The Voices Page 23

  ‘Indeed. My Freud is rather rusty but one must suppose that Mrs Norton’s belief in the supernatural allows her to shift the blame for her abominable crimes onto another party, albeit an entirely imaginary party. As a consequence, the delusion alleviates a weight of guilt that would otherwise be intolerable.’

  The inspector was momentarily awed by the fearsome complexity of the human mind. He swallowed his shortbread and said, ‘Extraordinary.’

  ‘Yes, it all begins to make sense when you think about it.’ The doctor seemed to be talking to himself rather than addressing Inspector Barnes. ‘The fact that she used to come here so often, expressing worries about the health of her child . . . that too must have been significant, psychologically.’

  The inspector shifted position to attract the doctor’s attention. ‘I always thought there was something wrong with their story.’

  ‘Oh?’ The doctor raised his teacup.

  ‘It just didn’t add up. Baby-snatchers don’t make life difficult for themselves. They’re opportunists. You wouldn’t get a baby-snatcher choosing to take a child from a first-floor bedroom in the middle of the night.’

  ‘Quite.’ The doctor coughed and appeared somewhat abashed. He put his teacup down and said, ‘Forgive me, Inspector, but I’m curious about something. What did the Nortons do with the child’s body?’

  Barnes shrugged. ‘We don’t know. We just don’t know.’

  Henry Baylis arrived early at Le Gavroche. He ordered a bottle of wine, lit a cigar, unfolded his newspaper, and read some disturbing reports about the Notting Hill Carnival. Petty criminal activity had led to clashes between black youths and the constabulary; missiles had been thrown and a police van turned over and set alight. A pitched battle had ensued and by the time it was over more than a hundred officers had been taken to hospital.

  When Bill Loxley appeared, Baylis dispensed with polite formalities. He tapped the sensational newspaper headline and said, ‘What the hell is happening to this country?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Loxley. ‘Law and order appear to be breaking down.’

  ‘See. Enoch Powell was right.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Loxley, taking his seat. ‘The streets aren’t flowing with blood yet, are they?’

  ‘More than a hundred policemen injured. They might disagree.’

  The two friends talked about the parlous state of the nation until a waiter came to their table and handed them menus. After they had ordered their starters and main courses, Loxley said, ‘Have you heard any more about the Norton case?’

  Baylis sighed and rubbed his forehead as if he had just experienced a sharp, lancing pain. ‘Terrible business. Still can’t take it all in really. No, I haven’t heard anything more. The wife’s in Holloway awaiting trial and the police haven’t been in touch again.’

  ‘Did you know her? The wife?’

  ‘Yes. Not as well as I knew poor Christopher, of course. She was a famous model once, a beautiful creature.’ Baylis’s gaze misted over. ‘She had the most remarkable eyes – a kind of golden, amber colour.’

  ‘Do you think she did it?’

  ‘They say she’s gone mad. If that’s true, then . . .’ His sentence trailed off and he produced a descending, musical sigh.

  Loxley stroked his Van Dyck beard. ‘He was such a nice chap.’

  ‘Yes, I’ll miss him awfully’

  ‘Tell me . . .’ Loxley leaned forward, placing his elbows down on either side of his wine glass and linking his fingers. ‘Did Christopher ever mention Maybury again?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The magician who used to live in his house – Edward Stokes Maybury.’

  ‘No.’ Baylis shook his head. ‘Why do you ask?’ He had detected a certain alertness in his friend’s attitude.

  ‘Well,’ Loxley replied, ‘after meeting Christopher, I was inspired to do a little research on Maybury myself. I’m still naive enough to believe that chance encounters can be provident.’

  ‘O, I am fortune’s fool!’ said Baylis.

  ‘Romeo and Juliet?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Anyway, I tried to find out where Maybury was buried. He lived in Hampstead so I assumed I’d find his grave somewhere local, somewhere like Highgate Cemetery. Well, it turns out that he wasn’t buried anywhere.’

  ‘Oh?’

