‘We both know who’s inside that house, don’t we?’ said the voice that was not Benedict’s.
There was a brief darting movement from the mirror, and this time, unable to help himself, Michael turned his head to look. For a split second the outline of a man looked back. A man who wore a dark coat from another era and who had turned up the collar to hide his face.
‘I’ve been given guarded approval by the specialist,’ said Michael to Owen Bracegirdle, three days later. He was focusing on the practicalities of the task and ignoring that fleeting image he had seen. It would have been auto-suggestion or some sort of self-hypnosis – the room had been warm and there had been that dazzle of light from the lowlying winter sun, and the classic soporific buzz of a fly against a window pane. It could even have been a form of telepathy – Benedict could have been believing so strongly in the presence of Declan that he had projected an actual image of him which Michael had picked up.
‘The specialist emailed me saying there was no reason why we shouldn’t try to track down one or two of the names in Benedict’s story,’ he said to Owen. ‘I got the impression he had been down this route with patients before, though: as if people with this condition won’t accept the diagnosis until they’ve made absolutely sure they aren’t a victim of some peculiar kind of Biblical possession or a reincarnation takeover or something.’
‘Understandable. I think I’d rather believe I was being possessed by the spirit of my great aunt Jemima, than accept my brain was flawed,’ said Owen.
‘He added a caveat. If I came up against anything I wasn’t happy with – or anything that might be a clue to Benedict’s condition – I was to refer back to him.’
‘Cautious lot, medics,’ said Owen. ‘Same as historians.’
‘Well, don’t be cautious now. Benedict knows I’m talking to you, by the way, and he’s perfectly happy about it. And I need your help – this kind of research is more your field of expertise than mine.’
‘Hmmm. It’s an intriguing project, Michael.’
‘Yes, but I suspect I’m on slightly questionable ground with it.’
‘Why?’
‘He’s somebody else’s student,’ said Michael.
‘Yes, but he approached you of his own volition, and you’ve cleared it with his doctors, and anyway, he’s over eighteen and in his right mind – more or less.’
‘That’s true. So where do I start? Do I go after the chessmen’s origins? He knows Nell found that single piece, but I haven’t mentioned that story you found about the Earl of Kilderry.’
‘If I were you, I’d leave the chessmen to Nell,’ said Owen. ‘Have you told her about this new development?’
‘No.’ Michael had still not sorted out in his mind why he had not done this.
‘The old principle of divide and rule? But whatever it is,’ said Owen, ‘it’s always a good idea to pursue two separate lines of research – more than two if you can. Don’t influence Nell’s enquiries, not until you hear what her contact comes up with. Meantime, go after other leads.’
‘There are several possible ones, aren’t there?’ said Michael.
‘There are indeed. I suppose this place – Kilglenn – exists, does it?’
‘It does. It’s not much more than a speck on the map, but it exists, exactly where Benedict’s alter ego said. It’s on the edge of the west coast, near the Cliffs of Moher. But that doesn’t necessarily prove or disprove anything, though.’
‘No.’ Owen considered for a moment, then said, ‘It’s a colourful cast of characters he describes, isn’t it?’
‘Too colourful for them to be real?’ Michael himself had had the uneasy feeling that Benedict’s people might have come straight from the pages of a novel or stepped down from a film screen.
‘I’m not sure. It’s all a bit neat, isn’t it? Facts are usually untidy. Real events are uneven. What about that church where Romilly’s supposed to be buried? St Stephen’s in Canning Town, wasn’t it? Is there actually a St Stephen’s there?’
‘I don’t know. It’s one of the areas that was severely bombed in the Second World War. It’s just warehouses now.’
‘Ah. Pity. All right, what else have you got?’
Owen sounded exactly the way he sounded when he was prodding his students to think for themselves. Michael supposed he often sounded the same to his own students, but it felt strange to be on the other side of the desk.
He said, ‘The ownership of Holly Lodge has to be a good possibility. Benedict’s going to see if he can get a copy of the Title Deeds from the solicitor. Hopefully there’ll be some of the house’s history – including the name of that brothel-keeper among them.’ He broke off and said, wryly, ‘Do you know, Owen, when I came to Oxford it never occurred to me I’d be chasing brothel-keepers.’
‘I shouldn’t let that worry you; I’ll bet Oxford’s no stranger to brothels and their keepers. You’re bearing in mind, are you, that you might not have the lady’s real name?’
‘I am. “Flossie Totteridge” almost smacks of a Dickens’ creation, doesn’t it?’
‘If not Restoration comedy,’ said Owen. ‘But people have had odder names. She might not have actually owned the place, though. She might have been renting it. Or it might have belonged to a pimp.’
‘I don’t think,’ said Michael, ‘that Benedict told me everything. I think there was more about Romilly that he wasn’t disclosing. But what he did tell me spooked me quite a lot.’
‘You’re too easily spooked,’ said Owen breezily, and Michael thought: but you’d be spooked if you’d seen a dark-clad figure looking out at you from your own mirror. ‘I thought you were quite at home with spooks anyway,’ Owen went on. ‘Didn’t you encounter something a bit peculiar at that old house in Shropshire last year?’
‘Yes, but that was in another country and besides the wench is dead,’ said Michael irresistibly.
‘And keep your bloody sonnets for your adoring female students.’