(1990) Sweet Heart Read Free Page B

Rotarian badge glinted smugly in the lapel of his grey suit. ‘Budley, from Jonathan Rolls.’ His fleshy fingers gave Charley’s hand a sharp downward tug, as if it were a bell-pull. ‘Moving out of London?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Something like this comes on the market once in a decade.’
    ‘Windows look bad,’ Tom said.
    ‘Reflected in the price. So little’s been done for years.’ He gave his signet ring a twist. ‘Dates a long way back — to the Domesday Book. Been added to since, naturally.’
    Charley stared up the mossy bank at the level patch of scrub, at the woods, at Ben playing happily, then at Tom, trying to read his face, but it was blank, giving nothing away.
    ‘Wonderful place for children,’ Mr Budley added.
    Charley caught Tom’s eye.
    Tom tied Ben to the boot scraper at the bottom of the steps and they followed Mr Budley. The front door was oak with a tarnished lion’s head knocker. The wind billowed Charley’s jacket.
    ‘How long has the house been empty?’ Charley asked.
    ‘Only about nine months. Miss Delvine passed away at the end of last summer,’ Mr Budley said.
    ‘Here?’ said Charley. ‘In the house?’
    ‘Oh no, I don’t believe so.’
    ‘I always think it’s a bit creepy when someone’s actually died in a house,’ Charley said.
    ‘You know who she was, of course?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Nancy Delvine.’ He said the name in a reverential hush.
    Charley repeated it blankly and glanced at Tom. He shrugged.
    ‘The couturier,’ Mr Budley said, making them feel for a moment they’d let him down. ‘She was very famous in the forties.’ He leaned towards them and lowered his voice. ‘She made for royalty.’ He allowed them time for this to sink in before pointing to a brass plaque above the door with a crude etching of a sun. ‘The original fire insurance plaque from 1711. Steeped in history, this house.’ He placed the key in the lock and turned it as if he were opening a pearl oyster.
    The tiny entrance hall was strangely silent and smelled like a church. There were closed doors with iron latches to their right and left, a narrow staircase ahead, a dark passageway to the right of it. A winged bust stood on the hall table under a pockmarked mirror.
    Mr Budley pressed a light switch. There was a sharp metallic click. Nothing happened. The grimy lampshade was fixed to the low-beamed ceiling above Charley’s head. She could have changed the bulb without standing on tiptoe.
    ‘The mains power,’ Mr Budley said. ‘It keeps tripping. The box is in the cellar. We might as well start there.’
    They walked along the passageway, Tom’s metal-capped shoes echoing on the bare boards. The walls, panelled in oak, were badly in need of a polish and seemed to press in on them. Dozens of picture hooks and nails stuck out of the panelling. Mr Budley stopped beside a door and noticed Charley’s expression.
    ‘Valuable paintings. Couldn’t be left in an emptyhouse — the insurance.’ He opened the door. Thick pipes ran above it. ‘It’s steep,’ he warned, switching on a tiny torch.
    Charley felt a draught that smelled of coal and damp as she followed him down the wooden staircase into pitch darkness. He shone the beam of his torch on a dusty electricity meter, then on a metal box with a large handle and a row of ancient ceramic fuses. There was a crackle and a flash of sparks, then a weak light filled the room.
    Charley shrieked and clutched Tom. A group of bald, naked shop window mannequins on pedestals stared at them.
    ‘Miss Delvine did some of her work here in the house.’
    ‘God, they gave me a fright!’ Charley looked warily around the rest of the cellar. The floor was brick, and uneven. There was a wine rack, a wooden wheelchair and a cast-iron safe. Beyond an opening in the far wall was pitch darkness.
    Tom turned to the mannequins. ‘All right class, sit down.’
    Charley giggled uneasily. The mannequins gazed stonily.
    ‘This lever—’ Mr Budley pointed.