opening. The object fell between them, smashing a flagstone. A web quickly ran out from the breaking point; chippings of stone flew.
So rapid had been the descent, so violent the connection that for a few seconds the two of them remained motionless with shock. Christopher gradually became aware that someone was standing behind him calling his name. It was Suhami.
âWas that you shouting? What is it? Whatâs theâ Mayâ¦!â
May, her scratched face further impressed by the woody stems of a lavender bush, was struggling to her feet. As Suhami hurried to help her, Christopher slipped back into the house. The stairs and gallery were still deserted. Everything was quiet.
Swiftly he ran up to the gallery and around the three sides, knocking on doors, opening them and looking in when there was no response. All the rooms were empty.
At the far end of the right-hand section, concealed behind a velvet curtain, was an archway, the stone soaring to an exaggerated point. Directly behind this arch were a dozen steps turning back on themselves in a savagely tight corkscrew and leading to the roof. There were signs of recent disturbance. The dust on the steps was scuffed and marked by flakes of old green paint from the skylightâs metal frame. Christopher remembered that Arno had been up there a couple of days before cleaning bird mess off the lantern. He crouched down on the top step which was very close to the glass, pushed the nearest half of the skylight open and fixed it into position with a rusting strut. Then he raised his head cautiously above the opening and looked around.
The place appeared deserted. Climbing out, he at once felt disorientedâthe twisty steps having left him unsure which way faced where. To get his bearings he turned a slow circle. There was the vegetable garden, so the section of the roof directly over the back door must be on the far side.
As he hesitated, a cloud slid across the sun, leaching colour from the surrounding brick and slate. A breeze sprang up and Christopher shivered although he was not cold. Someone walking on my grave . He wondered how the phrase had first arisen, for the dead, snug in their wooden cocoons, were the last people to give a damn who walked, skipped or even danced a jig above their mouldering heads.
The roof seemed crowded with chimneys though in fact there were only three sooty stacks holding four pots each. Christopher found himself disturbed by their proximity. Inanimate, they yet gave an impression of convergence. Some were cowled and, as the breeze intensified, several metal hoods swung creaking in his direction. His feelings of unease deepened and he was seized by the nonsensical conviction that the hoods concealed active organisms that were observing him.
Telling himself not to be stupid, he started making his way towards the opposite edge. His passage was not quite straightforward. The roof was in three steeply sloping sections separated by narrow paths between two of which reared the great iron ribbed lantern.
The only way to progress, so narrow were the walkways, was to place one foot directly before the other on the blue-black sheets of buckled lead in a heel-toe fashion, and this is what Christopher did. Once across, he peered over, aligning himself precisely with the smashed flagstone. He could see from the dent in the guttering where the metal object had gone over. And a lightish circular unstained patch to indicate where it had for so long been standing. This was about two feet from the edge on a completely flat surface. There seemed to him no way that anything of that size and weight could have rolled off of its own volition. Indeed it would have been far from easy for a single person to drag it to the appropriate point let alone heave it over. Yet that must have been what happened.
But in that caseâChristopher sprang up quickly and turned aroundâhow had whoever it was vanished with such speed? Could anyone be so fleet of
So rapid had been the descent, so violent the connection that for a few seconds the two of them remained motionless with shock. Christopher gradually became aware that someone was standing behind him calling his name. It was Suhami.
âWas that you shouting? What is it? Whatâs theâ Mayâ¦!â
May, her scratched face further impressed by the woody stems of a lavender bush, was struggling to her feet. As Suhami hurried to help her, Christopher slipped back into the house. The stairs and gallery were still deserted. Everything was quiet.
Swiftly he ran up to the gallery and around the three sides, knocking on doors, opening them and looking in when there was no response. All the rooms were empty.
At the far end of the right-hand section, concealed behind a velvet curtain, was an archway, the stone soaring to an exaggerated point. Directly behind this arch were a dozen steps turning back on themselves in a savagely tight corkscrew and leading to the roof. There were signs of recent disturbance. The dust on the steps was scuffed and marked by flakes of old green paint from the skylightâs metal frame. Christopher remembered that Arno had been up there a couple of days before cleaning bird mess off the lantern. He crouched down on the top step which was very close to the glass, pushed the nearest half of the skylight open and fixed it into position with a rusting strut. Then he raised his head cautiously above the opening and looked around.
The place appeared deserted. Climbing out, he at once felt disorientedâthe twisty steps having left him unsure which way faced where. To get his bearings he turned a slow circle. There was the vegetable garden, so the section of the roof directly over the back door must be on the far side.
As he hesitated, a cloud slid across the sun, leaching colour from the surrounding brick and slate. A breeze sprang up and Christopher shivered although he was not cold. Someone walking on my grave . He wondered how the phrase had first arisen, for the dead, snug in their wooden cocoons, were the last people to give a damn who walked, skipped or even danced a jig above their mouldering heads.
The roof seemed crowded with chimneys though in fact there were only three sooty stacks holding four pots each. Christopher found himself disturbed by their proximity. Inanimate, they yet gave an impression of convergence. Some were cowled and, as the breeze intensified, several metal hoods swung creaking in his direction. His feelings of unease deepened and he was seized by the nonsensical conviction that the hoods concealed active organisms that were observing him.
Telling himself not to be stupid, he started making his way towards the opposite edge. His passage was not quite straightforward. The roof was in three steeply sloping sections separated by narrow paths between two of which reared the great iron ribbed lantern.
The only way to progress, so narrow were the walkways, was to place one foot directly before the other on the blue-black sheets of buckled lead in a heel-toe fashion, and this is what Christopher did. Once across, he peered over, aligning himself precisely with the smashed flagstone. He could see from the dent in the guttering where the metal object had gone over. And a lightish circular unstained patch to indicate where it had for so long been standing. This was about two feet from the edge on a completely flat surface. There seemed to him no way that anything of that size and weight could have rolled off of its own volition. Indeed it would have been far from easy for a single person to drag it to the appropriate point let alone heave it over. Yet that must have been what happened.
But in that caseâChristopher sprang up quickly and turned aroundâhow had whoever it was vanished with such speed? Could anyone be so fleet of
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