Cursed Inheritance (22 page)

The old man’s face had turned so pale that Neil was worried for him. Perhaps he had some underlying illness he hadn’t mentioned.

‘Have you seen enough here? Do you want a coffee or something?’

Max turned to him. His blue eyes were watering and the frown lines on his face had deepened into furrows. He had seemed sprightly for his age before. But now he seemed as old as Neil’s grandmother, his old sweetheart. And her life was ebbing away slowly and painfully.

158

‘Something the matter?’ Neil asked, fearing the answer.

Max began to walk away from the area of the dig, away from prying eyes and ears, towards the woodland that stood between the dig and the reconstructed settlement. He stopped and sat down on one of the wooden benches provided for visitors. Neil sat down beside him, waiting for some explanation. It was a few seconds before Max spoke.

‘Maybe I shouldn’t have come.’

‘Why? What is it?’

When Max didn’t answer, Neil turned to face him, wondering if everyone who discovered a close long-lost relative felt like this; the urgent desire to know them better; to know for certain where you came from. Neil had never been one for family. He kept his parents happy by regular appearances at Christmas and landmark occasions but he knew he wasn’t a particularly devoted son. He had always found his work more satisfying than human relationships. But his grandmother was an exception: he had always made time to go and see her. Now he had found her old lover for her; the man whose child she had borne, and he suddenly felt that he was out of his depth.

‘Let’s walk.’ Max stood up and made for the reconstructed township. Neil walked by his side in silence. Eventually they reached the Anne River and the wooden jetty - or dock as Hannah Gotleib called it - that jutted out into the water. Moored there was the replica of the Nicholas.

They stood side by side on the jetty staring at the ship. By modem-day standards she was small, but she had made it across the Atlantic Ocean. It couldn’t have been a comfortable voyage and the people on board wouldn’t have known what awaited them when they landed. They had either been incredibly brave or incredibly foolhardly and Neil wasn’t sure which.

Neil was so engrossed in his own thoughts that the sound of Max’s voice beside him made him jump. ‘You know I’m descended from one of the guys who came over on this ship - Edmund Selbiwood?,

159

‘Yeah.’

There was a long silence, as if Max was making some sort of decision.

‘What is it?’

But Max shook his head. ‘Nothing. Forget it.’

‘I’d like to know. I’m interested.’

But Max had turned away.

Just before breakfast Emma lay fully dressed on her soft bed, so much more comfortable than the one she shared with Barry back home. Vague details were returning now, like things viewed underwater in the dark. The figure with the gun swam in and out of focus. And the shadowy, half-perceived face didn’t make any sense. .

Jeremy Elsham was still refusing to hypnotise her again, instead placating her with various therapies: massages and meditations which left her feeling pampered and relaxed, almost as if she was in a deep, dream-filled sleep. But she needed to know what happened. Somehow she had to persuade Jeremy to take her back again to that day. She couldn’t leave the Hall without proving her mother’s innocence once and for all.

Seeing Arbel there the previous night puzzled her. One of the other Beings had said that the smooth-spoken man who called himself Charles Dodgson was really Arbel’s husband who was a Member of Parliament. It was a strange coincidence, she thought, that he should choose to stay in the place where his wife’s family died and she wondered why he was really there. Perhaps he, like her, was on a quest for the truth. Perhaps hers weren’t the only memories Patrick Evans had awakened.

She toyed with the idea of speaking to him. But if she told him who she was - that she was the daughter of the woman everyone thought had slaughtered his wife’s family - she wasn’t sure how he’d react. It was probably best to say nothing.

She wondered how Arbel had felt when she entered the

160

front door again after all those years. Had she experienced the terror Emma had felt?

But it wasn’t only Arbel who occupied her thoughts at that moment. There was the impostor to consider. She had waited long enough. It was time to face her.

Emma swung her feet down on to the thick carpet and walked slowly to the well-appointed en suite bathroom with its glossy white surfaces and soft fluffy towels. She stared at her face in the mirror. Emma Wallace, daughter of Martha Wallace and an able seaman called John Wallace who had died on a training exercise when Emma was still a baby. She had suppressed the memories until now; seen herself as the child of her devoted foster parents, her mother’s cousin and his wife who had loved and cherished her as if she had been their own. But now it was time to face the truth.

