Declan said, ‘Yes. Yes, I can.’ But even to his own ears his voice sounded false.
‘I left you here just before three o’clock,’ said Colm. ‘And it was nearly nine when I found you. What were you doing all those hours?’
‘If it comes to that, what were you?’
Suspicion flared in the small room, then Colm said, ‘Don’t be stupid. If you must know, I was at Holly Lodge. With the Totteridge.’
‘Were you really? How sordid.’
‘I’ll be as sordid as I like. Especially,’ said Colm, ‘if it means getting out of this fleapit and getting my hands on some real money. Declan, this isn’t what we came to London for.’ He made an angry, impatient gesture, taking in the cheap shabby room. ‘Rotten rooms like this, and scraping up the money for the next meal. You’re sick from hunger – that’s why you feel so ill. When did you last eat?’
‘Breakfast this morning,’ said Declan. ‘And I didn’t eat more than a couple of mouthfuls then.’
‘I had a very nice supper with the Totteridge. Smoked eels, oyster and beef pie, then some kind of pudding the likes of which I’d never seen. She sent out for it and it was brought to the house and set down before us. She’s rich, that one, Declan, and if she’s handled right . . .’ He gave a wry grin. ‘D’you feel well enough to come with me to get your jacket now? We’ll use some of Bullfinch’s money and get a hansom cab.’
‘I’ll come,’ said Declan, who did not feel well enough to so much as walk down to the street and who would prefer not to touch a farthing of Bullfinch’s money. But he could not leave Colm to do this and they did not have any money left of their own.
‘We’ll buy a couple of penny pies and hot potatoes on the way so you don’t collapse from lack of sustenance. And while we eat we’ll pray the body hasn’t been found.’
The present
But it was found, thought Benedict. It was the first of the murders, and it was found, and although the case didn’t get much publicity – probably because it was overshadowed by Jack and his butcher’s knife – Harold Bullfinch was the first of the Mesmer Murders.
SEVENTEEN
Benedict collected the photocopies of Holly Lodge’s Title Deeds from the solicitors next morning while Nina was delivering fifty stuffed pigeon breasts and a sushi platter to Russell Square for the cocktail party opening of a new art gallery.
Coming out of the solicitors’ offices, the large envelope tucked firmly under one arm, he hesitated about returning to the flat. Nina would not mean to pry, but if she realized he had the deeds to Holly Lodge, she would want to discuss it and speculate on its former owners. Benedict wanted to speculate on its former owners as well, but not with Nina leaning over his shoulder.
The thought of going out to Holly Lodge nudged his mind. The key was on his key ring; he could go out there now and study the deeds entirely uninterrupted, and at some point he could phone Nina to say he had met a friend and not to expect him back until later.
Moving with decision, he headed for Tottenham Road tube. He suspected this was as much about proving to himself he was not afraid of the place as anything else, but he would do it anyway. In any case, whether Declan was an alter ego or a full-blown ghost, he had been able to reach Benedict just as easily in Nina’s flat as he had in Holly Lodge.
On the way there he tried to dilute Holly Lodge’s eeriness by turning it into an over-the-top setting for a horror film. This cartoonish mental image pleased him so much he whiled away the rest of the journey by sketching in a few details. Vapour trickling along the ground and a scantily clad heroine appearing out of the mists, pursued by some nameless evil. Yes, he would have his shrieking heroine; especially since there had not been any scantily clad females in any of his visions so far, unless you counted Romilly Rourke, which Benedict was not inclined to do. Not that Romilly had existed. Not that any of them had existed.
But we did, Benedict . . . You know we did . . .
Holly Lodge looked perfectly ordinary. It’s all right, thought Benedict, pausing at the gate and looking up at it. There’s nothing here. Or is there? For a heart-stopping second he thought something darted across an upstairs window, then realized it was just the reflection of a cloud. And ghosts could not actually hurt people – they could frighten them, but nothing worse.
Are you sure about that, Benedict? What about your parents . . . ? Your grandfather . . . ? How do you suppose they really died in that blizzard . . . ?
They skidded on the icy roads, said Benedict. But the memory of his father saying, ‘Benedict must never go to that house,’ came back to him.
Did they skid, Benedict? Or did they swerve their motor car to avoid hitting someone they thought was standing in the centre of the road . . . ? Someone who seemed to be walking towards them . . . Someone who wore a long dark coat, the collar turned up to hide the face . . .