ballads and news-sheets for the Newgate crowds at public hangings and progressed from there to penny dreadfuls.'

‘
Hannah's Highwayman
and
The Gambler's Tragedy
.'

‘Yes, exactly. Did they really have titles like that?'

‘I'm afraid so. But then I've seen books on today's shelves with titles like
Flesh-eaters
and
Decay,
' said Dan. ‘The paper splattered with gore and the author committing verbicide on every other page.'

She laughed at that. Her teeth were white and the two front ones were very slightly uneven. It gave her a faintly gamine look. Dan thought it might be this that at times gave her the appearance of being younger than she was. ‘We do try to keep up a good standard of English at Ingram's,' she said. ‘We publish children's books, up to the age of about twelve or thirteen, but not jolly-hockey-sticks heartiness.'

‘Not the
Famous Five
or
Ursula in the Upper Fourth
?'

‘No, of course not. Where on earth do you get your ideas of nineties children, Dan?'

Dan grinned, and said, ‘Tell me some more about the folklore idea.'

She sipped her wine before replying, and Dan received the impression that she was arranging her thoughts. ‘Royston was considering starting a separate in-house imprint dealing solely with English folk legends for children,' she said. ‘I expect you know the kind of thing.'

‘Robin Hood and Grace Darling and Greyfriars Bobby.'

‘Yes. But also the old ballads. He thought there was a wealth of untapped material, and also there'd be a market with the schools. Folk music isn't national curriculum, but most schools quite like it as a sideline for school orchestras and projects and plays. I've suggested to the board that it would be rather nice if Royston's wishes could be carried out, and also,' said Thalia, suddenly sounding very shrewd, ‘I've suggested that it might be quite lucrative for Ingram's.'

‘And?'

‘Well, this isn't for publication yet, Dan, but we think we might do it. At the moment we're considering how viable it is. Availability of the lesser-known ballads, things like provenance, whether there would be enough to fill more than one book, whether too many are simply plagiarised versions of one root. The copyrights would have to be looked at and possibly details about performing rights as well. The board have suggested that I compile a report. It's a tallish order because I've never done anything like it but I'm quite keen to try.'

‘It sounds rather a good idea,' said Dan.

‘Well, I think I could do it. And there's also the fact,' said Thalia, meeting Dan's eyes levelly, ‘that it would be a way of – of blotting out losing Edmund.'

‘Yes, of course.'

‘More wine?'

‘Please.'

As Thalia removed the plates and set out the cheese board along with Bath Olivers and celery, and a bowl of fruit, Dan said, ‘Are you the first Ingram lady who's taken an active part in the business?' He felt her hesitation at once. Damn, she knows what I'm getting at. But he said, as offhandedly as he could manage, ‘There are a couple of fairly colourful females in your family's history, aren't there?'

‘Yes, but I don't know much about them. They were both causes célèbres in their day, but it's a long time ago.'

She was backing off. She had talked openly and intelligently about Ingram's and about her project for her dead cousin, and Dan could use a great deal of it for his articles. But now she was putting up the barriers. It was polite and courteous but it was unmistakable, and Dan abandoned the subject regretfully. If you had a couple of axe murderers in your family history you were probably entitled to be uncommunicative about them.

And then he asked about Edmund.

With the speaking of the name, Dan was suddenly and inexplicably uneasy. The daylight had almost faded, and Thalia had not yet switched on any lights, so that the small dining table was immersed in pools of shadow. He fought down the compulsion to turn sharply round and scan the dark corners of the room.

Thalia was still seated opposite him, resting her elbows lightly on the table, cupping her half-empty wine glass between both hands, and the uncertain light created the impression that her eyes were sunk in deep, dark pits. Dan had the disquieting feeling that it was no longer Thalia who was seated opposite him but something evil and greedy. Something that had jealously clawed off a brother's masculinity ninety years ago, and something that had hacked a faithless husband's flesh to bloody tatters ninety years before that.