Waking the Ancients Read online

  Phil was making coffee. “You’re up early.”

  “It’s such a perfect morning. I felt like getting some air, and the garden is so lovely and peaceful. Look, I found this.”

  She fished out the lighter and handed it to Phil. He put down the coffee mugs and took it from her. He flipped the top and tried to strike it. “Flint’s gone.” He shook it. “Empty. Nice looking thing, though. Make an attractive ornament.”

  “I’ll put it on the mantel in the library. Maybe we could get it fixed sometime.”

  “Not much point if we don’t smoke.”

  Paula opened the library door and crossed the room to the fireplace. She stood the lighter on the mantel and stepped back. Her sketch pad lay where she had left it on the settee. She would want that later, so she picked it up. Instantly, she was confronted by the drawing of the man in her nightmare.

  But this couldn’t be right.

  “Phil,” she called as she sped out of the library, back into the kitchen, sketch pad in hand.

  “What’s up?”

  “Look at this. I didn’t draw that. Well, I drew some of it, but not all that.”

  Phil peered at the drawing. “What am I looking for?”

  “Don’t you see? I only drew a face, eyes, that long hair. Now he’s got a right hand…fingers…and he’s smoking a cigar, I think, or something like it.”

  “And you say that wasn’t on the picture you drew yesterday?”

  “You know it wasn’t. You saw it.”

  Phil handed the pad back to Paula. “I’m really sorry, but I don’t remember how much detail was on that picture. I remember the face, but that’s about it.”

  “But…you must remember.”

  “Sorry. I don’t. Right now, I’ve got to get to work. Busy day.” He kissed the still stunned Paula on the lips and left her.

  She stared at the picture. Could she have drawn all this detail and simply forgotten? The hand that held the slim cigar to the man’s lips revealed long, slender fingers. An artist’s hand, perhaps. Paula examined her own. Phil had told her he had fallen in love with her hands first and then the rest of her. She had never known whether he really meant it, but it didn’t matter. She had fallen in love with his eyes, and the crazy way his hair would flop over them. It didn’t now, of course. Now he worked for the United Nations, it was suits, ties and smart haircuts all the way.

  The picture bothered her more and more the longer she looked at it. It would have to go. She ripped it off the pad and, without thinking, reached for the lighter she had found earlier.

  She flicked open the top and struck it. A blue flame shot up and she touched the paper to it. As it burned, she dropped it in the fireplace and watched it shrivel, blacken and disintegrate into ashes. Paula replaced the lighter and suddenly remembered.

  The lighter didn’t work. So how…?

  She rubbed a clammy palm against her jeans and hesitantly retrieved the lighter. She shook it. Nothing. She struck it. Nothing. She threw it back on the mantel and backed away from it. In the fireplace, the last of the embers from the burned paper died away.

  Her skin prickled.

  * * * *

  “It couldn’t have, Paula.” Phil stabbed a roast potato.

  “I’m telling you it did. I had the shock of my life when I realized.”

  “Lighters don’t work with no fuel and no flint.”

  “You explain it then. You’ve seen the ashes in the fireplace. How did they get there if not the way I said?”

  Phil shrugged. “How should I know? Look, Paula, are you sure you’re all right? Maybe it’s the move…all the upheaval…”

  “I’m fine. I’m not the problem. It’s that bloody lighter.”

  Phil set his knife and fork down and laid his hand over hers. “Okay, I confess I don’t have an explanation for it, but just put it down to some weird quirk. Get rid of the lighter if it bothers you so much.”

  “I might just do that. Sell it on eBay or something. It might be worth a bit.”

  “Good idea. Now, how about we go down to the bar we went to last week? There’s a good crowd there and you can practice your German.”

  Paula smiled, but an uncomfortable feeling that she couldn’t explain made her stomach lurch.

  * * * *

  During the next few days, Paula felt less spooked. The lighter had disappeared from the mantel. Phil must have put it somewhere or taken it away altogether. She meant to mention it to him but kept forgetting. No matter.

