Late that evening, Tom tried to research their house online through Swiss archives. In the meantime, Sue finished building her “house altar”—which she had now improved from the day before—bowed to it, spoke to it, and played her reverie harp to it. She was good, producing a soft, hypnotic sound like spring mornings and lonely glades that made Sanders feel he was about to drift off. Not unlike Lee hypnotising him.
He had a good reason to resist, however. Sue was fully occupied. Francesca had retired to her quarters. Only Sanders was left without an assignment in the house.
He was also lucky Tom was working on his own and Sue on her own. As the evening had progressed, with Sue apparently meditating or talking to her altar, Tom had been antsy. He seemed to think something dramatic would materialise at any moment. Tense ever since dinner, he’d asked Sue repeatedly what they had to do next.
She’d finally shaken him off by getting him to start on this house research online.
Now Sanders joined Tom at the kitchen bar where Tom sat with his laptop, chin in his hand, brows knit. London lay in his lap.
“Find anything?” Sanders asked, speaking softly, though Sue was working on the other side of the fireplace, some distance away and out of sight.
“Sale records. A couple pictures of the old inn. Names of a few owners.” Tom shrugged. “Basically, no. I need access to better Swiss archives, but there are paywalls and anything in newsprint is going to be in French, right? And the real translatable pages so far aren’t any use.”
“I could read them, but would it help? We have no reason to believe this house was ever discussed in old newspapers.”
Tom pursed his lips, pushed the screen back, and looked at Sanders. “That’s the other problem. Would we find anything even if we bought subscriptions? Public records already give who owned it, when it sold, when it was converted to a residential property. I thought we could find something more with Hansen’s clues, but it doesn’t seem to have been an asylum and no one kept many visible records of it as an inn. Anything more is buried. If...”
“...there even is more to find,” Sanders finished, shaking his head. “Perhaps these people were not guests at the inn. Perhaps something happened here once it was a residence and that’s why there’s no obvious record. Men in uniform could have been hidden here during the war. That was the 1940s, long after the house was privately held.”
“True.” Tom drummed his fingers lightly along the keyboard. “Switzerland was a neutral country. But that doesn’t mean a private individual wouldn’t harbor someone.”
“They may have been Allied POWs, or airmen,” Sanders said. “There was a massive underground effort by the French people to find and protect downed British and American airmen before the occupying Germans located them.”
Tom looked at him thoughtfully. “I forgot you know so much about World War Two. I only got a glimpse into that time. Since we can’t find more about the house, let’s see if we can find more about military men who might have been here.”
He searched images for WWII Allied airmen uniforms, first American, then British. While Sanders nodded and concurred with the visuals, Tom shook his head.
“That’s not what the guy looked like in the bathroom mirror.”
Sanders refrained from sighing. He felt they were onto something here, yet Tom would dismiss the whole thing based on a mirror?
Tom searched for the French version of the same uniform, then shook his head more emphatically.
“That’s not them.”
“But you only saw one man,” Sanders said. “You don’t know what they may have all looked like. You said yourself it was a split second.”
“Those guys aren’t even close.” Tom closed the laptop and rubbed his eyes. He stroked the cat, who sat up, stretching against his chest. “If I saw that same man again, and same outfit, I’d know him.”
“They wouldn’t have been wearing their pilot uniforms any longer if they were trying to escape, or any uniforms by then. They’d be in civilian clothes to escape.”
“Another thing,” Tom said, “how do we know if what they were wearing when they got here, or lived here, is connected to how they might project themselves into mirrors for a modern guy to see? Or how London is seeing them? They don’t have bodies, much less clothes. It’s just an illusion. If they’re all dressed as clowns or bankers when we see them, does that mean they were clowns or bankers, or is it just our perception?”
“You might want to ask Sue. I’m having a difficult time thinking about this at all.”
Tom looked up from the cat to meet his eyes. He smiled. “I bet you are.” He leaned over, reaching a hand around the back of his neck and pulled Sanders in to kiss him. “You okay?”
“I suppose so. I’m trying not to dwell on it. But...”
“Not so easy for you just to put something out of your mind, is it? Even a little thing.”
“No, it’s not.” Still, he had been distracted with many other thoughts lately. “Tom?”
