Page 78 of A Good Heart is Hard to Find
16
The Definitive Delilah
Popular Horror Writer Satan’s Mouthpiece! says Bishop…
Daily Mail
I walked up to the Hall in the afternoon, though I wasn’t sure what drove me. Rampant curiosity? Over-active conscience? Or maybe the prospect of another invigorating little exchange of opinions, for there was no denying that my encounters with Dante did wonders for the adrenalin.
And had he reallybeen offering his services at one point the previous night, or had I totally misread what he was saying?
Not that it mattered now my mind was made up … almost. On my way home I would stop by Emlyn’s and buy a copy ofBest Dogmagazine and enough pizzas to mean I didn’t have to go to the pub and face an angry Jason for at least a couple of days.
Call me a coward.
Coward.
A white van marked‘Gardeners to Go’ was parked halfway up the drive and a team of men were certainly going hard at weeding the drive and tidying the nearer aspects of the grounds, which seemed to have run riot in the months since Miss Kedge died.
Gardening couldn’t be terribly exciting because they all stopped and watched me walk past, so I gave them a cheery wave and called hello, then crunched on up the gravelto the front door.
No tradesman’s entrance for me this time.
Eddie answered the doorbell, holding a large screwdriver. His flaxen dreadlocks were held back by a red spotted scarf and he wore bib and brace overalls over, apparently, nothing.
He didn’t seem at all surprised to see me, just smiled as I walked past him and then went back to whatever it was he was fixing.
The Hall looked much morewelcoming by daylight. Rosetta and two vaguely familiar local women were polishing the furniture with something that smelled beeswaxy, and she looked glad to stop for a minute and talk.
‘Hi, Rosetta, I’ve come to see Dante. About his book,’ I added airily, in case she suspected this might be the start of something big.
‘He’s expecting you – he’s in his study in the west wing. I’ll show you,shall I?’
With a lingering look over her shoulder at Eddie, who was halfway up a ladder tinkering with something, she led the way through a side door, along a passage that went up and down and up again and round and … well, you get the idea. It started to feel like one of those Escher pictures of endless staircases.
‘It’s easier to get into from upstairs,’ Rosetta said. ‘Just one passage anda door. Dante’s been looking at the house plans, and he says there was an easier way in from downstairs, too, but it’s been blocked off for some reason.’
‘Yes, I know.’
…there was only one door to the west wing, locked and barred, the keys held by the heir alone, generation aftergeneration. But the door kept people out, not in, for the creature that dwelt there knew no bars to his freedomother than that which came with every dawn …
Rosetta gave me a strange look, but didn’t question my omniscience, which was just as well since this was just another example of my two overlapping realities.
We finished up in a big bright room with newly whitewashed walls above dark panelling, and a diamond-paned window looking out over what was once the park.
It was set out like a cross betweena study and a sitting room, with an individual stamp that told me that Dante had made it like this, plundering the house for furniture to suit his needs.
There was a big old trestle table along one wall heaped with papers, photographs, and a rather elderly-looking laptop computer. At the window end of the room were some ancient and comfortable-looking leather armchairs, one occupied by a farfrom ancient but comfortable-looking Dante.
He got up when we came in and said: ‘Ah, there you are,’ as though he was expecting me and I was running late, though I was sure I hadn’tpromisedto turn up today – or, indeed, any other day.
Looking serious (as was his wont), he helped me out of my long black, rather military velvet coat with its frogging and silver buttons, then glanced down atmy moccasin boots.
The corner of his mouth twitched, which I was slowly coming to realize was a sign of secret amusement rather than a nervous tic, though I did not see what was funny about my boots. I mean, wearing four-inch stiletto heels like Orla is funny-peculiar, not my practical footwear.
Colour-wise we were pretty well matched, since he was wearing a black shirt (open at the neck, butswash most definitely buckled) and ancient-looking black leather trousers, well moulded around his finer assets. (He has fine assets.)
How come he didn’t squeak when he got off the leather chair?