  She made daily trips into the city, taking her sketch pad with her. Statues of Johann Strauss and Franz Schubert provided excellent subjects for her attention, and she spent happy hours sitting on one of the many benches, her pencil flying across the sheet.

  A few days before Phil’s departure for New York, she came home from a morning’s sketching and set her pad down on the library table. Her hair felt clammy and she wiped her face with a tissue. It had been like a summer day. Hot sun, cloudless sky. In the fridge she would find a bottle of iced lemon tea. She went off to get it, returning a few minutes later.

  She picked up her sketchbook to examine the morning’s work, flipped through the earlier pages and stopped dead.

  The face stared out at her. This time, he had eyes. Deeply disturbing, menacing eyes. The face had the beard she recognized, the long hair, and on his head, a stovepipe hat. The portrait, sketched with her pencil, showed head and shoulders only and its subject appeared to be wearing a jacket, shirt and elaborate cravat.

  Paula pushed the pad away, her heart pounding. Let Phil explain that away.

  * * * *

  “You must have drawn it. It’s in your style.” Phil handed the pad back to Paula, who could hardly bare to touch it. She threw it down on the library desk.

  “If I did, how is it I don’t remember?”

  “I can’t answer that. Perhaps you need to see a doctor.”

  “I’m not ill.”

  “Well…” He indicated the drawing.

  “Won’t you even consider the possibility that something odd is going on here? I know you took the lighter away—”

  “I never touched the damned lighter.”

  “It’s not on the mantel.”

  “Then you must have moved it.”

  “I didn’t.”

  Phil ran his hands through his hair. “This is getting us nowhere. I don’t want to argue with you, Paula. I’m going away for a few weeks and I’d hate us to part like this.”

  Paula bit her tongue. He was right. Infuriating. But right. Somewhere there had to be a rational explanation for this. God knew where, but somewhere.

  She bit back the angry words that threatened to spew out of her. “Righteous anger,” some might call it. If only they could get through the next few days without incident. Meanwhile, she would buy a new sketch pad. She didn’t think she would ever be able to use this one again.

  * * * *

  Seeing Phil off at the airport, Paula gave him one last wave, heaved a sigh, and turned to go. She took the City Airport Train into the center of the city and the Underground speeded her back to Hietzing. In the small town center, she bought cheeses, fresh bread, fruit and vegetables, selected a bottle of Sekt, and walked back home, deep in thought.

  Her new sketchpad lay on the kitchen table—the old one, with its inexplicable drawing, consigned to the drawer of the library desk. As far as she was concerned, it could stay there forever, as long as she didn’t have to look at that awful face again.

  * * * *

  Anna Manchetti was roughly Paula’s height of five feet six inches, slim with long black hair tied back in a flowing ponytail. Her deep brown eyes shone as she smiled at Paula on the doorstep.

  “Pleased to meet you,” she said, her voice pleasantly accented.

  “And you. Come in. I’ll show you around.”
r />   Anna followed Paula into the hall. “It is beautiful here.”

  Paula nodded. “Yes. I’ll show you the library. It’s through here.”

  Paula opened the door and Anna drew a sharp intake of breath as she stepped over the threshold.

  “The painting. It’s magnificent.”

  “A Gustav Klimt original. Commissioned by the then owner, an archaeologist called Dr. Emeryk Quintillus.”

  Anna gave a quick start. “This was Emeryk Quintillus’s house?”

  “Yes.” Paula saw the color drain from the girl’s face. “Why? Is there a problem?”

  “N-no. Just…” She shook her head. “I have heard of him from a friend at university. There are stories about this house and Dr. Quintillus. He was a very strange man. Eccentric, I think is the right word. He was in love with Cleopatra.”

  Paula pointed up at the painting. “This Cleopatra?”

  “Yes, he was convinced he could find her tomb. He went to Egypt many times, collecting pieces for various museums. Then he disappeared. No one really knows what happened to him. Some say he still haunts this house.” She looked as if she wished she hadn’t said that.

