Murder Dance, The

ONE

The first emotion to strike Quentin Rivers when he read the solicitor’s letter was shock. Sheer astonishment that he had apparently inherited the old house that had been a vague legend in his family ever since he could remember. The astonishment was tinged with disbelief at first, but when he read the letter a second – and then a third – time, it was clear that there was no mistake. The Tabor, the house that no one in the family seemed ever to have seen, and that most of them said was only a legend. A story out of somebody’s imagination, they said – probably somebody a generation or two back had spun a story, wanting to make the family out to be posh and rich. Even if it had existed, it would long since have passed to some unheard-of branch of the family, or crumbled away to nothing, and had a tower block or a shopping centre built on its foundations.

Zillah’s grandmother did not say The Tabor had crumbled away or was just someone’s imagination, though. She had a way of nodding to herself if The Tabor were ever mentioned, as if she knew a great deal more than the rest of them.

The aunts and uncles – and Quentin’s own parents when they were alive – had always maintained that Zillah’s grandmother was a bit odd, and you could not believe a quarter of what she said. Still, the stories were good ones, if you had time to listen to them. Oh, and presumably it was all right to let the children spend so much time with the old girl, was it? Young Quentin and Zillah?

Zillah.

Quentin’s second emotion at receiving the news of the legacy had been delight and hope, because it was suddenly possible that this astonishing, unexpected inheritance might mean he could realize his dream. For years he had wanted to protect Zillah from the boys – later the men – who admired her, but who would certainly not treat her as she deserved to be treated. Quentin wanted her to himself. What was that line of poetry …? Something about, ‘The world forgetting, by the world forgot.’ He was not a great one for poetry, but he had come across that once, and it had lodged in his mind. That was how he wanted it to be with Zillah. Just the two of them, in their own world.

There had been one or two girls in his life while Zillah was growing up – of course there had. He thought he could say he was by no means bad-looking, and there had been opportunities. The trouble had always been that the image of Zillah came between him and any girl he ever got close to.

Lately, he had even begun to wonder if it was a mixed blessing to live in the same house as Zillah, but it had seemed the ideal solution after both sets of parents had died in the car crash, leaving Quentin with the tall old house and the modest proceeds of two insurance policies, and Zillah with nothing at all, because her parents had been what everyone called thriftless.

That was when Quentin had divided the house into two flats, living on the ground floor himself, with Zillah on the top floor. He liked to think of her up there; it was like living with a will o’ the wisp in the attic – one of those elusive, dancing creatures reputed to flit across marshlands, or beckon tauntingly to travellers to follow them to the rainbow’s end and the fabled pot of gold. And there he was again, with the poetic imagery. Zillah would laugh if he said any of that to her; she would say the marshlands would suck you down into their squishy depths, and the rainbow’s pot of gold would turn out to be a cracked old stew-pot.

She would not laugh about The Tabor, though. Quentin would tell her all about it this evening – it would give him a good excuse for suggesting they had supper together; not that he needed an excuse, but it would sound better. He would cook a pasta dish for her; she liked pasta. And he would tell her about this elderly cousin, Osbert Rivers, whom he had never heard of before, but who had left a will naming Quentin as his sole heir. He would tell her, as well, about the Norfolk village called Reivers where the house stood, and how, if he went to live there, he would be Rivers of Reivers. Would that impress her, or would she laugh and say, for heaven’s sake, Quen, are you living in some mouldy medieval world? She was very modern, of course.

It might be a good idea to look up Reivers beforehand to find out what kind of a place it was. He had better find out what the word Tabor meant, as well. Appearing to know such things would impress Zillah; she would listen, and nod, her eyes drinking it all in, and she would occasionally smile, and probably tease him about being a fusty old romantic. And her eyes would crinkle at the corners as they always did when she smiled …

She had never known about the jealous rage that seized him if he saw a man going up to her flat, or when he heard her skipping down the stairs to meet someone who was taking her out. None of the men meant anything to her, Quentin knew that, and it would all be completely innocent. But it was good that she had never had the smallest suspicion of how he felt. He would not do anything that might upset the comfortable, happy existence they had. He knew how much she liked living here.

