The Burning Altar Read online

  Elinor reached out to switch off the radio, and put down her book. The ticking of the tiny mantel clock was suddenly very loud. Ten o’clock. Much too early for Sir Lewis to be returning. His all-male dinner had probably reached the port and bawdy jokes stage. His own apartment was up here, of course, across the landing, but he would not creep furtively up the stairs, not as early as ten o’clock. He might if it were two or three o’clock, for fear of waking her.

  The stairs creaked again, and something brushed against the wall on the landing outside. Elinor shrank back in the chair, gripping the sides with her hands. I locked the door! cried her mind silently.

  And back came the response: Yes, but supposing there was an intruder already inside? Hiding somewhere. Waiting until everything was silent and still? Supposing you locked the someone in with you?

  There was no conventional hall in the flat; the main door led straight into the sitting room, with the bedroom, bathroom and kitchen leading off it. If Elinor turned her head she could see the door that was really her front door. It locked and bolted. She was going to have a tiny card printed with her name on it. And a knocker or a bell so that people could knock properly. At the moment there was only a brass handle, a round old-fashioned knob.

  She stayed where she was, her eyes fixed on the door. If the phone had been connected she could ring the police. She might sound like an hysterical woman, but she would rather be written down as hysterical than written off as murdered. But so far, her phone was only connected to the small switchboard in the office downstairs and there was certainly no one manning it tonight. Or was there? There was a sudden surge of hope as she remembered the night watchman, followed by a plunge back into despair because he was not on duty tonight – Lewis had said so quite definitely.

  If she stayed very quiet, perhaps whatever was out there would go away. She had not switched on overhead lights; she had been reading by the single light of a table lamp, which had cast a cosy circle of light, but the rest of the apartment was in shadow. If it was an ordinary intruder out there, he could not possibly know that anyone was here.

  An ordinary intruder would know quite well that someone was here, because of the stair lights being on. Elinor looked involuntarily down to where a sliver of light spilled under the door from outside. Her heart came up in her mouth.

  The door fitted snugly enough, but the old floors were uneven and there was a gap between the floor and the bottom of the door of perhaps an inch. The light shone through and it was sufficient to show the furtive movements on the other side of the door.

  Someone was standing on the landing.

  Ghosts did not stand outside your door. The sinister gentleman who walked the streets hereabouts did nothing more than make his slow way through foggy night streets.

  Then it’s an intruder, thought Elinor. And that means there’s nothing for it but to remain absolutely silent and absolutely still and hope he goes away. But if he tries the door – if the doorknob turns – I’ll certainly scream. Her neck muscles were beginning to ache with tension and with keeping her head twisted round to stare at the door, and the palms of her hands were dented where she had been gripping the chair arms.

  And then there was another of the shadowy movements, followed by the creaking of the stairs again. He’s going away. Is he? Yes, I can hear the stairs creaking down. She sat up, discovering that she had been holding her breath and exhaling it in a huge grateful rush. She pulled her chaotic thoughts into order and put up a shaking hand to her face, discovering that her forehead was sticky with sweat.

  She was safe for the moment, but there was someone in here who clearly had no right to be here. Someone who had crept up the stairs to see what he could find and who was even now prowling around the rest of the building. Incredibly it was only twenty past ten. Sir Lewis would not be back before midnight at the very earliest. I can’t sit here for two hours knowing that someone’s out there, thought Elinor. I know it isn’t a ghost, that’s one good thing – at least, I’ll say it’s a good thing. It’ll probably turn out to be a tramp but I can’t count on that. Supposing it’s someone lying in wait for Lewis? This was suddenly entirely possible. People who were in the public eye – however modestly – were targets for all kinds of things: kidnapping and death threats.

  She forced her mind to visualise the layout of the building. To go down the stairs to the canteen and the offices on the ground floor where a small switchboard had been installed was out of the question. But what about Lewis’s own flat on the other side of the landing? He had insisted that they each have a key to the other’s flat. ‘For emergencies,’ he had said. ‘I’ll respect your privacy utterly, I promise, and you’ll do the same for me. But one of us might be taken ill, or a fire might break out – a dozen things.’

