Chapter 4

On Sundays we usually had a fish and chip supper in front of the TV, and that weekend there was a typical Sunday evening murder mystery on, nothing too demanding or that had a plot that would withstand proper scrutiny.  We were finishing off a bottle of burgundy as we watched it.  The story revolved around a wealthy family dominated by a patriarchal figure who was murdered rather gruesomely by stabbing just before the first advert break.  The story was set in the 1950s in the Devon countryside and much of it had clearly been filmed at a local National Trust property.  I was flicking through social media on my iPad while I was watching it and only half concentrating on the plot.  One scene started with a woman riding a horse, wearing a tweed jacket that didn’t look as if it would be warm enough, cantering along a bridle path through beech woods.  I’d lost track of who the character was, I think she was the niece of the patriarchal figure killed half an hour earlier.  Next she is seen trotting into a stable yard.  A boy in his late teens comes out to take the horse from her.  He helps her dismount, and you can see that there is something between them, his touch on her shoulder, a flick of her hair as she takes off her riding hat.  Her back was to the camera but her face was angled towards him.  The viewer was watching the scene from across the yard and they did this trick of moving the camera towards the action and making a sound of feet on gravel to indicate that another unidentified character was following – and watching – the couple.

“Remind me who she is?” I said to Patrick.

“I think she is married to the lawyer,” he said.  “The one with the hair.”

“OK.  Alex?  I think he’s the murderer.  They should make the names easier to remember.”

My phone pinged and I glanced down to check the WhatsApp message that had popped up.  When I looked back at the screen the two were just inside the stable building.  They were kissing, gently at first, then more passionately.  She was still facing away from the camera, but in three quarter shot and after a few moments of kissing you clearly saw her undo the top button of his jeans and reach inside with her left hand.

“That’s a bit explicit for Sunday evening viewing,” I said, looking across at Patrick.

“What do you mean?” he said, still looking at the screen.  

“She put her hand down his trousers.”

He turned to me.  “No he didn’t, they were just kissing.”

I looked back at the screen, but the scene had changed.  “You must have missed it.  She definitely groped him.  And someone was watching them, but I’m not we know who it was.  I’m sure It’ll become clear.”

“Could we just watch it?  Without commentary?”

The story carried on, a menu of caricature characters and clunky dialogue.   I made some tea during an advert break.  A few minutes later it was night time and we were inside the stable block again, a small fire burning at one end of it, a horse neighing.  There was a crash and suddenly the whole building was on fire.  An alarm was raised and you could hear horses in distress, people were running about there was a noise of the fire crackling.  

The camera looked away from the scene toward the house the other side of the yard.  The same woman was there, but looking at the camera this time, and it was Beth my grandmother – or an actor who looked just like her.  She was stranding in the kitchen of the house looking out of the window at the fire in the stables.  It was definitely Beth’s face from the photograph, wearing jodhpurs and a white shirt with sleeves rolled up.  The camera moved back to the stables.  The whole building was on fire now and you could hear above the crackling the sound of a woman screaming.  It was dusk but the fire lit up the people leading out the horses and trying to put out the fire with buckets of water.  

I look across at Patrick and say “That actor looks just like Beth, from the photograph.”

“Which one? he said.”

“That one,” I nodded at the screen.

“No, it’s a bit like her but her face is different.  But she does look familiar.  She was in something else.  Check it on IMDB.”

The camera was back in the house now, looking out, the sound of the fire muted.  Suddenly the Beth character was seized from behind.  The camera didn’t show her attacker, but a hand clamped across her face and she collapsed.  Hands were around her shoulders and she was being dragged along a stone passage.  The scene went black – indicating that she had passed out.  The camera then returned to the scene of the fire  A woman’s voice could clearly be heard screaming, and  you could hear the sound of someone banging on a door.  A young man, the stable boy from earlier I think, was trying to get back into the building to help her but the fire was too intense.  As the last horse was led away parts of the building started to collapse.  The camera closed in on the fire and I could now feel all around me the heat of the fire, I could smell the smoke, and sweat broke out on my forehead.  The fire filled the screen now, and I could feel panic rising in me.  My vision fractured, as if looking through a broken widow, and the heat was stifling.  The screen colours, reds and browns, faded and all was dark. 

“Are you OK?”

I heard a voice, and opened my eyes.  I felt groggy, as if I had walked into something and bashed my head.  I was sitting on the sofa, Patrick had paused the TV and was kneeling in front of me.  I could still feel the heat of the fire, and pinpricks of pain on my face as sparks were catching on it and in my hair. 

“Jo, what is it?  You were screaming.”

I sat there, my chest thumping, sounds still all around me, trying to work out what had happened.  “I don’t know.  I was watching the TV, but it was as if I was dreaming.  Beth was there, and there was a fire.”

“A fire?” questioned Patrick?

“Yes, you saw it.  The stables were burning down, someone was trapped.”

“No, there wasn’t a fire.  Just horses, and a bit of dialogue.”

“But I was watching it.  The stables were on fire, they were rescuing the horses.  Someone was locked in a room at the back.”

“No, that didn’t happen.  You must have nodded off and imagined it.  The Beth story is playing on your mind.”

“I don’t know.  I could see Beth.  And then she was dragged away.”  I shook my head to clear it.  My heart was racing and I closed my eyes again to try to calm down.  Immediately Beth was there again, unconscious, being dragged down a stone passage.  It was airless, as if at high altitude and short of oxygen. Smoke was in the air, hot and full of dust.  I could hear the fire.  I was breathing hard, trying to get air into my lungs, but the air was stale and dry and there was no life in it.  I was suffocating now, my lungs bursting. 