She crept out of her bedroom, shutting the door behind her, slinging her handbag over her shoulder - with a thief about she wasn’t taking any chances - before making her way downstairs.

She knew where the impostor’s room was. As there was no lift, some of the ground-floor rooms had been set aside for people who couldn’t manage the stairs. Emma raised her hand to knock, but then thought better of it. She turned the handle and opened the door.

The woman inside the room looked up, an expression of horror on her face, as if she been discovered naked in the shower by a stranger. But Mrs Carmody was fully dressed. She was sitting in her wheelchair by the dressing table at the far side of the room, next to an open suitcase. White underwear spilled out of the drawer and she appeared to be packing.

‘Brenda?’ Emma said, her eyes fixed on those of Brenda Varney, one-time cleaner to the Harford family … and for so long vanished off the face of the earth.

161

She has bewitched me. It must be so for I desire her beyond reason. I fear what would befall us if her husband discovered our passion, and yet I must think on it. All our sins have grave consequences and we cannot escape the Almighty’s wrath on the Day of Judgement. But it may be that my soul is already lost to Satan.

Penelope speaks wildly, saying that her husband’s brother, Isaac, has sworn love for her. There is no love between the brothers and she talks of Isaac’s threats to kill her husband. And if he will kill Joshua Morton, his own blood, it may be that he would kill me also.

I tell her not to entertain such foolish fancies. And yet I am afraid for it is a simple matter to disguise murder as accident in this perilous land. Perhaps it must be that I return to England when the ship comes again with supplies and seek my fortune in some part of England far away from Potwoolstan Hall. But how can I leave Penelope to the mercy of violent men?

Set down by Master Edmund Selbiwood, Gentleman, on the third day of September 1605 at Annetown, Virginia.

162

At the age of seven Emma had been fascinated by the clothes and make-up Brenda Vamey wore; by her boasts of an exciting future in London with pop stars and models. Brenda had taken her up to Mrs Harford’s bedroom when the family were out and caked her face with grown-up make-up. When Emma’s mother had seen the fmished result she had been furious: she had shouted and made her scrub the make-up off.

Brenda looked so different now from that hard, sly, glamorous creature who had flashed through her childhood like a bright firework through a dark sky.

The woman stared at Emma. The armpits of her red blouse were dark with sweat and her eyes were wary. ‘

‘I’m Emma, Brenda. Remember? Martha’s little girl. 1 must have been seven when you last saw me.’

‘You’re mistaking me for someone else. My name’s not Brenda.’

‘How come you’re using the wheelchair, Brenda? What happened?’

‘I had a car accident. And my name’s not Brenda. You’ve made a mistake.’ The woman spoke slowly, patiently, as if humouring a child.

‘My mum nearly got the sack because of you. She lay on her bed crying her eyes out. She never stole anything in her life. And she never lied.’

Emma closed the door behind her and as she stepped further into the room, Mrs Carmody backed her wheelchair away slightly, as if she feared Emma was deluded and might do her some harm. Emma felt suddenly powerful: nobody had ever been afraid of her before. It was strangely liberating.

‘Jeremy regressed me. He took me back to when it happened. Did Patrick Evans fmd you? Did he talk to you?’

The older woman had regained her composure. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, love. My name’s Beatrice. Beatrice Carmody. Not Brenda.’

Emma twisted her wedding ring round, suddenly

163

confused. Perhaps she’d got it wrong. Perhaps this wasn’t Brenda after all.

Mrs Carmody smiled patiently. ‘Look, I’m just here for a bit of peace and quiet like everyone else. Why don’t you just go and get some rest, my love. You’re mistaking me for someone else. Sorry,’ she added as Emma started to cry.

Barry Oldchester looked uncomfortable. But then most people would if the police turned up unannounced. He sat on the sofa and stared at Wesley and Rachel, his forehead wrinkled with concern.

‘Your wife’s name’s come up in one of our enquiries, Mr Oldchester. ‘

Barry Oldchester frowned and played with his wedding ring. ‘How do you mean?’

‘Can we speak to her?’

