He found the small spiral staircase leading to the lower chamber and made his way awkwardly down, his clumsy rubber boots too large for the triangular stone treads. When he reached the bottom he didn’t notice her at first. She was standing motionless in front of the organ console below the grille, exactly where Alex Petrou had been found. In the shadow of the recess her face was very pale, a hand raised to her mouth, her eyes wide with fright, and she looked as if she were about to scream.
‘Good lord!’ Brock said. ‘You gave me a start.’
‘Who are you?’ she whispered.
‘Brock, David Brock. I’m new here. Only arrived yesterday. I was just exploring. Are you all right?’
She took in his orange anorak and Wellington boots, just like hers.
‘Yes.’ He heard her take a deep breath. ‘You scared me. I heard the sound of the front door, then your footsteps and the tapping of your stick. And then I heard you coming down the stairs. I suddenly felt very frightened. Stupid…’
‘Oh no, I can imagine exactly what it must have sounded like. This is a very spooky sort of place. Mind you, I’m finding everything a bit strange at the moment.’
‘I’m sorry — ’ she stepped out of the darkness towards him ‘- my name is Grace Carrington.’ They shook hands formally. ‘Actually, I have seen you. I think your room is close to mine.’ She sounded faint, a wraith that might fade away at any moment.
‘Ah. I was in the library after lunch,’ Brock said, trying to fill the chill space around them with the confidence of his voice, ‘and I found a history of the house and the estate. It mentioned this place, so I thought I’d take a look. The Temple of Apollo.’ He gave a snort, as if to dispel any lingering miasmas with his scepticism.
‘He was the god of music,’ she said, indicating the organ console behind her.
‘Yes, and of the healing art — appropriate for a clinic, I suppose. Identified also with the sun, both as the giver of life and the destroyer. It’s amazing how many jobs they were able to hold down in those days.’
She managed a smile. ‘You’re finding it a bit strange here, you said.’
‘Yes. It’s my first time. It all seems quite odd.’
‘You’ll soon get used to it. And when you come to leave, you’ll find that the world outside seems equally strange at first.’
‘In what way?’
‘I found I’d become … detached from it.’ ‘So you’ve done this a few times?’
Grace shivered suddenly. ‘Let’s go upstairs,’ she said, and made for the foot of the stairs. ‘This is my third visit. I’m not as much a regular as Martha or Sidney — I saw you talking to them at lunch-time today.’
‘Yes.’ Brock’s voice became muffled as he climbed the spiral staircase. ‘I think Martha decided to take me under her wing.’
Grace was standing at the top, waiting for him, and smiled again at the expression on his face. ‘She has a habit of doing that with new people. She’ll let you go after a bit.’
‘I think I may have already exhausted her patience. I got her a bit upset today.’
‘Did you? How did you manage that?’ They began walking slowly back up the nave.
‘I recalled seeing something that was reported in the papers last year, about one of the staff here who was found hanged. In this building.’
Grace stopped and turned towards him, looking carefully at his face. ‘Yes. What did you say?’
‘I was just trying to find out what she thought really happened. I’m afraid she was offended, thought I was casting aspersions on the man.’
Grace turned away, saying nothing at first. Then, ‘I was here, too.’
Brock waited for her to say more, and when nothing came he spoke carefully, pitching his voice lower. ‘Just now, Grace, when I came upon you down there, it occurred to me that you must be standing in the actual place where he was found.’
She didn’t acknowledge his comment for a long while. Eventually she turned towards him again and said, ‘I think many of us … would like to know what happened.’
‘Martha said drugs.’
‘That’s what they said at the inquest. But you’ve seen what it’s like down there … Knowing him, it’s hard to believe.’
They paused for a moment outside the doors, in the space behind the four Ionic columns of the temple front.
‘These columns were here for a hundred years before the temple was built,’ Grace said, resting her hand on the fluted surface of one of them, picking at some lichen with her nail. ‘They were meant to be a ruin, you see, something to be contemplated from the house, or while strolling in the gardens. To remind you of the passage of time, of your mortality.’
‘Yes, that was mentioned in the book I was reading in the library,’ Brock said. ‘And you know about the other things, too?’
‘No. What other things?’
‘The ruin was just one of a series of mementi mori — is that the plural? According to the book, the others should still be around somewhere in the grounds. I thought I might mount an expedition at some point to try and track them down.’
She smiled. ‘That’s a nice idea. You must tell me what you find.’
‘Why not join me? In this weather it might be safer to explore in pairs in case one of us gets lost in the drifts.’
She didn’t answer and they set off towards the house, the silence broken only by the sound of their footsteps until Brock said, ‘I met someone else today who said he was here last October when that chap died. Norman de Loynes. Did you meet him then?’
‘Yes, I do remember him. He made himself unpopular with some of the staff. A cleaner, I think. He was quite arrogant about something, as far as I remember — he’s not a friend of yours, is he?’
‘No, no.’ Brock’s eyes had been studying their original footprints as they retraced their steps, the deep grip of the soles of their boots showing up as two different patterns. He noticed that there was also a third pattern of footprints, with a distinctive diamond-shaped heel mark, heading towards the temple and in some places obliterating the tracks which Brock and Grace had left. Brock stopped and stared back towards the knoll, but he couldn’t see anyone. As they approached the door to the west wing, this third set of tracks could be seen curving in towards them from the direction of the car park, its origins lost in the slush of the roadway.
‘All right,’ Grace said as they closed the door behind them and started pulling off their outdoor clothes. She was quicker than Brock and finished while he was still wrestling with his anorak. ‘I’ll come on your expedition. When do you want to go?’
‘What about tomorrow afternoon?’
She nodded. ‘I’ll meet you down here,’ and she walked quickly away down the corridor.
After dinner that evening a video, On Golden Pond, was shown in the drawing room for the patients. Brock skipped both dinner and video and, tucking into yet another glass of water, forced himself to do some work on his paper.
The following morning’s treatment sessions were a repeat of the previous day’s, with hydrotherapy followed by physiotherapy and massage. He had little opportunity to talk to the staff involved, and saw no sign of Rose, whom he had been hoping to meet again.
At two, after the lunch hour, the patients dispersed, some to their rooms to rest, others to the drawing room to read the morning papers or to the games room to play a hand of cards. Brock went to the reception desk to keep his appointment with Ben Bromley. The receptionist lifted the counter flap for him and led him to a door at the back of her office, knocked and showed him in. Expecting the converted store-cupboard that Kathy had described, Brock was surprised by a generous office, with a large window overlooking the gravelled terrace at the front of the house. The furniture and fittings appeared to be recently delivered and, unlike everywhere else in the building, were coordinated with each other. There was a pungent smell of new carpet, and another smell as well, elusive and enticing, which Brock couldn’t quite identify until he saw, incongruous in the middle of the large executive desk, a hot meat pie and a bottle of beer.