Читать книгу The Forgotten Room: a gripping, chilling thriller that will have you hooked - Ann Troup, Ann Troup - Страница 15

Chapter Seven

There seemed nothing left to do but kill time. As she climbed the stairs with Buster at her heels, thoughts about killing things led to thoughts about the bones and what the fates had determined for the person they had once been. Whoever it was couldn’t have anticipated a secret burial and subsequently being laid bare by a bulldozer for all to see. She paused on the landing and suppressed a shudder. It didn’t bear thinking about, but neither could she avoid it. The lights of the crime scene were all too visible in the distance as she peered through the landing window. Bob’s dwelling was visible too, light twinkling through the orchard’s gnarly trees. It was a comfort knowing he was there.

A bath was the order of the day, something to wash away the sense of oppression and feelings of despair. The thought of it was comforting, though the reality was a disappointment. The plumbing was old, the bath made of steel and the tank inadequate. Six inches of tepid water wasn’t quite what she’d had in mind and a rapid whip round with a soapy sponge to compensate didn’t induce the sense of relaxation she’d hoped for. Her own towel was still in her bag and she was forced to use one of the thin, rigid things that Cheryl had hung in the “guest bathroom”. Maura could only hope that the house’s other resident fared better with her ablutions. Gordon had to make do with strip washes and a downstairs toilet, she’d had to endure a Baltic bathroom, unsoftened by comfort or frills, and it made her curious to know how Estelle managed in this cumbersome, unpleasant house.

Maura was not nosy by nature, but it was hard to resist poking around at least a little bit – if only to find out more about the mysterious Estelle Hall. Her lack of curiosity had probably contributed to some of the naiveté that had led her into trouble before; she should learn to ask more questions instead of charging into things full of bravado. However, if she was going to spend weeks in this house, she wasn’t prepared to put up with prison-issue bathroom facilities. In pyjamas and dressing gown, her hair still damp and Buster trailing behind her in a benign, hangdog fashion, she decided to enter forbidden territory and explore Estelle Hall’s rooms. Cheryl had made it perfectly clear they were off limits, but Cheryl didn’t have to bathe in a bathroom that should have been in a museum, or entertain herself in a house that raised more questions than answers.

God knew why she was creeping about and trying to be quiet; it wasn’t as if Gordon would hear her, or care what she was up to. He only cared about his own few square feet of the house and acted as if anything outside of his room didn’t exist – which to him it probably didn’t. Neither was it likely that Cheryl, with thunderous face, would suddenly materialise to wreak revenge for her instructions having been ignored. Even Buster didn’t care and was just curious, sniffing at the door in anticipation of a new room to explore.

It was a disappointing powder-puff-and-cut-crystal boudoir, décor circa 1950, and much like Maura’s room, except this one was pale blue. The most surprising thing was the lack of personal items; the room was almost as generic as the other bedrooms with only the addition of a few nondescript old photographs and a silver-backed hairbrush to say it belonged to anyone. She had the impression that perhaps Estelle had felt like a guest too and had never felt she belonged enough to stamp her personality on the room. Either way, it wasn’t any of Maura’s business really, yet it felt sad and lonely and she couldn’t help but feel a pang of sorrow for the woman. The lack of stuff was odd, though.

The en-suite was small, ran off the same water supply, and was no better than the bathroom she was already using – another disappointment. For a woman who didn’t stint on wages or private medical care, it seemed that Miss Estelle Hall was very frugal in every other area of life. She had spent no money on the house. Perhaps because it was Gordon’s money and she felt an overweening sense of responsibility for it? Or perhaps she was just plain stingy. It wouldn’t have killed them to install modern plumbing, or deal with the creaking floorboards that seemed to constantly heave with discomfort above her head. It was the kind of sound that might make someone of a nervous disposition fret they were not alone in the house, but Maura’s nerves were lying dormant, dulled by depression. She ignored the sounds and gritted her teeth against any further thought of them.

With a sigh she walked from the room, calling a reluctant Buster to come with her. Something in the wardrobe had caught his attention and he was sniffing around the door with stubborn focus. ‘Come on, dog!’ Maura urged, but he was having none of it and she was forced to drag him away by the collar and shut the door to keep him out. God knew what was in there that had fascinated him so much. She was tempted to go back and look but felt she had intruded enough.

He followed her down the stairs with a detachment only dogs seemed able to manifest; once away from the object of his curiosity he was quite happy to move on. Maura envied him and wished she had the same ability. Moving on appeared not to be her strong point despite her best efforts and belief in mind over matter.

Gordon had fallen asleep in front of the TV and was slack-jawed and slumped in his chair. Even though there was a narrow single bed in the room, he refused to use it for anything other than an extra shelf for the magazines and newspapers he loved to hoard. Maura shook her head, switched the TV off and covered him with a blanket. She might not be able to persuade him to use the bed, but she could prevent him from freezing. He wasn’t fabulously stable on his feet, but he was mobile, so at least she didn’t have to worry about pressure sores – just falling.

