ticked. A floorboard creaked. A horse clip-clopped past outside. The shadow moved again. The person standing on the other side of the front door raised their hand to the knocker. I heard the creak of the knocker being pulled up. I closed my eyes and stretched every fibre of my imagination to resist the sound I knew was about to follow.
And it didn't. There was a brief silence. Then I opened my eyes and everything was normal. But I didn't feel normal. I'd never felt less normal. I ran to the door, pulled it open and rushed outside. It was OK there. I was back in the real world. I slammed the door behind me and made for my car, trembling now from the sheer frightening novelty of the experience. I drove round the corner, then stopped to try to calm my nerves, which were pretty much shot. What had it been? Some sort of delusion? It was crazy. If you'd asked me to say what it had seemed like, I'd have said ... like it had once been. Bentinck Place in the past. Yesterday rather than today. Or a lot of days before yesterday. And so real. So abundantly and authentically actual. As if, for those two split seconds, I'd truly been there. As if, but for my own fear wrenching me back, I could have heard the knocker fall and seen some capped and aproned maid approach the door and open it to the visitor whose shadow I'd glimpsed.
I could have examined the contents of the box there and then, of course. But I was reluctant even to touch it. I was frightened by what had happened, frightened by its power, its weird sucking falling pull at every part of me. I started driving again, heading for Bradford-on-Avon and any kind of explanation Milo could offer.
But he was past explaining anything. I think I sensed that as soon as I saw the ambulance turning out of the entrance to Saffron House, lights flashing and siren blaring. It could have been any one of the elderly and infirm residents, but somehow I knew it wasn't. I drove up to the house and got instant confirmation from the receptionist.
"Poor old Mr. Esguard's had another heart attack," she said, the 'another' deepening my dread. "I told him only yesterday he was overdoing it."
They took him to a hospital in Bath, where I spent the rest of that afternoon and most of the evening waiting for news, pacing up and down and drinking coffee, and wondering if it was my fault that he'd been 'overdoing it'. He'd been so animated the day before, perhaps too animated. Nobody had told me he had a weak heart, but even so I should have taken things more slowly. What did my fancies and fantasies matter compared with his life?
They wouldn't let me see him. He wasn't conscious anyway, and as a non-relative I didn't have many rights. A nurse asked me if I knew his next of kin. I said I didn't, but I should have realized the nursing home would be trying to contact Niall while I was sitting there, waiting and hoping. As it was, it never occurred to me that I was taking any sort of risk by staying put. Actually, it did occur to me, but only when a tall, thin, lank-haired man, who looked to be in his late thirties, sat down next to me in the waiting area and said, "Mrs. Moberly? I'm Niall Esguard."
He must have been able to see the shock on my face. I'm always too transparent for my own good. Looking at him with his faintly pitted skin and his piercing eyes and his moist lips and his crooked nose, I felt that he could see not just straight through me but straight into me, where there was a secret he craved, cowering and pleading for protection.
"Sorry if I surprised you," he went on in a husky whisky-and-cigarettes voice. "They gave me your name at Saffron House. You've been seeing a lot of my uncle lately, apparently. Why's that, then?"
It was as much as I could do to speak, but I forced out something non-committal and got a ghastly little half-smile as my reward.
"Not been running any errands for him, have you?" Niall asked. "Only he can be a devious old bugger. I wouldn't put it past him to talk a
And it didn't. There was a brief silence. Then I opened my eyes and everything was normal. But I didn't feel normal. I'd never felt less normal. I ran to the door, pulled it open and rushed outside. It was OK there. I was back in the real world. I slammed the door behind me and made for my car, trembling now from the sheer frightening novelty of the experience. I drove round the corner, then stopped to try to calm my nerves, which were pretty much shot. What had it been? Some sort of delusion? It was crazy. If you'd asked me to say what it had seemed like, I'd have said ... like it had once been. Bentinck Place in the past. Yesterday rather than today. Or a lot of days before yesterday. And so real. So abundantly and authentically actual. As if, for those two split seconds, I'd truly been there. As if, but for my own fear wrenching me back, I could have heard the knocker fall and seen some capped and aproned maid approach the door and open it to the visitor whose shadow I'd glimpsed.
I could have examined the contents of the box there and then, of course. But I was reluctant even to touch it. I was frightened by what had happened, frightened by its power, its weird sucking falling pull at every part of me. I started driving again, heading for Bradford-on-Avon and any kind of explanation Milo could offer.
But he was past explaining anything. I think I sensed that as soon as I saw the ambulance turning out of the entrance to Saffron House, lights flashing and siren blaring. It could have been any one of the elderly and infirm residents, but somehow I knew it wasn't. I drove up to the house and got instant confirmation from the receptionist.
"Poor old Mr. Esguard's had another heart attack," she said, the 'another' deepening my dread. "I told him only yesterday he was overdoing it."
They took him to a hospital in Bath, where I spent the rest of that afternoon and most of the evening waiting for news, pacing up and down and drinking coffee, and wondering if it was my fault that he'd been 'overdoing it'. He'd been so animated the day before, perhaps too animated. Nobody had told me he had a weak heart, but even so I should have taken things more slowly. What did my fancies and fantasies matter compared with his life?
They wouldn't let me see him. He wasn't conscious anyway, and as a non-relative I didn't have many rights. A nurse asked me if I knew his next of kin. I said I didn't, but I should have realized the nursing home would be trying to contact Niall while I was sitting there, waiting and hoping. As it was, it never occurred to me that I was taking any sort of risk by staying put. Actually, it did occur to me, but only when a tall, thin, lank-haired man, who looked to be in his late thirties, sat down next to me in the waiting area and said, "Mrs. Moberly? I'm Niall Esguard."
He must have been able to see the shock on my face. I'm always too transparent for my own good. Looking at him with his faintly pitted skin and his piercing eyes and his moist lips and his crooked nose, I felt that he could see not just straight through me but straight into me, where there was a secret he craved, cowering and pleading for protection.
"Sorry if I surprised you," he went on in a husky whisky-and-cigarettes voice. "They gave me your name at Saffron House. You've been seeing a lot of my uncle lately, apparently. Why's that, then?"
It was as much as I could do to speak, but I forced out something non-committal and got a ghastly little half-smile as my reward.
"Not been running any errands for him, have you?" Niall asked. "Only he can be a devious old bugger. I wouldn't put it past him to talk a
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