  Loxley paused for a moment, unable to resist delaying his revelation to achieve a heightened sense of drama. ‘Maybury disappeared. He didn’t die in 1914, as we’d thought. That was the year he vanished.’

  ‘Ha! How ironic – for a magician, I mean.’

  Loxley’s bald head glistened in the candlelight ‘The house – Christopher’s house – was inherited by Maybury’s next of kin. A niece called Dorothy Pritchard.’

  ‘But when you say vanished—’

  ‘There’s hardly any detail, Henry.’ Loxley’s interruption was dismissive and employed more force than was strictly necessary. ‘War had just broken out and the disappearance of a not-very-well-known retired stage magician didn’t merit much coverage.’

  ‘So, something of a mystery?’

  ‘Indeed. I might report my discovery in a letter to The Magic Circular magazine. The editor, David Beckley, is very keen on history and arcane footnotes.’

  ‘How did you find out about Maybury’s disappearance?’

  ‘Archives,’ said Loxley, clearly not wishing to elaborate. The sudden waywardness of his eyes made him look untrustworthy, an effect that was augmented by the impishly tapering of his ears. ‘Henry?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re quite sure Christopher didn’t say anything else about Maybury?’

  ‘Yes, quite sure.’

  ‘It’s just that . . . I came across something else . . . a letter actually, written by a Circle member back in 1908. Apparently Maybury had outbid him for a very rare sixteenth-century book of magic that was up for auction at Sotheby’s: The Devil’s Troth. It was never heard of again. God only knows how much it’d be worth now.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Henry, shaking his head. ‘I can’t help you, old boy.’

  The tension seemed to flow out of Loxley’s body and his shoulders dropped. He smiled apologetically. ‘Shall we order another bottle?’

  September 1976

  The start of the month was unsettled, and in the first week there were cool, north-westerly winds that felt refreshing and autumnal. Simon and Amanda attended the performance of Nyx at the Roundhouse and the reviews that followed were wholly positive. ‘Distinctive string writing and subtle use of tape; a dark, lyrical piece that demonstrates, once again, Ogilvy’s rare, expressive gift.’ For a few days, they enjoyed the pretence of normality. They even made love – a brief, painfully desperate coupling initiated by Amanda.

  Unfortunately, the cooler weather did not last. At the end of the third week temperatures began to climb again. A thunderstorm was needed, a storm of biblical proportions, like Noah’s flood, a cathartic release that would cleanse the air and wash away the filth. Drains reeked. Exhaust fumes collected in the mouth. The heatwave had lasted too long; the sun was too large, its domination of the sky a foretaste of a final expansion that would one day consume the Earth. Every morning, the fiery disc returned, not to banish darkness, but to remind humanity of its ultimate doom.

  When the brouhaha surrounding the premiere of Nyx had subsided, Simon recognized that the time had finally arrived for him to pay a visit to the Vale of Health. He was obliged to honour the promises he had made to Laura.

  ‘I’m going this afternoon,’ he said to his wife over breakfast.

  ‘OK,’ Amanda replied. He had hoped that she would offer to accompany him. Instead, she looked away to avoid the silent appeal in his shining eyes.

  There was much to do. He would visit the house, check that everything was in order, and make a preliminary assessment of the contents. Choices needed to be made with respect to what should be sold and what might go into storage. There was the funeral to arrange. Christo
pher’s parents were both dead and Laura had become estranged from her family in her teens. It would be a small gathering: a few friends, some professional associates and one or two of Christopher’s cousins, perhaps. And then there was Laura’s odd request to find and destroy a reel of film she had hidden in the attic. Did it really exist? He had his doubts. Even so, he was obliged to look: he had given his word.

  Simon spent much of the day at the piano, reworking passages he’d written for the Three Lamentations. The cello and double bass parts were too busy and he removed some of the unnecessary ornamentation. He was satisfied with the result and felt a strong temptation to stay at home, but he was troubled by his conscience. The bar lines suggested imprisonment and he was reminded of Laura. The premiere of Nyx had already served as a justification for putting things off. Any further delay would represent a betrayal of trust.