The chain on the outside of the door still bothered her, and the story about his night wandering seemed to be a myth. With the sleeping tablets and plethora of other sedative medication, it was unlikely he’d wake until the next morning, or be able to move if he did. Sod it. She made an executive decision and left it off. With all the other downstairs doors locked he wouldn’t get far, even if he did surprise her and have a midnight mooch.

It wasn’t even nine o’clock, too early to go to bed, and she wanted a cup of coffee. Politeness had forced her to drink Cheryl’s feeble tea, but now she’d been left to her own devices, she needed a cup of the hard stuff. The problem was she’d have to go to the kitchen to get it, and the previous night’s assault was nowhere near the back of her mind yet. Even though Bob had replaced the window with thick glass he’d assured her wouldn’t break and she had Buster, she was still reticent about going in there alone at night.

Like the coward she was, she urged Buster through the door first and sent him trotting down the passageway with promises of biscuits – not that he understood her, but the encouraging and enthusiastic tone of her voice must have held some hope for him because he launched himself into the kitchen with no qualms at all. Relieved and thankful, Maura followed him in and switched on the light, which flickered and fizzed, plunging the whole downstairs into darkness as the bulb exploded and showered the table in glass. A bullet of terror ricocheted through her body as she clenched every muscle, ready to flee or vomit or pass out…

The passageway behind her was thick with a darkness that seemed as if it might have texture if she reached out to touch it. But she dared not – it was closing in on her thick and fast. As if to prove it, the air caught in her throat like something meaty and viscous. It tasted of fear and, as Buster wasn’t barking, she knew it was her own.

The pocket of time since the bulb had blown seemed inordinate. It was as though she had fallen into a dark rabbit hole and was still falling. The dog was too quiet. Everything was too quiet for senses that were notching up to high alert with every slow, extended heartbeat. The part of her brain that had somehow remained free of terror tried to tell her it had been seconds, not minutes, and that she could speak and move if she wanted to.

The other part, the big, weak, human part, just wanted to stand there for ever while she metaphorically shat herself.

Buster was having none of it, however. He’d been on the promise of something tasty in that kitchen and so far nothing had been forthcoming. With a needy whine he nudged at her hand with his cold nose, jolting her out of her panic by increasing it, and making her lurch to the side with shock while she emitted a guttural grunt of terror.

It dawned on her that Buster wasn’t scared. He wasn’t growling or barking or trying to raise the alarm in any way. It was just a bulb that had tripped the circuit. She tried laughing at herself. It was just a blown bulb and if it hadn’t shattered she would be fine. ‘Get a grip, Maura,’ she said out loud, projecting her voice into the darkness and willing it to drive the shadows away. It was just a blown bulb. No one was inside – they couldn’t be. The house was secure even if Maura’s equilibrium wasn’t.

The only response from the darkness was the sound of Buster panting. She could have sworn the house was having a laugh at her expense. She felt as though the whole place was smirking at her, revelling in the little surprises it was throwing her way. ‘It’s a house, it does not possess sentience,’ she said to Buster, who wagged his tail. ‘So, my little fur buddy, what do we do? Call your master or tackle this ourselves and prove we’re not wimps?’

Though the passage was pitch-black, the kitchen was not. Watery moonlight was washing the room with thin light and shadows. Maura knew Cheryl kept a torch underneath the sink, and she also knew the electricity consumer unit was situated at the bottom of the stairs in the cellar. Although she hadn’t been down there, Cheryl had thrown the door open on her tour and had mentioned they sometimes had problems with the electrics and that the “fuses” were down there… Fuses. Maura hadn’t seen an old-fashioned fuse box in years but was pretty confident she could change one if someone had had the foresight to leave the right materials.

Wandering about the cellars of this creepy, half-arsed house in the dead of night was not her idea of fun. The simple solution would have been to phone Bob, but she had already disturbed him the previous night and, besides, she wanted to show the house it couldn’t beat her, ridiculous though the thought was. With Buster at her heels, she took a breath, went for the torch and followed its beam to the cellar door.

Cheryl kept the cellar locked, just in case Gordon went for a wander. The key was on a hook near the top of the architrave. It was a heavy old key and the lock was stiff but it gave in to Maura’s efforts and allowed her to open the door. The cellar greeted her with a waft of stale air that held the tang of mould; it was clear that damp and decay had taken hold down in the bowels of the house. It wasn’t surprising – everything about the place seemed to be on its last legs. The place was like a spiteful old man, glorying in self-neglect and festering with discontent. Much like its owner now she came to think about it.

Buster was not perturbed by this new adventure at all and bolted down the stairs full of enthusiasm for this new space and its new sensations. ‘Buster!’ Maura hissed, wondering why she was being quiet when she knew damned well it would take a full-frontal attack by mortar shell to rouse Gordon from his drugged slumber. The dog was gone. He had gleefully disappeared into the rambling tunnels and rooms of the cellar, exploring nooks and crannies the torch beam only hinted at.