‘She’s not here. She’s gone away for a few days.’

‘Have you heard of a man called Patrick Evans?’

He straightened his back, suddenly alert, like an animal scenting danger. ‘He kept ringing Em. Said he wanted to speak to her.’

‘What about?’

‘No idea.’

‘Could it have been about the murders at Potwoolstan Hall in 1985?’

Oldchester didn’t answer.

‘The woman who murdered the family at the Hall before committing suicide was called Martha Wallace and she had a seven-year-old daughter called Emma. Emma was adopted by relatives called Harper who lived in the area. Was your wife’s maiden name Harper?’

Oldchester nodded and took a deep breath. ‘OK. Evans, kept calling Em’s dad, Joe, but Joe wouldn’t talk to him and he told him not to bother Em. Not that he took much notice. ‘

‘Did your wife ever talk about what happened at Potwoolstan Hall?’

164

‘No.’

‘Did she meet Patrick Evans?’

Oldchester shook his head. ‘No. Like I said, he kept ringing up, pestering her, but she never met him. Didn’t want to.’

‘Did you meet him?’

‘No. I spoke to him on the phone but I never saw him. I just wanted him off our backs.’

Wesley could understand this. But he wondered how Oldchester would have reacted if Evans hadn’t taken no for an answer. ‘We’d like to speak to your wife, Mr Oldchester. Can you tell us where she is?’

Barry Oldchester took a deep breath. ‘Potwoolstan Hall. It’s a healing centre now.’ He said the words with heavy irony. ‘She’s spending a week there. Costing a bloody fortune.’

Wesley sat for a few seconds, stunned. ‘So she’s actually at the Hall now?’

‘I kept telling her it was a stupid idea. Mad.’ He hesitated. ‘There’s something you should see.’ He stood up and walked to the door. Wesley and Rachel followed, curious.

Oldchester led them upstairs and opened one of the bedroom doors. ‘It’s in here,’ he said, standing aside to let them in.

Wesley and Rachel stepped into the room. Doll’s houses stood on deep shelves around the walls and a long trestle table along one wall was cluttered with tiny paint pots, brushes, sandpaper and small squares of wallpaper. The houses were of all styles; modern, Georgian, thirties subur-ban, country cottages; some finished and some in various stages of decoration. But one, set low down near the door, was different from the rest. The exterior was painted to look like ancient stone with Dutch gables and Tudor windows. It was Potwoolstan Hall in miniature.

‘Go on. Open it up,’ Oldchester said, almost in a whisper.

Wesley obeyed. But when the front of the house swung

165

open he stepped back, shocked. It was all there, right down to the wallpaper and furniture. The small bodies lay slumped in the appropriate rooms and the blood was splashed up the walls, just as it was in the gruesome photographs Wesley had seen. Emma Oldchester had made a miniature reconstruction of the crime scene.

She had been found clinging to her dead mother’s body. Perhaps she had felt compelled to make this reconstruction, to keep re-enacting the events until she hit on the truth - whatever that was. That was why she had gone back, to discover what had really happened. But Wesley’s instincts told him that she might be playing a dangerous game.

‘I see what you mean,’ Wesley said.

‘Since that Evans started ringing it’s become like an obsession. I’m worried sick about her. They do something called regression at that place: hypnotise them to make them remember their childhood and that. She’s desperate to remember, you see. She wants to know what really happened: she wants to know that her mum didn’t kill all those people. I tried my best to stop her going but short of imprisoning her, what could I do?’

‘I’m sure she’ll come to no harm there, Mr Oldchester,’ he said with a certainty he didn’t feel. Evans had met his death in the Hall grounds so perhaps he needed to speak to Emma Oldchester sooner rather than later.

Wesley spent ten minutes trying to persuade Oldchester that it wouldn’t be a good idea to go to Potwoolstan Hall and drag Emma home. Eventually, he seemed to acquiesce but as he and Rachel took their leave, the man looked as if he had all the troubles of the world on his shoulders.

‘What did you make of that doll’s house?’ he asked Rachel as they drove.

‘I don’t know. Emma was traumatised at the time and, according to the files, the psychologists who saw her said that she’d blotted the whole thing out:, But she must have witnessed something. ‘