The Unseen(116)

‘Here’s something,’ Mark said, climbing down the rickety ladder that ran along a rail around the room, giving access to the highest shelves.

‘What have you found?’

‘Nothing that exciting – it’s Thomas, my grandfather. When he was still a young man.’ Mark passed her the dusty photo in a crumbling leather frame, and Leah took it eagerly.

‘So this is Hester’s son. The one she talks about in the letters,’ she said, wiping the dust from the glass and studying the image closely. A solid, oblong face with mid-brown hair, combed back from his forehead; deep brown eyes and the trace of a smile. His skin was completely smooth and unlined. ‘Quite handsome,’ she remarked. ‘Do you think he took after Hester?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine, I’m afraid. I honestly can’t remember what the photos of my great-grandparents looked like,’ Mark said with a shrug.

‘Still, at least this is something. Can I make a scan of it at some point? It’d be great to include it in my article, especially since she mentions him in both letters.’

‘Of course you can.’

As the sky began to darken outside, they stopped searching and, by unspoken agreement, settled into opposite armchairs to read. Leah went through the vicar’s pamphlet for the second time. The prose was flowery, and the praise glowing, to say the least. The vicar’s excited rapture over these elementals, as he called them, shone from every page, as did his admiration for Robin Durrant, the ‘eminent and learned theosophist’ who had unveiled them to the world. He wrote as if a host of shining angels had descended upon him, rather than a handful of sketchy photographs of a girl in a white dress. She peered closely at the supposed elemental again, trying to pick features out of the grainy smear of her face. The more she studied them, the more she thought she could see, in the dancing picture, a thin, dark line along the edge of the figure’s forehead.

‘It’s a wig!’ she announced, glancing up at Mark to show him what she’d spotted. He was fast asleep, his head tipped sideways onto the wing of the armchair, mouth clamped shut, brows drawn down severely. Leah watched him for a while, noticing the grey in the stubble along his jaw and at his temples; the gaunt shadows under his cheekbones; a slight cleft in his chin. His bony knees were drawn up, and his arms wrapped around them like a child playing hide and seek. From behind the chair, you wouldn’t have known he was in it. There were holes in the toes of his socks. His breathing was slow and deep, as regular as Leah’s own heartbeat. There was something deeply calming, deeply pleasing, in watching him sleep. Leah smiled to herself, and scribbled a note for him, leaving it on the arm of his chair. I’ll be back for dinner – not omelettes, thanks. She got up quietly and let herself out.


The evening was crisp and clear, the sky turning the palest turquoise after sunset, with a tiny high moon like a silver fingernail. In spite of the chill, the scent on the air was soft and damp. A green smell, slowly rising from the grey and brown smells of winter. Leah went to The Old Rectory on foot, having checked the route across fields from the towpath on a map. Her boots were soaked with dew, and her torch beam wobbled in front of her along the ground. From a distance, the lights inside the house made it clearly visible, standing alone on the lane at the edge of the village. She paused, slightly breathless after the brisk walk. Did Hester Canning ever see this view? Or Robin Durrant? Possibly not. It probably wasn’t normal to wander the fields after dark if you were an Edwardian vicar’s wife, or guest. But nevertheless Leah stood for a while and gazed, and with little effort could imagine herself back in time. Opening the door to find the house warm and alive; clean, bright. A piano playing, perhaps, and voices from behind the parlour door; ghosts of laughter echoing up the kitchen stairs. But she stopped herself. This was not how Hester Canning last knew the house, after all. She wrote of its shadows and secrets. She wrote as if it were her prison, as if she were afraid of it; of something within it. Leah shivered slightly and walked the last stretch quickly, watching her feet in the darkness.

Mark opened the door with the usual brute force, smiling as a wave of cooking smells rushed out around him.

‘I really must put a bulb in this light fitting,’ he said, by way of greeting.

‘Something smells good. Doesn’t smell like burnt omelette,’ said Leah.

‘I’ll let you in on a secret – I’m actually a bloody good cook. I was just … not really trying before.’

‘I had my suspicions.’ Leah smiled.

‘Well, I admit I was a bit surprised that you invited yourself for dinner, after the last debacle.’