The Burning Bride Page 6

tell you she’s in the cellar, and needs your help.’

  ‘Does she really? Tell me— do you know Smith very well?’

  ‘No, not at all— I only met her yesterday. She’s here to help with the wedding, apparently.’

  ‘Does Phil know her?’

  ‘I don’t think so— why do you ask?’

  ‘So no-one’s ever met this Smith before this week?’

  The ladies shook their heads, doubtful of what he meant.

  ‘That’s good to know,’ he concluded. ‘I’ll go and find her. In the cellar, did you say? What’s she doing there?’

  ‘Mrs. Prothero has some boxes of candles down there, and Smith’s bringing them up.’ Daphne replied. ‘Phillip wants candles everywhere for the evening reception— hundreds of them, all twinkling. He says it’ll be romantic.’

  ‘It’ll certainly be decadent,’ Silas remarked.

  ‘Everything has to be perfect,’ the women all intoned at once, as if reciting a mantra.

  Daphne smiled apologetically. ‘It might get a little hot with them all burning away. But Phillip does want everything to be perfect.’

  Silas did not doubt it, and left them alone.

  He descended into the cellar by a narrow staircase, and on reaching the brightly lit vault, called out: ‘Hello? Anyone down here?’ —to which there was no response.

  The cellar was extensive, and filled with racks and shelves, so he could not see all of it at once; but he supposed, since the lights were on, that somebody must be there, and called again, with the same silent result. He shrugged, and making a quick survey, discovered a stack of crates nearby, which on investigation proved to be a supply of thick church candles. Without further loitering he took up as many of the bulky boxes as he could conveniently carry at once, and turned to re-ascend. No sooner had he set foot on the lowest step, however, than the lights went out, plunging him into absolute obscurity.

  ‘Hey! What are you playing at?’ he cried in surprise, to whoever might hear. A very faint illumination filtered from under the door above him, but even so it was much too dark to attempt the stair with any safety, and certainly not with his arms full. So he tentatively turned again, meaning to set down his load and go up to flick the switch in the passageway above. At that moment he heard a slight scuffle echo around the cellar, and demanded ‘Who’s there?’ with angry suspicion.

  At some distance a glow of soft light sprang forth, revealing a maze of frames and shadow lines on the vaulted ceiling, which swayed and danced as the source of light began to move. He squinted into the gloom, and soon discerned three guttering candle-flames advancing unsteadily, revealing as they did so a murky figure bearing them aloft in a branched candelabra.

  The apparition was wreathed in pale draperies, its head covered by a low cowl. The free hand slowly raised to point directly at him, accompanied by a low groan that resolved itself into the hollow-toned words: ‘I am the ghost of Bianca Doliver!’ —but here the pronouncement disintegrated into a giggle as the spectre’s foot caught in the winding- or dust-sheet, causing a clumsy lurch forward. The cloth jerked back off the head at the same time to reveal Bianca’s face indeed— but creased into smiles of mischief at Silas’s expense. He did not stay to be mocked further, but slammed down the crates and stamped out of the cellar, fuming.

  ‘So I’m to be dazzled by night and teased by day, is that it?’ he asked himself. ‘Well, let her indulge her bad taste— that’s certainly something new she’s learned. Presumably she’ll come to the point eventually, and explain what this is all about. But in the meantime I needn’t make it easy for her.’

  He resolved to stay in company as much as possible for the remainder of his visit, where it would be easier to take stock of her interactions with others, assess her play-acting and hopefully avoid her direct jibes. She would slip up soon enough; this mask of ‘Smith’ would slip, no matter how many of the houseguests were her accomplices, and he would detect it. But the purpose of the charade still confused him, and even stalled his anger. He had been genuinely entranced by her appearance during the night; what was the purpose of degenerating it into a pastiche this morning? He could imagine Bianca’s motives, but in this character of Smith, she was inexplicable to him.

  He was still red-cheeked and frowning as he launched out into the fresh air of the garden and encountered Phillip Pevensey on the threshold.

  ‘Silas, good to see you again,’ he said with studied reserve, holding out a rather disdainful hand.

  Silas grasped it briefly. ‘Congratulations, Phil,’ he returned tersely. ‘I’m here to help ring the wedding bells.’

