Oddly enough, it was only then that my brain admitted that this was Harriet’s handwriting.
My hands were suddenly shaking like a leaf in winter. My mother had written this note as she was about to set out on her final journey.
I shoved the paper back into its envelope and replaced it in the Bible.
The music slowly floated back into my consciousness: the sawing away of the strings at that mournful melody.
Death and the Maiden.
Jocelyn was still listening intently, his eyes closed.
How often had Harriet visited him here? I wondered. How had she managed to get in through all those doors—at least two of them locked?
Perhaps, eleven or twelve years ago, things had been different. Perhaps, like Buckshaw, Bogmore Hall had once been a happy home.
But somehow I doubted it. The place was what I imagined an abandoned courtroom would be like: cold and empty and smelling of judgment, the last prisoner dragged away for punishment.
Except Jocelyn, of course. It seemed as if he had been sentenced to life.
I began to think what a horrid existence he must lead when my mind began sending me an urgent message—something about the double doors. What was it?
The locks! If Benson, or whoever Jocelyn’s jailer was, had in fact forgotten to lock the outer door, and should happen to return for any reason, I would be locked in, too.
I had to get out of this place at once! Any thoughts I might have had of questioning Jocelyn about his father, or Harriet, or the saint who must not be wakened would have to be put off until another day.
As long as he stayed inside his instructional musical bubble, I could leave quietly without his noticing.
I plotted my course and began moving slowly toward the door. I was halfway across the room when the music ended.
Jocelyn swiveled his head a little to the right—and then to the left. He got up out of his chair and turned completely round just as my hand touched the doorknob.
His eyes met mine, his face expressionless. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking.
I don’t know what made me do it, but it must have been some primitive memory that caused me, without even thinking, to raise three fingers to my lips and blow him a kiss.
And then I went out the door.
Now I was back in the small chamber, the dusty curtains dragging across my face like the cobweb of some obscene, mammoth spider. I fought free of them and shot back the bolt of the outside door. There had been a bolt, after all.
Hold on, though!
Would Benson be lying in wait on the other side? Catching an intruder red-handed would be a real feather in his cap.
Keeping my eye well back from the glass porthole, I moved my head slowly from side to side, viewing the outer room piece by piece, yard by yard.
It was empty.
I eased the door open and was stepping through it when I heard the sound of footsteps. A moment later, seen through the banisters, a head appeared. An oddly familiar head.
Someone was coming up the stairs! A man.
There was nowhere to hide. It was too late.
Good job I hadn’t yet closed the door behind me. I dodged back into the cubicle and quietly eased the bolt shut.
Had he seen me?
I couldn’t get back into Jocelyn’s room—the inner door had locked behind me. I was stuck in the dark, airless space between the two doors: trapped among the moldering velvet curtains.
A key scratched at the lock.
The dust was eating at my nostrils like black pepper—I could feel it. I was going to sneeze.
I pinched my nose between thumb and forefinger and tried to breathe through my mouth as I huddled into the corner behind the door, shrinking back, trying to make myself as small as possible.
The door opened, jamming me against the wall, crushing the air out of my lungs.
There was a pause—and then the sound of a key in the second lock.
I couldn’t breathe. I was going to suffocate.
Then suddenly the pressure eased as the outer door was closed.
I was now locked into the cubicle with the man. He was so close I could smell his breath. Tobacco and kippers.
There was a shuffling, and the curtains billowed.
“Open the door, will you?” he called out loudly, almost in my ear. “I’ve got a tray.”
There was a banging, as if he were kicking at the inner door with his toe.
After an eternity, a bolt clicked back.
“Benson?” Jocelyn’s voice called through the door.
“Who else did you think it was,” the man growled.
“The king of Siam?”
And then he was gone and I was alone in the stuffy cubicle.
I counted to three and slid open the bolt of the outer door, which I left ajar behind me as I made for the top of the stairs.
Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen: Down the stone steps I flew as if the hounds of Hades were barking at my backside. I counted the treads as they flew by beneath my feet. Now I was at the landing. Twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four—two at a time—twenty-six. Across the foyer and out the front door, and only then, I think, did I begin to breathe.
Gladys was where I had left her, leaning against the crumbling stone railing. Esmeralda was pecking at the bottom of the crate, absorbed in her own thoughts.
As I pedaled away, I risked a glance back over my shoulder at the upper windows. They were empty.
No face at the window. No Jocelyn, and thankfully, no Benson.
I knew that I had seen him somewhere before as soon as I saw him coming up the stairs.
The problem was this—I could not for the life of me remember where.