The House with Nine Locks, page 12
‘Cyclical? What does that mean?’
Sebastian made a circle with his finger. ‘Goes round and round. The business cycle, you know.’
Adelais nodded. She had heard the business cycle mentioned on the wireless, and some talk of factories closing, but she hadn’t paid much attention. ‘Your father won’t lose his job, will he?’
‘Oh no, no. He won’t.’
Adelais felt like lightening the mood. ‘How are the dancing lessons going?’
Sebastian groaned and threw a peanut shell across the path. ‘Disastrous.’
‘What? Why?’
‘I’m not very good. Dangerous, actually. I’ve trodden on so many toes.’ Adelais started laughing. ‘No, I mean badly. And I almost gave one girl a shiner with my elbow. None of them want to dance with me now. You can see the fear in their eyes.’
Adelais almost said I’ll dance with you, but stopped herself. She didn’t want to spoil the surprise when she turned up at the opera house. Besides, she had already decided that if you wanted someone to think differently about you, it would help if you looked different, not the way she did now.
‘You mustn’t give up,’ she said. ‘Promise me.’
Sebastian studied her for a few moments, without answering. Then he popped a peanut into his mouth and looked away.
Adelais recognised the smell as soon as she opened the front door. Father de Winter was in the hallway, pulling on his overcoat. ‘Here she is now,’ he said.
Her mother was standing behind him. Her eyes were bloodshot, as if she had been crying, but it was the time of year for hay fever and most years it affected her.
Adelais said good evening.
‘I’ve told your mother, if there’s anything you want to talk about, you should get in touch.’ Father de Winter put a hand on her shoulder. ‘I’ve left my number. There’s always someone there who’ll take a message.’
Adelais nodded, even though she had no idea what he was talking about. She wondered if her mother had been complaining about her. Since the argument about Uncle Cornelis, she had been quieter and more withdrawn than ever. Adelais didn’t like it.
‘There’s something I need to tell you,’ her mother said, as soon as Father de Winter had left. ‘Come into the kitchen.’
Adelais had eaten too many peanuts and her stomach felt bloated. She was not in the mood for a sermon.
‘Sit down, Ada.’
Adelais sat down.
‘I got word today that they’re cutting jobs at the factory – the women’s jobs mostly. Mine included. The company’s been losing money, they say.’
‘Does that mean—’
Her mother held up her hand. She was slightly out of breath, as if she had just climbed the stairs. ‘It’s a good thing, Ada. I believe it’s a sign. God has a way of clearing the path for us, and – as Father de Winter said – nudging us along it sometimes.’
Adelais wasn’t thinking about God. She was thinking about Sebastian. He must have heard about the job losses. Was that why he had asked after her mother in the park?
‘My path is the path of pilgrimage, to Lourdes. I’ve been thinking about it for a long time.’
‘Lourdes? What are you going to do in Lourdes?’
‘I shall be a handmaid and help those in need: the sick and the dying.’
‘But you already do that here.’
‘We must go where we’re called, Ada. It’s the only way to salvation.’
Adelais did not want an argument. She could tell her mother’s heart was set on going, that she would not rest until she did. There was no point in making it harder for her.
‘How long will you be gone, Mama?’
Her mother smiled. ‘A few weeks. A month perhaps. But the company’s given me some money, and …’ She sat down at the table. ‘I’ve some saved for emergencies. It’s all for you. Only don’t tell your father about it. Otherwise …’
Adelais nodded. Otherwise he would drink it. There was no need to explain.
‘You’ve work now,’ her mother said. ‘And I’m sure your father … His business will pick up.’
‘What if it doesn’t?’
Adelais’s mother reached across the table. ‘Have faith, Ada. That’s all we need. Trust in Him.’
Two days later, Adelais got up early. She wanted to go with her mother to the station and see her off. She found her father asleep in the bedroom, and the kitchen empty. Her mother had already left.
