Gather the Bones (7 page)

“That’s nice of Uncle Tony,” Paul commented with the same flash of guilt he had felt that morning.

“Mummy’s been riding Minter,” Alice said.

“I know. I’ve seen her. Your mother is a good rider,” he observed.

“She is.” Alice said with evident pride. “Grandad says she’s better than some of the men on Terrala.”

The child wandered over to the bookshelves and pulled a large folio book from the bottom shelf. She opened the book on the carpet and lay down on her stomach, turning the heavy pages.

Paul glanced at the clock. “Alice, I do have work to do.”

She turned an earnest little face to look up at him. “Can I stay here with you? I won’t make any noise.”

Just for a moment, he saw her father and heard himself saying without conscious thought, “Of course you can.” He glanced at the tray of untouched tea things on the table. “On condition you go and ask Sarah to bring us some fresh tea and biscuits.”

Chapter 5

After lunch, Paul sought out the room in the house that had always been known as the estate office. He opened the safe and took out the books, settling himself at the desk to make some sense of the finances.

As he ran his eye down the columns of figures, he could not miss the change in handwriting from Prynne, the former estate manager, to his own interspersed with Evelyn’s familiar spidery hand. One by one the staff, both in the house and on the land had gone. Now only the Pollards, and he and Evelyn remained.

“What are you doing in here?”

Paul looked up. His aunt stood at the door, her hand resting on the handle and an incredulous look on her face.

 
“Doing what I always do when I get home, Evelyn. I’m going through the estate books and wondering how we can keep going.”

He saw a flush of color rise to her pale cheeks as Evelyn stepped into the room. “I’ve been looking for you,” she said. “I’ve had a telegram from Edith. She’s unwell so I thought I should go up to London to see her.”

Paul considered his aunt and bit his tongue against the scathing comment that rose to his lips. Her older sister enjoyed a state of perpetual ill-health, usually exacerbated when her husband had business that took him away from her constant demands.

“I think it would be good for you to have a few days in London. See some friends, go to the theatre. Enjoy yourself.”

She visibly relaxed as if she had been expecting him to argue with her.

“When do you leave?”

“I thought I would catch the six o’clock train this evening,” Evelyn took a step into the room, thrusting her hands deep into the pockets of her cardigan. “Since you’re taking an interest in estate matters, I need to talk to you about the church restoration appeal.”

Paul shut the account book with a thump intended to punctuate his next comment. “No, you don’t need to talk to me about the church. I have no interest in the church, its restoration or its lack of appeal. I have at least two farms that have leaking roofs which, in my opinion, take precedence over the church.”

Evelyn opened her mouth to say something then clamped it shut again, viewing her nephew with evident displeasure.

“You really don’t understand your position, do you?” she said at last. “You have obligations and responsibilities.”

“None of which I asked for,” Paul snapped back. “In fact I am only too well aware of my obligations and responsibilities and it is a matter of priorities, Evelyn. The church is not one of them.”

“You are the last of the Morrows.”

“You know damn well I am long beyond caring about what happens to the Morrows, or to this bloody estate.”

“Don’t swear, Paul,” Evelyn said.

“Sorry.” Paul ran his hand through his hair and softened his tone. “Evelyn, I never wanted it to be like this and you’re wrong, I do understand my responsibilities. That is my dilemma.” He tapped the account book. “We can’t go on trying to pretend that everything is just as it always was. There is simply no money.”

“We can sell the library–” Evelyn began but he cut her short.

“Then what will we sell? Will we go on selling everything until we’re left with nothing but packing cases in large empty rooms?”

“There are five centuries of your family history in this house. You can’t just walk away.”

Paul sighed. He had heard it all before from Evelyn, a circular argument he would never win. “The world has changed, Evelyn. We have to do things differently now.”

“No we don’t.” Evelyn exclaimed. “If it had been–” she broke off, cutting off the words that should have followed.

If it had been Charlie instead of you sitting there, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation.

The unsaid words lay between them, an unbridgeable gulf. Paul took a breath and closed his eyes. He swiveled the chair around to look out of the window as he said, “Go to London, Evelyn. Enjoy yourself for a couple of days.”

“How can I possibly enjoy myself,” she snapped. “You’ve just told me, there’s no money.”

Paul turned back to face her. “You’ve held everything together for so long. Who am I to begrudge you a new hat and an evening at the theatre? Please go and forget our troubles.”

She met his eyes and he could see the defiance in them. “Yes,” she said. “I think a few days away will do me good. I will be back on Friday morning in time for Maude’s party. Will you be coming?”

When he didn’t reply she said, “It would do you good to have some people around you.”

“I’ve just returned from three months on an archaeological dig, Evelyn. No shortage of people, trust me.”

“That’s not what I mean and you know it. You’re away for months on end and then you shut yourself in here. Little wonder people talk…” she broke off.

 
“And what do they talk about, Evelyn?” Paul kept his tone even. “I thought the doctors told you I needed peace and quiet, not the meaningless chatter of your friends.”

Her lips tightened. “You’ve never understood,” she said, pulling her cardigan tight around her slender frame as she turned on her heel leaving him alone in the silent room.

* * * *

Helen set down her novel and rose to her feet, glancing at her little clock that stood on the bedside table. It showed ten thirty. With Evelyn gone, the house seemed empty. To make life a little easier for Sarah, she and Alice had eaten their evening meal in the kitchen and played cards for a little while before Alice went to bed.

