The Taxidermist's Daughter by Kate Mosse Page B

was serious about painting, he would keep it up all the same. That chap in Fishbourne – Arthur Evershed – managed it, after all.
    Woolston became aware of a knocking sound, like the branch of a tree tapping on a window. He looked up to the high mullioned windows, but could see nothing. Then he realised it was coming from the far end of the room, close to the stage. The stage itself, was hidden by the heavy curtains, which were closed.
    He walked out from under the balcony into the open space of the auditorium at the same time as a grey-haired woman in cap and apron appeared from behind the stage. The char put down her pail, dipped her mop into the water, tapped the wood on the edge to shake off the excess, then continued her cleaning.
    ‘Room’s not in use,’ she said when he drew level.
    ‘I see that.’ He paused. ‘I have an appointment. I’m meeting someone here at six o’clock.’
    ‘Gentleman?’
    He hesitated. He assumed so, since the note had come from Brook, though it was true it hadn’t said as much. He asked a question instead.
    ‘Has anybody come in while you’ve been working?’
    ‘Room’s not in use,’ she repeated.
    The woman clearly knew nothing about the matter. Woolston suddenly felt oddly hopeful. He had followed the instructions to the letter. If Brook had changed his mind, although it was a nuisance and a waste of his time, then he was off the hook. He looked at his pocket watch. It was already ten past six. He could be home by six thirty, enjoying his whisky and soda. His hand went to his breast pocket. No need for heroics. He would take a quick look backstage, to be sure, then call it a day.
    ‘I’ll have a look around all the same.’
    The woman shrugged. ‘Suit yourself.’
    Woolston walked to the stage and slowly climbed the steps, the sound of his shoes echoing through the auditorium. His hand fumbled blindly, until he found the gap in the curtains, and he stepped carefully through on to the hushed stage.
    ‘Brook?’
    The smell of sawdust and mothballs. All the theatre paraphernalia; a rail of costumes, still holding the imprint of the last person to wear the skirts and jackets. He looked up into the flies, the ropes hanging down, a chandelier suspended high above. On a wooden table in the prompt corner was a precarious stack of straw boaters. Fans and headdresses. Feathers.
    Black feathers, lots of them, scattered over everything. Always reminding him, always taking him back.
    Woolston felt his legs turn to water. Purple-black, ink-blue feathers, the scene returning as clear as day. The cases, the candlelight reflected in the domes of glass, the shock of the moment. The blood.
    Then from the wings, a voice. ‘Hello, Jack.’
    It wasn’t possible. Woolston recognised the soft tones that haunted his nightmares, getting fainter with each year that passed, but always there. Suddenly he realised that it was one of the things that had most upset him about the man who’d come to his consulting rooms earlier. The man who seemed to know everything about that night ten years ago. His voice had reminded Woolston of hers, although he knew it couldn’t be. The girl had had no family, they’d made sure of that.
    ‘Or do you go by the name of John these days? I think I might, were I in your shoes. So much more respectable.’
    Woolston spun round, almost losing his balance, but was unable to work out where the sound was coming from. The light was extinguished and he found himself instantly disorientated on the bare stage. He took a few blind steps towards the prompt corner, reaching out his hand but finding nothing but air.
    ‘Who are you?’ he shouted. ‘What do you want?’
    He heard the intake of breath.
    ‘Jack,’ she said, gently coaxing. ‘I gave you a chance. Don’t pretend you can’t remember . . .’
    Woolston panicked. He turned on his heel and tried to run, but pain exploded in the side of his head. The ground rushed up to meet him. His ribs cracked as they hit the