The Magic Cottage

'There's no mention of doors on my list.'

'You had to plane them before painting.'

'No, no, it's not down here at all. We'd have smoothed them, of course, rubbed them down as needs be, just for the painting. I remember now, yes, I remember you mentioned them when we quoted for the job. Wasn't there a few cupboard doors and all?'

'That's right.'

'Ah well, my foreman told me the doors were fine. Nothing needed doing to them apart from smoothing the surfaces. Some of your window casements were terrible rotted, and we replaced them. It was all on my invoice to yourself, Mr. Stringer.'

There was a noise from over my head.

'Uh, can doors warp with warm weather, Mr. O'Malley?'

'Now that depends. In direct sunlight maybe, or sometimes in very damp weather. Sure that's a very old house you're living in, and the timber's not so young any more.'

'I've noticed some of the pointing on the outside doesn't look too good. It seems to be crumbling away.'

I heard him draw in a long breath, an indication of weariness rather than surprise. 'Now that's a different matter entirely. I can send someone over to take a look at that for you, but I'm afraid I can't spare anybody for at least a week or so. It's a busy time of year for us, with the weather so good.'

'There's something else that needs urgent attention, I'm afraid.'

'And what would that be?'

'The stone lintel over the range in the kitchen. There's a crack in that, too, and I've noticed the stone is beginning to sag in the middle. Only a fraction, but the whole thing looks pretty dangerous to me.'

'So it's a new bit of work you'll be wanting. As I say, we're very busy right at the moment . . .'

'The lintel was on my original list for repair. We noticed the break before we moved in.'

'I don't recall . . . ah, wait a moment. That's right, I remember more details now. You had a whole list of repair jobs, Mr. Stringer, that required no attention at all. That's why our price was below the quotation figure; my men couldn't locate half the faults you mentioned.'

'That doesn't make sense.'

'Neither to me does it. My foreman remarked at the time that mebbe you'd confused your list with another property you had on your mind to buy. Any other firm that was a bit Tom Mix—'

'What?'

'—cowboy—would have charged you for the lot and not said a word about it. Still and well, I can send someone to take a look, but not in a hurry, I'm afraid. How about Tuesday week? Does that suit you?'

'That lintel's dangerous . . .'

'D'you use that range at all? I thought not. Prop up the stone and keep away from it, that's all y'have to do, Mr. Stringer. Now I'll send my man over first thing Tuesday week and we'll see what we can do. There, I've written it in the book. He'll have a look at anything else that needs doing and we'll soon have you right as rain again. Good day to you, Mr. Stringer, hope you're enjoying y'self down in that lovely part of the forest.'

The phone clicked and that was that. Problems solved as far as O'Malley was concerned.

And again that funny noise from upstairs.

Two steps and I craned my head around the stairway. I knew what that sound was.

But now there were other noises. From below.

I listened intently, undecided as to which I should investigate first and feeling disinclined to investigate either.

More from downstairs. Scraping sounds, then rustling paper.

'Midge?' Maybe she was already back from the village. No reply, but then she could still be annoyed at me.

'Midge, you there?'

Someone certainly was, but they weren't saying who. I stood at the top of the stairway and leaned precariously around the bend, looking down toward the kitchen. My favorite place.

A teacup rattled on the sideboard (I hadn't left any on the table).

I refused to allow myself time to ponder, sick of my own funk by now, and marched down there bold as brass (limped down really; my bee sting was still throbbing).

I stood at the kitchen door and sagged with relief.

'Rumbo, you silly beggar.'

From his perch on a sideboard shelf he scolded me for giving him a scare too. A biscuit packet lay torn on the table, contents scattered, most of the biscuits gnawed into.

'At least you haven't deserted us,' I said. I picked up a broken biscuit and held it up to him and he snatched it from my hand, still complaining noisily.

'So where is everyone today?' I interrupted. 'Can they sense bad vibes in Gramarye too? Is that why the birds have missed out on breakfast?'

He was probably as puzzled as me.

'Takes more than that to frighten you off, though, right? But I oughta warn you—things aren't the same around here any more, and I'm a little scared myself. It's in the atmosphere—d'you feel it? Like something's creeping up, but ducks outa sight every time you turn around to see. Know what I mean?'

I don't think he did. He just nibbled away, cocking his head at me every so often in that doglike way of his, but paying no particular mind to what I was saying. What did I expect from a squirrel anyway?

The door to the attic rooms was stiff in its frame (although the thought that someone was leaning against the other side crossed my mind).

I was on the step below, twisting the handle and pushing with my other hand at the same time. Rumbo had kept me company on my cautious journey up the winding stairway, as curious about the odd sounds drifting down as was I.

Each time the noise came—there were long, long pauses in between—his head had shot up as if on a pole, and he'd looked this way and that in fast, jerky movements. The sounds had a musical thrum to them, and that's why they were familiar to me.

They were sounds of a thumb playing across open guitar strings.

Yet softer even than that, a resonance only, the vibrations dying slowly, leaving what seemed a deep and brooding silence before the strings were disturbed once more.

Fortunately—having used up my bravado when I'd marched boldly down to the kitchen—an explanation had already occurred to me. A bird, or possibly even an insomniac bat, had somehow found its way into my music room and the creature's wings were brushing against the guitar every time it did a fly-past. Other than that, a mouse family could have nested inside one of the acoustics, members scraping past strings when they left or entered the soundhole. Both explanations felt reasonable to me, and I was still prepared to believe in reason (even after all that had happened).

I pushed harder and the door gave a fraction. There'd been silence inside for well over a minute now.

Next attempt I butted the door with my shoulder and, wood scraping against wood, it opened; my grip on the handle preventing it from flying wide. I gently shoved the door the rest of the way.

At first glance the low-ceilinged room appeared empty. At second glance there was no change. But I moaned aloud when I saw the condition my two acoustic guitars were in. I ran into the room and dropped to my knees before them, my moan turning into a wail of anguish.

The neck of the Martin, the instrument on its stand and set close to a shaded wall, bent toward me as if bowing at my entrance. The Spanish concert lay nearby on the floor, obviously having toppled at a time when the crash couldn't have been heard; its neck curved upward like a thin man trying to rise. First and second strings had snapped on both, the rest stretched taut from head to bridge, pulling in the neck, the incredible tension in them almost palpable. I didn't understand how it could have happened: neither one had been left in direct sunlight, which might have caused the wood to warp—and that would have slackened the strings, not tightened them—and neither had been tuned to a high pitch—I kept the strings at normal tension, unless I knew I wouldn't be using the guitars for a time, in which case I always loosened them. Nylon strings could shrink if subjected to extremes in temperature and providing they didn't break first; but the steel strings of the Martin? Not likely.

I shook my head, bewildered and upset, the grief I felt not unlike, I'd imagine, having your pet dog run