Zillah Rivers had wished for years that she could afford to move out of this house and get away from her cousin Quentin’s jealousies and possessiveness. Every time she went out of her own flat and every time she returned to it, he was there, peering furtively through a chink in his curtains in the downstairs half of the house. He was like those inquisitive women in old-fashioned films, twitching the lace curtains to see what their neighbours were up to. It was infuriating and it was also very restricting, because if Zillah was going out with someone, she nearly always had to arrange to be collected at the end of the street, where Quentin could not see her. If she brought anyone back for a drink or coffee, they had to tiptoe up the stairs, not speaking, stepping over the creaking floorboard on the half-landing. At times this could be turned into a joke, but if one of these late-night visits progressed to the bedroom – and Zillah did not pretend to be an angel – there was nothing remotely jokey about having to explain that noise must be kept down because there was a jealous cousin downstairs who would listen to every groan and gasp and creak of bedsprings. That would be the surest passion-shriveller for the most virile man in the world, and if Zillah had enough money to move to another flat, she would do so, and neither Quentin nor this dreary suburban street would see her again. She sometimes thought that the only thing keeping her sane was the knowledge that there was something good ahead – something that would mean she could move away and have her own place, and not have to worry about money, or about keeping Quentin sweet so that he would pay all the bills.

The Tabor. It had been promised to her, and it had been something to cling on to. It had meant she need not bother about actually working or trying to have a career, which was what people expected these days. In the meantime, she drifted into helping Quentin with his small market-research set-up. It mostly meant making telephone calls or emailing questionnaires, finding out what people bought from supermarkets or furniture shops, or what shampoo they used. It was pretty boring, really, but it was at least a job of sorts and Quentin paid her a tiny salary. It was very tiny indeed, because he was as mean as a miser, and Zillah could not possibly afford her own place on this pittance. But it would not be for ever; she had kept a tally of the years, and at intervals she had been able to remind herself that Osbert Rivers must be well over 80 … That he must be approaching 90 now … Turned 90 … And when he died, The Tabor would be hers.

But now, tonight, eating the very good pasta that Quentin had cooked (if you had to say something favourable about him, you would have to say he cooked well), it seemed that after all these years of waiting, The Tabor was not going to be hers after all. Osbert had died, but now that his affairs had been sorted out it seemed the stupid old fool had reneged on his word, and had left The Tabor to Quentin. Zillah could have screamed with rage and thrown things around. She did not, of course. But she stared at Quentin across the table and felt a deep slow anger and resentment begin to burn upwards. Quentin had no right to The Tabor. He had no right to be sitting here, with that maddeningly complacent look, telling her about the house as if he knew it intimately. He did not know it all, and he had no right to it whatsoever.

‘I daresay the place will be falling to pieces,’ he was saying. ‘But it turns out that it really is Elizabethan, just as the stories said. The solicitor says there are dates on the Title Deeds – well, on what’s left of them, because they’re pretty ancient, but the place dates back to at least Elizabethan times.’

Zillah had to fight not to shout at him that she knew The Tabor was Elizabethan, in fact she knew it was even older than that, and she knew far more about it than Quentin. He passed her the solicitor’s letter to read, and then told her what was in it anyway.

‘And I phoned the solicitor this afternoon – he sounded a dry old stick, but we had a good talk. I always think it’s as well to find out as much as possible about these things,’ said Quentin, as if, thought Zillah, inheriting an Elizabethan house was an everyday occurrence. But she read the letter, and listened to Quentin, and she managed to sound interested and pleased. But all the while she could feel the old nightmare stirring in the darkest corner of her mind.

Quentin, folding the letter back into its envelope, said, with an air of importance, that he would have to go to Norfolk to see the house.

‘It’s quite a long journey, but there are documents I’ve got to sign, and the solicitor doesn’t want to put them in the post because some of the documents are very old and quite fragile. His office is only a few miles from Reivers, though – in a market town, I think. It’ll be too far to go there and back in the same day, so we could stay for a night or two.’

‘We?’

‘You’ll come with me, won’t you? I want to see the house, and I want you to be part of it all.’

‘Yes,’ said Zillah, managing a smile. ‘Yes, I would like to come with you. I would like to be part of all this.’

‘I thought you would. In fact, before you came in I booked us into a place in the centre of Reivers village – a local pub who do B&B and bar meals. It sounds quite nice and, according to the map, The Tabor’s just on the outskirts of the village.’

