I sat in my bedroom for a very long time that night. I didn’t even attempt to sleep.
My mind was filled with the thought of my father locked into that room, locked in with that oak chest, so like a deep, dark coffin. And Stephen …? Was it really possible that Stephen could be lured down there and that my father could chain him inside the chest and so save him from the German soldiers? Written down it looks utterly mad. In reality, mad is exactly what it is, of course. What I also know is that a lot of it is my fault. I let Stephen in – it didn’t matter that father told me to do it, I was the one who opened the window so he could come in. I fed my father’s madness. Perhaps I even caused it.
I lay listening to St Augustine’s church clock striking the hours. When the wind is in a certain quarter, you can hear the chimes quite clearly. It’s a cold, lonely sound at any hour, though, and on that night it was the coldest, loneliest sound I had ever heard.
At half-past six I got up and went down to the hall. The house was shrouded in early-morning light – thin and grey, not hopeful like the start of a new day should be.
For a wild moment I thought the door in the panelling might have vanished, like a door in a fairy tale that isn’t always there. It had not, of course. But it was still locked, so I tapped on it and called out softly. At first I thought he was not going to reply, but then I heard him come up the stairs.
‘Luisa?’
‘Yes. Please unlock the door.’ There was silence. I tried again. ‘Come out and have some breakfast. You can go back in there later. Please, Father.’
‘Bring my breakfast here,’ he said. ‘I must wait for him. If it takes months – years even, I must wait for him.’
Him. Stephen. The young man with soft hair and that beseeching hand-clasp who had been dead for more than a quarter of a century.
I thought if I could at least get Father to open the door, I might be able to reason with him. He might snap back to sanity, and we could go on as we had before, and no one would have to know about this. So I went along to the scullery and made coffee, strong and sweet, the way father liked it, and I made toast and spread it with butter and his favourite Oxford marmalade, and I took a small tray to the panelled door.
He opened it a very little, and his face appeared in the narrow gap. For a terrible moment I thought it was not my father – that it was some wild-eyed madman who had got into the house. Then I saw he was wearing the shirt and cardigan he had on last night, and as his hands came out to snatch the tray from me, I saw the signet ring he always wore. Before I could say or do anything, he retreated and I heard the lock turn again. Footsteps went back down the stone steps.
I had no idea what to do. I did not even know if anyone would believe me if I told them – I did not think Mother would. And without the key it would be impossible to open the door – no one had known it was there anyway. Even Mother’s cousin, my Uncle Charles, had never noticed it, and Uncle Charles liked exploring the house. He usually came for Christmas, and he was apt to organize boisterous games after Christmas dinner – treasure hunts and hide-and-seek and something called Sardines, which he always said was a corking game – they had played it when he was a young man and it would liven up our guests splendidly. Our guests were generally the vicar and his wife, and their two unmarried daughters, and none of them were the Sardines type, but that never bothered Uncle Charles.
Uncle Charles.
I took a deep breath and went into the library and picked up the phone.
Michael saw that someone – and presumably it had been Luisa herself – had folded a small piece of paper into the diary at this point. Unfolding it, he saw the familiar writing of Chuffy Chiffley. Luisa’s Uncle Charles.
Dear old Tommy,
I’m in need of a rather large favour. I know it’s a frightful imposition, but I’m wondering if you might be able to help us out over a cousin who’s become a trifle unhinged.
It’s nothing too serious, I shouldn’t think – probably down to the war, you know – but he’s taken to locking himself away in a cellar and refusing to come out. Awfully upsetting for the family – there’s a wife and a young daughter. I’m anxious to help, but I don’t mind telling you I was absolutely at a loss until I remembered you and that you treated a few chaps who’d been in Intelligence in the 1940s, and who’d come out of it a bit battered mentally. I remember how grateful they were. Also, I think you were at that Scottish place – Craiglockhart, wasn’t it? – during the Great War. I’m sure you once told me you’d helped look after those poor blighters who suffered shell-shock.
My cousin has been looking into the life of one of his relatives who went through all that grim 1914–18 stuff, and it’s my idea that he’s got a bit fixated on it all – I think that’s the right word. So if you’ve got a spare room in one of your nursing homes where he could be kept quiet and safe, with a few trained people on hand to help sort him out, the family would be most awfully grateful. I don’t know how these things work, but I can give you my personal assurance that the wherewithal will be forthcoming.
How are things with you? I wish you’d toddle along to join us at the next regimental reunion. They always put on a pretty good show, and it would be splendid to see you again.
Hoping to hear from you soon,
Affectionately,
Charles (Chuffy) Chiffley
It was like meeting an old friend. Michael thought Chuffy’s anxious generosity came off the page vividly and endearingly.