2006 - Wildcat Moon (19 page)

“I assure you I take more after my mother, who was a much more serious creature.”

“That’s Papa’s Mama,” said Romilly, pointing to a large portrait of a woman whose face reminded Romilly of an enormous pink ham.

Miss Dimont looked up at the portrait with interest.

“How long has your family been at Killivray?”

“Hundreds of years,” Jonathan Greswode said proudly.

“You were born here?”

“Of course.”

“And Romilly too?”

“Correct. And almost all the Greswodes before us.”

“Except for Thomas Greswode,” Romilly blurted out. “He was born in Italy.”

Papa looked at her in surprise.

“Who was Thomas Greswode?” Miss Dimont asked.

Romilly bit her lip.

“Thomas Greswode was my father’s cousin. And it is a very long time since his name has been mentioned in this house.”

His voice was cool, his gaze frosty as he looked at his daughter.

“How do you know of Thomas Greswode, Romilly?”

Suddenly Romilly’s tongue felt too large for her mouth and her throat seemed to shrink.

Jonathan Greswode continued to stare at her.

Just at that moment Madame appeared in the doorway bringing in the dessert.

“Thank you, Madame Fernaud. We weren’t expecting supper and yet you have done us proud in the circumstances.”

Madame Fernaud was aware of the frostiness hi the air and looking across at Romilly realized the girl was petrified. She put down the apple tart and left the room, lingering outside.

“Romilly, Thomas Greswode is a name we do not mention hi this house ever. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Papa.”

Romilly clasped her hands tightly in her lap and wondered whatever had poor Thomas Greswode done to upset the Greswodes so much.

She ate up her pudding in silence and was relieved when Papa summoned Nanny Bea to take her off to bed.

Madame Fernaud had cleared the kitchen and now she stood outside the door at the far end of the drawing room listening hi to the conversation between Jonathan Greswode and Miss Dimont.

Jonathan Greswode poured two large brandies and handed one to Miss Dimont.

“Why were you so angry with the child for asking about Thomas Greswode, Jonathan?”

“It’s a long and unsavoury story, Lydia.”

“But you know how interested I am in everything about you and your ancient family, so do, do tell me.”

“Very well, but ifs not a pretty story.”

“I do so love stories.”

“My father had a cousin, this Thomas Greswode who was a few years younger than him. He grew up somewhere abroad, France or Italy I think. He came to live here when he was about eight.”

“Why did he come to live here, did he have no parents?”

“His father had made an unsuitable marriage and his wife, Thomas’ mother, had died. He was in a bad way after her death and he remained abroad.”

“And Thomas came here?”

“He did. Thomas was sent back to England for his schooling and he went to a local prep school with my father, but it didn’t work out well having him here.”

“What happened?”

“He tried to murder my father.”

“My God! A young boy of eight! How terrible.”

“It was a few years after he came here. He would have been about twelve. My father always told me that Thomas was a very jealous type of boy. Apparently, they had an argument, the way boys do and he took a gun from Grandpapa’s cabinet and took a shot at my father.”

“My God! What happened?”

“Fortunately he missed. You can still see the bullet hole in the old summerhouse roof.”

“What happened to him? Was he locked up?”

“My grandfather did not wish the police to be involved because of the Greswode good name. There was the most awful row and Grandpapa gave him a good beating and he ran away like the coward he was.”

“Did they find him?”

“The silly boy went off in his boat and got himself drowned.”

“What an awful story and how terrible for his father, to lose a wife and have a son die like that.”

“It was awful for him of course and sadly he died round about the same time.”

“So that whole side of the Greswode family was wiped out?”

“Yes. A form of evolution, I suppose.”

“Evolution? I don’t understand.”

“There was an eccentric strain running through some of the Greswodes and I think that they were the masters of their own destinies. The weak die through their own shortcomings and all that.”

“And the strong live to fight on? How romantic.”

Jonathan Greswode got up and refilled their glasses.

“My grandfather, you see, was the younger of two brothers. If Thomas had lived he would have inherited Killivray from his father, and stolen my birthright.”

“So your father wasn’t the master of Killivray and if Thomas had lived, no doubt the other Greswode line would be here now?”

