Ismael looked straight into her eyes. His own shone strangely.
‘They don’t know how, but they do know why. According to the report, the official verdict is heart failure. But in his final analysis Giraud pointed out that, in his opinion, Hannah saw something in the forest that triggered a panic attack.’
Panic. The word echoed through Irene’s brain.
‘She was found on Sunday, wasn’t she?’ said Irene. ‘Something must have happened that day . . .’
Ismael nodded his head slowly. ‘Or the night before, maybe even the night before that . . .’
Irene looked puzzled.
‘Hannah spent Friday night at Cravenmoore. The following day, there was no sign of her either. No one saw her until they found her dead body in the woods,’ he added.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I went to the woods. There are marks. Broken branches. There seems to have been a fight. I think someone followed Hannah from the house.’
‘From Cravenmoore?’
Again, Ismael nodded.
‘We need to find out what happened the day before her disappearance. That might explain who or what might have followed her through the forest.’
‘And how can we do that? I mean the police . . .’ said Irene.
‘I can think of only one way.’
Irene held his gaze.
‘Tonight . . .’
As dusk fell, gaps opened in the bank of storm clouds moving in from the horizon. The shadows lengthened across the bay and the sky grew dark, revealing the almost perfect circle of the waxing moon. Its glow cast a pattern of shadows across Irene’s bedroom. For a moment she looked up from Alma Maltisse’s diary and gazed at the silvery sphere in the clouds. Soon the circle would be complete and a full moon would shine over Blue Bay, marking the night of the annual masked ball that Hann
ah had been looking forward to so much. Now, she would never attend it.
In a few minutes’ time Irene would go to her secret meeting with Ismael at the entrance to the forest. The idea of crossing the dark woodland and entering the hidden recesses of Cravenmoore seemed rash to her now. Crazy, in fact. On the other hand, she knew there was no way she could let Ismael down, just as she’d found it impossible not to back him up that afternoon when he’d announced his decision to go to Lazarus Jann’s house in search of answers regarding Hannah’s death. With her mind in a whirl, Irene returned to Alma Maltisse’s diary and took shelter in its pages.
I haven’t heard from him in two days. He left suddenly at midnight, convinced that, if he went away from me, the shadow would follow him. He wouldn’t tell me where he was going, but I suspect he has taken refuge on the island. He always used to go there in search of peace, and I have a feeling that this time he has returned there, like a terrified child, to confront his nightmare. But his absence has made me question everything I believed until now. The shadow hasn’t come back while he’s been gone. I’ve remained locked up in my room for three days, surrounded by lights, candles and oil lamps. There’s not a single dark corner anywhere and I’ve barely been able to sleep.
As I write these words, in the middle of the night, I can see the island and the lighthouse from my window. I can also see a light shining among the rocks. I know it’s him, alone, locked in the prison to which he has condemned himself. I can’t stay here another hour. If we must face this nightmare, I want us to do so together. And if we are to perish in the attempt, let’s do so as one.
I no longer care whether I live another day assailed by this madness. I’m convinced that the shadow will give us no respite. And I can’t bear the thought of another week like this one. My conscience is clear and my soul is at peace. The fear of the first days has turned into exhaustion and despair.
Tomorrow, while the villagers celebrate the masked ball in the main square, I’ll take a boat from the port and go in search of him. I don’t care what the consequences might be. I’m ready to accept them. I’ll be content just being by his side, ready to help him until the end.
Something inside me tells me that perhaps we still stand a small chance of regaining a normal, happy life. I would not ask for anything more . . .
The sound of a tiny pebble hitting the windowpane interrupted her reading. Irene closed the book and peered outside. Ismael was waiting for her. As she put on a thick cardigan, the moon slid behind the clouds.
Irene looked at her mother from the top of the stairs. Once again, Simone had fallen asleep in her favourite armchair, facing the French windows that overlooked the bay. A book lay in her lap and her reading glasses had slipped down until they were poised on the end of her nose. From a wooden radio in the corner of the room came the alarming strains of a detective drama. Irene tiptoed past the sleeping Simone, slipped into the kitchen and out into the backyard. The entire operation took only fifteen seconds.
Ismael was waiting for her outside, wearing a short leather jacket, his work trousers and a pair of boots that looked as if they’d been all the way to war and back. The night breeze brought a chill up from the bay and sent ripples through the swaying shadows of the forest.
Irene buttoned up her cardigan and nodded in response to Ismael’s silent query. Without saying a word, the two set off along the path that cut through the trees. The rustling of the leaves in the wind muffled the distant murmur of the waves breaking against the cliffs. Irene followed Ismael through the scrub. The face of the moon could only be seen in glimpses through the tangle of clouds riding high over the bay. Halfway there, Irene clutched Ismael’s hand and didn’t let go of it until the profile of Cravenmoore rose in front of them.
At a sign from him, they stopped and hid behind a large tree that had been mortally wounded by a bolt of lightning. For a few seconds, the moon broke through the curtain of clouds, its light sweeping across the façade of Cravenmoore. The fleeting vision sank into darkness again, and a rectangle of golden light appeared on the ground floor of the mansion. The silhouette of Lazarus Jann could be seen standing on the threshold of the main doorway. The toymaker closed the door behind him, then walked down the steps towards the path that ran along the edge of the woodland.
‘It’s Lazarus. Every night he goes for a walk in the forest,’ whispered Irene.