  ‘Yes, I see that.’ Phillip looked him up and down, and, being rather taller, accomplished this without lowering his head from a haughty angle. Silas also flicked an eye over his youthful companion, and marked the changes.

  Phillip was very well dressed, in a style he liked to think was all his own; in fact, it was an assembly of sartorial ticks and affectations that he had compiled into a look, no single part of which was entirely complimentary to the whole. His long rope of neatly plaited hair was intended to declare independence from the ‘system’, Silas inferred; but it did not quite sit with the fine Italian manufacture of his shirt and shoes; extremely sagging trousers, as though dragged south by the lengths of chain suspended from his belt, were perhaps supposed to convey youthful urban rebellion; but they rather lost their effect when matched with a hunting stock at his throat and mustard tweed waistcoat at his breast, betokening old-English country eccentricity. Silas instinctively felt that Phillip really had neither the edginess nor the affluence he was attempting to portray, but that he doubtless believed this wardrobe would supply those traits on his behalf.

  ‘Are you planning on staying for my wedding?’ Phillip enquired.

  ‘Are you planning on inviting me?’ Silas smiled. ‘Or was that it?’

  ‘Of course, as Mrs. Prothero’s guest you’re very welcome,’ he murmured flatly, and then added, more emphatically: ‘I hope you’re not a bad omen, Silas.’

  ‘I don’t mean to be— but what do you mean by calling me one?’

  ‘I didn’t call you a bad omen, but you must admit you’re hardly an object lesson in happy matrimony, are you? I don’t mind telling you I was absolutely appalled when I heard how you carried on after Bianca’s death. And then when we found out how you carried on while she was still alive, I was almost ashamed to know you. You gadded about with no thought for anyone else’s feelings, no consideration at all. Everyone remarked how disgraceful it was. One minute you were in Paris, the next Amsterdam, the next some commune in Asia, nobody could keep track of you, and if you think we cared where you were, you’re very much mistaken. I met some former colleague of yours at a conference I attended, and I was so embarrassed I was forced to pretend I didn’t know you.’

  ‘At a conference! Phil! I knew I was a monster, but not so heinous as that!’

  ‘Monster is your word, Silas, not mine, but another doesn’t immediately spring to mind. You’re just as flippant as ever, then— you’ve not changed for the better. I suppose tormenting your poor wife to her death and running off rather than face her grieving relatives was second nature to you. All in a day’s work. Well, Mrs. Prothero may be too timid to speak out, but I have no compunction about calling a spade a spade, believe me. I hold the belief that it’s a husband’s duty to pay every possible attention to his wife. Oh, I’ve no illusions that marriage is plain sailing, if that’s what you’re about to say, but a responsible husband will always look out for ways to smooth the relationship by emphasising his wife’s good points, encouraging her to be the best she can, and gently suppressing any little issues that habit or bad influence might throw up. It’s hard work, Silas, but it must be done. I only hope that one day you’ll wake up and realise what sort of husband you should have been, even if it is altogether too late.’

  Silas looked away, shaking his head. ‘Thank you for that hope,’ he said, gritting his teeth. ‘Rest assured that
I have been, and am, as miserable as I deserve. And maybe even as much as you think I deserve.’

  ‘Me! It’s not for me to say what you deserve. It’s none of my business. If I was cruel and negligent of everybody’s feelings except my own I expect I’d be miserable too, though I like to imagine I’d take better pains to make amends wherever possible. Well, but everybody’s different, aren’t they?’

  ‘They certainly are.’

  ‘Oh, are you going to be cross now? You needn’t be, I assure you. I don’t bear any grudges. You’re just the same to me as you always were, Silas.’

  Silas turned abruptly to face him, stopped, and broke out a brilliant smile. ‘Thank you, Phil. Here, shake my hand. So glad I could be here for the wedding. Daphne’s got one helluva guy. That reminds me, she was looking for you earlier. Something about a sausage. Don’t remember the details.’ —And bestowing a hearty, if over-firm slap on the back, he strode away. Perhaps his plan of staying in the company of others might be limited by who those others were.

  VI

  And indeed, the early afternoon found him all alone in the large, square entrance hall of the manor, on top of a step ladder, hanging garlands from the staircase gallery that ran around three sides of the room. He had already set up rows of trestle tables, positioned candles in every sconce, nook and ledge