“My Great Uncle David, Thomas’ father, had inherited Killivray as the oldest son, my grandfather merely acted as caretaker while he was abroad sowing his wild oats. My great-uncle had squandered a good deal of the estate. We used to own half the countryside around here at one time but he involved himself in all kinds of foreign business ventures and sold off a lot of the land.”

“Maybe ifs just as well he didn’t live to throw away Killivray as well.”

“Yes, thank God.”

“It must be enormously expensive to keep up a place like this.”

“Frightfully.”

“My darling, you’ve gone quite pale, what is it?”

“Well, I’m afraid that things were left in a financial mess when my father died. He’d had some difficulties in his last years and he’d sold the house. I am here now merely as a tenant”

“Who owns the house now?”

“Some charitable organization in London but I am allowed to remain here for the rest of my life. After that it will leave the Greswode family.”

“But why did your father sell without telling you?”

“I don’t know. He was very agitated about something before he died. I often wonder if he was being blackmailed.”

“How awful. Is there any way that you could buy the house back and keep it for future Greswodes?”

“Not unless I inherit a great deal of money and the owners want to sell.”

“And are you likely to inherit money?”

“Not from my own family but my wife is a very wealthy woman in her own right”

Madame Fernaud withdrew a little from her hiding place.

There was something in Jonathan Greswode’s voice that chilled her to the marrow.

“It must have been so awful for you having to cope with a sick wife and a child all on your own.”

“It has been hard but soon my wife will be transferred to a mental institution for her own good and I will be more or less a free man.”

“So we will have to be discreet for now, but later?”

“But later, we will be free to have a very good time, a very good time indeed.”

Madame was aware that the couple were embracing and she could barely make out their muffled conversation.

She made to go but then Jonathan Greswode said, “I have to visit the convent in the next few days to make plans for my wife’s transfer. After that unpleasant business we shall endeavour to enjoy Christmas, my little savage.”

Miss Dimont giggled coquettishly.

Madame Fernaud was about to move away when she heard a movement close by. She stood absolutely still, ears pricked. She peered anxiously into the shadows. It was nothing, just the multitude of sounds old houses made at night.

She moved silently along the corridor and up the servants’ stairs. She slipped into her room and locked the door. Moments later Romilly clambered out from her hideaway and followed her, trying desperately to hold back her sobs until she reached the nursery. She sat down and wrote a letter to Archie Grimble, her tears dropping down onto the paper as she wrote. When everyone was asleep she would creep back out and put it into the stove.

Fleep was sitting at the window looking out to sea when he heard the knock at his front door. He walked to the door and called out, “Who’s there?”

“Thrash the bastard!” called the parrot.

A voice, breathless with exertion, answered, “Just open the door, man, for God’s sake.”

It wasn’t a voice that he recognized from the village.

Slowly he drew back the bolts and opened the door a fraction.

He looked out to see a large black man in his fifties, holding what looked like a dead child in his arms.

Fleep opened the door wider and indicated with a jerk of his head that the man enter.

He looked from the man to the child in bewilderment. “What’s happened? Is he alive?”

“He’s alive all right. He’s just had one hell of a shock.”

“Put him down on the bed, for God’s sake, before you drop him.”

Thankfully, the man laid Archie Grimble down on the bed.

“He’s only a whippersnapper, but goddamned heavy to carry any distance, all the same.”

“You want a drink?”

The man looked at Fleep gratefully. “Sure thing.”

He was an American by the sound of him but what the hell was he doing in the Skallies at this time of night?

Fleep uncorked a bottle of wine, poured some into two mugs and handed one to the man.

From the bed the boy groaned softly.

“Does he need anything, a doctor maybe?”

“No, hell be okay in a while. Do you know who the little fellow is?”

“He’s called Archie Grimble. He lives just up the way. In Bag End.”

“Bag End?”

“The last house on the right.”

“Do you know his folks?”

“Not really. I’m a bit of a stranger here, only arrived a few weeks ago. His mother looks frightened out of her wits most of the time and the father’s a drunk, nasty-looking man. Hell be over in the pub if you want me to fetch him.”

“No, let’s just leave the little fellow to rest a while.”

