As he listened carefully, occasionally making a note of a name or a place, he thought: but there’s the chess set. Nell found that single piece – the king – and Owen found a reference to it, or to something that looked like it. And Eithne, all those years ago, had believed it was deeply evil.
When Benedict reached the part about Nicholas Sheehan’s death, he faltered, and seemed to find it difficult to go on. He accepted Michael’s offer of coffee, and drank it gratefully, then resumed his story. This time Michael found himself pulled deeper into the world of Colm Rourke and Declan Doyle, and into the Ireland of the late nineteenth century, and he found it an unexpectedly attractive world. Benedict’s voice was more assured now, soft and measured, with some of the consonants slightly blurred. Nice, thought Michael. The room was very still. Wilberforce was snoozing on his favourite window sill, and strong winter sunshine slanted in. A fly, fooled by the warmth into thinking it was spring, buzzed lazily against the window.
Michael put down his pen and leaned back in his chair. There was a mirror in direct line: it faced a row of bookshelves on the opposite wall and he liked sitting here and seeing the books’ reflections, with the lettering on the spines reversed as if they had changed into a secret or magical language. But as Benedict’s story unfolded, he began to realize he was not seeing the reversed images of the books as clearly as usual. He blinked, thinking it was the sunlight, but it made no difference. Something was obscuring the books’ reflections, something that was trying to take shape . . . It must be Benedict’s alter ego, he thought. It’s forming – this is what he sees . . .
He turned his head towards the window, half expecting to see that Wilberforce was uncurling from his snooze, or that a large bird had perched outside and was casting a freak reflection. But there was nothing and, when he looked back at the mirror, there were the rows of books, ordinary and familiar again and perfectly clear.
Benedict ended his story with Romilly’s death in London’s East End, and with Colm vanishing into the rain-drenched London streets, Declan following. He sat back, looking drained and exhausted, and reached for the coffee jug again.
‘That’s an extraordinary tale,’ said Michael softly. His voice sounded odd, as if it did not quite belong in the room, and he sat up a little straighter, hoping to dissolve the clinging mists of the Irish ghosts. He noticed vaguely that the fly had stopped its rhythmic buzzing. ‘I can’t decide if it sounds like a form of dark romantic fiction or simply the—’
‘Ravings of a disturbed mind?’
‘You don’t strike me as especially disturbed.’ He reached for his pen again. ‘Benedict, if those other people did exist it should be possible to find a record of them. And the places – the church where Romilly Rourke was buried, for instance. Can you remember any other details – any clues in the house, maybe? Papers, documents?’
He thought there was a slight pause before Benedict answered, as if he was trying to make up his mind about something. Then he said, ‘No. Nothing. There were a few boxes I didn’t open, but I think they were all household stuff – glassware and china. The things Nell was going to look at.’
‘Yes, I see.’ Michael sensed an evasion, but he did not press further. He thought for a moment, then said, ‘Benedict, I would like to help you if I can, but before we do anything I think we need to clear it with your doctors.’
‘Do we? Yes, of course we do. They might say if any of the people had lived, it would sort of feed the . . . the condition.’
‘Or that if they didn’t exist, you might go into a panic and end up worse off. I think you should ask that specialist if he’ll OK a bit of research. Explain I’m only wanting to help – that it’s meant to squash a wild idea you have that these events might actually have happened.’
‘If I could do that,’ said Benedict slowly, ‘I think I could concentrate on beating this thing – or learning to live with it.’
‘That sounds very sensible. Say that to your specialist, too. And make it clear that I’ll abide by his advice. If he says we don’t do it, then I’m afraid we don’t. You’ve got my card, haven’t you? He can write to me or phone or email – whatever’s easiest. And if he does agree, I promise I’ll do what I can.’
‘You’ll help me to find Colm and Romilly and all the rest?’
‘Yes,’ said Michael slowly. ‘Yes, I will. I don’t think I’ll be able to do much until the new term has got itself under way – it’s always a fairly crowded time and it’ll be several days before things start trundling along under their own steam – but after that I’ll start searching.’
Benedict nodded, as if relieved, then said, ‘Dr Flint—’
‘If we’re going to be on ghost-hunting terms, you’d better make it Michael.’
‘Michael, Nell West said she’d go back to Holly Lodge. To look over the rest of the furniture and stuff.’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t think she should do that,’ said Benedict.
‘Why not?’
Benedict paused, and Michael felt the silence start to become charged, as if something – some hidden force – was starting to thrum.
‘Because he’s there,’ said Benedict at last. His voice was very soft.
‘Who? Who’s there, Benedict?’
Benedict’s hands gripped the arms of the chair so hard the knuckles turned white, and he leaned against the chair back, turning his head from side to side, as people with aching necks sometimes do to ease stiff muscles. His eyes were half closed and Michael received the impression of inner struggle.
There was a faint movement within the mirror, then Benedict opened his eyes and Michael felt the same cold prickle of apprehension he had experienced in Nina Doyle’s flat. Benedict’s eyes were vividly, unmistakably, blue. When he spoke, Michael’s apprehension spiralled into real fear, because it was the voice he had heard that day in Nina’s flat.