The story ended there, although the book itself went on for another page and a half, with Fergal McMahon adding a conscientious homily about divine and man-made retribution and atoning for sin.
Michael had been so deeply immersed in Fergal’s world that when the phone rang it startled him so much he dropped the book on Wilberforce, who let out an indignant yowl.
The phone call was from Nell. She wondered if Michael would like to have supper at her flat the following evening.
‘It’s tomorrow I’m in London, sorting out the inventory at Holly Lodge,’ she said.
‘I know it is. What train are you catching?’
‘Well, actually,’ said Nell, ‘I thought I might as well go up tonight. I can get the seven forty-five or the six past eight train and Nina says I can stay with her. It would mean I could make an early start. That might even allow time for me to get that chess piece valued.’
‘Good idea. Shall I pick up a takeaway tomorrow so you don’t have to cook when you get back?’
‘That would be nice.’
‘Chinese? Indian? Fish and chips?’
‘Chinese, please.’ She appeared to hesitate, then in a slightly too-casual voice said, ‘Michael, would it be possible for you to meet me off the train tomorrow? I’ll probably get the one that gets in at quarter to seven. We could pick up the food on the way to Quire Court.’
‘I think I can,’ said Michael, reaching for his diary. ‘Yes. I’ve got a couple of tutorials in the morning, but that’s all.’ It was not like Nell to ask for a lift from the station; she hated being dependent on anyone else and on the few occasions Michael had offered to meet her from a train journey she had always said she was perfectly capable of hopping in a taxi or walking across to the bus station. He did not want to ask outright if anything was wrong, so to give her a let-out he said, ‘I expect you might have a lot of stuff to lug back.’
She did not take the let-out. She said, ‘It’s not that. It’s just that I don’t want to go into the court on my own in the dark. I thought someone was prowling around a few nights ago.’
‘Oh God, was there?’ Michael’s thoughts switched from the spectral threat of the chess piece to the more temporal one of burglars and muggers. ‘Have you reported it?
There was a perceptible hesitation, then she said, ‘Yes, but it was such a vague sighting they weren’t inclined to send out the cavalry. The on-duty sergeant logged it and said they would ask the duty patrol car to drive round during the evening, but that’s all.’
‘Would you like to bring your things over here and stay for a few nights?’
‘And shock your students?’ The familiar note of irony was back in her voice.
‘You could creep out at dawn,’ said Michael, smiling. ‘Like a Feydeau farce. But how about if I stay with you for a few nights? As a security guard, I mean.’
‘Would you wear a uniform?’
‘Would you like me to?’
‘It depends on the uniform,’ she said, and chuckled.
‘No, but seriously, I could sleep in Beth’s room if you’d prefer, and I could be the one to do the sneaking out at dawn. I should think Quire Court’s seen its fair share of furtive lovers over the centuries anyway. Tiptoeing over the cobblestones among the flowerpots.’
‘You’d trip over the flowerpots and set off the shop alarms,’ said Nell. ‘And that would be more like a Carry On film than a French farce. No, I’ll be perfectly safe, it was only that once and I haven’t heard anything since. I’m probably overreacting.’
‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘Yes.’ There was a pause. ‘Michael – you will be there, won’t you?’
‘At the station?’
‘Well . . .’ She paused, and something seemed to shiver on the air between them.
‘My dear love,’ said Michael softly, ‘I’ll always be there.’
Michael was vaguely worried by Nell’s mention of a prowler. He was even more worried when he thought about the semi-isolation of Quire Court. It was so quiet, so enclosed in its own gentle atmosphere that it did not seem a place that would be targeted by vandals or burglars. Tomorrow evening he would take a look at the locks and bolts on the doors of the flat behind the shop.
What about the other threat, though? The chess piece. Unless Fergal McMahon’s memoirs were false – nineteenth-century Gothic fiction presented in an unexpected way – the Abbot and his gang had clearly believed the chess set held a very dark power. And Fergal’s account of the thirty-two shadows performing their own dance macabre in a dim old library was extraordinarily chilling, no matter what one believed.
Michael glanced back at the book’s publication date: 1904. Presumably Fergal had been dead by then, but it was entirely possible that he had simply stashed the memoirs away, and they had not come to light until many years later. Perhaps some member of Fergal’s family – a niece or nephew – had found them and wanted the world to know the old boy’s strange story. Or the Church might have suppressed the memoirs, of course. Michael thought, with a touch of irony, that the Catholic Church was probably second to none when it came to hiding what it considered to be contentious or disreputable incidents.