The House of Lost Souls - F. G. Cottam [6]
‘And the attempted suicide?’
‘Two nights after the funeral,’ Covey said. ‘She’s out of hospital now, recovering with her brother at his house in Whitstable.’
‘Recovery being a relative term,’ Seaton said.
Covey shrugged.
‘What were they doing there?’
‘They’re not students of the paranormal,’ Covey said. ‘They attend a legitimate university. In Surrey. It has a charter. It receives government funding. It awards recognised degrees.’
‘And employs morons,’ Seaton said.
‘The moron to whom you’re referring teaches ethics,’ Covey said. ‘The girls were – they are – philosophy students. They were examining the possibility of evil, apparently. They got on to the notion of evil as something communicable. Something that can, as it were, contaminate. They began to discuss the possibility, then, of residual evil. And they sought and were granted access to the Fischer house as part of their study.’
Seaton put his head in his hands. ‘Oh, Christ.’
‘Most of the time, as you must long have concluded by now yourself, the place is benign,’ Covey said. ‘On this occasion, it wasn’t. Unfortunately, they found exactly what they were looking for. It’s out, Paul. It’s abroad.’
‘They’re out, you mean.’
‘Don’t confuse evil and its manifestations.’
‘I’ll do what I fucking well please.’
‘You haven’t done that for some years, Paul. You haven’t been allowed to.’
Seaton was silent for a moment. The bar they were in was smoky and loud. Garlic had burned in the kitchen to the rear of the bar and its smell was pungent in the other smells of wet clothing from the rain, scent on warm skin and beer and damp hair, all compressed and heating between nicotine walls. There was a steady thrum of conversation, the chink of glasses, laughter. He had to speak loudly himself to be heard. ‘What exactly would you like me to do, Malcolm?’
Covey sighed. ‘I think you should see the Whitstable girl.’ He reached for his briefcase under the table between them and pulled a thick Manila envelope from it and placed the envelope on the tabletop. ‘The address is in there. Along with twelve hundred pounds in cash and the keys to a car parked in a lock-up under the railway arches around the corner from here in Hercules Road. You are a psychologist and an expert in trauma. The envelope contains identification in your own name. There’s a letter of accreditation from the BMA and some other departmental stuff from the Guys St Thomas Hospital Trust.’
‘And her family are amenable?’
‘Her brother is the only family she has. And he’s more than amenable. He’s desperate, Paul. He doesn’t want his sister to die.’
Seaton put his hand on top of the envelope. ‘I’d like to see the tutor first.’
Covey nodded. ‘And so you shall. Your appointment with him is at two tomorrow afternoon. It was arranged using the same set of credentials. I’d suggest you drive straight on to Whitstable after that.’
‘It will mean getting to Whitstable after nightfall, Malcolm.’
‘You’ll find the brother interesting, I think. From what I’ve heard of him, I don’t necessarily think you’ll bond, as the current terminology has it. But he’s a formidable chap. After his fashion.’
‘I’ll be arriving there after dark.’
‘There’s no time to do otherwise.’
Seaton thought about this. ‘Whitstable is on the coast, right?’
‘Right.’
That was something. He pulled the envelope towards him. He could feel its contents shifting. Its keys, its forged documentation and, of course, its cash. Twelve hundred: four hundred for each tender life. The ethicist was outside this equation, his life beyond consideration, forfeited by his having taken them there. As though money could save them. As though their lives could simply be bought.
‘Why the Whitstable girl?’
Covey looked at him. He looked almost amused. ‘Your bedside manner wouldn’t offer a shred of comfort or salvation. We both know that. To visit them all would be an enervating waste of time. But the brother of Sarah Mason might prove an ally. As I say, he’s formidable. And, of course, you’ll find him at his ailing sister’s side.’
‘Why