He came back to the main landing and started down the stairs to the hall. Jack Hurst had said amiably that he was welcome to explore the place, with the exception of the basement. Michael tried not to think that there was a faint sinister echo there of Bluebeard’s chamber.
‘You can have the keys to all these rooms in the castle, my dear, except this one, and that you must never enter … ’ And as if the warning was a trigger, the ingenuous bride-heroine or the gallant knight must then yield to the sinister treacherous temptation, and instantly open the forbidden door by hook or by crook, by picklock or jemmy, to find the room did not contain priceless treasure or the elixir of life at all, but something far more macabre …
Michael paused on the half-landing to look through the narrow windows, which were slightly open. It looked as if Jack Hurst was right about the storm. Huge clouds like purple bruises were gathering in the east, and a faint growl of thunder rippled the sky. From the ground he could hear the rap of hammering and cheerful voices. Someone was calling out to Darren to make a brew, they were all spitting feathers, and someone else wanted to know had anyone thought about a bit of a fry-up before the storm got going.
Storm rain was starting to spatter the windows, and Michael, who often suffered from a severe headache in a thunderstorm, was aware of needle-points of pain starting to jab at his temples. He thought he would make a quick tour of the rest of the house, then beat it back to College and take a couple of paracetamol. He closed the window against the rain, and he was about to go down to the hall when he heard footsteps behind him, and then laboured breathing, as if someone was carrying something heavy. He turned, expecting to see one of Jack Hurst’s men, but there was no one there. Had the sound been simply an echo? No, there it was again. Footsteps – slow, rather uncertain ones, coming from a second, narrower flight of stairs at the far end of the landing. Second floor? Yes, of course. And muffled thudding or hammering from up there.
Then a voice called softly, ‘Are you here?’
The words were ordinary, the words of someone looking for somebody, but Michael found them extremely sinister. He took a step towards the second stair.
‘Hello? Are you looking for someone?’ His words echoed in the empty space, and although he could still hear the difficult breathing, there was no response.
Two, then three flickers of lightning tore into the house, and in those split-second flares of brilliance, Michael saw a figure standing on the narrow stairs – a small figure, not exactly deformed, but hunched over …
A child? Frightened by the storm? Maybe it was the child sought by the owner of that voice he had heard. There was a blur of movement, and the sound of the footsteps again – this time going away, back up the stairs, not exactly running, but scuttling away. Michael hesitated, then started forwards.
‘Don’t be frightened,’ he called. ‘It’s only a thunderstorm. Wait for me and we’ll go downstairs – I think someone’s looking for you, anyway.’
The stairs wound sharply to the right, decamping on to a second landing, strewn with more builders’ rubble and tools. It looked as if two smaller flats were being created up here. A sullen light came in through the windows, but there was no sign of the figure. The thudding was still going on – it sounded as if someone might be hammering somewhere under the roof, but Michael’s headache was throbbing against one side of his head, and his vision was blurring slightly, as if he was seeing underwater.