The Watcher in the Shadows (2 page)

Half a mile out to sea, Dorian detected a small island with a lighthouse. The lighthouse tower stood dark and mysterious, its edges blurred by the shimmering haze. Turning his head back towards land, he could see his sister Irene and his mother standing on the porch of the house.

Seaview was a two-storey building of white timber perched on the clifftop. Behind it grew a thick forest and, just above the treetops, he could see the majestic residence of Lazarus Jann: Cravenmoore.

Cravenmoore looked more like a castle than a home, the product of an extravagant and twisted imagination. A cathedral-like construction of arches, flying buttresses, towers and domes adorned its angular roof. The building itself was shaped like a cross, with various wings sprouting from it. An army of gargoyles and stone angels guarded the façade like a flock of petrified spectres. As Dorian closed his drawing book and prepared to return to Seaview, he wondered what kind of person would choose to live in a place like that. He would soon find out: that night they had been invited to dine at Cravenmoore, courtesy of their new benefactor.

Irene’s new bedroom faced north-west. Gazing out of her window she could see the lighthouse and the patches of light cast by the sun over the ocean. After months of being imprisoned in the tiny Paris flat, the luxury of having a room to herself and being able to close the door and enjoy her own private space felt sinfully good.

As she watched the sea turn to copper in the setting sun, Irene faced the dilemma of what to wear for her first dinner with Lazarus Jann. She had only a few items left from what had once been a huge wardrobe, and the idea of being received at Cravenmoore mansion made all her dresses seem like embarrassing old rags. After trying on the only two outfits that might do, Irene noticed another problem she hadn’t counted on.

Ever since she had turned thirteen, her body had insisted on adding volume in some places and losing it in others. Now, close to her fifteenth birthday, Irene was more aware than ever of the influence of nature as she looked in the mirror. The severe cut of her drab clothes did not match her new curvaceous shape.

Shortly before nightfall, Simone Sauvelle rapped gently on Irene’s door.

‘Come in.’

Her mother closed the door behind her and quickly scanned the situation. All of Irene’s dresses were laid out on the bed. Wearing only a plain white vest, her daughter was kneeling by the window, staring out at the distant lights of the ships in the Channel. Simone observed Irene’s slender body and smiled to herself.

‘Time flies and we don’t even notice, do we?’

‘None of them fits me. I’m sorry,’ Irene replied. ‘I’ve tried.’

Simone went over to the window and knelt down next to her daughter. In the middle of the bay the lights of the village spread ripples of colour over the water. For a moment, they both gazed at the spectacle. Simone stroked her daughter’s face and smiled.

‘I think we’re going to like this place. What do you think?’ she asked.

‘But what about us? Is he going to like
us
?’

‘Mr Jann?’

Irene nodded.

‘We’re a charming family. He’ll love us,’ replied Simone.

‘Are you sure?’

‘I certainly hope so.’

Irene pointed to her clothes.

‘Wear something of mine.’ Simone smiled. ‘I think my dresses will look better on you than they do on me.’

Irene blushed. ‘Don’t exaggerate.’

‘Just you wait and see.’

Dorian’s expression was priceless when he saw his sister arrive at the foot of the stairs draped in one of Simone’s dresses. Irene fixed her green eyes on her brother and raised a threatening finger.

‘Not one word,’ she warned.

Dorian nodded mutely, unable to take his eyes off this stranger who spoke with the same voice as his sister Irene. Simone noticed this and tried not to smile. She placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder and knelt down to straighten the purple bow tie he had inherited from his father.

‘You’ll spend your life surrounded by women, son. You’d better start getting used to it.’

By the time the clock on the wall struck eight they were all ready for the great event, dressed in their smartest clothes. They were also terrified.

A light breeze blowing in from the sea stirred the thick forest surrounding Cravenmoore. The rustling of invisible leaves accompanied their footsteps as Simone and her two children walked along the path through the wood. A pale moon struggled to break through the canopy of shadows and hidden birds nesting in the crowns of the century-old giants called out to each other in an unnerving chorus.

‘This place gives me the creeps,’ said Irene.

‘Nonsense,’ her mother snapped. ‘It’s only a wood. On you go.’