‘Shit!’ Maura said as she reached the bottom and searched for him with her ribbon of light. Scanning up she could see that the cellar was lit, but only when the circuit was working. Buster would either come back of his own accord, or she could search for him with the lights on. Either way she needed to fix the fuse first.

Though she had recovered from the fright of the bulb blowing, her heart was still trying to find its normal rhythm and her imagination was still trying to hamper her confidence. Too many teenage years watching horror films had fuelled it with unknown horrors, and her subconscious held threats her rational mind could only shake its head at.

‘Get a bloody grip, woman!’ she said, training the torch beam on the fuse box and wondering why the thing wasn’t in a museum. It seemed Bob had done his best to make sense of the beast, or more like several beasts – there were four separate boxes and two meters, all looking as if they had been tacked on as afterthoughts. Fortunately, someone had labelled all the chunky Bakelite fuses so that it wasn’t too difficult to locate the one that had blown. In his wisdom Bob had also left a card of fuse wire and a pair of snips resting on top of the first meter. Maura blew a kiss into the dank air and said ‘Bless you, Bob’.

It was a fiddly job by torchlight and she had no idea which thickness of wire to use. Too thin and it might blow again, too thick and she might overload it and burn the house down. Deciding to take the centre ground, she plumped for the one in the middle and silently cursed Estelle Hall for her frugality. It was 2015 (for goodness’ sake) but Essen Grange seemed to be clinging on to the Dark Ages and still marvelling at Edison’s ingenuity. With her repair complete and the fuse reinserted into its slot, she climbed the stairs and flipped the light switch, breathing a huge sigh of relief when the lights came back on. Bob would be proud, but she’d need him to check she’d used the right amperage wire, and she’d also need to find his dog. ‘Buster, come on boy, biscuits…’

The mention of biscuits, a word that clearly had a resonance associated with pleasure for the dog, seemed to do the trick and he bounded out of the shadows and ran up the steps, straight past her and towards the kitchen. ‘Attaboy,’ she said with a smile. After locking the cellar door and replacing the key, she turned into the hall and stood in the centre, sticking one finger up at the house and poking her tongue out in a gesture of childish contempt at its efforts to thwart her.

The light from the kitchen passageway helped but it still took the torch to show her why the bulb had exploded. Water had dripped down from the light fitting. It occurred to her that the guest bathroom she’d used was situated above the kitchen and that something had leaked. Bugger! She dare not try and replace the bulb until she knew whether it was her own carelessness that had caused it, or whether it was a genuine leak that would need to be fixed. It wasn’t dripping any more, but a puddle of water had mingled with the broken glass on the table. She couldn’t see where the rest of the glass might have landed, and Buster was mooching about the room and snuffling. All she needed now was a dog with glass stuck in his paws.

The biscuit jar was near the door and she managed to lure him into the passageway with a hobnob, relieved to see he wasn’t limping or trailing blood. But he did have something in his mouth, which he gladly gave up in exchange for the treat.

Maura picked up the mouldering teddy bear, damp from the dog’s saliva, and wondered why on earth she hadn’t noticed it when he’d run past her up the cellar steps. She’d been too busy feeling relieved that she’d fixed the lights to notice much. The bear was a sorry-looking thing, bald in places and with a single loose eye that dangled above a much-darned woollen nose. It also stank of mould and was a little green around the gills. Buster seemed to have taken quite a shine to it, but for all Maura knew it was a much-loved family heirloom, so giving it to the dog to be enthusiastically disembowelled was probably not a good idea. Buster was easily fobbed off with another biscuit and allowed his newfound friend to be taken to the downstairs cloakroom where Maura sponged him down with a damp flannel, squirted him with a bit of air freshener and set him to dry on the radiator.

With that she locked the kitchen-passage door and made her way up to bed, Buster padding behind her – she was way beyond wanting coffee. Cheryl might have made warning about where the dog could sleep, but as far as Maura was concerned, what Cheryl didn’t know couldn’t worry her. Anyway, the smell of dog on her bed had to be marginally preferable to the smell of camphor, and one warm body was as good as another when you were alone in a house that was doing its damnedest to freak you out.

She’s left the upstairs lights on this time, and she’s kept the dog with her. Clever girl, but not clever enough. There have been interesting developments today. I’ve been quietly flitting between the house and building site to see what was going on. Predictable that the police made the Grange their first port of call, and interesting that the detective lingered outside looking so tense while he smoked his cigarette. Something had puzzled him about the house, and it wasn’t just the body in the orchard. I wonder if he spotted it, the inconsistency? Most don’t. They just know the house is all wrong, but they can’t say why. The nurse shut the door in his face. Interesting indeed. Those two have a history they can’t hide, even from each other, and certainly not from me. Not that I care. I see everything.

A few more days and it will be time to put the wheels in motion – but this time not with a rock thrown in temper but with something much more intrusive. Something deadly. Something put in motion not by me, but by them, by their sins.