‘Sophie. This is Jack Nightingale. Can you hear me?’
The candles flickered again and he heard a creaking sound above his head. He looked up. There was a second, slightly longer creak, then silence.
‘Sophie? Is that you?’
The panel at the top of the stairs rattled and Nightingale flinched. The light from the two candles illuminated only the seating area; the stairs were in darkness.
‘Sophie?’
Nightingale felt a cold draught run along the back of his neck and he shivered. There were no windows in the basement and no ventilation ducts so draughts were a physical impossibility.
‘Sophie?’
He heard a fluttering sound from the desk where he’d left the yellow legal pad on which Jenny had written the inventory. Nightingale peered into the gloom and could just about see that the pages were moving slowly, as if someone was flicking through them one by one.
‘Sophie?’
The pages stopped moving. Nightingale dabbed more salt on his tongue. He wondered if saying a prayer would help, but there had been no mention of that in the book.
‘Jack?’
Nightingale froze. He wasn’t sure if he’d actually heard his name being spoken or if he’d imagined it, but it had been a little girl’s voice. The draught was back and he shivered. He stared at the doll, lying on the coffee table. Its hair was moving slowly, curling around its head as if it had a life of its own. ‘Sophie, can you hear me?’
‘Jack?’
There was no doubt the second time. It was Sophie’s voice, but little more than a whisper. ‘Sophie? Can you hear me? Where are you?’ asked Nightingale.
‘I’m here, Jack.’
Nightingale felt something brush against the back of his head and he flinched. He started to turn.
‘No! Don’t turn round,’ said Sophie.
Nightingale forced himself to keep looking forward. The doll’s hair had stopped moving and was spread out like a golden halo around its head.
‘If you see me, I’ll go back,’ she said.
‘Go back where?’ asked Nightingale.
‘I don’t know,’ said Sophie. She sniffed. ‘It’s cold. And dark.’
‘Sophie, honey, what do you want?’
‘I want you to help me.’ She sniffed again. ‘I want to go home.’
‘I don’t think you can go home, honey,’ said Nightingale, clasping his hands together.
Sophie began to cry softly. Nightingale started to turn. ‘No!’ she said urgently. ‘You mustn’t. I told you.’
Nightingale turned back to look at the photograph. She looked so happy in the picture. It had been taken two years before she died, and she was wearing her school uniform and smiling as if she didn’t have a care in the world. Nightingale wondered if her father had already started interfering with her and felt a wave of sadness wash over him. He had been a cop for too long to believe that there was any sort of fairness in life, but what had happened to Sophie was just plain wrong. ‘Sophie, I do want to help you, but you have to tell me what you want.’
‘I told you already. I want to go home.’
‘Honey, do you know what happened to your mother? And your father?’
‘Yes.’
‘Really? You know?’
‘They’re dead,’ whispered Sophie.
Nightingale shivered. ‘Aren’t they with you?’
‘I’m alone, Jack.’ She began to sob quietly.
Tears pricked Nightingale’s eyes. He wanted to help but felt completely powerless. Sophie was dead. Dead and buried. He stared at the doll and then slowly picked it up and stroked the hair softly.
‘Jack?’
‘Yes, honey.’
‘You have to come and get me.’
Nightingale frowned. ‘How do I do that?’
She sniffed once again. A cold wind blew by Nightingale’s left ear, ruffling his hair.
‘You know how,’ she said.
That was when the candles blew out and Sophie screamed as if she was in pain.
51
Nightingale groped for his torch. He found it and switched it on, then he ran the beam quickly around the basement and up the stairs, his heart pounding. The wicks of the candles were smouldering. He frowned as he stared at the candles. There were no draughts in the basement but something had blown them out.
He was heading for the stairs to switch on the lights when his phone burst into life. It was the American.
‘Jack, are you okay?’ asked Wainwright.
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Just a feeling. What are you doing?’
‘I’m in the basement of Gosling Manor.’
‘That’s why I’m calling. Amy told me what happened. What’s going on?’
‘I was robbed.’
‘Amy said they took everything.’
‘Just the books. They left the artefacts and stuff, but cleaned me out of every single book. Must have taken them ages. Sorry I wasted your time.’
‘Don’t worry about that. But do you have any idea who might have done it?’
‘Hardly anyone knew that the basement was there,’ said Nightingale. ‘You, me, my assistant. Her friend. That’s about it, so far as I know.’
‘What about Marcus Fairchild?’
‘What? What about him?’
‘Did you ever take him down there, did you show him the books?’
‘No.’
‘You’re certain of that?’
‘Of course. Why? What’s going on?’
‘Word on the grapevine is that Fairchild has come into some books. Some very old, very expensive volumes. And bearing in mind what happened at Gosling Manor, that’s one hell of a coincidence, don’t you think?’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Jack, I wouldn’t be calling you if I wasn’t sure.’
Nightingale said nothing. He ran a hand through his hair. Marcus Fairchild? How had he discovered the hidden library? He knew about the mansion, but how could he have known about the books?
‘Jack, are you there?’
‘Yeah, I’m here, Joshua.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘Do? I guess I need to have a talk with him.’
‘Be careful,’ said Wainwright. ‘He’s a dangerous man.’
‘I’ll be okay. I’ve met some real hard bastards in my time.’
‘Not like Marcus Fairchild. He’s off the Richter scale.’
‘Okay.’
‘I’m serious, Jack. Fairchild is pure evil. Don’t even think about taking him on. He’s got the whole Order of