  “How strange. I wonder if he ever found her.”

  “I don’t think so. They are still looking, aren’t they?”

  “Ah, well. Thank you for telling me about him. He certainly left his mark on this house. All these books were his, too.”

  Anna sniffed. “Do you have any lilies in the house?”

  “No, but it’s funny you should say that. Now and again I swear I can smell them. I thought it was furniture polish at first, but I couldn’t find any that smelled like that.”

  Anna sneezed. “Sorry. I’m allergic. I always sneeze whenever I am anywhere near them.” She sneezed again and fished a new tissue out of a packet in her purse. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Please, don’t apologize.”

  Anna blew her nose and sniffed again. “It’s gone now.” She replaced the tissue in her purse and smiled at Paula. “I should start my work.”

  “Right. I’ll show you where everything is in the kitchen.”

  With Anna happy to polish all the furniture downstairs, Paula took dusters and bathroom cleaner upstairs to clean their bedroom and en suite. As she passed the stairs leading up to the top floor, a cold draft chilled her. Had she left a window open the other day when she had been up there? Strange she hadn’t felt it before now.

  Memories of her earlier experience up there warned her off, but she decided she had better investigate. She couldn’t leave the upstairs unsecured, so she mounted the staircase. At the top, she looked along the corridor of closed doors. She moved steadily along, opening each one, entering and inspecting the locked windows, until she came to the only room with any furniture. Sure enough, the window was open. She went over to it, shut and locked it.

  The door slammed.

  Paula dashed over and turned the handle. It creaked its protesting way open as she tugged. She hadn’t needed to work so hard on the previous occasion when the door had started to shut. Now she could swear someone was pulling in the opposite direction. She dismissed the thought. Preposterous.

  It suddenly gave, throwing her backward. A cold breeze tickled her ear. Paula turned and saw the window, once again ajar.

  But I shut it.

  She retraced her steps over to the window and pulled it firmly shut, twisting the window lock tightly. In the fireplace, the ashes stirred, making a faint noise, like the crackling of dry leaves.

  A sigh echoed off the walls. Paula raced out of the room and made to close the door. It slammed shut in her face. She gave an involuntary cry, charged back down the stairs and met Anna in the hallway.

  “Mrs. Bancroft, what has happened? You look as if you have had a terrible fright.”

  Paula concentrated on breathing steadily, but her words tumbled out in a rush. “A door upstairs keeps slamming. The window was open, so I closed it. But it opened again. By itself. I know it sounds stupid… It couldn’t have, could it? I must have made it happen, but for the life of me I don’t know how.” Paula’s teeth were chattering from shock.

  Anna set down the mop and bucket she had been using to clean the hall floor.

  “Come into the kitchen. I’ll make you a cup of sweet tea.”

  “Thank you. Coffee. I’d prefer coffee, please. I’m not a great tea drinker.”

  Minutes later, Anna handed her a cup of steaming coffee. Paula took it gratefully and sipped.

  Anna frowned, as if she didn’t know whether to tell her something.

  Paula set her cup down. She felt calmer now. Back in control. “If you’ve got any ideas about what just happened, now’s the time to share them.” She gave a wry smile. “All explanations welcome.”

  Anna hesitated a moment longer. “It’s just that… My friend told me some stories about this house. Strange stories. I never thought I would ever come to Dr. Quintillus’s house and, because of these stories, I was relieved.”

  Paula braced herself. “Go on. You can’t stop now. Tell me what your friend told you.”

  Chapter 2

  Phil stared back at her from her phone screen on their daily Skype call. “You don’t mean to say you believe her? Ghosts roaming around at night? Ancient Egyptian curses?” He laughed. “She’s winding you up.”

  In the library, with the homely sounds of a crackling fire and the gentle ticking of the clock, Paula felt inclined to agree. If only she could.