NINETEEN
The car was parked forty metres from the house, at the end of Schoolstraat. It was black and shiny, and more expensive-looking than the other vehicles round about, of which there were very few in any case. As she passed, on her way to the tram stop, Adelais noticed the three-pointed star above the radiator: a Mercedes-Benz.
The tram was almost full, but she got a seat near the back, next to a heavily pregnant woman. Adelais stole glances at the bulge where the baby was and wondered what it must feel like to have something that big growing inside you, squeezing up your internal organs and wriggling around. The thought made her feel queasy. She didn’t look out the back window, which was why she didn’t see that the Mercedes-Benz was following. Nor did she notice it at the Dampoort, where she changed onto a second tram that took her north towards the docks. It was only as she was getting off at her final stop, a short distance from the bar, that she saw it pull over, as if waiting to see what she did next. Even then, she wasn’t sure if it was the same Mercedes-Benz or a different one.
It was eleven o’clock in the morning and the streets were empty. Adelais set off for the bar. The tram resumed its journey, engine droning, blue sparks dripping from the overhead lines. She heard the Mercedes-Benz coming along the road behind her, but she didn’t look round. It was going to pass her in a moment and then she could forget about it. It wasn’t about to run her down. Why would anyone want to do that?
The car slipped by, polished bodywork and chrome. The driver was on the other side. All Adelais could see were his arms and shoulders in silhouette. The car was only twenty metres ahead of her, when the brake lights came on, and the car pulled over again.
Adelais stopped. The driver’s door opened, and a man stepped out into the road. He had a long face and a high forehead, and his suit was as black as his car. He walked towards her. His skin was shiny, but covered in fine lines, like the skin on boiled milk. They were all across his forehead and radiating from his eyes.
Adelais stopped dead.
‘Miss de Wolf? My name is Klysen.’
The stranger pulled out a card from his top pocket and handed it to her. The card read:
FRANZ A. KLYSEN
NOTARIS – NOTAIRE
Muinkkaai 5
Ghent
Tel: (9) 23 1771
Adelais did not know what to say. Notaries were lawyers. Did that mean she was in trouble? Was it something to do with her father owing money? She tried to hand the card back, but the stranger didn’t take it.
‘Cornelis Mertens was a client. I’ve been tasked with the administration of his estate.’
‘Uncle Cornelis?’
The stranger nodded. Why hadn’t he come to the house? Why were they talking in the street? Adelais did not trust him.
‘You’re listed as a beneficiary in Mr Mertens’s will. But there are certain details that I need to go over with you.’
‘A beneficiary?’
‘As soon as possible.’ The stranger offered her a perfunctory smile. ‘If that’s convenient.’
The bar was on the other side of the junction. Adelais saw Mrs Claes opening up. She felt a little better, knowing she was there. ‘I have to go to work now,’ she said.
‘Of course,’ the stranger said. ‘What time do you finish?’
‘Nine o’clock.’
The stranger nodded. ‘Until nine o’clock then,’ he said.
It was a Tuesday and business was slow. Sitting on her stool behind the cash register, Adelais had plenty of time to think about the notary and what it meant, his turning up out of the blue, unannounced. In the detective novels she had read with Sebastian, lawyers usually saw people in their offices. They didn’t travel out to see them. In any event, why hadn’t Mr Klysen simply written her a letter? He obviously knew where she lived. Or was that the problem? Maybe he hadn’t written her a letter for the same reason he hadn’t knocked on the door: because he didn’t want anyone else involved, meaning her mother and father. Adelais remembered the message Uncle Cornelis had written in her birthday card, the first time he had sent her two hundred francs: Don’t tell Mama!
Between customers, Hendryck the barman had taken on the job of spring-cleaning the shelves, which involved taking down the bottles one by one, wiping them and running a wet cloth over the surfaces. The shelves behind the bar went all the way up to the ceiling and he had to stand on a stepladder to complete the job.
‘Hendryck, what’s a beneficiary?’ Adelais asked. She thought she knew, but wanted to be sure.
‘I think it means you’re going to …’ Hendryck sneezed. It was the dust. ‘… get something. Like when someone takes out life insurance. Or you’re in someone’s will.’ He looked down at Adelais from the top of the stepladder. ‘Why do you ask?’