  As he drove down East Heath Road, Simon became aware of the changing light. Dark clouds were accumulating with remarkable speed. He glanced up through the dirty windscreen and felt an odd, primal emotion that combined excitement with fear. The trees became monochrome as an eldritch dusk intensified. Simon tapped his indicator, turned left into the Vale of Health, and drove through a tunnel of overhanging branches that dipped down to the hidden village with its faux gas lamps and old-world charm. He pulled up outside the house, got out of the car and inhaled deeply; he could smell the sharp, sweet pungency of ozone. Suspended six thousand feet above his head, the weight of the coming deluge was oppressive.

  Simon checked that the key was still in his pocket. He had collected it from Laura’s solicitor the previous week.

  The first claps of thunder, like the crump of distant ordnance, sounded as he stepped beneath the porch. He unlocked the front door and entered the hallway, where he stood for a few moments, arrested by a chalky outline on the floor that showed where Christopher’s body had come to rest after his fall. Simon shivered. Death was too palpable here. He felt as if he had strayed within range of the grim reaper’s scythe. Warily, Simon backed away from the chalk outline and turned to enter the drawing room. A flash of lightning transformed the garden into a vision of lurid brilliance and after a short interval a loud detonation shook the house. For a split second, Simon had seen what appeared to be a man standing by the gazebo. It had been a curious illusion, like a silhouette, but with the suggestion of a face beneath a top hat. Simon continued to stare through the glass until he was confident that there really was no one there.

  Rain began to fall, the downpour quickly increasing in volume until the air resonated with its insistent rataplan.

  Laura had told him that he would find a ladder in the side entrance, so he unlocked the French windows and went round the back of the house to collect it. As he crossed the terrace he cast a wary glance in the direction of the gazebo.

  Carrying a cumbersome, heavy object proved extremely difficult for Simon; he wasn’t particularly strong and his progress was clumsy and uncontrolled. He miscalculated the length of the ladder and, when he turned, the rails banged against the walls and banisters. On reaching the uppermost landing he tested the rungs with his weight (they didn’t look very safe) before climbing towards the hatch in the ceiling. The door offered only minimal resistance and swung open on hinges. Simon poked his head into the attic and looked around. Heavy rain drummed loudly on the roof tiles and streamed over the skylight. There wasn’t much to see in the flickering gloom: some plastic crates, some ruptured bin bags and a pyramid of wooden chairs; however, next to the piled furniture he thought he could make out something blue and cylindrical.

  Simon clambered onto a beam and stood up. He advanced cautiously and dropped on one knee when he reached the chairs. The lid came off the hatbox easily and inside he found an extravagant creation made from folded white sails and exotic feathers. It made him think of Ascot and society weddings. Through the trembling plumage he saw a glint of silver. Simon raised the hat and discovered a film canister underneath. Subsequently, he put the hat back in its box and, gripping the canister tightly, he began retracing his steps along the beam.

  He had not gone very far when he noticed something that he had previously overlooked. Between the beams was a toy monkey. Simon crouched down to take a closer look. A key sticking out of its back suggested that it was clockwork. The creature was dressed in a military jacket and clutched cymbals in its outstretched hands. Simon wondered whether it once belonged to Christopher – a memento of his childhood, perhaps? – but he very quickly rejected this idea. It looked far too old.

  Suddenly the cymbals came together, and although the sound of their collision was not loud, the movement was so quick and unexpected that Simon, startled, lost his balance and found himself rocking backwards and forwards. He only just managed to stop himself from falling through the flimsy plasterboard panels that separated the beams.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ He reprimanded himself for being so nervy.

  Exercising extreme caution, he made his way back to the hatch, pausing only once to glance back at the toy. He was oddly relieved when the soles of his shoes made contact with the landing floor. Hoisting the ladder over his shoulder, he embarked on a slow descent that inflicted further damage to the walls and banisters. He returned the ladder to the side entrance, locked the French windows, and stopped by the sofa, where he brushed the rain from his hair. The silver canister, which he had deposited on the coffee table, caught his eye. He had already guessed what kind of film it contained and the prospect of seeing explicit, possibly humiliating images of Laura did little to excite his curiosity. He wasn’t even tempted to hold a few frames up to the light.

