considerate lady like you into ... a lot of trouble."
"I can't imagine what you mean," I managed to say.
"Just like I can't imagine what the two of you have in common. Unless it's something the three of us have in common."
"What could that be?"
"Don't you know, Mrs. Moberly?"
"No."
"Sure of that?"
"Absolutely."
"Well, perhaps I should ... put you in the picture, then."
"Picture?"
"Yes. Picture. As in photograph. Uncle Milo's quite an expert on photography. Its history. How it began. Who it began with. Some old squire out at Lacock in the eighteen thirties, so they say."
"Do they?"
"Yes. But Uncle Milo's never been convinced of that. He's always ... had an alternative theory."
"Really? We've never talked about it."
"Come off it. I bet you've never talked about anything else. According to '
"Excuse me," interrupted a nurse. "Mr. Esguard?"
"Yes," Niall said to her, though he was still staring straight at me.
"The doctor would like a word with you, Mr. Esguard. About your uncle."
"Oh, right." Niall hadn't much choice but to get up and put on a show of nephew-like concern. "How is he?"
"Very poorly, I'm afraid. Would you come this way?"
The nurse set off. As he followed her, Niall turned his head to look at me and said, "Don't run away, Mrs. Moberly."
But that's exactly what I did. As soon as he was out of sight, I rushed out of the hospital to my car and drove away. Niall Esguard had frightened me even more than Milo's heart attack. My life was beginning to be taken over by people and events, some here and now, some long ago, and I wanted it to stop. I wanted safe humdrum normality back again.
I didn't stop until I was back in London. I went straight home, thankful that Conrad wouldn't be there to demand explanations, and tried to think matters through. Niall knew my name, but nothing else about me. I'd given Milo my telephone number, but he'd made a point of memorizing it rather than writing it down. God, I was grateful for his sense of melodrama now. The last thing I needed was a creep like Niall on my trail. A conversation of just a few minutes had convinced me he had a vicious streak. He seemed to know Milo had been hiding something from him. And he seemed certain I was helping the old fellow.
He was right, of course. I had the box and whatever secret it contained I'd intended to take it to Milo, confident he'd tell me the truth at last. But Milo was in no condition to tell me anything. I phoned the hospital and asked how he was. The answer was just what I'd dreaded. "I'm afraid Mr. Esguard died an hour ago without regaining consciousness."
So that was it. Milo was dead. I sat staring into space, numb with the shock of it. Poor old Milo. I'd known him such a short time. Yet in some strange way I felt as if I'd known him all my life. I also felt responsible for his death, ludicrous though that may seem in any logical sense. If he'd been under more strain lately, it was because he'd wanted to be. He'd gone into this with his eyes open. Nevertheless, I couldn't help feeling I owed him something.
Facing up to whatever the box contained was just about the least. I knew it had to be done. Part of me was consumingly curious, in fact, though another part remained reluctant. But curiosity always wins over reluctance in the end. For reasons I couldn't properly have explained, I put the security chain on the door and unplugged the telephone before lifting the lid.
Sheets of paper. That's all there was in it. But not just any sheets. They were photographic negatives, measuring about six inches by four, developed on flimsy and obviously very old paper, variously creased, stained and torn. The dark areas appeared a muddy grey-brown, the light areas a pale, dirty yellow. There were seven in all: four outdoor shots of the same building from different angles it looked like a substantial country house; two of the interior of a library, one focusing on a bookcase, the other on a handsomely mounted globe; and one of a
"I can't imagine what you mean," I managed to say.
"Just like I can't imagine what the two of you have in common. Unless it's something the three of us have in common."
"What could that be?"
"Don't you know, Mrs. Moberly?"
"No."
"Sure of that?"
"Absolutely."
"Well, perhaps I should ... put you in the picture, then."
"Picture?"
"Yes. Picture. As in photograph. Uncle Milo's quite an expert on photography. Its history. How it began. Who it began with. Some old squire out at Lacock in the eighteen thirties, so they say."
"Do they?"
"Yes. But Uncle Milo's never been convinced of that. He's always ... had an alternative theory."
"Really? We've never talked about it."
"Come off it. I bet you've never talked about anything else. According to '
"Excuse me," interrupted a nurse. "Mr. Esguard?"
"Yes," Niall said to her, though he was still staring straight at me.
"The doctor would like a word with you, Mr. Esguard. About your uncle."
"Oh, right." Niall hadn't much choice but to get up and put on a show of nephew-like concern. "How is he?"
"Very poorly, I'm afraid. Would you come this way?"
The nurse set off. As he followed her, Niall turned his head to look at me and said, "Don't run away, Mrs. Moberly."
But that's exactly what I did. As soon as he was out of sight, I rushed out of the hospital to my car and drove away. Niall Esguard had frightened me even more than Milo's heart attack. My life was beginning to be taken over by people and events, some here and now, some long ago, and I wanted it to stop. I wanted safe humdrum normality back again.
I didn't stop until I was back in London. I went straight home, thankful that Conrad wouldn't be there to demand explanations, and tried to think matters through. Niall knew my name, but nothing else about me. I'd given Milo my telephone number, but he'd made a point of memorizing it rather than writing it down. God, I was grateful for his sense of melodrama now. The last thing I needed was a creep like Niall on my trail. A conversation of just a few minutes had convinced me he had a vicious streak. He seemed to know Milo had been hiding something from him. And he seemed certain I was helping the old fellow.
He was right, of course. I had the box and whatever secret it contained I'd intended to take it to Milo, confident he'd tell me the truth at last. But Milo was in no condition to tell me anything. I phoned the hospital and asked how he was. The answer was just what I'd dreaded. "I'm afraid Mr. Esguard died an hour ago without regaining consciousness."
So that was it. Milo was dead. I sat staring into space, numb with the shock of it. Poor old Milo. I'd known him such a short time. Yet in some strange way I felt as if I'd known him all my life. I also felt responsible for his death, ludicrous though that may seem in any logical sense. If he'd been under more strain lately, it was because he'd wanted to be. He'd gone into this with his eyes open. Nevertheless, I couldn't help feeling I owed him something.
Facing up to whatever the box contained was just about the least. I knew it had to be done. Part of me was consumingly curious, in fact, though another part remained reluctant. But curiosity always wins over reluctance in the end. For reasons I couldn't properly have explained, I put the security chain on the door and unplugged the telephone before lifting the lid.
Sheets of paper. That's all there was in it. But not just any sheets. They were photographic negatives, measuring about six inches by four, developed on flimsy and obviously very old paper, variously creased, stained and torn. The dark areas appeared a muddy grey-brown, the light areas a pale, dirty yellow. There were seven in all: four outdoor shots of the same building from different angles it looked like a substantial country house; two of the interior of a library, one focusing on a bookcase, the other on a handsomely mounted globe; and one of a
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