Michael was not really surprised. The dates had already been looking about right for Booth to be Luisa’s father.
Luisa had referred to her parents being away, saying she had been on her own a good deal. Presumably Booth – perhaps with his wife – had travelled outside England in his search for the truth about his mysterious cousin, Stephen, leaving his small daughter in the care of a nursemaid or nanny. He certainly seemed to have visited Liège. Did that mean he had found a link between Stephen and the Palestrina Choir, or had it simply been Leonora who had interested him because of the family connection?
Michael was just deciding he would have to postpone further searches until after dinner, when he heard Luisa tapping her way across the hall, and then the sound of a door being unlocked. Did that mean she was going down to the underground room? To pray? To write in the leather-bound book again? But again the question formed as to why she should go down there to do either of those things. Because she’s mad, said his mind in instant response. She might only be mad nor’ nor’ west, like Hamlet, but if the compass has swung round to the nor’nor’ west point tonight …
He was just managing to convince himself that he could ignore the sounds and that Luisa would emerge in time for dinner, perfectly normal and lucid, when there was a muffled cry and a series of slithering bumps. She’s fallen, thought Michael, horrified – she’s tripped on those wretched stone steps and fallen down them.
He ran out to the hall and across to the door set in the panelling. It was closed, but of course Luisa would have closed it after her. For a moment Michael thought she had locked it as well, and that he would have to break it down, but when he tried the small catch, the door swung smoothly inwards. He took a deep breath and stepped through.
Twelve
The curve of the steps hid the underground room from view, and a faint, flickering light came from below, as if the oil lamp or the candles had been lit. From the top of the steps Michael could not see Luisa, and he hesitated, still concerned, but not wanting to intrude. He had better make sure she was all right, though.
Had it only been twenty-four hours since he had stolen down these steps? In the flickering light his shadow fell blackly and eerily on the stone walls, and Michael glanced at it uneasily. Were there two shapes on the wall, as if two separate people were tiptoeing stealthily down the steps, the second one just behind him …? He whipped round and for a fleeting moment had the impression of someone pressing back in the dark corners.
‘Stephen?’ said Michael, very softly, and it seemed as if the darkness picked up the word and spun it into soft echoes.
Stephen, Stephen, STEPHEN… .
Then, incredibly, like dead breath struggling to form sounds, a faint response seemed to form within the echoes.
‘Here I am … You let me in, remember …? I can never get in by myself – I can never open a door or a window … But I was the shadow you saw inside the rain, and I was the one who printed the footmarks on the floor …’
Michael pushed the whispers away and went down the remaining steps. There was the altar-like table he remembered and the candles. They were unlit, but the oil lamp was glowing in its corner. There was the small desk with the book and pen. Then he saw that the chair by the desk had overturned, and that Luisa was lying near it in an untidy huddle on the ground. Michael went over to kneel by her. She was not moving and her eyes were closed. Was she dead? In films and books people always seemed to know straightaway if a person was dead, even without medical knowledge. But then he saw with relief that Luisa was breathing, although she was certainly unconscious. There was a bluish tinge to her lips – did that mean heart? Michael was not very used to dealing with illness, but there were certain basic things you did when someone collapsed. The first was to summon help, the second was to keep the person warm. He sped back up to the stairs, snatched up the phone in the hall, which was quicker than rummaging for his mobile, and dialled 999. It was a massive relief to hear a calm, clearly knowledgeable voice taking the details, and saying paramedics would be there as quickly as possible, and please to wait with the patient.
‘There’s a tree down in the road,’ said Michael. ‘Will the ambulance be able to get round it?’
The reassuring voice said he need not worry; the paramedics would come on motorbikes, and if hospitalization was needed, there were various services that could be called on. ‘We’re used to remote houses in this part of the world,’ she said, and Michael thanked her, explained that the lady who had collapsed was in an underground room, and that he would remain down there with her until help arrived.
‘Don’t move her. Put a blanket over her, and see if you can call her out of unconsciousness. Try to get her to stay awake.’
‘I’ll try.’
‘And don’t leave her on her own.’
‘No, of course not. Tell the medics I’ll unbolt the front door so they can get in. They’ll get to the underground room from the hall. There’s a door in the panelling – I’ll prop it open.’
‘They’ll call out anyway, and they’ll go over the house if you don’t hear them,’ she said. ‘Shall I stay on the line with you until they come?’
‘I’m not on a cordless phone,’ said Michael, who was conscious of inadequacy and would have been grateful for the friendly efficiency.
‘Well, ring us back if you need to.’
‘Thank you very much,’ he said, and this time ran upstairs to get blankets from the nearest bed, which happened to be his own.