Free The Mist in the Mirror by Susan Hill Page B

armchairs, books in the bookshelves, a good Persian rug, bowls of fruit and nuts on a sideboard – I felt as if the room had been waiting like a friend, for my arrival, and I sat down, still in my overcoat, closed my eyes and, involuntarily, a great sigh of relief and contentment rose up from deep within me, and I shed, as I exhaled, all the anxiety, weariness, fear – yes, it had been a form of fear that I had been so bowed down and cramped by all that day and for several days past.
    And, as I sat, from across the roof-tops a gentle bell chimed and then sounded the hour, and the sound was a sweet one, lulling me even further into tranquillity.
    The rest of the set, when I bestirred myself to explore it, consisted of a small bathroom, and a bedroom more plainly, but nonetheless adequately, furnished and equipped, and containing a long carved and gilded mirror, fixed to the wall opposite the window. The sight of it made me start. I had seen the mirror before, it was so familiar that I thought back to my Guardian’s bungalow, all those years before, wondering if perhaps one like it had hung there, but I was sure that it had not, there had been nothing so ornate in that sober little house. I stared at the mirror again, puzzled, tracing over every scroll and curlicue, certain that I had done so many times before, searching in the depths of my memory. But I was forced to give up, I had no clue as to where I had previously seen it.
    From the sitting room window, as I parted the heavy velvet curtains and looked down, I could just make out snow-covered gardens and playing fields, stretching away into the darkness. But the bedroom overlooked the main school yard, the cobbles, the King’s statue and the side of the towering chapel.
    The day’s newspapers and some journals were set out upon the desk, decanters of sherry and port stood on atable. I unpacked, bathed and, comfortable in robe and slippers, warmed myself with a glass, beside the fire.
    I had brought fresh writing books and a set of new pencils and these I set out, fully determined that first thing the next morning, on being conducted to the library, and shown the Vane archive, I would assume the mantle of scholar and biographer, and work quietly and steadily through the next few days. The vision appealed to me greatly, for though I had been a traveller for so long, an adventurer even, and rarely settled in any one place, I had read and studied and tried to make up for the gaps in my education and had even written, too, perhaps in emulation of Vane, some slight descriptive articles about the east and my journeys there. I began to dream now, sitting by the bright fire, of seeing my name in gold letters on the spines of impressive volumes, hearing myself referred to as ‘James Monmouth the scholar, Monmouth the writer’.
    My harmless fantasies were interrupted briefly by the arrival of a tray of supper, simple, excellent food, cooked, he said, by the porter himself, ‘school’s being down, sir, and therefore the cook’s away’. He also brought a letter from Dr Dancer, come by the late post.
    My dear Monmouth,
    This is to welcome you to Alton, and to apologise for my unavoidable absence this evening. I trust you will find all comfortable and to your convenience and liking. Biglow will see to things for you, and I shall expect to be with you tomorrow morning – I return very late tonight, weather permitting, but will not disturb you – to give you as much help as I am able, though that, I fear, will be little enough. Would you give me the pleasure of dining with me tomorrow evening?
Yours etc.
Valentine Dancer.
    Later, in pulling out my watch to wind it, I came upon the small card I had earlier tucked into my waistcoat pocket.
L ADY Q UINCEBRIDGE
P YRE
H ISLEY B EECHES
B ERKSHIRE
H ISLEY 25
    Her troubled face peering through the window of the railway carriage came to my mind, and, sitting in my armchair, beside the fire, I thought calmly over her peculiar warnings and