  Simon walked over to the bureau and looked inside. There were some letters and writing materials and it occurred to him that he would have to go through Christopher and Laura’s personal papers. He wondered what he would find. Bank statements? Contracts? Love letters?

  The police had already ransacked the bureau and they hadn’t bothered to put things back in their proper place. He had been informed that he would find an address book in the bottom drawer, an item that he required in order to contact people who might want to attend the funeral. It wasn’t there.

  Simon closed the bureau and ascended the stairs to the bathroom, where he relieved himself in the toilet bowl. After flushing, he washed his hands at the sink and, as he was doing so, he found he could smell Christopher’s aftershave. Simon opened the bathroom cabinet and he saw a red plastic bottle with a white screw top. He thought again about how the same fragrance had risen up from Amanda’s book of Stevie Smith poetry. Placing his palm on the mirrored surface, he slammed the cabinet door shut. It was something he didn’t want to think about.

  In Christopher and Laura’s bedroom he stared at the rumpled sheets and the partially exposed mattress. He felt uncomfortable, as though his friends were still in bed together and he had intruded on their intimacy. The baby monitor crackled. It caught his attention and he stared at the device, wondering whether it was a fire risk. He decided to turn it off at the wall socket; however, when he ran his fingers along the lead he discovered that the monitor was already unplugged. It crackled again, but this time the noise approximated speech. It sounded, to Simon, just like a distorted radio broadcast. Again, there was a burst of static and he thought that he could distinguish words: ‘. . . shall never . . . this trap of souls.’ Something was said in German, but a rhythmic buzzing – which he recognized as interference produced by a passing vehicle – made it impossible to hazard a translation, and when the buzzing ceased, there was silence. Assuming that the monitor had a reserve power source, he shrugged and went out onto the landing, from where he glanced into the nursery.

  Simon did not feel inclined to enter. He could just about accept that Laura, in a deranged state, might have been capable of murdering her husband. Wouldn’t any woman if she was afflicted with a mental illness? But he could not accept that Christopher and Laura had killed Faye. That, to Simon, seemed patently absurd.

  When he had
gone to see Laura in prison, she had mentioned some misunderstanding about certain tapes that the police had found in Christopher’s studio. She had subsequently become very inarticulate and the severity of her illness quickly became apparent. As far as Simon could ascertain from her garbled attempts at an explanation, she had managed to convince herself that poor Faye had been abducted by a supernatural agency and that the confiscated tapes were a form of spirit communication. ‘You knew what Christopher was up to, didn’t you?’ She had gripped his arm tightly. ‘He was meddling with things he didn’t understand.’ Her distress was so great it had been necessary to summon the prison GP.

  Simon remembered the little girl’s face, her strangely pensive expression and her curly blonde hair. What had happened to her? He prayed, pointlessly, to a God that he did not really believe in, that the child was alive and being cared for.

  Another clap of thunder roused him from his distracted state. He climbed the remaining stairs to the top floor and entered Christopher’s studio. The rain was particularly loud, like a herd of wild animals stampeding on the roof. There were tape boxes scattered everywhere, spools heaped on the mixing desk, and tangled cables crossing the floor. Simon scanned the room, registering the banks of equipment, the oscillators and filters, the synthesizers, the TV screen, the microphones, and the stringed metal frame that Christopher had removed from a piano. Eventually, Simon’s gaze fell on the empty office chair and he felt the dark, hot flow of guilt passing through his gut.

  Hasting-Bass had asked Simon if he knew of anyone writing ‘conceptual’ music and he had chosen to say nothing. He had known full well how much Christopher craved recognition, how much he wanted to be acknowledged as a composer of substance, and he, Simon, had spitefully denied his friend the perfect platform for his work. He had sat there, stealing surreptitious glances at Hasting-Bass’s young assistant, gradually sinking into a state of self-pity.