The Watcher in the Shadows Read online

  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.

  The Sauvelles listened in silence to Lazarus’s sad account. Obviously distressed by his memories and the two decades of solitude, he nonetheless tried to play down the matter by shifting the conversation to Hannah’s mouth-watering tart. But the sorrow in his eyes did not go unnoticed by Irene.

  It wasn’t hard for her to imagine why Lazarus Jann had escaped into a place of his own making. Deprived of what he most loved, he had taken refuge in a fantasy world, creating hundreds of creatures with which to fill the deep loneliness surrounding him.

  As she listened to the toymaker’s words, Irene realised she would no longer be able to view Craven
moore as the magnificent product of a boundless imagination, the ultimate expression of the genius that had created it. Having learned to recognise the emptiness of her own loss, she knew this place to be little more than the dark reflection of the solitude that had overwhelmed Lazarus during the past twenty years. Every piece of that marvellous world was a silent tear.

  By the time they had finished dinner, Simone Sauvelle was quite clear about her obligations and responsibilities. Her duties would be rather like those of a housekeeper, a job that had little to do with her original profession as a teacher. Nevertheless, she was prepared to do her best in order to guarantee a good future for her children. Simone would supervise Hannah’s chores and those of the occasional servants; she would be in charge of all administrative work and the maintenance of Lazarus Jann’s property; deal with suppliers and shopkeepers; take care of the post; and guarantee that nothing and nobody would intrude on the toymaker’s withdrawal from the outside world. Her job also included buying books for Lazarus’s library. Her employer had made it clear that her past work as a teacher had been one of the reasons he’d chosen her over other candidates with far greater experience in housekeeping. Lazarus insisted that this was one of her most important responsibilities.

  In exchange for her work, Simone and her children would be allowed to live at Seaview and she would receive a more than reasonable salary. Lazarus would take care of Irene and Dorian’s school expenses for the following year, at the end of the summer. He also promised to cover the costs of university degrees for both children if they showed the ability and the interest. For their part, Irene and Dorian could help their mother with whatever tasks she assigned them in the mansion, as long as they respected the golden rule: never to exceed the boundaries the owner had laid down for them.

  To Simone, considering all the misery of the previous months, Lazarus’s offer seemed like a blessing from heaven. Blue Bay was an idyllic place to start a new life with her children. The job was very desirable and Lazarus was evidently a kind and generous employer. Sooner or later, luck had to come their way. Fate had sent them to this remote location, and for the first time in a long while Simone was prepared to accept what it was offering her. In fact, if her instincts were correct, and they usually were, she perceived a genuine warmth flowing towards her and her family. It wasn’t difficult to imagine that their company and their presence at Cravenmoore could help soothe the immense solitude in which its owner seemed to live.

  Dinner ended with a cup of coffee and Lazarus’s promise to a stunned Dorian that, if he wished, one day he would initiate him into the mysteries of the construction of automata. The boy’s eyes lit up, and for a brief moment Simone and Lazarus’s gaze met. Simone recognised in his look a trace of loneliness, a shadow she knew only too well. The toymaker half-closed his eyes and stood up quietly, indicating that the evening was at an end.

  He led them towards the front door, stopping every now and then to tell them about some of the amazing objects they saw along the way. Dorian and Irene listened glassy-eyed to his explanations. Shortly before they came to the entrance hall, Lazarus halted in front of what looked like a complex construction made of mirrors and lenses. Without saying a word, he put his arm into a gap between two mirrors. Slowly, the reflection of his hand grew smaller until it vanished. Lazarus smiled.

  ‘You mustn’t believe everything you see. The image of reality we perceive with our eyes is only an illusion, an optical effect,’ he said. ‘Light is a great liar. Here, give me your hand.’

  Dorian did as he was told and let the toymaker guide his hand through the passage between the mirrors. The image faded before his very eyes. Dorian turned to Lazarus and gave him a puzzled look.

  ‘Do you know anything about the laws of optics?’ the man asked him.

  Dorian shook his head.

  ‘Magic is only an extension of physics. Are you good at maths?’

  ‘Not bad, except when it comes to trigonometry . . .’

  Lazarus smiled.

  ‘We’ll start there then. Fantasy is derived from numbers. That’s the trick.’

  The boy nodded, although he wasn’t quite sure what Lazarus was talking about. Finally, Lazarus showed them the way to the door. It was then that, almost by chance, Dorian thought he witnessed something impossible. As they walked past one of the flickering lamps, their bodies cast shadows against the wall. All of them but one: Lazarus’s body left no trace of a shadow, as if his presence were only a mirage.

  When Dorian turned round, Lazarus was observing him intently. The boy swallowed hard. The toymaker nipped his cheek in a friendly manner.

  ‘Don’t believe everything you see . . .’