  If this was not an emergency, Elinor did not know what was. She stood up, pulling the robe of her gown more tightly about her. It was extraordinary how vulnerable you felt in a dressing gown and pyjamas and bare feet but getting day clothes from the wardrobe would take too long and might make a noise.

  She slid her feet into slippers and padded across the floor, reaching for the key which she had hung just inside her own door, and stood listening for a moment. Nothing. I’ll have to do it, thought Elinor. It’s only a few feet anyway. I can be through the door and across the landing and into Lewis’s flat, and I’ll have slammed the door and locked it within seconds. I’ll be as safe in there as I am in here. And his phone extension’s bound to be working. The police could be here in minutes.

  She paused with her hand on the door, and then taking a huge breath, turned the lock and stepped outside.

  Chapter Six

  The attic landing was brightly lit, which ought to have been reassuring, but gave the old building a vaguely sinister appearance. Elinor looked towards the iron staircase which spiralled round and down so that it was impossible to see beyond the curve. Was anything moving there, crouching just out of sight around the curve? She thought there was not. Across the landing was the door leading into Lewis’s apartment: it was perhaps twenty or twenty-five feet away. The brown cord carpet covered it; she could be across it soundlessly and through the door within seconds.

  Elinor took another deep breath and pulling her own door shut so that the Yale lock clicked home and carefully pocketing her own key, sped across the floor.

  The lock to Lewis’s flat turned like oiled silk and she was inside. She closed the door with barely a whisper of sound and turned the key. Nobody could possibly have heard the soft click. So far so good.

  The flat was larger than Elinor’s, and although it was shrouded in darkness, the curtains at the window overlooking St Stephen’s Alley had not been drawn. Silvery moonlight slid across the room, lighting the portrait of Sir Lewis’s ancestor which he had brought from Chelsea. It was the kind of portrait where the eyes followed you, which could be a bit shivery, but it was also the kind of portrait in which you wished you could have known the subject.

  The phone was on the desk and Elinor snatched it up and tapped out the magical 999, her mind framing the brisk sentences that would bring help in a blaze of flashing blue lights and blaring sirens.

  She had not expected the call to be answered quite so swiftly; in fact there was not even time for the ringing-out tone to sound at the other end and the sudden whispery voice in her ear sent a queer shiver through her. But of course the emergency service would be on its toes. She should thank heaven that it was.

  The close-sounding voice said, ‘Night service.’

  This was unexpected but it was no time to start wondering how emergency calls were answered. Elinor said, ‘Please will you come at once—’ Her voice sounded shaky as if she might start crying at any minute, which would not do. She tried again. ‘I’m speaking from St Stephen’s Wharf – the Chance Centre in St Stephen’s Road.’

  ‘What’s wrong, my dear?’

  It was absurd to feel a cold wave of fear scudding across her skin. It was ridiculous in the extreme to t
hink that the voice was exactly the kind of sinister breathy voice that might make a frightening anonymous phone call in the middle of the night. It’s the ‘my dear’ bit, thought Elinor. That’s all it is. He means it reassuringly only it sounds a bit sinister. She said, very determinedly, ‘You are the police, aren’t you? I am through to the emergency service?’

  There was a pause. Elinor thought that when novelists wrote about the hairs lifting on the nape of your neck they got it dead right. ‘Who are you?’ she said, and heard how her voice came out tinny and a bit shrill.

  ‘I’m the night watchman,’ said the voice, and Elinor felt a flood of relief, because of course that was who it was; he must be around after all. Perhaps it was an extra shift or something.

  ‘Did you come up to the top floor a short while ago? Was it you outside my door?’ Her hands were gripping the phone so tightly that the knuckles showed white. Please say it was you. Please say something ordinary and reassuring.

  ‘Well, of course that was me,’ said the voice and this time it sounded more normal. Elinor thought it was probably only the odd closeness and the faint whispery echo on the line that was disconcerting her.

  ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ she said. ‘You frightened me to death!’

