She did not seem to notice Michael’s start of surprise, so he said, ‘Were his hands damaged in Holzminden?’
‘I don’t know. But on some nights his hands still bleed.’ A deep sadness touched her face, then she said, ‘I think Holzminden damaged his mind, though. Perhaps he became a little mad because of it. I’ve sometimes felt—’
‘Yes?’
‘I’ve sometimes felt that his madness became stamped on this house,’ she said. Her eyes narrowed, darting from side to side as if searching for something, and Michael felt a prickle of unease.
‘Whatever happened to Stephen can’t possibly affect you now, Miss Gilmore—’
‘Dr Flint, why do you think I live here like this!’ she said, angrily. ‘Solitary, secluded. Shut away from the world. Why do you think I couldn’t offer you the common courtesy of asking you to stay here for your research? Here, in a house with so many empty bedrooms. And why do you suppose I was so fearful when the storm forced my hand last night?’
There was an abrupt silence. Then Michael said, very softly, ‘Because Stephen comes here every night.’
‘Yes. Yes. He tries to get in, but his poor hands— And there are some nights—’
She broke off, and Michael said, very gently, ‘There are some nights when you let him in?’
‘Yes,’ she said, staring up at him. Her hands flexed in an odd gesture, as if she was clasping another, invisible, hand. ‘I don’t know why I’m telling you this,’ she said. ‘I’ve never told anyone before. But you saw him. You heard him. So perhaps you understand, just a little.’
Do I tell her she seemed to have sleepwalked last night? thought Michael. That I saw her open the door? He said, carefully, ‘Do you see him every night?’
‘Almost every night. Since I was a young girl growing up here. When I was a little older – when I understood better – I realized that no one must ever be in this house once darkness falls, because no one must know about Stephen. If he’s real – if he’s still here, I have to protect him. I have to protect people who come to this house, as well.’
‘From whatever – or whoever – came for Stephen?’
‘Yes.’
‘And if Stephen’s not real?’
‘Dr Flint, we both know what happens to people who see and hear things that aren’t there,’ she said impatiently.
Trying for a more normal note, Michael said, ‘But you haven’t been entirely alone all this time, surely?’
‘Not entirely,’ said Luisa. ‘My life hasn’t been completely solitary. It certainly hasn’t been without purpose or interest. There are people in the village – occasional social events. And there are people I correspond with – there are a great many of those. Researchers into the Choir in particular – that began many years ago, and it’s brought me a good deal of pleasure and interest. Your Director of Music is one of those researchers, of course.’
‘What about your family? Friends?’
‘I had no brothers or sisters,’ said Luisa. ‘As a child I was alone a good deal.’ A shadow of some strong emotion passed over her face, but it vanished before Michael could identify it. ‘In any case, I could never put into words what I heard and saw.’ She paused, then in a low voice said, ‘Sometimes, I think I am mad as well – that I’ve been infected with Stephen’s madness. Can you catch insanity?’
‘Of course not. And let’s remember that I’ve seen Stephen, too.’
‘Yes. Dr Flint – Michael – I think I shall always be deeply grateful to you for that.’ Then, as abruptly as if a curtain had been drawn, the cool, grande dame persona returned. ‘I came to tell you that I took a phone call a short time ago,’ she said. ‘The tree is still blocking the roads. I’m afraid it means you’ll have to spend another night inside Fosse House.’
Email from: Owen Bracegirdle
To: Nell West
Hi Nell –
Thanks for your message earlier.
Of course I’ll come with you to the Bodleian, and we’ll caper through the catalogues and disrupt the staff in quest of your privately-printed letters. I can’t imagine why you’re chasing letters from a POW officer from the Great War, but you can tell me the spicy details over coffee.
Light has been restored to College after Wilberforce’s foray into the bewilderment of Oriel’s electricity. That means I’ve been able to send a more seemly report to the Director of Music on my work for his opus, rather than a scrawl on a couple of spare sheets of A4. I hope he takes due note of the lateness of the hour I sent it, because it doesn’t hurt to let the ivory tower gang realize that lesser mortals work quite hard.
I’m sorry to report, though, that while everyone was searching for Homer’s lamp for illumination, or, at worst, a few candles or a cigarette lighter, Wilberforce appears to have padded through the Gothic darkness to Oriel’s kitchens. He reached them unerringly, of course – that cat could find a scullery in a stormy night without a compass – and made a quiet and efficient assault on the abandoned lamb casserole. To be fair, the casserole had already been designated as uneatable, due to being only half-cooked, and I suppose Wilberforce couldn’t be expected to understand about the dangers of imperfectly-cooked lamb.