The Ghost Writer

sideboard.

'Anything the matter, old thing?' Harry asked, as they approached the stairs.

'Don't call me that any more! I'm not old, and I'm not a thing.' And, she almost added, I'm not yours, either.

'Sorry, old-I mean-er-sorry,' he said, sounding aggrieved, and they ascended in silence while she choked back one angry opening after another, so preoccupied with her suspicions in regard to Beatrice that they had reached the second-floor landing before she remembered 'The Drowned Man'.

It came to her as she went to fetch the key of the studio from her room, leaving Harry to wait in darkness on the landing. She could not say anything about Beatrice without sounding jealous, and putting herself even further in the wrong, for he might be perfectly innocent on that score. But she could set him a test: she would place a strand of her hair between the covers of 'The Drowned Man', and leave the door unlocked that night; if he lied about it in the morning, she would know, and break the engagement regardless.

Though it had been cool on the landing, the day's heat was still trapped in the studio. She lit the candles on the table, and placed her candlestick in a holder on the lectern. When she knelt on the bed and opened the window, the candle flames barely wavered. There was no moon, but the sky had cleared and she could see starlight glimmering on the wet grass beyond the flagstones below.

She stood up and turned to Harry, who was standing beside the easel, and, it seemed to her, ostentatiously ignoring the lectern.

'What's the matter, old-sorry, I mean, what's up?'

'Nothing,' she said coldly, thinking, how could you possibly not know?

'Not still upset over that little spat in the lane?'

Too angry to reply, she tugged at the ring he had given her, meaning to fling it in his face, but it would not come off.

'Good, I knew you wouldn't be. Look here old-sorry, I'm quite done up, I think I'll turn in. Don't worry about a candle. 'Night.'

He dabbed a perfunctory kiss on her cheek and retreated to the doorway. In silence, she extinguished the candles on the table and retrieved her own from the lectern.

'Er-aren't you going to shut the window?'

She shook her head, and removed her key from the open door as she left. Dazzled by the flame of her candle, she could not see his expression, but her own was surely unmistakable.

'I see-leaving it to air-er, good idea. 'Night.' He set off down the stairs in his irregular, slightly crab-like fashion, while she watched, still speechless, until he had vanished into the dim, starlit recesses of the flight below.

BACK IN HER ROOM, SHE REMOVED THE OFFENDING RING with soap and sat on her bed rehearsing what she would say when she returned it to him in the morning. Or should she go down to his room and have it out now? No; that would only upset her uncle, and give Beatrice something more to gloat over. She would wait until she could get Harry alone in the wood. For an hour or more she paced up and down her room, sustained by the heat of her fury. But as it began to cool, doubts crept in. Harry hated scenes, and would go to any lengths to avoid a quarrel; perhaps he would have apologised if she hadn't been so hostile. And what-supposing he was innocent where Beatrice was concerned-was he supposed to apologise for? Calling her 'old thing'? She had never protested until tonight. For being chronically unpunctual? She had never objected to that, either. For his lack of ardour? Again, she hadn't complained of it. Was he supposed to read her thoughts? Yes, said a rebellious voice, because I know I can read his. But how could she be so sure? He had been ardent enough, last Sunday on the riverbank; her headache had put an end to that. A wave of self-loathing rose up like bile; she buried her face in her pillow and wept for a long time.

She must have fallen asleep, for after an indefinite interval she woke in darkness, with the impression of having heard a door close. Or had she only dreamt it? She slid off her bed, still fully dressed, and crept out into the corridor. No light shone beneath her sisters door, but the door to the landing stood open, and as she came nearer, she saw a faint glimmer of yellow light on the polished floor outside the studio.