Adelais shrugged. What could Uncle Cornelis have left her? She was not even convinced that the notary had been telling the truth. Her gut told her he wasn’t to be trusted.
‘I was a beneficiary once,’ Hendryck said, returning to the shelves. ‘My great-aunt Ingrid, mad old crone. She left me a pair of silver candlesticks and her collection of stuffed birds.’
A few minutes before nine, Adelais looked up and saw Franz Klysen sitting at a table by the door. She had not seen him come in. The bar did not usually do table service, but Mrs Claes must have been impressed by the lawyer’s car, because she went over and took his order, just as if they were in a cafe. He drank pastis, diluted with water, which was the choice of Walloons and men off the boats more often than locals. He sat with his back to Adelais, facing the door. There was no way for her to leave without him seeing her and she began to wonder if that was the idea. Beneficiary or not, she couldn’t help feeling trapped.
At nine, Mrs Claes took over the till. ‘Who is that?’ She must have noticed Adelais’s interest in the stranger.
‘He’s a notary.’
‘A notary? What, are you buying a house?’ Mrs Claes laughed, as if that was the funniest thing she’d heard in a while.
Adelais collected her stick and went over to where Klysen was sitting. ‘Here I am,’ she said.
Klysen gestured towards the chair opposite. ‘Please, sit down.’
There were enough customers in the place that their conversation wasn’t likely to be overheard. It was better than talking in the street.
‘A drink?’
He had hardly touched his pastis. Adelais shook her head. ‘No, thank you.’
The notary shrugged and reached under the table for a slim leather case no thicker than his wrist. Adelais watched him flip open the catches and take out a bundle of densely typed papers, some of them bound together with red ribbon.
‘Did you know my uncle, Mr Klysen?’
‘We met.’ Klysen laid out the papers in front of him. ‘I’m sure you knew him better.’ He clearly didn’t want to make conversation. He wanted to see to business and be done. ‘At the time of his death, your uncle owned the leasehold on a property. Do you know what a leasehold is?’
Adelais nodded. The house on Schoolstraat was leased. In seven years, the lease would expire and the de Wolfs would be thrown out. It was one of the things she had learned long ago from listening to her mother and father argue.
‘The property is here in Ghent.’
‘In Ghent?’
‘In Patershol, to be exact.’
Patershol: an ancient, rundown quarter on a narrow bend of the River Leie. Her mother had always told her to stay away from it, especially at night. It was at most twenty minutes’ walk from the Handelsdok, but Adelais had only been there once or twice, to drop donations of clothes at the girls’ orphanage.
‘It’s an old weaver’s place,’ Klysen said. ‘There’s still twenty-one years left on the lease. The contents of the property are also bequeathed to you. This is the leasehold title.’ He pushed a document towards her. It was printed on stiff yellow paper, with names and dates down one side and stamps down the other. The name at the top of the contract was Haeck Maris NV. ‘My understanding is that the premises are unoccupied.’ Klysen reached into his coat pocket. ‘You’ll need the keys.’
Adelais felt light-headed. It was all happening too quickly and none of it made sense. Uncle Cornelis hadn’t lived in Ghent for years, since before she was born. He had been generous, but he had never been rich enough to have a place he didn’t live in, not even a place in Patershol. It was a mistake, a misunderstanding – perhaps a trap. Instinctively she looked towards the bar, searching for Hendryck, but he was busy chatting to a female customer in a ratty fur coat.
Adelais stared at the bunch of keys lying in front of her. She counted nine of them: four for latches and five for deadlocks. She didn’t want to pick them up. If she picked them up the trap would be sprung. ‘What kind of place is it?’ she said. ‘What kind of house has nine locks?’
He had her sign a couple of papers, and when that was done, Klysen handed over the contract. There was a map attached to the back, which marked the location and boundaries of the property. Inside a box was written the address: 37 Sluizeken. As far as Adelais could tell, it was right on the river. She waited for the notary to give her the bad news or to explain, at least, what her uncle had been thinking, but all he did once the papers had been signed for was close his case and stand up.