From his position at the rear Dorian glanced around at the twisted forms of the vegetation. In the darkness his imagination transformed the sinister shapes into dozens of evil creatures lying in wait.

‘In the daylight you’ll see there’s nothing out there but bushes and trees,’ said Simone Sauvelle, not sounding entirely sure herself.

A few minutes later, after a trek that Irene thought was never going to end, the imposing profile of Cravenmoore stood before them. Golden beams of light shone from the large windows beneath a jagged forest of gargoyles. Beyond the house they could make out the toy factory, an annex to the main building.

Once they were out of the woodland, Simone and her children stopped to contemplate the immensity of the toymaker’s residence. Suddenly a bird that looked like a crow emerged from the undergrowth, flapped its wings and took off, taking a curious route over the gardens that surrounded Cravenmoore. When circling one of the stone fountains it alighted at Dorian’s feet. After it had stopped flapping its wings, the crow lay on its side and began to rock gently to and fro until it came to rest. Dorian knelt down and cautiously stretched out his right hand.

‘Be careful,’ warned Irene.

Ignoring her advice, Dorian stroked the crow’s feathers. The bird showed no signs of life. He lifted it up and unfolded its wings. Dorian looked puzzled, then dismayed. He turned to Irene and Simone.

‘It’s made of wood,’ he murmured.

They all looked at one another. Simone sighed.

‘Let’s just make a good impression, all right?’ she begged her children.

They both nodded in agreement. Dorian placed the bird back on the ground. Simone Sauvelle gave a hint of a smile and then all three climbed the white marble staircase that snaked towards the large bronze entrance.

The doors of Cravenmoore opened automatically, before they’d even had time to use the brass knocker, which was shaped like an angel’s face. A figure stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the aura of light that poured from the house. The figure suddenly came alive, tilting its head with a soft mechanical click. As it did so, they could see its face for the first time. It stared at them with lifeless eyes, simple glass beads encased by a mask that was frozen in a spine-chilling grin.

Dorian gulped. Irene and her mother took a step back. The figure stretched out one hand and then stood still again.

‘I hope Christian didn’t frighten you. He’s a rather clumsy old creation of mine.’

The Sauvelles turned towards the voice that came from the foot of the marble stairs. A kind face which was aging gracefully was smiling up at them mischievously. Blue eyes sparkled beneath a thick, silvery mop of well-groomed hair. The man, who was elegantly dressed and held an ebony walking stick with coloured inlays, climbed the steps towards them, then bowed politely.

‘My name is Lazarus Jann, and I think I owe you an apology.’

His voice was warm and comforting. His large blue eyes scrutinised each member of the family until finally they came to rest on Simone’s face.

‘I was taking my usual evening walk through the forest and was delayed. Madame Sauvelle, I believe . . . ?’

‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.’

‘Please call me Lazarus.’

Simone nodded. ‘This is my daughter Irene,’ she said. ‘And this is Dorian, the youngest in the family.’

Lazarus Jann shook their hands courteously. His grasp was firm and pleasant, his smile infectious.

‘Right. As for Christian, don’t let him frighten you. I keep him as a souvenir of my first period. He’s awkward and doesn’t look very friendly, I know.’

‘Is he a machine?’ asked Dorian quickly. He was fascinated.

Simone’s scolding look came too late. Lazarus smiled at Dorian.

‘You could call him that. Technically, Christian is what is known as an automaton.’

‘Did you build him, sir?’

‘Dorian,’ his mother reproached him.

Lazarus smiled again. The boy’s curiosity didn’t seem to bother him in the least.

‘Yes. I built him and many more besides. That is, or rather was, my profession. But I think dinner is ready. Shall we discuss this, and get to know each other better, over a nice plate of food?’

The smell of a delicious roast wafted towards them.

Neither the alarming reception by the automaton nor the impressive exterior of Cravenmoore could have prepared the Sauvelles for the interior of Lazarus Jann’s mansion. No sooner had they stepped through the front door than they were submerged in a world of fantasy far beyond anything they could have imagined.

