Property of a Lady

Michael had sent several emails to Jack and had four times tried the mobile number. On the last attempt there had been a different message, saying the service was discontinued. Michael had no idea what this meant, unless it was something to do with them having left the US and reached Paris.

He was worried, but in a fairly low-key fashion. It was not absolutely vital that he stopped Jack and Liz bringing Ellie to Marston Lacy – it sounded as if the nightmares had stopped, and the theory that they stemmed from Alice’s stories was credible. All the same, there was something peculiar about Charect House, and if there was any chance that Ellie’s nightmares might start up again she must not come within a hundred miles of it. And how about Beth’s eerie abduction? There was no explanation for that at all.

At intervals he thought about what might still lie behind the attic wall in Charect House, and Harriet Anstey’s words ran in and out of his mind.

Whoever reads this – whoever you are – please help me, she had written. Please somehow break down the attic wall and get to me . . .

I’m sorry, Harriet, said Michael silently. I would have got you out if I could. Then he thought – hell’s boots, now I’m apologizing to someone who died sixty years ago!

He attended the Dean’s end of term lunch, at which there was the promised goose, served in lavish portions, then went to a drinks party the same evening, given by Owen from the History Department. It was midnight before he got back to his rooms, where the porter greeted him with the information that Wilberforce had got himself stuck in a section of panelling in the Bursar’s office, the Bursar having taken the opportunity afforded by the Christmas break to commission some refurbishment of the wainscoting. Nobody knew how Wilberforce had got into the Bursar’s rooms, but it appeared he had become wedged half in and half out of the section of wall. According to the porter he had screeched fit to disturb the whole of Oriel, and Corpus Christi and Merton as well, and had finally been rescued by two of Michael’s second years, whom he had scratched.

‘I’m dreadfully sorry,’ said Michael, making a mental note to look out for the second years in question and treat them to a large drink each, and to double the porter’s Christmas tip.

He swallowed two paracetamol, wished he had not drunk the Dean’s hock and Owen’s claret on the same day, and finally got to bed shortly before one a.m.

Next morning he got up early and went into several of the Oxford bookshops to find something for Nell and Beth for Christmas. It had better not be anything too elaborate or expensive in case it made Nell feel awkward, but he would like to find something.

The trouble with bookshops was that you always spent more time and usually more money in them than you intended. By lunchtime Michael was still only on the third shop and had already acquired six books. It was not until he had chased away the lingering memory of the Dean’s hock and Owen’s claret with a cup of strong coffee that he found a framed print from a John Tenniel illustration, intended for the first publication of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, but never actually used in the book. It showed the Cheshire Cat, looking extremely pleased with itself, lying under a tree and Alice standing over it, waving a severe and admonitory finger. Michael loved it, and he thought Beth in particular would love it as well. The frame was slightly scuffed, but the shop offered to clean it up a bit. An application of Danish oil, then a good buffing with beeswax and turpentine. Would tomorrow morning be convenient for it to be collected?