Song of the Damned Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  Recent Titles by Sarah Rayne from Severn House

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Recent Titles by Sarah Rayne from Severn House

  The Phineas Fox Mysteries

  DEATH NOTES

  CHORD OF EVIL

  SONG OF THE DAMNED

  The Nell West and Michael Flint Series

  PROPERTY OF A LADY

  THE SIN EATER

  THE SILENCE

  THE WHISPERING

  DEADLIGHT HALL

  THE BELL TOWER

  SONG OF THE DAMNED

  Sarah Rayne

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain and the USA 2018 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  Eardley House, 4 Uxbridge Street, London W8 7SY

  This eBook edition first published in 2018 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Trade paperback edition first published

  in Great Britain and the USA 2018 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD

  Copyright © 2018 by Sarah Rayne.

  The right of Sarah Rayne to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8814-3 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-944-3 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-996-1 (e-book)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland

  ONE

  PRESS RELEASE

  SCHOOL’S BICENTENARY CELEBRATIONS TO HONOUR 200-YEAR-OLD MYSTERY

  Celebrations for Cresacre School’s bicentenary this autumn will include a tribute to the 200-year-old mystery which forms part of its history.

  At the end of the eighteenth century, a small group of nuns vanished from what was then Cresacre Convent.

  ‘Their fate was never known, but their memory has lived on,’ said Bicentenary Events Organizer, Arabella Tallis. ‘We shall be commemorating them in various ways during the bicentenary of what is now a lively, modern, co-educational school.’

  Further details of the bicentenary and the planned events are available from Arabella Tallis, or from the school’s headteacher, Miss Harriet Madeley. See below for contact details.

  ‘It was all going so well,’ said Harriet Madeley, crossly rearranging objects on her desk, as if doing so might restore symmetry to recent events as well. ‘And I have to say Arabella Tallis is doing a splendid job. I expect you remember Arabella?’ she said to her deputy head.

  ‘I do indeed,’ said the deputy head. ‘An intelligent girl, although inclined to be somewhat disruptive. Wasn’t she the one who caused all that damage to the science lab?’

  ‘It wasn’t deliberate. She got the proportions wrong in an experiment,’ said Miss Madeley. ‘And she was very apologetic about it; in fact she organized the repainting of the wall by her whole class. She did some work for a PR firm in London recently, which is why I got in touch with her.’

  ‘If she’s doing such a good job, what’s gone wrong?’ asked Dilys Davy.

  ‘That annoying girl, Olivia Tulliver, has come scuttling out of the woodwork,’ said Harriet. ‘That’s what’s gone wrong.’

  ‘Can’t we scuttle her back?’

  ‘I’m not sure. She wants us to stage that opera old Gustav Tulliver wrote when he was headteacher here.’

  ‘It’s bound to be terrible,’ said Dilys. ‘Gustav could no more write an opera than I could.’

  ‘Yes, but Olivia’s made the point that her uncle was an eminent man who made the school his life’s work and that putting on his opera would be a fitting tribute,’ said Harriet. ‘She says it’s got a great deal of local content – she even says it draws on that old tale about the nuns.’

  ‘Which version of the legend does she say Gustav used?’ asked Dilys Davy.

  ‘The one suggesting they sneaked across to France and got mixed up in the French Revolution.’

  ‘Oh, that one. It’s one of the more believable theories, of course,’ said Dilys. ‘Can’t we tell Olivia that the programme’s already fixed, and we can’t change it?’

  ‘The trouble is,’ said Harriet, slowly, ‘that she’s threatening – no, that’s too strong a word – she’s implying that unless there’s this – well, tribute to Gustav – the funds for the Tulliver Scholarship might be reduced.’

  ‘Blackmail.’

  ‘No, she’s been clever with her wording.’

  ‘But if the funds are reduced, it could end the scholarship,’ said Dilys. ‘Which would be a very great pity.’

  ‘Yes. Or at the very least it could cut down the numbers. I don’t know how much say Olivia actually has – there’s something in the trust deed about one seat on the board always being reserved for someone bearing the family name. When Gustav died, Olivia automatically inherited his seat, aged just twenty-one. I could ask to see the original trust deed, but I don’t want to get into a row – or even a difficult discussion – with the trustees. If it got out, it might mean bad publicity for the school.’

  ‘We’ve weathered worse than that,’ said Dilys, briskly. ‘There’ve never been any real scandals here – well, apart from the odd outbreak of smoking cannabis in the bedrooms, and the occasional under-age pregnancy. A bit of porn downloaded onto some of the computers – that’s usually the boys. Little groups sneaking out to the Black Boar on Saturday nights.’

  ‘And that girl who disappeared for a couple of long weekends, then came back looking smug,’ said Harriet.

  ‘Oh, yes, I’d forgotten about her.’