A sumptuous staircase seemed to spiral towards infinity. Looking up, the Sauvelles could see it vanishing into the central tower of Cravenmoore, which was crowned by a small turret with windows all around, infusing the house with an other-worldly light. Beneath this spectral glow lay an immense gallery of mechanical creations. On one of the walls, a large clock with cartoon eyes smiled at the visitors. A ballerina, wrapped in a transparent veil, pirouetted in the centre of an oval hall in which every object, every detail, formed part of the world of fantastical creatures brought to life by Lazarus Jann. The doorknobs were smiling faces that winked as you turned them. A large owl with magnificent plumage slowly dilated its glass pupils as it flapped its wings. Dozens, perhaps hundreds, of miniature figures and toys filled an endless array of display cabinets it would have taken a whole lifetime to explore. A small mechanical puppy wagged its tail and barked playfully as a tiny metal mouse scurried by. Hanging from the ceiling, a merry-go-round of dragons and stars danced in mid-air to the distant notes of a music box.

Wherever they looked, the Sauvelles discovered new marvels, impossible new creations that defied anything they had ever seen before. For a few minutes all three of them just stood there, completely bewitched.

‘It’s . . . it’s amazing!’ said Irene, unable to believe her eyes.

‘Well, this is only the entrance hall. But I’m glad you like it,’ said Lazarus, leading them towards Cravenmoore’s grand dining room.

Dorian’s eyes were as big as saucers. He was speechless. Simone and Irene, who were equally stunned, tried hard not to fall under the spell cast by the house.

The room where dinner was served was no less impressive. From the glassware to the cutlery, from the crockery to the rich carpets covering the floor, everything bore the mark of Lazarus Jann. Not one object in the house seemed to belong to the real world, to the drab, horribly mundane world they had left behind the moment they’d stepped inside the mansion. But Irene’s eyes were glued to a large painting that hung above the fireplace, which was shaped like the flaming jaws of a dragon. It was the portrait of a lady wearing a white dress. She was stunningly beautiful. The power of her gaze seemed to transcend the painter’s brush and became almost real. For a few seconds, Irene was mesmerised by her strange captivating eyes.

‘My wife, Alexandra . . . When she was still in good health. Marvellous days those were,’ said Lazarus behind her, his voice tinged with sadness.

The dinner passed pleasantly in the glow of the flames. Lazarus Jann proved to be an excellent host who quickly charmed Dorian and Irene with his jokes and astonishing stories. As the evening wore on, he told them that the delicious food had been prepared by Hannah, a girl of Irene’s age who worked for him as a cook and a maid. After the first few minutes, the initial tension lifted and the Sauvelles began to join in the toymaker’s relaxed conversation.

By the time they started on the second course (roast turkey, Hannah’s speciality) the Sauvelles felt as if they were in the presence of an old friend. Simone was relieved to see that the affection flowing between her children and Lazarus was mutual. Even she was falling for his charm.

Between one anecdote and the next, Lazarus also gave them polite explanations about the house and the nature of the duties Simone’s new job entailed. Friday night was Hannah’s night off and she spent it with her family in Blue Bay. But they would get the chance to meet her as soon as she returned to work, Lazarus said. Hannah was the only other person, apart from Lazarus and his wife, who lived at Cravenmoore. She would help the Sauvelles settle in and deal with any queries that might arise concerning the house.

When the dessert arrived – an irresistible raspberry tart – Lazarus began to sketch out what he expected of them. Although he had retired, he still worked occasionally in his workshop, which occupied an adjacent building. Both the factory and the rooms on all floors above ground level were forbidden to them. They must never, under any circumstances, set foot in any of them. Especially in the west wing, as this was where his wife lived.

For over twenty years, Alexandra Jann had been suffering from a strange and incurable disease that confined her to her bed. Lazarus’s wife lived on the second floor of the west wing, in a room which only her husband entered in order to look after her and provide her with the care her condition required. The toymaker told them that his wife, then a beautiful young woman, full of life, had caught the mysterious illness while they were travelling around central Europe.

The deadly virus slowly took hold of her and very soon she could barely walk. Within six months her health had deteriorated further, turning her into a complete invalid, a sad reminder of the person he had married only a few years earlier. Twelve months after she’d caught the disease, her memory began to fail and in a matter of weeks she could scarcely recognise her own husband. From that point on she stopped speaking, and looking into her eyes was like gazing into a bottomless well. Alexandra Jann was twenty-six at the time. She had never again left Cravenmoore.