  Dorian followed his mother and sister out of the house.

  ‘Thanks for everything. Goodnight,’ said Simone.

  ‘It’s been a pleasure, and I’m not just saying that to be polite,’ said Lazarus. He gave them a warm smile and raised a hand in farewell.

  The Sauvelles entered the forest shortly before midnight, on their way back to Seaview.

  Dorian was quiet, still entranced by memories of Lazarus Jann’s house of marvels. Irene also seemed to be in some other world, lost in her thoughts. Simone sighed with relief and thanked God for their good luck.

  Just before Cravenmoore’s outline disappeared behind them, Simone turned to take a last look. The only light came from a window on the second floor of the west wing. A figure stood, unmoving, behind the curtains. At that precise moment, the light went out and the window was plunged into darkness.

  Back in her room, Irene took off the dress her mother had lent her and folded it carefully over the chair. She could hear Simone and Dorian talking in the next room. She turned off the light and lay down on the bed. Blue shadows danced across the ceiling and the murmur of waves breaking against the cliffs caressed the silence; Irene closed her eyes and tried in vain to fall asleep.

  It was hard to believe that from that night on she would never have to see their old Paris apartment again, nor would she have to return to the dance hall to relieve those soldiers of a few coins. She knew that the shadows of the big city couldn’t reach her here. She got up and went over to the window.

  The lighthouse rose up against the dark night. Irene focused on the small island enveloped in a luminous mist. A sudden light seemed to shine, like the blink of a faraway mirror. Seconds later, the light shone again, then went out. Irene frowned, then noticed that her mother was standing on the porch below. Wrapped in a thick jumper, Simone was quietly gazing out to sea. Irene didn’t have to see her face to know that she was crying. They would both take a long time to fall asleep. On their first night at Seaview, after that first step towards what seemed to be a new and happy life, Armand Sauvelle’s absence was more painful than ever.

  3

  BLUE BAY

  Of all the dawns in her life, none would ever seem as radiant to Irene as that of 22 June 1937. The ocean glistened beneath a sky so clear she could scarcely have imagined it during the years she’d lived in the city. From her window, she could clearly see the lighthouse as well as the small rocks that stood out in the centre of the bay like the crest of some underwater dragon. The neat row of houses along the seafront, beyond the Englishman’s Beach, quivered through the heat haze rising from the docks. If she half-closed her eyes, it seemed like a paradise conjured by Claude Monet, her father’s favourite artist.

  Irene opened the window and let the salty sea air fill the room. A flock of seagulls nesting on the cliffs turned to observe her with curiosity. Her new neighbours. Not far away, Irene noticed that Dorian had already set himself up in his favourite spot among the rocks. He was probably busy cataloguing his daydreams, his flights of fancy, or whatever it was that engrossed him during his solitary wanderings.

  She was trying to make up her mind what to wear when she heard an unfamiliar voice, speaking fast and cheerfully, downstairs. She listened carefully for a couple of seconds and could hear the calm, composed voice of her mother attemp
ting to respond, or rather trying to slip a word or two into the few gaps left by the other person.

  As she got dressed, Irene tried to imagine what the owner of the voice would look like. Ever since she was small, that had been one of her favourite things – listening to a voice with her eyes closed and trying to imagine the person it belonged to: deciding on their height, weight, face . . .

  This time she imagined a young woman, not very tall, nervous and fidgety, with dark hair, probably dark eyes too. With that portrait in mind Irene set off down the stairs to satisfy both her hunger with a good breakfast and, more importantly, her curiosity.

  As soon as she went into the sitting room, she realised her first, and only, mistake: the girl’s hair was straw-coloured. As for the rest, she’d been spot on. That is how Irene first met the quirky and chatty young Hannah; not by sight, but by sound.

  Simone Sauvelle did her best to repay Hannah for the meal she had prepared for them the night before with a delicious breakfast. The young girl devoured her food even faster than she spoke. The torrent of anecdotes, gossip and stories about the town and its inhabitants, which she reeled off at lightning speed, meant that after only a few minutes of her company, Simone and Irene felt as if they’d known Hannah all their lives.

  Between bites of toast, Hannah summarised her biography in a few quick instalments. She would be sixteen in November; her parents owned a house in the village; her father was a fisherman and her mother a baker; her cousin Ismael, who’d lost both his parents years ago, also lived with them and helped her father on his boat. She no longer went to school because that old witch Jeanne Brau, the headmistress of the local school, had decided she was thick, or at least not very bright. Ismael, however, was teaching her to read and every week she was getting better at her times tables. Her favourite colour was yellow and she liked collecting shells along the Englishman’s Beach. Her favourite pastime was listening to romance serials on the radio and going to the summer dances held in the main square, when travelling bands came to the village. She didn’t use perfume, but she loved lipstick . . .