Sitting down at the dressing table she reached for her hairbrush, uttering an unladylike curse when she found it was missing from its usual place. Annie, the girl from the village who helped Sarah, seemed to be always moving the contents of her dressing table. Just this morning she had found the photographs face down and the hand mirror on the bed. Now it was the turn of her hairbrush which she located on the mantelpiece behind a vase. She stood in the middle of the room with the hairbrush in her hand and decided that before settling down she would make herself some cocoa and bring it back to bed while she finished reading her novel.

As she opened the door into the corridor, the utter silence of the house closed in on her. She pulled her dressing gown tighter and walked briskly toward the main staircase, her way lit only by the thin moonlight shining in through the old, diamond- paned windows.

At the top of the stairs, she stopped, resting her hand on the newel post. In the overwhelming silence of the old house, she could hear the distant, but unmistakable sound of someone crying. For a moment she held her breath, every nerve in her body taut, as the pathetic sobbing of a woman drifted through the house.

She looked back toward her room but the sound didn’t come from that direction. The only inhabitant of that part of the house, Alice, had been fast asleep, curled up with her arms wrapped around her rabbit. Frowning with concentration, she decided that the crying came from the front of the house. Her curiosity piqued, Helen walked along the gallery toward Paul Morrow’s rooms, the ancient floorboards creaking at every step.

A faint light came from beneath his door but the house had fallen silent again. It crossed her mind to knock on his door and check everything was all right but the crying had been a woman. What if he had company? That could account for the sound, or perhaps the noise came from an animal outside the house? Either way Paul would not thank her if she disturbed him.

Helen took a breath and but as she turned back toward the stairs the sobbing came again louder and more insistent. Spinning on her heel she looked at Paul Morrow’s door. It did not come from his room but from the direction of Evelyn’s room at the end of the gallery, above the library. She followed the sound and approaching the end of the corridor, she took a startled breath. A yellow light emanated from the staircase leading down to the library. It appeared that the lights were on and the library door left open.

She shook her head. This wasn’t unusual. Paul Morrow kept his own hours and had work to do in the library. But even as the thought crossed her mind, the heart wrenching sobs rose to a crescendo. Helen crept forward along the corridor. As she reached the stairs to the library, she hesitated. If Paul Morrow had a woman in the library, it was none of her business and neither of them would welcome her intrusion.

She thought about the man she had met in the stable that morning, the man Charlie had spoken of so often. Paul Morrow, as distant and apparently reclusive as he appeared to be, did not seem the type to reduce women to such heartbroken sobs. Whatever was going on in the library was none of her business.

Helen turned to make her way back to the kitchen. As she passed the door to Lady Morrow’s room, it swung open and a draft of cold air enveloped her. She shivered, her breath frosting in the chilly atmosphere, and reached out her left hand to close the door. As she grasped the doorknob and started to pull the door shut, cold fingers closed around her wrist and an unseen hand grasped her with such force she could feel each finger and the pressure of a thumb. Where the phantom fingers touched her skin, it felt like ice had been pressed against her.

She tried to scream but could only manage a strangled gurgle as the invisible force on her wrist tugged at her, pulling her toward the staircase. The more she resisted the tighter the grip became resembling the “Chinese burns” her brother, Henry, used to give her as a child.

Behind her a floorboard creaked and as suddenly as it had appeared the apparition vanished, leaving Helen motionless, staring at her outstretched hand. Her heart thudded in her chest and her breath came in short gasps.

She turned blindly, screaming as a shadow loomed up behind her, blocking the light from the windows.

* * * *

In the shadowy corridor, Paul could see the slight figure in a blue robe of some kind standing at the door to Evelyn’s room. She stood quite still her arm outstretched as if pointing to the library stairs.

As he reached her, Helen turned and screamed. Her knees appeared to buckle and he caught her and held her by the forearms, turning her to face him.

“Steady,” he said. “Just take a deep breath and tell me what’s going on.”

She sank in his grip, and for a moment he thought she had fainted. In the watery moonlight that filtered in through the windows her face looked ashen.

“Paul?”

His name came out in a whispered rush as she hung limp in his grasp. Instinctively he put his arms around her, drawing her in toward him like he would a small child. Helen leaned against his chest and he could smell the sweet, floral scent of soap in her hair.

“Helen?” She looked up at him and frowned, stiffening in his embrace. He released her, taking a step back as she ran a shaking hand through her hair that fell loose around her face.

“You look like you need a drink,” he said.

“Cocoa. I was going to make cocoa,” Helen said in an uncertain voice.

“I think you need something stronger than cocoa,” Paul observed. “I’ve brandy in my room.”

She straightened her shoulders and pulling at the belt of her dressing gown, tipped her face and looked up at him with a shaky smile on her lips.

“Brandy would be good.”

With some hesitation, he put an arm around her shoulders, expecting her to baulk at his touch but she leaned in against him. Underneath the thin fabric of her dressing gown he could feel her shivering. Beneath his hand, her slight figure seemed to have no more substance than a bird.

Paul guided her to one of the shabby armchairs beside the fire and fetched a blanket from his bedroom. Helen pulled it around herself as he crouched awkwardly and stoked the embers of the fire into life.

He poured them both a brandy and as he handed her the glass the sleeve of her dressing gown fell back revealing a livid welt around her left wrist.

“What caused that?” he asked.

She pulled the sleeve back with a shaking hand.

“Silly accident,” she said.

Paul sat down in his usual chair and sipped his brandy, watching as Helen cradled the glass in both hands and took a hefty gulp, almost draining the contents.

She had her own reasons for not telling him the truth, probably assuming he would think her a fool. Despite himself, he smiled.