Fleep took a slug of his wine, put down his mug and put out his hand. “Philippe, but just call me Fleep, all the locals do. Pleased to meet you.”

“Dom Bradly,” the man replied, taking Fleep’s hand in a powerful grip.

“And you’re wondering what the hell a fellow like me is doing in this place, huh?”

Fleep smiled, “You’re a long way from home by the sound of it.”

“I’m on a working holiday, searching for murder scenes.”

Fleep blanched. “You a policeman?”

“Don’t look so nervous, I’m in the movies and I’m checking out possible locations. The spooky house through the woods looks like the perfect spot.”

“Oh, I see.”

Fleep coughed and changed the subject. “Are you staying around here?”

Dom Bradly laughed, “No, I’m not staying round here. I got myself one of those camper van things. Didn’t want to turn up in a small place like this and start tongues wagging. Thought I’d do a spot of investigating in the dark. People don’t take too well to a black guy pitching up on their doorstep, you know how it is?”

Fleep blushed deeply. He was only too aware of the signs he’d seen in London lodging houses.
NO BLACKS. NO HUSH. NO WELSH.

“I popped up to the Big House this morning. Had a peep through the windows and some old woman inside takes up screaming like a mad thing when she clapped eyes on me. Didn’t think I’d get much of a welcome there.”

Fleep smiled, “From what I’ve heard in passing the people up there are like hermits, they don’t have any dealings with the locals.”

“Shoot the bastards,” yelled the parrot.

“That’s a sweet-talking bird you got there,” Dom Bradly said.

“He’s got a vile mouth on him, nothing to do with me. I kind of inherited him.”

Just then Archie Grimble stirred.

“Maybe best if you go to him,” Dom Bradly said. “I don’t suppose he’s seen many black faces in this neck of the woods. I don’t want to put him into another faint.”

Fleep drank the rest of his wine and moved towards the bed.

He placed his hand on Archie’s feverish brow and Archie opened his eyes wide.

He looked up at Fleep in alarm, his one good eye bright with fear. “Help me, Fleep,” he whimpered.

“It’s okay, son, you’re all right. You just had a nasty shock, that’s all.”

“I saw the…”

“It’s okay, hush now.”

“I saw the ghost in the woods. The Killivray black man. He was after me but I managed to fight him off and get away.”

“Arseholes,” screeched the parrot.

“Will I put a rug over that bird’s cage and shut him up?”

Archie sat up suddenly and looked towards Dom Bradly.

“It’s okay, fellah, you’ve nothing to be afraid of.”

“Y…y…you’re not a ghost?” Archie said.

“Hell no, I ain’t no ghost. So sorry that I gave you a scare.”

Archie couldn’t take his eyes off the man. He’d never seen a black man before, except in books.

“You feeling okay?”

Archie nodded weakly. Life was easier when he’d been a coward.

“Will you be okay to get him home?”

Fleep nodded.

“Is your mother home?” he asked Archie.

“What time is it?”

“Five and twenty past nine.”

“Shell still be at the Arbuthnots’.”

“Look, I really gotta be off. Sorry for the intrusion. I hope to meet you again some time. Good to meet you both.”

Dom Bradly held out his hand to Archie. The boy took it and marvelled as his own tiny hand was enveloped by the man’s huge fingers.

“Take that for your trouble,” he said, peeling a note from his pocket and handing it to Archie.

“I’d be real grateful if neither of you mentioned seeing me, if that’s okay?”

Archie nodded. He could keep secrets.

Dom Bradly shook Fleep’s hand. “If I don’t get to see you before I go back, this is my card. If you’re, ever in the States then look me up. Same invitation goes for the little fellow,” He handed Fleep two business cards.

Archie watched him go, with wonder. Dom Bradly turned at the door, put on his hat and smiled and then he was gone.

“Eat shit and die,” cried the parrot.

Jonathan Greswode, Miss Dimont, Nanny Bea and Romilly set out from Killivray straight after breakfast on their way to St Werburgh’s to do some Christmas shopping. Clementine, complaining of a headache, declined the invitation to accompany them. She offered to prepare dinner but Jonathan Greswode said he was planning to eat in a hotel on the other side of St Werburgh’s.