  ‘But,’ said Harriet, ‘those are things that happen in most schools nowadays. And I’ve had an idea for diluting Olivia.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I told Arabella a bit about it last night on the phone – she remembers Olivia – and she knows someone she thinks might be able to help us rule Gustav’s opera politely out of court.’

  ‘Arabella always did know all kinds of people. I don’t know that I’d automatically trust them.’
>
  ‘His name’s Phineas Fox, and Arabella thinks Olivia might respect his opinion. I looked him up, and he seems to be quite well known in music circles. Rather highly regarded, it seems.’

  ‘I suppose he’s a boyfriend of Arabella’s, is he? Well, from what I recall of Arabella, he’s bound to be. Is he a musician?’

  ‘He’s a music historian and researcher. He’s worked for the BBC a few times, apparently.’

  Dilys observed that this was not necessarily a recommendation.

  ‘No, but he’s had a couple of quite scholarly books published – there was one on a famous nineteenth-century Russian violinist that came out earlier this year. I remember reading a very good review in the Times Literary Supplement. It said it was masterly and insightful.’

  ‘I don’t know about being scholarly and masterly and insightful,’ said Dilys, ‘but if Phineas Fox can solve this without bloodshed, he’ll need to be a cross between Henry Kissinger and King Solomon.’

  ‘If he’s going to be Solomon, does that make Arabella Tallis the Queen of Sheba?’

  ‘Hardly,’ said Dilys, caustically. ‘The Queen of Sheba was fabulously wealthy, wasn’t she, and from all I hear, Arabella is permanently on the verge of bankruptcy.’

  ‘Olivia’s always wanted that opera to be staged,’ said Harriet, thoughtfully.

  ‘It is just about the mysterious nuns, is it?’

  ‘As far as I know. Why?’

  ‘I was just wondering whether Gustav found out something about the Ginevra legend and wrote a few scenes about it.’

  Ginevra …

  It was as if a breath of cold air had gusted softly into the warm, book-lined study.

  Then Harriet said: ‘I shouldn’t think so. I daresay there might once have been someone called Ginevra at Cresacre, but I’ve never given those tales much credence, and I wouldn’t think Gustav did, either. I’ve always believed the students seized a fragment of an old piece of gossip and embroidered it out of all proportion.’

  ‘Each new intake adding another chapter,’ nodded Dilys.

  ‘Well, teenagers do love gothic, all the way back to Frankenstein and The Monk. And all the way down to the make-up and the clothes.’

  ‘It’s the name. That’s what got to the artless little grubs in the first place. They think it’s romantic,’ said Dilys. ‘They think of someone called Ginevra as young and beautiful. Soulful eyes and skimpy garments, with her ghost drifting around the west wing on moonless nights, waiting to be whisked away by a sexy hero-villain.’

  ‘Coming from a pragmatic mathematician, that’s very nearly lyrical.’

  ‘I don’t know about lyrical; it’s my belief that if Ginevra existed at all, she was probably some rapacious old harridan who deserved her fate. Whatever that fate was, because it varies depending on which year of students you listen to.’

  ‘What none of them ever get round to explaining, though,’ said Harriet, thoughtfully, ‘is what Ginevra might have done to deserve that fate.’

  Diary entry, 1790s

  I wish I knew what I have done to deserve what has happened to me. That is a self-centred way to think, but I am thinking it.

  It was, of course, the height of folly to have come here. We all knew – of course we did! – of the brutality taking place in France. But what happened in Cresacre was so huge, so potentially dangerous, that we made the decision to leave. To preserve the secret for as long as possible.

  I hear that other prisoners are permitted to walk in what is called the prisoners’ gallery during the day, and it is only in the hour before sunset that they are returned to their cells. I hope so much that the others who braved this journey with me are permitted that small indulgence, but it makes me even more fearful for my own situation. I am kept in this room – to call it a dungeon does not overstate the case – and the door is uncompromisingly locked all the time.

  There is a sliver of window – with bars, of course – and during the day some light trickles in. But once night falls, it’s like being inside John Milton’s description of the forlorn Stygian cave. My father used to read short passages from Milton to the servants at home, particularly from Paradise Lost, with the aim of reminding them of the likely fate awaiting sinners. If he heard that the scullery maids had stolen out to the local inn, he was apt to dwell on the description of how, when Night darkened the Streets, then wandered forth the sons of Belial, ‘flown with insolence and wine’. It was a lively image, but it did not make any difference to the scullery maids, who had no idea who Belial was, let alone his sons, and who carried on visiting the inn anyway.

  I would welcome some company in this place; in fact I would welcome Belial’s entire family of sons, no matter how wine-flown and insolent they might be. I even think I would willingly barter my soul to them if they would free me …

  But of course I would not barter my soul to the devil. I have crossed out that last sentence, although I am not sure why I feel the need to do that. It’s not as if Belial or any of his offspring are likely to be peering over my shoulder, reading what I am writing, nodding gleefully and rubbing their scaly hands in anticipation.

