House of Shadows (26 page)

I stared around his dusty office and asked idly if he knew of the murder case where five young serving maids had died.

‘Of course I've heard of it, but it's all stuff and nonsense!' he said, waving a pale, effete hand. ‘Five young girls don't die of lead poisoning on the same night. Lead poisons the blood slowly, you know.'

‘And Mr Mansel-Atherton. Do you think he killed the maids?'

He looked at me over his glasses. ‘This is not a legal opinion. I do know old Edwin was a bit of a boy, if you take my meaning, but murder? I think not, Miss Evans.'

‘And what about this man who claims he is the heir to Aberglasney?' My mouth was dry as I asked the question.

Mr Jeremy was reluctant to reply. ‘I don't wish to defame anyone's character, but the young man could be a by-blow. I mentioned Edwin was a “bit of a lad”, didn't I?'

I visited the library next, determined to read through the articles about the murder case again. This time I asked the new young librarian – who had obviously replaced Miss (or was that Mrs?) Grist – for the Bristol and London newspapers, as well as the Cardiff and Swansea editions, to see if there were any other comments about the murder. I took the bundle of newspapers to a table and sat down to read.

In the London issues there was a great deal of coverage of the deaths of the young girls – great columns of print, and a picture of Edwin in his younger days standing outside Aberglasney. The house looked big and grand and as old as the surrounding landscape – almost as though it had grown out of the hills – but the picture of Edwin showed the face of a slim, rather fragile young man wearing spectacles, a beard and a worried frown. There was nothing I didn't already know, however, which was disappointing.

I picked up the
Bristol News
and the same story was repeated – without any pictures of Edwin, but with the gruesome picture of a hangman's noose instead. I was almost ready to hand the newspaper back to the librarian when I noticed Edwin's name in another column: a small piece about some machine he was building. I felt a dart of excitement. The engine, it seemed, was fuelled by something new, something yet untried . . . but no name was given to the fuel. I supposed that was for security reasons. The plans for the engine had been missing since Edwin's death, and it was assumed they were either destroyed or burned.

So the intrusion and searching of my house, my kidnapping, and perhaps, I thought painfully, Tom's interest in me and in Aberglasney, was all because of these missing designs, which could be used to build a new and better aeroplane engine for any future war! The designs must be truly revolutionary, I thought, for the American military to still be so desperate for them, so many years after Edwin's death.

I copied the small column down word for word in careful writing, using the pencil the librarian had pointedly put down before me. I looked up to her when I had finished. ‘Miss Grist doesn't work here any more then?' I felt as if I was scratching a sore spot. I would have liked to have known why and how Tom had become mixed up with Miss Grist.

The young woman looked blank. ‘We never had a Miss Grist working here, madam.'

‘But you did,' I said flatly.

‘I'll check, madam, but I'm sure we did not.'

She came back some time later, looking smug. ‘The only Miss Grist who came here from time to time was an investigating officer from the police force! She definitely was not a librarian.'

‘Thank you.' I tried to digest the information, but nothing fitted. Miss Grist was spiteful, a piece of fluff who had little brain in her head . . . Or had that all been a cover? Was she a very good police investigator indeed?

Eventually I turned my attention back to the papers and read again about Edwin's engine designs. I felt in my bones I was definitely on to something. If only I could find Tom I could ask him outright, I thought. If only I could find Tom I would be the happiest woman in the whole of the country . . . but I suppressed that lift of my heart.

As I travelled home on the train, I wondered where Justin fitted into all this. Perhaps he, too, was seeking the elusive plans. I supposed they would bring a fortune if sold into the right hands.

To my delight, Beatrice was back. She was stood on the landing as I entered the hallway. She waved to me briefly with her lace-gloved hand and disappeared into her room.

I hurried up the stairs without even taking off my coat and hat, and if Beatrice was surprised to see me so flustered she didn't show it. It was freezing in the room, and I switched on the electric heater I'd installed for her. She raised her eyebrows but said nothing. I crouched in the old basket chair and stared at her. ‘I've met Justin,' I said, not willing to be patient. ‘Does he have a legal claim to this house?'

