He looked down at Nell, who was leaning against his shoulder, her eyes on the pages. She said, ‘It’s all right, I’m not going into high drama all over again. I’ll cope with having been a ghost in a garden.’ She thought for a moment, then said, ‘That all seems to fit. And it would explain why Stephen was trying to get back into the house, wouldn’t it? He must have realized right at the end that it couldn’t have been Leonora he saw, and—’
‘And he died believing he had to get back into the house to get her out of the oak chest. Everyone who encountered him,’ said Michael thoughtfully, ‘assumed he was running to the house to get away from Hugbert and the others, but he wasn’t.’
‘He was running to get to Leonora.’
‘Yes.’
‘Did we resolve it for him?’ asked Nell. ‘When we opened the chest? Did we – what’s the expression? – send him to rest?’
‘We’ll probably never know for sure. But I’m going to think so.’
‘So am I. There’s another couple of paragraphs,’ said Nell, turning the last page. ‘Let’s read them.’
The final entry was quite short.
Later today, I shall bring Stephen’s body into the house, and we will seal it up in the oak chest. Leonora wants to do this – she wants Stephen to be in the house, where he felt safe, rather than to be in the garden where he was executed. So I shall do what she wants, and then I shall put these pages with his body. Leonora will put her gold crucifix in as well. Then we’ll lock up the house and leave. I have no idea yet where we will go, but wherever it is, it will be good. I will make it so.
One last thing …
I can’t forget that shadowy figure who darted across the darkness just before Stephen was killed. I know this is absurd, but I wish there was some way of letting her know that I saw her and that whoever she is or was – or will be – that brief memory will stay with me.
In the meantime, here, for anyone who finds it, is Stephen Gilmore’s story.
Alexei Iskander.
Fosse House. 1917.
Twenty-Five
Memo from:Director of Music, Oriel College, Oxford
To: Dr Michael Flint, English Literature/Language Faculty
November 201—
Michael,
Thank you again for all you did over that rather unfortunate Fosse House business. I really am immensely grateful.
I feel our opus on Music and the Great War Poets is shaping up very well. Dr Bracegirdle has provided some excellent material and has even managed to inject a thread of humour into his gleanings. Considering the focus of our book, this is a remarkable feat, even for him.
I believe you and Nell West will be attending Luisa Gilmore’s funeral – which will also be the funeral of the poor man whose remains you found in the house. I will be present as well, of course. After the extraordinary bequest to the music faculty I certainly wish to pay the respects of myself and of College, so I hope to see you there.
In view of the absence of any family I don’t suppose there will be any kind of funeral bak’d meats, so perhaps you and Nell would care to have lunch with me after the service? I recall you spoke well of the Bell, where you stayed.
Kind regards,
J.B.
The little church was filled with music – beautiful, intricate music sung by a small choir. It ebbed and flowed and wove its enchantment, as its creator, Giovanni Palestrina, had intended.
‘Specially requested,’ murmured Michael to Nell.
‘By you?’
‘By J.B.’ Michael hesitated then said quietly, ‘But the next reading is my request.’
It was taken from the Edward Melbourne poem, Before Action.
‘I, that on my familiar hill,
Saw with uncomprehending eyes
A hundred of thy sunsets spill,
Their fresh and sanguine sacrifice,
Ere the sun swings his noonday sword, Must say goodbye to all of this.
By the delights that I shall miss,
Help me to die, O Lord.’
There was a brief, but very deep silence when the vicar’s voice ceased. Then the congregation rose for the final hymn and blessing, and under cover of the small flurry, Nell said huskily, ‘That was almost unbearably right for Stephen. I can’t think of anything better.’
‘I thought he would have liked it,’ said Michael. ‘Call me a romantic old fool, if you want.’
‘You’re a romantic old fool. And I love you,’ she said.
As the small congregation walked away from the graveside, Michael and Nell fell into step with a lady who appeared to be on her own. She looked as if she was in her mid thirties, and she had dark hair and eyes, and slanting cheekbones.
‘Are you one of the family?’ asked Michael, conventionally.
‘Very distantly.’ She had a slight accent, which might have been French. ‘It’s three, or even four generations back,’ she said. ‘My great-grandfather – maybe one more “great” – married a Gilmore. He was Russian – a bit of a disreputable old boy if any of the legends can be believed, but I always rather liked the sound of him. And his disreputable ways, whatever they were, seem to have paid off, because he’s supposed to have ended up quite rich.’
Michael felt Nell’s reaction, but she only said, ‘Do you live locally?’
‘Not at all. I’ve been working in France – I’m half French – but I’ve always wanted to come to this part of England where my family lived. I’m director of a small music academy just outside Paris. We’ve been thinking of having a base in England for some time, and we hope Fosse House might be that base.’
‘Really?’ said Michael, hardly daring to believe this.
‘It’s exactly the right size, and between the academy’s funds and an Arts Council grant, as well as the dosh my great-great-grandfather left, it’s looking as if it can be done. Our idea is to have residential weekends and conventions for researchers and youth orchestras. Also summer schools, perhaps.’
‘I think Miss Gilmore would have liked that very much,’ said Michael warmly. He pushed open the lychgate, and the stranger and Nell went through. As they walked across to the parked cars, he said, ‘By the way, I’m Michael Flint, and this is Nell West.’
‘I’m Léonie,’ she said. ‘And I’m so pleased to be coming to Fosse House.’