Tom kissed him again. “Hmm?”
“This is really Sue’s work. Perhaps we could ... retire and let her get on with it?”
Tom pulled back. “Better ask her. We’ve been helping all day, haven’t we? She acts like it’s important that the whole household sets the right tone.”
“A tone of polite distance and discretion for the night?”
“I’ll ask.” Tom smiled.
Sanders wished he wouldn’t. He wished Tom would come upstairs and they could actually talk about the two of them and Tom’s brother and ignore the other things going on around here for a few minutes.
But, no, Tom would not be denied—despite the two having been working and chatting and laughing in close proximity for the entire day already.
Sue was, of course, the guest, and Sanders understood the sense of needing to look after her. Yet she was also playing a harp in front of her altar on the far side of the fireplace and she was not sounding or acting like she needed looking after. Only an hour ago she had suggested that Tom find something else to do. Strange now that this did not weigh with Tom. Sanders had long been accustomed to thinking of Tom as both sensitive and perceptive. Not one who couldn’t take hints. At least, not until recently.
Holding London, Tom slid off the barstool. Sanders followed him as far as the side of the massive hearth’s stone slab.
“That’s beautiful,” Tom said, pausing beyond the stone.
“It’s Indian redwood with a tree of life patterned centre.” Sue smiled up at him, sitting cross-legged on the rug in front of her altar, that small wood structure adorned in various bits and pieces. She’d incorporated local accents today with stones, a flower, and a bird feather.
“I meant the music.” Tom grinned, letting London spring out of his arms to investigate the altar. “But the harp’s nice also.”
Sue laughed, still playing. “Do you play any instruments?”
“Does a keyboard count?”
“I have a feeling you’re talking about the kind with a screen attached.”
“Might be.”
London rubbed herself along Sue’s elbow as she passed, attracted to the flickering candles.
“Hello, leopard.” Sue still played. “Has your mean human been dumping nasty old fish carcasses on you?”
“All right, all right.” Tom followed to pick the cat up before she reached the altar. “We just wanted to know if you needed any more help this evening?”
“Entirely up to you. There’s a possibility we’ll open two-way communication tonight, but I’m not sure. I do think you should be involved if that happens. I can call you down if it comes up.”
Tom hesitated, frowning at the altar while his pet pulled herself onto his shoulder so she could lick his dishevelled hair.
“That makes it sound like we should stay,” Tom said. “But it’s late. How long are you going to try?”
“Until I reach the right time to stop. Did you learn anything about the house?”
“Only that some of the previous owners had names that make the Italian half of my mom’s family all sound like Bob Smith.”
London wrapped her forearms around his skull for a good grip and worked across the top of his head, standing with her hind paws on his left shoulder.
“If you do learn anything, let me know,” Sue said. “I wish we had a better idea of who we’re dealing with.”
Sanders waited for Tom to mention their thoughts on Allied World War Two airmen, and the questions regarding ghostly wardrobes, but Tom seemed fascinated by her playing.
“Would you like to learn to play a tiny harp?” Sue asked as he continued to stand there. “They’re incredibly useful. And portable—relatively. And adorable.”
“They are adorable...”
“They’re not difficult.”
Tom lifted his eyebrows.
“Not that I’m implying that if they were difficult you couldn’t—” She shook her head. “You know what I mean. Did you realise you have a peculiar cat?”
“So everyone says.” Tom rolled his eyes upward, trying to see the groomer without moving his head. Sanders had previously seen him make the mistake of moving too much during such a performance and the kitten latching herself in place with all sixteen claws. “She does have a great sense of humour though.”
“I can tell that.” Sue strummed across to end her song and cocked her head questioningly.
“Giving music lessons won’t distract you?” Tom asked. “You’re not supposed to start chanting next, or something? You’re just ... waiting?”
“Would you fancy a chant? Would it make you feel like you were getting your money’s worth if I chanted in tongues?”
“Umm, that’s okay.”
“Then...” She shrugged. “I guess we’ve got time for music lessons.”
Tom lifted the cat gingerly from his face before joining Sue on the floor.
Sanders started to turn away, go up to bed on his own. But he stopped and went over to them instead, taking a chair rather than the rug.