‘Certainly not!' Beatrice was stiff with hostility. ‘He was just a moment of weakness on Edwin's part, the child of a London society lady I believe. Edwin was a very attractive man, you know. The women chased him, even when he was a mature gentleman, and whenever he was on a lecturing tour, I was sitting at home. Alone.'

She twisted her hands together. She still wore her gloves, and I noticed there was a hole in one of the fingers. I would buy her a new pair as soon as I went to Swansea again, I thought absently.

‘This Justin might have called himself Mansel-Atherton but he's no son of mine. The boy is illegitimate.'

‘Did Edwin leave a will?' I was almost afraid to ask. Beatrice was old and rather vague at times, and she might well have a grudge against Edwin's son.

‘He didn't have time,' she said. ‘He was whisked off to prison so suddenly, you see, but they had to let him out until they did further investigations. But then he forestalled them and took his own life. As I told you.'

‘But most people make a will early on in their lives. I would have thought Mr Mansel-Atherton would be that sort of man.'

‘Oh, Edwin was always drawing things,' Beatrice said. ‘Always making plans that didn't work. But he lectured well, you know, was invited all over the world, and he was a brilliant engineer.'

I felt my pulse quicken. ‘Where did he keep his drawings?'

Beatrice smiled. ‘No one knows, dear. He was working on his drawings the night the maids died, and after that everything went crazy here.' She looked at me sadly and then pulled herself upright. ‘When he . . . he died, I couldn't afford to employ any more maids – and in any case no one would work here.'

‘Where do you go when you leave? Here, I mean.' I was suddenly curious about Beatrice's absences, curious about everything. I had a suspicion that Beatrice was guilty of something, though I didn't know what.

‘Why, I go to stay with my friends and family, of course.' She seemed surprised that I'd asked, and suddenly I felt foolish and intrusive.

‘I would love to see Edwin's work.' I felt the colour rise to my cheeks, sensing my lie would be obvious, but Beatrice shook her head.

‘Yes, have a look around the place any time for his drawings, dear. It's your house, you know! But do search when I'm out visiting. I don't think I could stand the noise and dust if I was here.'

‘You could always go to the sitting room or into the garden.' I'd seen her in the garden several times when the weather was good, but she pursed her lips before replying.

‘I would prefer you to wait until I was away,' she said firmly. ‘I might come across Mrs Ward. I wouldn't like that and neither would she.'

I frowned. I hadn't been aware that Beatrice and Mrs Ward didn't like each other. Mrs Ward hadn't spoken of any falling out. I began to feel uncomfortable sitting in Beatrice's room with my outdoor shoes on, and I got up. ‘I'll leave you to get some sleep,' I said. ‘I'm sorry to intrude on your privacy, very sorry.'

I hurried downstairs and went into the kitchen. As usual, Mrs Ward was sitting there before the fire, her feet up on a stool.

‘Oh, Riana, just come in from Swansea, have you? I'll make you some milky cocoa. It will settle you down for the night.'

I was going to say I'd been talking to Beatrice, but I took the cocoa and came straight to the point. ‘Did you know anything about any drawings Edwin Mansel-Atherton made? Plans of engines, that sort of thing?'

Mrs Ward suddenly looked furtive, but then her face cleared. ‘Oh, I know what you mean. The drawings that disappeared when he died?'

‘That's it.' I looked at her, wondering if I'd imagined the strange look that had come over her face. ‘Know anything about them?'

‘A lot of rubbish was talked when Mr Edwin died.' She shook her head. ‘Who's to say what the truth was? Not me, that's for sure.'

I sighed, suddenly tired and feeling that everyone was an enemy. All the people I thought were friends were keeping the truth from me. I put down my cup. ‘It's been a very long day.'

‘Oh, I forgot to tell you. Mr Tom called here to see you.' She went to the drawer and took out a note. ‘He left this for you.'

I took the note. It was not even in an envelope, and I wondered if Mrs Ward had read it. I went to my room, sat on the bed and devoured the words, feeling a thrill that this was Tom's writing and he'd actually been here in my house.

 

Sorry to have missed you. Will call again to explain everything.