“Calm down Jo.  Sit up.”  I had fallen somehow across the sofa, and I felt Patrick’s hands lift me up.  He was still kneeling in front of me and he put one hand on each shoulder, holding me firmly, but carefully as if I might crack.  “Look at me.  And try to breathe slowly.”

I was crying now, trying to focus on him, blurred through the tears.  He was breathing loudly, steadily in through his nose and out through his mouth.  “Look at me,” he said.  “Follow my breathing.”

I looked into his eyes.  They were concerned, but full of tenderness.  I locked onto them, and felt his calm flowing from his strong hands through me.  Gradually my breathing slowed and fell in time with his.  At the back of mind somewhere Beth’s face was looking at me out of the photograph; and I knew that the pain I had felt was her pain; the panic was hers.

I stood up gingerly.  “I’ll make some tea.”

“Good idea.  I’l come with you.”

My sleep was ragged that night.  Images of stables burning filled my mind, and a woman trapped, screaming.  At 5.30 it was starting to get light and I gave up.  I got up, wandered downstairs, looking at the early light outside.   I made myself some hot chocolate and took it to the sitting room.  Patrick found me there a couple of hours later, wrapped in a throw and sleeping soundly.    I woke up when I heard him and stretched.  For a few minutes I sat still, disorientated, carefully allowing my mind to explore what had happened the night before, as if massaging my neck to try to find the point that would release the muscle.  Did I hallucinate, or was it on TV?  I usually struggle to remember dreams, and if I try to recall them I can sense the memory slipping away as I get close to it.  This was different.  As I looked back it was still clear, and I could see details that I didn’t remember.  A familiar boy leading frightened horses out of the stables; a man’s voice directing the rescue; someone trying to unlock a door, a sour smell underneath the smell of smoke.  I had no sense of panic now. 

Patrick had made toast.  He was sitting at the kitchen table fiddling with the puzzle box, looking tired and pale.  I could see that he was worried, but he forced a smile.

“I heard you get up early.”

“Strange dreams.  And I was too hot.  I’m OK now; but I’m not sure what happened last night.”

“You had a panic attack.  Do you have any idea what might have triggered? it?”

I looked at the box.  The lid was up and Patrick had been examining the inside.  A magnifying glass, a small torch and a pair of tweezers were on the table next to it, along with the bracelet and the photograph.  I picked up the bracelet and ran my finger over the engraving on the inside  “I think it is something to do with this.  I saw Beth on TV, it was definitely her.  I think she is trying to tell me something.”  It was only when I said the words that I realised that it was true.  This was all about Beth.  What had happened to her?  What happened in the fire?  Why did she die?  “We need to work out how to get into the rest of this box.  I’m sure the answer is in there.”

Patrick was going over the inside surfaces of the box again, moving over them inch by inch; looking through the magnifier, probing with his fingertip.  He stopped when he got to one of the corners.  “There’s a hole here.  It could be a flaw in the joint, but I think it’s deliberate.  Have a look.”

In one of the corners of the compartment was a small regular gap between the floor and the side.  It looked as if a tiny flake of wood had come away, leaving a small hole a fraction of an inch long.  I found a paperclip, uncoiled it and gave it to Patrick who prodded very carefully into the hole in the wood, testing for any give in the wood.  He found a point where the tip of the paperclip slid gently into the hole.  There was a faint click as he released a hidden spring, and suddenly the whole front panel of the box moved.  It opened out from one side, revealing two drawers that took up the remaining space in the box.  Unlike the top layer, these were make out of a plain grey hardwood, without any sort of decoration.  Functional.  The contrast with the beautiful wood of the rest of the box was very marked.  Looking at it I shivered, as if a hot shower had suddenly run cold.  The first drawer had a recessed knob in the wood at the front.  The other had a plain front, with no apparent way of opening it.

“This is it,” said Patrick.  “You should have the honours.”

I slid the first drawer open.  It moved easily, as if recently waxed.  The inside of the drawer was as plain as the outside, and inside there was a knife.  The blade was an inch wide and about six inches long, serrated, a small hunting knife.  Although clearly old, and the blade discoloured, it was still sharp.  It was solidly made with a plastic black moulded handle with a dull metal inlay on one side.

“What’s that? said Patrick?

I reached across and picked up the knife. As I did I managed somehow to catch the blade and a lance of pain shot through my hand making me drop it onto the table where it clattered away from me. 

“Did you cut yourself?”

“Yes,” I looked at my hand.  “Ow.”  There was a trickle of blood on why finger and I sucked it clean and wrapped a tissue around it.  “Clumsy.”  I looked back at the knife.   “What’s going on?  I don’t like this.”

“I don’t know.  I’ve no idea why there should be a knife here.  Can you open the other drawer?”

I had a look at it, but here was no obvious way in.  I spent a few minutes gently moving my fingers over the front and the sides,  trying to get a purchase, looking for a catch.  I removed the upper drawer completely and felt inside as far as I could reach, but it didn’t want to open.  I tried to prize it open with a pair of tweezers, but it didn’t give.  I felt sure that trying to force it open wasn’t the answer.  “This one is going to be different.  George wouldn’t use the same trick twice.  We need to be more imaginative.  There must be a clue somewhere.  The last one was physical – this one will be clever.”

“We should ask your father.  He lived closer to it, he know George best.  If there’s a trick he might have an idea.”

“I don’t think he knows anything.  And if there’s a clue I don’t think it is Dad who will have it.  I think it is the house.  Beth lived there.  The box lived there  If there’s anything to be found that’s where it will be.”

I reached for the knife again, and picked it up to examine it closely.  It was a weapon, not a kitchen knife.  It had large serrations, but still had an edge, and had been recently sharpened.  I put it back in the drawer and replaced the drawer into the box, along with the bracelet and the photograph.  There was something still to find, although I was beginning to think I didn’t want to know what it was.