Secret Lament Read Online Free Page A

to Esther’s house.
    “The harpsichord is very much out of tune,” she had said.
    “Do you wish me to tune it for you?” I had said.
    “Indeed – and you may give me my lesson at the same time.”
    At the time I had been wary. I did not like Esther’s house in Caroline Square for it had once been the scene of the most extraordinary events which had left me unnerved and shaken. It was
a gateway, in some mysterious inexplicable way, to a different world entirely, one that ran parallel to our own, almost identical but not quite. I had met my own self in that world, and had nearly
come by my death.
    But all this had happened last November, well before Christmas – seven months ago now. It had in some respects the quality of a dream; distance had blunted the edge of my fear. In many
ways I would have been intrigued to experience something similar again. But I could not open and close the gateway at will but had merely to wait and see if it opened of its own accord. So far it
had not.
    “Esther.” I cleared my throat; she started.
    “What? Oh yes. Now where is my music?” She started to sort through the books that lay on top of the harpsichord. Her bare arm, and the fall of lace about her elbow, brushed my
sleeve; I caught my breath.
    “Tell me what is wrong,” I said.
    She stared at me then let out a sigh. “You are right of course. But it is only a small thing. There is no need to worry about it.”
    “I always worry when someone tells me not to.”
    She laughed ruefully. I loved that laugh, that smile. (But I would never press myself on her, and no woman, of course, would be so immodest as to proposition a gentleman. Dear God, why was I
even thinking about this?)
    “It is a little thing,” Esther said. “But come and have a look.”
    I followed her out of the library into the rear quarters of the house, where the wooden floors gave way to cool flagstones, and servants clattered in the kitchens. The windows at the back of the
house looked to the west, and the sun, slanting down the evening sky, cast a red glow through the glass on to the lime-washed walls. I heard a male servant laugh.
    We passed open doors – I glimpsed a wine store and a pantry before we came to the scullery, scattered with tubs and buckets and other mysterious machines. Here a door gave on to the
garden. Esther took down a key that hung on a hook beside the door and pushed it into the lock. The key turned smoothly, well-oiled and well-kept.
    When Esther pulled open the door into the sunlit garden, I was assailed by the scents of herbs, mint and sage, thyme and rosemary; a border of chives was in full purple bloom, lavender heads
were forming on bushes beyond. I walked out on to a path that bordered cropped lawns. It was a rectangular garden, not large but well-tended and surrounded by a high wall that was almost
obliterated by climbing roses; two apple trees stood in the far corner.
    Esther brought my attention back to the house door. “Here. Look.” She fingered the lock plate and I bent to examine it. The plate was shiny and polished, relatively new; the tiny
scratches surrounding the lock were very visible.
    I straightened. “Someone has been trying to get in.”
    She nodded. For a moment I saw weariness in her and was tempted to – I took a step back.
    “The gardener will have it that Tom is being careless with the key but I cannot believe that.”
    Tom, if I remembered correctly, was the only male servant in the house; the gardener lived elsewhere with his family.
    “When did this happen?”
    “Last night, quite late. We had all gone to bed.”
    “The servants heard nothing?”
    “Not a sound.”
    “And George?”
    George, my former apprentice, is the only spirit in the house. He was, fortunately, a boy when he died, at that stage of being both fascinated by women, and frightened of them. He adores Esther
but keeps his distance bashfully; we can guarantee therefore not to be interrupted by him.
    “Did he not hear