Love,

Tom

It could have been written to anyone; my name was not even on it. I felt like rushing downstairs to ask Mrs Ward: had Tom delivered it in person? Was it really intended for me? And if so, what did it mean? What was he going to explain – his strange behaviour? And what he was
really
after at Aberglasney?

I kicked off my shoes. I was weary of it all: the mystery of the house and the deaths of the five girls, and of the strangers bursting in any time they chose. I was even tired of my ghost-haunting weekends and the people I'd come to know as friends. Colonel Fred, young William – did all of them spend their time in my house looking for hidden treasure in the form of futuristic designs, rather than looking for ghosts? And the ghosts . . . Were they real, or had it been mass hysteria when we'd all seen the mist and ghostly beings on the landing? I fell back against the pillows and began to cry.

In the morning, I began to paint again – anything to take my mind off the fact that Tom might call. After a restless morning, I had a solitary lunch: some salad and cold potatoes, and a glass of milk. I stood on the doorstep for a while looking along the drive, but there was no sign of anyone arriving. Tom wouldn't come, I knew it in my bones, and at last I went back to the studio and became involved once more in my painting.

I painted the grounds from memory – the cloisters, the now neat gardens, the wooden bench where Tom and I had shared our time and enjoyed each other's company – and the tears welled blurring my eyes. The effect of tears in my eyes altered the painting, and I began to paint in heavy rain sleeting down over the gardens, darkening the stonework on the arches of the cloisters, and making the plants look dark green.

On an impulse, I painted in Beatrice – just a small figure in the distance, bending over the plants, oblivious of the rain. Instinctively, I knew Beatrice didn't worry about the weather. Sometimes she went out in the rain and snow, and very often she would sit in her room, never using the electric fire unless I switched it on for her. I felt a flood of warmth for Beatrice. She was other-worldly in many ways, but so practical, so understanding when occasionally I spoke to her about my fears and about Tom and his strange ways. And the way she put in an appearance when I held my weekends, being a ‘ghost' for a few fleeting seconds and then discreetly disappearing! I guessed she must have a hiding place somewhere, because guests often looked into the blue room and she was never there.

I stood back from the painting, and I could see it was all but finished. I would wait for the oils to dry, and then I would put on the finishing touches. As I left, I made sure I locked the studio. I always locked the door now – ever since my paintings had begun to sell well.

Later the sun came out from behind the clouds and the sweet smell of spring flowers filled the garden. The grass needed cutting, the sap was rising in the plants and trees, and after the rain everything looked fresh and green. Suddenly, I ached for Tom – to be in his arms, to feel his body fill mine, to have his mouth claim my lips, and to know that for a short time he was completely mine.
One night of love
. I smiled wryly. Surely that was a cue for a song? I felt wet on my cheeks again, and in a sudden frenzy of anger I wiped them away, unaware I was dabbing ultramarine paint on my cheeks. But then I noticed, in the distance, my guests arriving and I tried to pull myself together. I had completely forgotten that I'd arranged an extra weekend of ghost haunting! Fortunately, Mrs Ward hadn't. As I rushed into the house and into the kitchen, she was busy cooking, I could smell broth made with lamb and saw a fresh piece of cheese cut into chunks in a bowl.

‘Oh, thank you for getting on with things, Mrs Ward,' I said. ‘What would I do without you? I can see that Treasure is working like a whirlwind too; that girl is invaluable.' I touched Mrs Ward's shoulder. ‘What would I do without you?' I said again.

‘What indeed? You've been away with the fairies all day, working in your studio. Still, that's how you earn your living – mine too, if the truth be known. We work well as a team, Riana.' She gave me one of her rare smiles, and I knew by the light in her eyes that she was looking forward to seeing Colonel Fred again. ‘The
cawl
is ready for the starters, made with lovely fresh veg from the garden and pieces of the lamb to make it tasty,' Mrs Ward said. ‘Real Welsh soup is my
cawl
, and fresh cheese cut ready for the dressing. I've got a
joint
of lamb for the main course, and I've picked fresh mint from the garden. As for pudding, I managed to make apple pie and custard, though the custard is a bit on the thin side, mind.'