‘We may as well go straight to the pub,’ said Quentin, two days later as they drove through the flat, fen country. ‘I’d have liked to stop off and take a look at the house – we won’t have the keys until tomorrow, but we could see the outside of it. But it’s getting a bit late now, and it’ll soon be dark.’

‘Let’s wait until tomorrow,’ said Zillah. ‘Let’s get the keys and see it properly.’ In daylight, said her mind, not like this, in this half-light, where you imagine that figures are crouching, watching, waiting to reach out to you …

‘Yes, all right. The appointment’s for 9.15 anyway, so we’ll have most of the day to ourselves after that.’

A roadside sign eventually proclaimed that they were about to enter Reivers, and they went around a curve in the road with a straggle of buildings on each side. Ahead of them was a small market square with several shops and a stone cross at the far end.

‘That looks like our pub,’ said Quentin, slowing down. ‘See over there?’

‘You were right – it does look nice,’ said Zillah, peering out of the car window. It was a low, double-fronted old place; lights glowed warmly in its windows, and there was the impression that there would be oak beams and chintzes inside. Near the door was an A-board advertising accommodation and good food, and quite a number of cars were parked on the forecourt.

Quentin carried the cases into the panelled reception area, and Zillah was glad that he did not comment on the extra suitcase she had brought. She had packed rather more than was necessary for a single night, on the grounds that it was as well to be prepared for anything.

Over their dinner in the small dining area that opened off the bar, Quentin talked about The Tabor.

‘It’s bound to be a bit run-down,’ he said. ‘Osbert died a good two months ago, according to the solicitor, so the place will have been standing empty.’

‘We haven’t talked about what you’ll do,’ said Zillah, carefully. ‘Will you sell it?’

He did not immediately answer, then he said, ‘Properties can be renovated.’

‘Renovated? How would you afford it? Or did Osbert leave any money?’

‘Nothing to speak of. But I’d sell my present house, of course. That would release a fair amount of dosh.’

He had said ‘my’ house. Not ‘our’ house.

‘And live in The Tabor?’ said Zillah. It was good that her voice sounded absolutely normal.

‘Not while the major work’s being done, obviously. But I could camp out there for a while later – it might be a bit rough and ready, but I’d be able to oversee the renovations. I wouldn’t expect you to live like that, of course. You’re such a fragile little plant, aren’t you?’ There was a half-movement, as if he might have been about to reach for her hand across the table, then thought better of it. ‘But once our own house is sold and we’ve moved out, you could stay here,’ he said, glancing about him. ‘I expect we could get some kind of reduced rate for a long-term stay. I’d semi-live here – I could have my meals here most of the time, so you wouldn’t be on your own very much. You could come and see all the work being done. We might even run to a little car for you.’

Zillah wanted to hit him for this smug condescension, but she said, ‘But when it’s all done? What then? What would you live on? You couldn’t stay with your market-research work, could you? Not all the way out here?’ Quentin did not have to travel very much, because a good deal of his work was via phone and email from home, but he sometimes had to make brief trips to companies who commissioned more in-depth surveys and reports. Zillah had never let him know that she lived for those brief absences, or that she made the most of having the entire house to herself.

‘As a matter of fact,’ said Quentin, ‘since I got the solicitor’s letter, I’ve been thinking about an idea I’ve had for a long time. A kind of dream, really. The kind of thing you pretend you might one day do, but you never really believe you will.’ He leaned forward, his pale, rather long face serious and intent. ‘One of the things the solicitor mentioned was that in the deeds is a reference to the house having been some kind of lodging house, or even a tavern at one time,’ he said. ‘Sort of sixteenth-century B&B, I think. Did your grandmother have any stories about that? She used to ramble on a good deal about the place, didn’t she?’

‘I don’t remember any stories like that. And she didn’t really ramble.’

‘Well, the point is that what’s been done once, can be done again.’

‘You’re not going to make it into an hotel?’ said Zillah, after a moment.

‘I don’t think it would be big enough for that. But I’m going to revive the tradition. I’m going to open a restaurant,’ said Quentin, and sat back, clearly very pleased with himself and expecting Zillah to be wide-eyed and admiring of such enterprise. ‘An upmarket gourmet country-house restaurant,’ he said. ‘With the right staff and the right publicity, it could be very successful indeed. It’ll be following in the footsteps of my ancestors – well, your ancestors as well, of course,’ he said, as if in afterthought. ‘And I do know about food and cooking.’