The keys were still in front of her. She knew she should be excited and grateful. She was a beneficiary. But she could not separate her sudden good fortune from the fact of her uncle’s death.
‘What do I do?’ she said.
The notary looked down at her. He must have thought it was a stupid question. ‘If I were you, I’d take a look at the place, right away.’
‘Right away?’
‘I’ll drive you. It’s on my way.’
Adelais had never been in a Mercedes before. The seats were soft and comfortable, and smelled of new leather. The dashboard was polished walnut, and all the dials and gauges had lights behind them like the aeroplanes she had seen in films. Even the engine hummed with a quiet confidence that was new.
‘What do you think it’s worth?’ she asked, as they headed down Nieuwland, towards the river.
Klysen glanced at her as he changed gear. ‘The lease? I couldn’t say.’
The keys were in her pocket now, and she wasn’t so scared any more. The lawyer was simply doing his job – a job that was well paid, judging by his car.
‘You’ve no idea?’
‘I’ve never seen the place. Like everything, it’s worth what someone will pay for it.’
They followed the quayside into Patershol, where houses of every age and design were jammed together along narrow, unlit streets. After a minute, they came to a square, where there was a tram stop and a handful of plane trees standing lopsided, scraps of newspaper snagged around their trunks. A huddled figure was lying on a bench, bottles strewn across the ground. Klysen took a moment to get his bearings, before turning down a street where the stepped gables of old houses were black against the sky. Somewhere beyond the clouds, the moon was out.
‘This is Sluizeken.’ Klysen pulled over and wound down his window. ‘The old weaver’s house must be down there.’
He pointed to an empty yard on their left. Adelais could make out a handful of steps, beyond them a path, half cobblestones, half mud. She could not see the river, but she could sense its chill, fetid presence.
Klysen kept the engine running. ‘If you have any questions, you have my card. The same applies if you’re considering a change of address, for any reason.’
Adelais was not sure what he meant. She climbed out of the car and closed the door. The notary drove away. In the distance, a couple of women were standing under a solitary street light, smoking. They turned and walked to the kerb as the Mercedes went by, as if expecting it to stop.
TWENTY
Number 37 was the last in the row of old brick buildings that hugged the north bank of the Leie. The property backing onto it was derelict. Between the house and the water was a narrow wooden dock, barely wide enough for two people to pass. Adelais had to push her way through a tangle of spindly bushes to reach the front door, which was wide like a stable’s and covered in flaking white paint. The windows were hidden behind heavy wooden shutters. Warehouses towered over the far bank.
Her fingers found three locks: a latch in the centre and mortice locks above and below. She tried the keys one by one, but it was hard keeping track in the darkness. It didn’t help that her hands were unsteady. She tried to think about Uncle Cornelis. This was his place, or had been. There was nothing to be afraid of. Hadn’t he always been on her side?
Houses around here couldn’t be worth much, not if people were letting them fall down. But the lease had to be worth something – most likely more money than Adelais had ever seen. She wished her mother was around to hear the good news. Maybe she’d feel sorry for calling Uncle Cornelis a bad influence.
The lock at the top turned. The next key on the ring fitted the lock at the bottom. There were four latch keys. The first one she tried was the right one. The door opened with a crack.
The air on the other side wasn’t damp and mouldy, like the air in the countess’s hunting lodge, but neutral, with a chemical edge, like a fresh newspaper. Adelais found a switch. The light came on with a clunk. On the wall beneath the switch was a meter, with brass tokens stacked up on the top. She was standing in a narrow hallway: white walls, a tiled floor, worn but shiny. There was no sign of habitation.
To her right was a door, with locks top and bottom. Adelais went through the keys, until she had found the right ones. On the other side of the door was a spacious room, bare like the hallway: no furniture, no pictures, no rugs. Instead, there were only wooden crates and cardboard boxes, stacked around the walls. She went to the nearest box. On the side was written Lokeren. She lifted the lid.