  “I know it sounds crazy, and it’s probably all urban myth, but some odd things have been happening around here. I can check up on at least one of the stories. Anna told me there was an English secretary—Adeline Ogilvy. Just before the First World War, she came over here to type up Dr. Quintillus’s memoirs. She ended up in a care home in London where, according to Anna, she was literally frightened to death. Okay, maybe that’s a bit exaggerated. But I bet, with a little effort, I could trace this Adeline.”

  “She’ll be long dead now, surely. Anyway, I thought the house had been in the von Dürnstein family for generations?”

  “They sold it back in 1977, shortly before the count passed on, but bought it back after the new owner died in some crazy fire. Anna told me the family were scared it would fall into the wrong hands again, whatever that might mean. There’s something else, though. The basement.”

  “What about it?”

  “After Markus von Dürnstein inherited the house, he had considerable problems when he began work opening up some previously walled-up rooms. Eventually no workmen in Vienna or the surrounding area would come near the place. Then, for some reason, he had the rooms down there walled up again. He was the one who decided on a new kitchen up on the ground floor and also the one who decreed that the door down to the basement should be permanently locked and that, under no circumstances, was any tenant to be given the keys.”

  “But they would have to be handed over to the new owner when they sold it.”

  “Yes, they were. And look what happened to her.”

  Phil sighed. “I think you’d better stop asking Anna any more questions about the house. She’s clearly got a wealth of tall stories. You know how these things build up. Like Chinese whispers. Everyone adds their own little touch when they retell the story.”

  Paula fought the urge to snap at him. She hated it on the rare occasions when he saw fit to make her feel incapable of rational thought. An unintentional habit, for sure. But an annoying one. She concentrated on keeping her voice steady.

  “I know exactly what you mean, but my curiosity has got the better of me and I intend to contact the care home in London.”

  “You know which one it was?” Phil sounded surprised. His eyebrows had done that funny lopsided rise of his.

  “I know Adeline Ogilvy lived in Wimbledon. Once I’ve eliminated the residential-only homes and focuse
d on those that also provide nursing care, it shouldn’t take long.”

  “You don’t even know if they’re still in business. When did she die?”

  “1980.”

  Phil shrugged. “Wild geese spring to mind.”

  “I know I could draw a blank, but I really want to try. Then we’ll see how much of the legend of this place is fact and how much fantasy—at least on that score. Aren’t you the least bit curious?”

  “Frankly, Paula, I’m too knackered. I put in a fourteen-hour day yesterday and the same today. If you want to do this, knock yourself out. How’s the German coming along?”

  “Ganz gut, danke.”

  “Keep it up. How’s Frau Frankenstein?”

  Paula laughed. “Schmidt. I reckon she puts on the dragon act. I’ll bet, deep inside, she’s a marshmallow.”

  Phil laughed. “I’m going to have to go. If I don’t get some sleep soon, I’ll be no good tomorrow and it’s wall-to-wall meetings all day.”

  “Night, Phil. Love you.”

  “Night, Paula.”

  He ended the call and Paula settled down to read, quickly losing herself in her latest book from Quintillus’s collection, The Island of Dr. Moreau by H.G. Wells. Sometime later, yawning, she closed the book. She had lost track of time and now it was two a.m. and the fire had died down to a red glow. She moved around the room, turning off lamps. Before switching off the last one under the painting, she paused to look up at it. Her attention was drawn to the figure on the bank. Something seemed different about her tonight.

  With a start, Paula realized what it was. Instead of reeds, the girl was clutching a gleaming gold dagger.

  Chapter 3

  Paula backed out of the room and slammed the door. She leaned against the polished wood, panting. The room was dim. Her eyes had played tricks on her. She must have imagined the figure was holding a dagger. Paintings don’t change. A nerve in her temple throbbed. She massaged it and made for the kitchen. A cup of tea. That might calm her. The only time she ever drank tea was late at night, when coffee would keep her awake.

  The sickly smell hit her as she switched on the light. The distinctive, oversweet aroma of lilies. Now it came over much stronger than before. As if someone had put a vaseful of them somewhere in the room. Paula looked all around but saw nothing out of place. Still, the unwelcome scent lingered, heavy and cloying, nauseating.