This was an exaggeration. Quentin knew enough to concoct a good pasta dish or a plate of tarragon chicken; he also did a mean salmon en croûte, and he baked a really good fudge cake. That was about the extent of it.

Zillah said, carefully, ‘Where would you live?’

‘I’ve thought about that, as well. On that ground plan the solicitor sent – you saw it, didn’t you? Oh, I thought I’d shown it to you. Well, there seems to be a kind of semi-separate wing on one side of the building. That could make a really comfortable set of rooms for us.’

The courtyard rooms, thought Zillah. That’s what they were always called. Over what were once stables. A door opening off a first-floor balcony, and windows … The windows all had bars …

‘It looked quite substantial on the plan,’ Quentin said. ‘If we could turn it into private apartments – if it’s big enough – we could live there, you and I, and I’d be on the premises, managing the restaurant.’ He reached across the table again, and this time he did take her hand. ‘Don’t you think it’s a good idea, Zillah?’

Zillah tried to think of something to say, but could not, and after a moment Quentin withdrew his hand. ‘You’re very quiet,’ he said. ‘Are your grandmother’s stories about The Tabor’s past bothering you? Don’t let them. We could live there perfectly comfortably. I know some of her stories were a bit eerie, but nobody ever actually believed them.’

‘You never really listened to her stories, though, did you?’

‘They were all nonsense,’ said Quentin, dismissively. ‘But I know you listened to them. Some people in the family were a bit worried about you spending so much time with her and being fed all that rubbish. Stories about ancestors and old legends and all the rest of it. They were only tales, Zillah.’

‘Everyone thought The Tabor was only a tale, but now it seems it wasn’t.’

‘Well, that’s true. But as for there being anything eerie or macabre …’ He gave a small laugh at the absurdity of this, then said, ‘Have you finished eating? That was quite an acceptable meal, wasn’t it?’ He said this critically, clearly already taking what he thought was an expert’s view of restaurant food. ‘Shall we have some coffee in the bar – they serve it in there, I think. And there’s a log fire and an inglenook. You’ll like that.’

He was speaking to her as if she was a child, but Zillah nodded, and got up from the table.

‘Find us a couple of seats, and I’ll bring the coffee through,’ said Quentin. ‘Then I can tell you a bit more about my ideas for the restaurant, and how it can be run and financed.’

Zillah went into the bar, and sat down by the fire. She could hear Quentin talking to the receptionist, or maybe it was the waitress. It was annoying and actually a bit embarrassing that he had to make himself out to be so knowledgeable and important. He would tell her that he was Rivers of Reivers in a minute. He did tell her – Zillah heard him say it, making a joke of it, but loving the sound of it all the same.

Staring into the flames, she managed to tune Quentin out, and thought instead about The Tabor. Nothing eerie or macabre, Quentin had said, and she had wanted to shout at him that he was wrong – The Tabor was full of eeriness and macabre things.

As a child she had listened to her grandmother’s stories about The Tabor, utterly entranced by them. When her grandmother reached down to take her hand, to the small Zillah it had been as if she was being led into the past, to the time when her grandmother had been a young girl exploring the secrets and the mysteries of a strange old house.

‘There were secrets in there,’ she would say. ‘And once, Zillah, there was a night I never forgot. It was the night the local people performed the Reivers Dance.’

Her eyes were staring straight ahead, and Zillah thought her grandmother had forgotten she was there. Greatly daring, not wanting to break the spell but fascinated, she asked about the Reivers Dance.

‘They said that no one had seen it for – oh, for three hundred years,’ said the soft old voice. ‘Perhaps longer. But most people in Reivers knew about it, because it was handed down within families. People who live in Reivers stay there, you see. They don’t often move away, and memories are long. And on that particular night, Zillah, the children of Reivers were kept inside their houses. They were forbidden to venture out, in case they saw …’ The thin hand tightened its grip. ‘It was always called the Reivers Dance for outsiders,’ she said, very quietly, ‘but the local people whispered that it had always been known by a different name.’

‘What name? Grandma, tell me.’

For a moment, something that was no longer dream-filled or reminiscent looked out of the blue eyes. ‘The Murder Dance,’ she said. ‘That was what people called it. And on that night I hid in a corner of the courtyard, and I saw it, Zillah.’

After a moment, Zillah said, ‘Why was it called the Murder Dance?’