  ‘And who are you?’

  ‘Elinor Craven. I’m Lewis’s – I’m Sir Lewis Chance’s assistant.’ For some reason, saying this gave Elinor unlooked-for confidence, like touching a talisman. Nothing dreadful could happen to someone who was Sir Lewis Chance’s assistant.

  ‘Where are you?’ said the voice. ‘Are you inside the house?’

  ‘Yes, of course. I’m on the top floor. I’m in—’ She paused and then said, ‘I’m in my own flat.’

  ‘All by yourself?’

  ‘Well – yes.’ This, of course, was the one thing you should never do: you absolutely never admitted to an unknown man that you were in the house on your own. Elinor said, ‘Sir Lewis is due back very shortly, however.’

  ‘Oh, you’re quite safe, my dear.’ This ought to have been the reassurance she had been waiting for, but instead there was an impression that the owner of the voice had drawn in his breath with wet gloating.

  ‘I’ll make another check of the building, just to be sure,’ he said. ‘And what you must do is stay safely in your flat. You did say the top floor, didn’t you?’

  ‘I – yes.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the voice. ‘That’s what I thought you said.’

  ‘You – where are you?’ said Elinor sharply.

  There was the ghost of a chuckle from the other end. ‘I’m in the house with you,’ said the voice.

  Going out on to the brightly lit landing again was like going on to a lighted stage. Elinor felt horribly vulnerable and exposed, but the stair lights were on and she had only to step across the short stretch of floor.

  As she pulled Lewis Chance’s door to and turned to cross the landing the scents of freshly sawn timber and new paint lay on the air. But underneath was a darker older scent: something musty and ancient and cruel. Damp and dry rot still lingering, said Elinor to herself firmly. But she could almost feel the old building listening and watching. As if there were eyes everywhere. I’m in the house with you. . . Would a night watchman really say that? But if it wasn’t the watchman, who was it? Someone who’s in the house with me . . . Someone who knows I’m up here on my own . . . Her heart began to pound and her palms were slippery with sweat. But all she had to do was get back into her flat and lock the door.

  As she thrust her hand into her dressing-gown pocket for her own key there was a click and the stair lights went out.

  Elinor froze at once. The suddenness of the darkness was like a blow and the lack of windows on the landing or the iron stairs made the blackness absolute.

  It was ridiculous to think it was anything other than a power failure. It was entering the realms of fantasy to imagine that the click had been the sound of someone pulling the main switch. Yes, but the switches were at the foot of the stairs, just by the cellar door. You hadn’t better go down to the cellars, Elinor. . .

  This was absurd. No one had pulled the main switch. Power failures were always happening and with appalling timing as well. This one could not have been timed much worse if the electricity company had planned it a fortnight in advance.

  She began to inch her way across the landing. If she kept her back to the wall she could not possibly go wrong. Lewis’s flat was behind her and her own was dead ahead. You can’t go wrong, Elinor.

  It was remarkable how much more clearly you could hear in the dark: that was the absence of sight heightening the other senses, of course. Blind people developed hearing to a superhuman degree. To all intents and purposes Elinor was blind for the moment and she could hear the creakings and the stirrings of the old house very vividly indeed. She could hear timbers in the roof contracting as they cooled and she could hear the old iron stairs swaying a bit. Exactly as if someone were creeping up it very quietly and furtively. She stopped dead, trying to penetrate the blackness. Surely her eyes should have adjusted by now? Wasn’t that a glimmer of light in front? Overspill on to the stairs from the floor below? There were offices and three or four small interview rooms on the next floor down, and a telephone room where they were setting up the Lifeline service. The large communal refectory-cum-kitchen was on the ground floor and the cellars were beneath, with the entrance at the very bottom of the iron stairs.

  The light was stronger now and it was moving. Elinor shrank against the wall. A moving light. Someone coming up the stairs carrying a pencil torch or even a small candle. Yes, it was a candle, it was flickering and dancing and throwing eerie shadows on the wall . . . And whoever was carrying it was coming stealthily and secretly, not cheerfully and openly like a night watchman would come, calling out as he approached so that you would know who it was.

