The Unseen(113)

‘In we go. Yes, I suppose I know as much as anybody. Not that I’m an architectural historian like yourselves, of course,’ he said, in modest qualification. Leah shot Mark a quick look, and he winked.

‘Our, uh, research tells us that the building was used as part of a school, about a hundred years ago – is that right?’

‘Yes, that’s right. The local charity school for the children of the poor. Once that closed another local school used it – for their home economics classes, I think it was.’

‘I don’t suppose you have any information about what was taught here? And by whom, back in the days of the charity school?’

‘No, I’m afraid not,’ Kevin said, and did look a little afraid not to have the answer. ‘I’m awfully sorry. I don’t know where you’d even look to find that out. I doubt that records survive, if there ever were records … I admit, I rather thought you’d be more interested in the fabric of the building itself?’

‘Oh, we are. It’s just always nice to get a bit of colour into the history,’ Mark said, clearing his throat. ‘It makes a book so much more accessible to readers.’

They walked into the centre of the single room inside the chapel. Pale daylight was streaming through a Gothic arched window in the east-facing wall, reflecting brightly from the whitewashed walls. The incandescence was surprising. Leah had been expecting darkness and gloom, age-old shadows. The windows facing the road were blocked off, as was the tiny side door, but still it felt open, alive. The breeze had followed them in and circled the floor, sending a few bundles of dust to scud around their feet.

‘I’ve always liked to imagine that window in its prime, full of beautiful stained glass …’ said Kevin, looking at them expectantly.

‘Oh, yes – it almost certainly would have had … a truly magnificent piece of artwork in place; before the Reformation,’ Mark agreed hastily. There were empty stone niches here and there inside, but little else to see. No plaques, no tombs. ‘And … er … I understand the building is being used as community space now? And there are plans to extend it?’ he floundered on. But Leah wasn’t listening. She was staring at the floor in abject disappointment. She walked to the far end of the room and turned to face the empty space, bathing herself in white light. Was this where Hester Canning had stood? I know what lies beneath my feet … Leah looked down again. So there it stays, beneath the floor. But this was not the floor Hester Canning had walked. Not the floor she could possibly have hidden anything beneath. Leah took a deep breath, filling with frustration. The floor was made of fresh oak boards. Entirely even, flat and secure; entirely modern.

‘When was the floor replaced?’ she asked, interrupting Kevin as he told Mark about the plans for the building.

‘Oh … fairly recently. Just last year. It was one of the first things we had to do in order to make the space usable, you see; grade one listing or not. The old boards were quite lovely, but entirely eaten away by wet rot and woodworm. They were loose and uneven. They just crumbled around the nails as they were lifted, I understand. We couldn’t even reuse them for anything. They were ruined,’ Kevin told her. Mark was looking down now, following the line of one board with his toe, and frowning.

‘Did they find anything underneath them?’ Leah asked. Kevin gave her a puzzled look. ‘It’s just, you know – with buildings this old you can often make … archaeological discoveries, just by doing something as simple as lifting the floor. Sometimes the original craftsmen have left something behind, something that can give an insight into the time of construction … that kind of thing …’

‘Yes, I see – or superstitious offerings, perhaps?’ Kevin said. ‘Children’s shoes are quite common, aren’t they?’

‘Probably. So, did you find anything?’

‘I’m afraid not. That is, not that I heard about. I wasn’t here every day, of course, while they were doing it, but I’m sure the builders would have mentioned it if they’d found anything …’ Kevin looked at her crestfallen expression and smiled nervously. ‘I am sorry to disappoint you …’

‘Oh, no … it’s just, these incidental finds are a particular passion of mine,’ Leah said, woodenly.

‘Would you like to take some pictures? For your book?’ Kevin asked.

‘Great, thank you,’ said Mark.


A short while later they stepped back out into the cold daylight; Kevin Knoll locked the chapel and took his leave. Leah and Mark walked slowly back to where they had parked their cars. Leah had the tantalising feeling she was beginning to get somewhere, was beginning to track down the story behind the soldier’s letters, and the thought of losing momentum again was almost unbearable. While she had the ball rolling, she had a purpose. When it stopped all the vagueness, the limbo state of her life became obvious again. A heavy feeling of pointlessness; the needle of her inner compass swaying drunkenly to and fro. If Hester Canning had got locked into just such a state – if her life had got stuck on one particular thorn of a problem, never to be worked free, then perhaps it was fate that, in working it free, Leah could unlock her own life at the same time. And she wanted to be able to hand a complete report to Ryan when she saw him next. She wanted to succeed, and give him a name.