Candles burned in the sockets on either side of the lectern. His hair was dishevelled, his feet bare, his shirt half-unbuttoned. He had also lit the triple candelabra on the table; its light shone full upon her face as she stood with her hand on the handle of the half-open door, but he did not see her. His forehead gleamed; she could see the reflection of the flame moving over his temple as he swayed slowly back and forth. Once again she waited, willing him to look up, her anger rekindling as the seconds passed. A stirring of the air set the candles flaring the portrait of Imogen de Vere, which stood just to the left of her line of sight, caught her awareness, and she knew exactly what she wanted to do.

She closed the studio door softly and returned to her own room, where she lit another candle, and changed into the emerald green gown. It was a little loose around the bodice and shoulders, but that would not matter; and her hair was still pinned up. She took out the veil, and for the third time drew it over her head.

The mirror showed only a flame floating in black mist, but that did not matter either; she knew the way blindfold. Her sisters room was still dark and silent as she made her way back along the corridor.

Even through the veil, she could see that his gaze remained fixed upon the lectern. She took a step into the room, then another. Still he did not see her. Three more paces, and a hooded shadow fell across the portrait as she came between it and the candelabra on the table. He looked up, and though his face was little more than a blurred impression of features, it seemed to her that he smiled. Then he began to speak, but so softly that she could not hear him through the muffling folds of gauze. She raised both hands and threw back the veil.

The smile faded; the words died on his lips. For several seconds he stood petrified. Then, very slowly, his expression changed to one of disbelieving horror. She began to back away, her shadow growing larger as she retreated until she bumped against the table. The room suddenly brightened; something moved upon-no, in-the bed, at which she had not even glanced before. In the flaring, crackling light she saw Beatrice's head upon the pillow, a bare arm and shoulder emerging from beneath the sheet, eyes opening wide as Cordelia tore off the burning veil and beat at her hair with both hands.

The flames around her head went out, with a horrible smell of singed hair; the blazing remnants of the veil floated across the room and settled upon Henry St Clair's palette-tray. Cordelia stood paralysed, watching her own narrowly averted fate enacted upon the canvas. A tongue of fire darted up one bare arm and across the shoulder of the emerald green gown; the beautiful face seemed to rise up in flight; and then, with no memory of an interval, she was stamping with her bare feet at the smouldering ruins of the portrait, with acrid fumes burning her throat, and a thousand tiny red sparks floating and settling and crawling about the floor.

She had knocked over the candelabra on the table; it too had gone out, but the two candles on the lectern still burned. Someone had been screaming; she did not know whom. Harry had not moved; he stood gripping the lectern with both hands, his mouth half open. Beatrice had wrapped herself in the sheet and was shivering on the edge of the bed, staring at her sister with glazed, uncomprehending eyes. Cordelia's hands and the back of her neck were beginning to sting painfully. Aside from the stinging, she felt perfectly numb; her mind had frozen in mid-thought, somewhere between Harry and Beatrice and what her aunt and uncle would do now that Ashbourn would have to be sold.

But now Harry was folding away 'The Drowned Man'. Meticulous as always, he fastened the clasp, took up the black volume and placed it under his left arm. He might have been walking in his sleep, or perhaps the dream was hers, for it seemed to take him an age to cover the few paces that separated them. She thought he would pass her without speaking, and knew that she ought to be angry, angrier than she had ever been in her life, but the feeling would not come, nothing would come; until he stopped between her and Beatrice and muttered something that sounded like 'Sorry old… sorry.' And then, quite clearly, 'I must, you see.'

The open window was directly behind him; one good push would send him reeling backwards past Beatrice, across the bed and over the sill. Something must have showed in her face, for he flinched away from her, hugging the black book to his chest. Beatrice, now with her clothes clutched against the sheet, held out her free hand as if inviting him to help her up. But he did not see her; his eyes remained fixed upon Cordelia, to whom he repeated, 'I must have it, you see.' Then he turned and made for the landing at a horrible hopping run.

Cordelia followed, not knowing what she meant to do. From the doorway, she saw him silhouetted crabwise against the starlit window as he reached the head of the stairs. Then she was thrust violently aside. A pale figure