  It’s probably the height of folly to be writing all this, but I brought with me the diary I had begun to write at home. I have several of the charcoal sticks I always used for writing, and I’m finding it a comfort to record my thoughts and fears.

  Last night I wondered whether I might barter not my soul for my freedom, but my body. With whom, though? There’s certainly no point in considering any of the uniformed officials who occasionally peer through the grille in the door of this cell. They never come inside anyway. But what about one of the turnkeys …?

  These are shockingly sinful thoughts to have. But I believe I would do it. Would any of the men be amenable, though? I am aware that I must look appalling by this time – dirty and ragged and unkempt.

  Even so …

  Even so, may God forgive me, I believe I may end in trying. To get out of this place I’d endeavour to barter – a polite word for a very impolite activity – with one of them; with any of them; with all of them, if necessary!

  TWO

  Phineas Fox had been rather pleased to receive a politely friendly letter from Harriet Madeley, which made flattering reference to Phin’s work in general and his recent book in particular, and went on to say that the school hoped he might be able to help them with a rather delicate and slightly unusual matter regarding their bicentenary celebrations.

  ‘I believe Arabella Tallis has already mentioned the bicentenary to you,’ she said, ‘and that you’re intending to attend a couple of the events with her. We’re very pleased about that and I’m looking forward to meeting you.’

  Arabella’s invitation had actually been an off-hand question as to whether Phin minded donning a black tie and dinner jacket for a few hours, because if he could manage it she would quite like to appear on his arm for the last night of the celebrations, on account of it being sure to impress people who had previously disapproved of her.

  Miss Madeley’s letter did not sound disapproving of Arabella at all. She said Arabella was making a great success of everything, but that the school might need Phin’s professional expertise. ‘A question of your professional opinion on a locally written opera,’ she wrote. ‘We think it makes use of one of our Cresacre legends, so we don’t want to turn it down out of hand. If there’s any chance that you could find time to visit us, it would be greatly appreciated.’

  A fee had been mentioned at that point, which Phin had initially tried to refuse. However, Miss Madeley said, very firmly, that they would not expect someone of Mr Fox’s standing to provide his services free, and Phin had remembered that the quarterly service charge was due on his flat, and had accepted. It was, it appeared, half-term the following week, which would be a good time for a visit.

  He was intrigued by the ‘delicate and slightly unusual situation’, and as he and Arabella set off for Cresacre, he listened with enjoyment to Arabella’s description
of the school’s legend.

  ‘Vanished nuns,’ she said, gleefully. ‘It’s beautifully spooky-sounding, isn’t it? We used to have great fun with it. Most people think the nuns got tangled up in the French Revolution – it was around that time – but there are wilder versions. Abduction by aliens, and mass murder by a local madman. Somebody even once put forward an idea about a plot to assassinate the Pope. Occasionally we’d pick up an unexpected fact, as if edges of the truth were poking out in places, like bunches of pilchards’ heads glaring up out of the pastry in that Cornish dish – starry-gaze pie, do I mean?’

  ‘No idea,’ said Phin, who was enjoying these images, but was trying to decide whether to take the turning that would mean doing battle with the M5 or whether to keep on slower, but less busy roads.

  ‘And I wrote a one-act play about it for an end-of-term concert. Very gothic. I used a marvellous old-school legend about someone called Ginevra – I’ll tell you about that later. But she’s supposed to have been part of the mystery of the nuns and she’s always fascinated everyone. In the play, I was the grey lady, trying to find a fourth to make up a bridge table at the Old Rectory. One of the boys was a beheaded Cavalier looking for Oliver Cromwell.’

  ‘I didn’t realize the school was mixed sex,’ said Phin, who had decided in favour of the motorway, and had now merged with the lemming-stream of vehicles. ‘And don’t raise your eyebrows like that: you know what I mean by mixed sex.’

  ‘I’m still waiting to find that out,’ said Arabella, demurely. ‘I don’t know much about this delicate situation Hats talked about, though. Except that it’s all to do with a former pupil called Olivia Tulliver, who’s threatening to put a dent in the Tulliver Scholarship dosh if we don’t stage her uncle’s opera.’

  ‘Could she do that?’

  ‘No idea. I didn’t know her very well – she was a couple of years below me. She lives in a cottage in the school grounds, and she doesn’t seem to have had much of a life since Gustav died. I’ll show you the cottage – it’s very old. The school’s old, as well – there are still bits of the convent in the school grounds, and even traces of the ancient monastery. We can walk amidst the ruins like drifting figures from somebody’s elegy in a churchyard.’