Tom was supporting the effort. Sort of. Sanders could as well. And support Tom in his interests and his friends. Sanders didn’t have to be a bad sport. He could be polite, even if that only meant sitting quietly by—like the third wheel that he was.
He must be overreacting. Although he couldn’t think why. He didn’t care who Tom socialised with, or who his friends were. Of course Tom had been spending the past few days with Sue. There was nothing wrong with that. Sanders himself had told Tom to take her to dinner and see the city yesterday.
Tom had spent a good deal of time hanging out in the kitchen over the past months, talking to Francesca about food and both their families, and Sanders had scarcely noticed. Yet, now that he thought about it, Tom had seemed to think it would bother Sanders. He had defended himself over his friendship with Francesca for no reason. Now, when Sanders did feel a touch—maybe not bothered ... confused or disarmed?—Tom was not in the least defensive.
So Tom felt differently about the two of them? He treated Francesca like a friend. They talked, she fed him and he gave her feedback on her dishes, then she went about her work and he went back to his. But Sue, since the first day she’d arrived, was different. Like the flirty banter, which Tom seemed capable of with most people; but sometimes larger than life, like his reaction last night when he thought she was hurt, then felt guilty about it.
Now, as Tom sat with her on the floor, mirroring her position while she showed him how to hold the harp, there was something once more unmistakable.
There was a universal human expression which Tom referred to as the “baby panda face”. It tended to be directed to newborn infants, puppies, baby pandas/monkeys/sloths/etc., or even a lover upon that person presenting a sweet gift such as flowers. Tom used it on his cat, especially in those early kitten weeks, while he claimed that Sanders had no baby panda face at all.
Tom still often used that face on London, and on Sanders if Sanders did something allegedly precious, like gift-giving. He did not use baby panda face on Francesca. Or on any other human that Sanders had ever seen.
But, reaching to cradle the redwood instrument, nodding as he listened to his instructions, Tom was using that face now. And it wasn’t directed at the harp.
“Sanders?”
Sanders blinked and focused on Sue, who was beckoning him over.
“Won’t you join us? Care to try the harp?”
“Thank you,” Sanders said. “I really wouldn’t mind going to bed, but, if there’s something we can do...?”
“I don’t think you can. Not right now, anyway.” Then to Tom, “Other way. You’re right-handed, aren’t you?” Back to Sanders. “Of course you both can go to bed. And thank you for all you did today.”
Tom looked up. “You said we may need to come back if we left now.”
“You might. Then again, we might be up for nothing. We’ve made the most welcoming place possible this evening. I’ve invited, talked to them, played for them and the house. They know they’re welcome. If they’re not making an appearance now, it could be hurt feelings about yesterday and trying to drive them out. I wouldn’t be surprised if it takes a couple of tries. They may want attention, but they also want to trust. We’re starting over with a new relationship.”
“So you’re not even expecting anything?” Tom asked. “After all this?”
“Sure I am.” She smiled. “Only ... maybe not tonight. Just look at London.”
With Tom busy, the cat had climbed into Sue’s lap and was purring with her eyes shut while Sue rubbed her cheek.
“They’ll come out when they feel safe,” Sue said.
“You’d think they would by now,” Tom said. “All that mopping.”
“Anyway, you can both go to bed,” Sue repeated. “You don’t need to sit up and wait.”
Sanders stood, watching Tom expectantly, trying to catch his eye.
“May as easily stay for a lesson now,” Tom said, shifting the harp and glancing from Sue to the instrument.
Sanders might as well have been a floor lamp.
“All right,” Sue said, glancing to Sanders. “You don’t want to try it?”
“I think I’ll turn in. Thanks.” He looked again to Tom, then moved back toward the fireplace and the stairs on the other side.
Sue looked quickly between them. “Are you sure you want to stay up for this, Tom?”
“I’m fine.”
“I really would be surprised if anything happens. We’ll try tomorrow. Amanda will be here and I think Lars is coming as well. He was interested in the case if he could get away. So we’ll have plenty of feedback and time to do whatever we need to. There’s no rush.”
“It’s not all that late. I really don’t mind.”
Sanders reached the stairs and their voices faded behind him, but he thought he heard Sue sighing.