Yes! It was the photograph of Miriam, intact after all these years. I stood there at the dead fireplace for the longest time, absorbing the image of that face I’d almost forgotten. She was indeed as beautiful as I’d always dreamt. My eyes filled with tears of pleasure mixed with grief.
At that very moment, I heard a measured creaking on the floorboards above my head. On that morning long ago when Miriam had gone upstairs to get me a book, I’d heard that same noise from her movements up there. Now, I was overwhelmed with the feeling that, quite impossibly, it was happening all over again: she was up there waiting for me.
I went to the bottom of the stairs, but I didn’t go up. The dust looked as though it hadn’t been disturbed for many years. I called out her name. I called it again and again.
Of course, no one answered.
I walked back into the living room, took the picture down from the wall, and tucked it under my arm. I stepped outside into the cold wind that no longer seemed so cold. Then I pulled the door shut behind me and left that haunted place without looking back.
3
For several hours after leaving the manor I walked the moors around Duncairn, putting off and putting off the moment. In the end, by a great act of will, I made my way to the eastern outskirts of the town — and the graveyard. It was a flat plot of land, surrounded by a low, weathered stone wall. The entranceway was through rusty gates wide enough for a hearse to pass, with gargoyle figures leering down from each gate pillar. My footprints were the only ones on the layer of snow along the central path, which was flanked by the most ancient headstones, many of them tilted and crumbling, the inscriptions on them too worn to make out.
Amongst the plainer headstones and slabs that marked the more modern burials, I soon found the grave marker I was seeking. It was a small, granite headstone with three names:
JOHN GALT SAMUEL MACKAY
MIRIAM MACKAY
There were no dates or inscriptions.
Feeling quite miserable, I stayed only a few minutes. Then, as I was leaving, I noticed a slight protrusion in the snow on the surface of the grave. I stooped and brushed at it with my fingertips. To my surprise, a tiny bunch of red carnations was lying there, still in its paper wrapper. Some of the petals were unwithered.
WHEN I GOT BACK to the Bracken Inn, I removed the photograph of Miriam from its frame and put it carefully into my suitcase. After dinner that night, I went to the front desk to tell the Englishwoman when I’d be checking out next morning. I also mentioned to her that I’d visited Sam Mackay’s grave and seen some flowers on it that appeared quite fresh.
“Oh yes, that would be their daughter who put them there,” she said. “She comes a few times a year to visit the grave. She sometimes stays the night here in the inn. She was here two weeks ago, in fact — that would account for the freshness of the flowers.”
Their daughter? I was surprised to hear that.
“Oh yes. Sarah. Sarah Mackay. She’s a very nice girl,” she said. “She’s an administrator of some sort at Eildon House.” This was, apparently, a government institution located in an isolated area of the Border country southeast of Duncairn. Sarah was clearly devoted to the care of her parents’ grave, as Eildon House was at least a three-hour drive away on the treacherous roads at this time of year.
“I could give you her phone number,” said the Englishwoman before I could ask.
She rummaged in her card index and found me the number.
“Eildon House is a strange place for such a nice girl to work,” she said, looking around as if to make sure no one was listening and lowering her voice: “It’s for people who’ve gone wrong in the head.”
BACK UP IN MY ROOM I dialed the number and got Sarah Mackay’s secretary.
“Miss Mackay’s gone for the day,” she said quite brusquely.
I explained that I was a visitor from Canada who used to know her parents. I was hoping to meet her and talk to her about them.
The receptionist became much more pleasant.
“I’m sure she’d love to talk to you, but I’m not allowed to give anyone her home number,” she said. “I’m afraid you’ll have to try phoning her here in the morning and see if you can meet her. Unless … let me have a look.” Papers rustled. “Oh yes, according to her schedule she is free between ten and noon tomorrow. I’m not supposed to do this, but I could always book you in for that, if you want?”
I did want.
“Good. I’ll make a note you asked to see her about a personal matter.” She made me spell out my name for her.
“All right, Mr. Steen,” she said. “I’ll leave her a message that she can expect you around ten tomorrow.”
SARAH
1
The next morning, it was barely daylight when I checked out of the Bracken Inn. I had to drive very carefully: not only was the road slippery from a thin layer of fresh snow, but a winter fog made vision difficult.
As I passed the graveyard on the edge of town, thicker wisps of fog seemed to sway from the tops of the tombstones, especially those at the back where Miriam lay, as if she and all the dead of Duncairn were waving goodbye to me. A solitary raven was perched on the horn of one of the gargoyles at the graveyard entrance. Both raven and gargoyle were glaring at me with mad eyes.
The driving was slow for about ten miles, then the fog cleared sufficiently for me to go at a more or less normal speed for the next couple of hours. Near ten o’clock I at last saw the sign, Eildon House E.R.C., and began to make my way along a tree-lined road leading past acres of lawn and a half-frozen pond of green slime. Through the gaps in the trees, I caught glimpses of a huge mansion with arches, buttressed walls, pillars, and innumerable windows of the Gothic and Palladian sort: this must be the house itself.
I found a parking lot and from there walked to the front door. A set of stone steps bevelled with use led up to a portico supported by thick columns. The portico floor was of worn flagstone and the door itself was massive. When I twisted the ornate knob of the doorbell I could hear only the faintest of clangs from the inside.
After a moment, a man in a dark blue uniform with a guard’s insignia over the breast pocket opened the door. He checked for my name on a clipboard he was holding then let me into a high, gloomy lobby. He shut the door behind us and directed me to a corridor leading to the west side of the building: there, I’d find a waiting area.
My footsteps echoed as I walked along the wood floor. The smell of fresh polish was so strong it would disguise, if need be, anything less pleasant.
Around a corner, I arrived at the waiting area. The atmosphere was like that of another era, with dark wainscoting and murky oil paintings of unsmiling men with Victorian pork-chop whiskers looking down from on high. Several wooden upright chairs surrounded a low table. A small, barred window of bottle glass was embedded in the three-feet-thick wall, and through it I could see some huge flies gathered on the outside sill. I was relieved to find they were only distorted sparrows, which flew away when they saw my equally distorted figure through the glass.
From the elaborately moulded ceiling, a cord dangled with a single, unshaded electric bulb. The light it cast was so feeble it would have been difficult to read by — though, in fact, no reading material was lying around, not even out-of-date magazines. I sat on one of the wooden chairs — it wasn’t made for sitting in long.
In fact, the entire waiting room didn’t encourage waiting.