Her grandmother was still staring back to that long-ago night. Then, very softly, she said, ‘Evelyn was part of it that night. There, at the centre of it. And Evelyn is still there, of course – I’ve always known that. Evelyn is still inside The Tabor.’

Evelyn … It was curious how the name lay on the air, leaving a cold trail. Zillah waited, but her grandmother made an impatient gesture with a hand, as if pushing something away. ‘Enough about the past, my dear. It doesn’t do to look back.’

Zillah shivered now, remembering those words, remembering Evelyn … But when Quentin set the coffee down on the low table, she smiled up at him, stretching out her legs to the fire. She had rather good legs, with slim ankles, and it was a pity not to display them. It would also tantalize Quentin, who would tighten his lips and look determinedly away. It always made Zillah laugh to herself to see him struggling like that.

She listened to his idea of creating a small company and what he called a community project to fund part of the renovations to fund his restaurant, and she put on her admiring face, and asked questions at suitable intervals.

‘There’ll have to be a bank loan of course,’ said Quentin. ‘The community project idea wouldn’t be enough for everything. But I’ll be able to get a loan, of course. I shall present a proper business plan – it isn’t as if I don’t know how these things are done. I’ve gathered statistics for a number of clients.’

Zillah nodded and listened, and put on the falsest of all her false faces, and smiled and said it all sounded marvellous.

And then Quentin said, ‘And, of course, I shall find out as much as I can about The Tabor’s past, so that it can be used for publicity.’

The Tabor’s past. Zillah felt as if the warm, comfortable old room had tilted and was spinning around her. Its past …

Whatever it took, Quentin must be stopped from finding out about The Tabor’s past.

TWO

The solicitor’s office was in a small town six or seven miles from Reivers, and the solicitor was called Mr Codling. Quentin thought he matched his voice on the phone, which people hardly ever did, but Mr Codling was sparse and dry-looking, exactly as his voice had been. He had pale eyes and hair like thin straw. Quentin introduced Zillah, and Mr Codling shook hands with her. She had dressed in quite a formal outfit for the meeting – a very smart grey jacket which Quentin had not seen before, over a black shirt of some silky stuff, although he would have to find a way of tactfully indicating to her that a button of her shirt had become unfastened. She would not want to be embarrassed.

Mr Codling did not waste time over preliminaries. He asked Quentin to sign several documents, which his clerk witnessed, and then he sat back, and said he would be straight about things: he was not inclined to approve of the plans for The Tabor that Mr Rivers had outlined on the phone.

‘A restaurant,’ he said, frowning slightly.

‘A gourmet restaurant. Very upmarket.’

‘Yes.’ A pause, then, ‘I have to say, Mr Rivers, that house in any guise is nothing more than a liability, and my advice to you is to sell it as soon as possible.’

‘I shan’t do that,’ said Quentin, annoyed. ‘I’m going to set up a Trust – an investment arrangement. I’ll be talking to investment banks and finance companies, but I want to involve local businesses as well, so it will be very much a community thing. And once the place is up and running, and dividends paid—’

‘Mr Rivers, a dozen investment banks and a hundred Trusts wouldn’t put The Tabor to rights, and it certainly wouldn’t end in it being a profitable restaurant. It’d need a millionaire to do that. But I imagine an organization like the National Trust or English Heritage would be interested,’ said Mr Codling. ‘I could probably make enquiries on your behalf. Developers might be approached, as well, because the house could be demolished and several properties built on the land.’

Zillah leaned forward at this. ‘But isn’t The Tabor – well, historic?’ she said, rather hesitantly. ‘Won’t there be … protection, or orders on it that will mean it can’t be demolished?’

This was a very intelligent point, and in fact Quentin had been about to make it himself.

‘It might be historic, but it’s so run-down it could well have gone beyond the point where it can be reclaimed, Miss Rivers,’ said Mr Codling, rather coldly. ‘And it isn’t protected in the sense I think you mean. I believe there’s something called Historic England, and a long-winded process involving the Secretary of State to get a building listed, but nobody’s ever applied to have The Tabor on the list. As far as I’m aware, you could do anything you want to it – including bulldozing it. It’s probably a considerable health-and-safety risk by this time, as well. In fact, Mr Rivers, you might find you’ll be hearing from one or two local council departments on that count. Now that Osbert Rivers is dead,