  Because it wasn’t a night watchman you spoke to earlier, you know quite well it wasn’t . . .

  Her own flat was only feet away – she could see the faint outline of the door now. She would be inside within about eight seconds and she would drop the latch and shoot home the bolts, and then drag the furniture across the door. And if anything tried to get to her she would break open the windows and yell down to the street for help. The light was coming closer, but it was coming very slowly. He’s taking his time, thought Elinor. He doesn’t want me to hear him. But I won’t panic. Here’s the door – at least I can see better now.

  It was important not to fumble with the key. Elinor’s hand closed over the familiar comforting outline in her dressing-gown pocket, and she felt for the lock halfway up the door. At least four of those seconds had ticked past. She risked a glance towards the stairs. Oh God, he was coming closer. I must be quick, and above all, I mustn’t drop the key in the dark.

  The key slid into the lock, and Elinor drew in a shaking breath of relief. Almost there. It was then that she felt the resistance to the key, and the sickening truth dawned on her. She had taken both keys with her into Lewis’s flat, but she had brought only one out.

  She had picked up Lewis’s instead of her own.

  It spoke volumes for the frayed state of her nerves that at least ten appalled seconds ticked away before she realised that all she had to do was return to Lewis’s flat.

  As she fumbled for his lock again a movement on the stairs made her turn. The wavering light was on the curve, spilling on to the landing, casting shadows. Elinor could see her own shadow; she could see the bundly outline of her dressing gown and the trailing cord.

  The second shadow fell across the wall of the stairwell, fuzzy at the edges and slightly blurred, and horror flooded Elinor’s mind.

  A figure the size and breadth of a man, the body that of a man, normal, legs and arms and feet. Except for— The head, thought Elinor. There’s something wrong with the head. It’s too big, it’s twice the size of a human head . . .

  There was the scrape of a footstep on the stair, and as the figure came nearer, Elino
r’s mind spun in sick terror.

  The head was huge, a monstrous grotesque shape. The names of ancient, virtually extinct illnesses raced across her panicking mind: encephalitis – water on the brain, hadn’t they called it? And some of those poor things with Down’s syndrome had a lumpish distorted look. The shadow was hunched slightly over, as if the swollen head were too heavy for it to carry. As it came into sharper relief, it turned, so that she saw the silhouette more clearly, and disbelief warred with fear for a second, because the thing, whatever it was, had pointed, pricked ears and a snout-like muzzle. The frozen panic broke then, and Elinor pushed the key home with trembling hands, and felt the lock turn. She half fell into Lewis’s sitting room and sobbing with panic, slammed the door and dragged the bolt home.

  Lewis had left the Savoy Hotel rather earlier than he had indicated to Elinor: the dinner had been mildly enjoyable but the company had been dully predictable. He had talked to a few people who might contribute to the centre and who might further one or two projects, and he had listened to the speeches and the smoking-room stories. On balance the speeches had been more entertaining than the blue jokes. A reluctant grin lifted his lips as he remembered Elinor’s dry observation earlier.

  It had caused him immense inner amusement to be welcomed as a valued guest tonight, and it had afforded him sardonic pleasure to find his company sought and his opinions listened to as if they were Holy Writ. No one had mentioned his father; Lewis sometimes even thought people had forgotten. But he had not forgotten and he never would forget. It had been dubbed the most complex pension fraud ever to be uncovered, and when twenty years afterwards the Maxwell scandal broke, some newspapers had dragged up the Chance trial and drawn parallels. But Charles Chance’s brilliant criminal juggling had made Robert Maxwell look like a street pickpocket.

  Lewis picked up a taxi in the Strand and noted the reaction to the St Stephen’s Road address. It was only when you were older that you could appreciate real irony, and there was irony in what he was doing now: leaving the lavish hotel, replete with an excellent dinner (the Savoy do a very good partridge aux choux in season), mellow with good claret, but directing the taxi to a run-down area of London’s wharfland. Probably the taxi driver thought he was cruising for a prostitute.