House of Shadows (2 page)

‘The paint? Surely that was just a rumour?'

‘So they say, but the paint, it always smelled funny to me.' She looked up at me, her eyes brimming with tears. ‘I'm sure a smart girl like you could find out for me . . . find out about paint and fumes and things.'

‘I don't—' I stopped speaking when I saw the pleading look in Beatrice's eyes. ‘Perhaps I could go to the library in Swansea or something,' I said lamely.

She stood up. ‘I realize petrol is still in short supply,' she said, ‘but there's a good train, you know, into Swansea.' She stood up. ‘I think I'll take a turn in the garden, stroll under the yews, sit down for a while and take the air.' She smiled her charming smile. ‘I might go away for a few days, dear, so don't worry if you don't see me for a while.'

Strangely enough, I missed her. Not that she ever intruded into my life in any way, but she was always there – sitting in her room or in the blue room where the maids had died.

Curiosity drove me to the library later that week. I'd been to the bank and convinced my manager that I had another sale: one of my paintings was wanted by a rich family in the area. It was only half true; the lady in question had shown an interest in a half-finished painting of Aberglasney. Mr Pruedone, the under manager, sorted out more money, though his mouth was pinched and disapproving of ‘lady artists' – who, to his mind, were no better than dilettantes in a man's world – and then, with a sigh of relief, I went out into the noisy street and then into the library.

In the welcome silence of the reading room, I took off my hat and settled to leaf through old newspapers. I was getting bored, until I found the story of the death of the five young girls.

The evidence against Mr Mansel-Atherton was circumstantial. The housekeeper, a Mrs Ward, had seen him outside the blue room that night with something, she knew not what, in his hand. She went on to the landing later and heard gasping and groaning noises. Later still she went into the bedroom to find the maids all dead. Each one of them had their hands against their breasts, nightgowns awry, hair loose and tangled.

Mrs Ward was found to be a woman of impeccable honesty, an ardent churchgoing Christian who would never swear an oath on the Holy Bible unless it was the truth. On this fragile evidence Mr Mansel-Atherton was arrested – and then released on bail because Beatrice Mansel-Atherton had sworn he'd never left her bed that night.

Questions buzzed in my mind, such as: was a doctor called to investigate the scene? Was there medical evidence that the girls had been interfered with? I determined to broach the subject with Beatrice, even though intimacy was a very sensitive issue.

I made some notes and then left the library. Outside, the streets were busy and sunny, and the black thought of murder drifted from my mind as I strolled around Swansea, looking into shops for fabrics for curtains and cushion covers. Gradually, I forgot the ghosts of my house and concentrated on the thrill of plans to restore my mansion.

It was late in the evening when I arrived home. The train journey from Swansea had been a swift one, but the station was a long way from Aberglasney. I had arranged for a car to pick me up, but the road outside the station was empty.

I waited a while and then began to walk, because there was nothing else I could do.

A car passed me, stopped, and then backed rapidly towards me. I thought at first that the car I'd ordered had caught up with me, and I sighed in gratitude. Already, my feet were aching in my new shoes that pinched like the devil.

The dark shape of the car screeched towards me at an alarming speed, the black heavy wheels bearing down at me, the car bonnet – shiny and black in the rain – looking large and menacing as it hurtled towards me. Whoever was driving the car was trying to hit me!

I took a flying leap and landed in the ditch at the side of the road. Another car was coming towards me, its headlights picking out my startled face in the gloom. The black car zoomed away into the distance, gears grating, wheels spinning.

‘Sorry I'm late, madam –' the driver leaned forward from his seat – ‘but I seem to have arrived in the nick of time.'

His voice was strangely accented: a trace of American, or Canadian perhaps. Not what I was expecting from a driver of a hired cab. I tried to dust down my skirt; a button had come off my coat and the front bagged out unbecomingly. I'd lost my hat, and I was horrified and puzzled by what had happened.

‘Who are you?' I asked suspiciously.

‘You hired the car service from the Frazer Car Firm for six thirty outside the station. They phoned the office where I work and said they couldn't make it, so I came instead.'

‘And who are you and . . .?'

‘I'm Tom Maybury, and I'm working at the air force camp stationed at Aberglasney.'

‘Show me some identification,' I demanded, still suspicious.

‘Here are my dog tags, miss.'

‘My name and destination?'

‘Miss Evans, and your address is Aberglasney mansion. Do you want me to open the door for you or not?'

I jerked the door open myself, climbed into the car and sank back thankfully on the creaking leather seat. I was shaken. Who on earth would want to harm me? I had no enemies in the small village; no one knew I was here except for the Americans who were stationed near the perimeter of the grounds.

I breathed a sigh of relief as the car pulled to a halt outside my front door. The thought of the attack still gave me a thrill.

The driver opened the door for me, and I realized I had lost my bag. ‘If you'll wait here, I'll go and get some money to pay you.' I realized I was still shaking.

He stood. He was tall and handsome; his hair was unfashionably cut; his clothes, casual as they were, suited him. He seemed to be wearing a worn flying jacket and a scarf.

He smiled. ‘It's all right. Just ask for Tom when you next want a ride.' He didn't wait, just added, ‘Be safe.' His voice sounded caring, warm and somehow familiar, though where would I have met an American serviceman before?

I sighed and went inside my house. The gas lamps shimmered and popped; the first thing I must do, I thought, is to install electricity. I smiled as the warmth of my house closed around me. I was home and safe.

THREE

B
eatrice was still away or I would have talked to her about my mystery attacker. She might have some answers for me. Did someone else want Aberglasney? It hit me then like a deluge of cold water: I'd lost my bag and the deeds were inside. What would be my rights now? Would I still be the owner of the mansion? There had to be a copy at the solicitor's office, I realized. Reassured, I made some tea and sat in the only comfortable room in the house, my bedroom.

As I sat in front of the mirror tying up my hair, I heard strange sounds coming from the blue room. Putting on my dressing gown, I went to find out what it was.

I heard muffled gasps and small cries – the sounds of rape or murder? Trembling, I flung open the door. The room was empty. The window banged open and shut, and intermittently the branches of the just-blossoming cherry tree outside scratched the glass.

I gave a shaky laugh and closed the window. I was beginning to imagine things; I was being foolish, hysterical. I didn't believe in ghosts, did I? I had read the papers in the library, but I'd lost my notes along with my bag and my precious documents when I fell into the ditch. Still, I remembered the account of the five maids being killed, and I shivered.

I went back to bed and closed my ears to any strange sounds I heard, telling myself it was only the wind in the branches.

The next day I walked back to the ditch where I'd fallen. It was a long walk, and I was hot and panting by the time I got there. It took a while to find the spot where I'd dived from the road, and miraculously my bag was there – stuck in the muddy bed of the ditch.

The papers inside were wet but intact, although the signatures had run. Still, my deeds were safe, and I clutched them to me as I made my way back home.

She was there, Beatrice, sitting in the blue room with the door open, her small hands holding a piece of delicate lace she seemed to be fashioning into a collar. ‘They won't bother you now, dear,' she said with a smile. ‘I'm back. They always keep away when I'm here.'

I didn't take much notice of what she said. My thoughts were too full of the things that had happened since I'd arrived, and anyway, I didn't really know what she was talking about.

‘I went to the library in Swansea the other day,' I said without preliminary. ‘I read some of the old newspapers.'

‘Not very a convincing story, was it?'

‘No.' I knew she was talking about the evidence against her husband. ‘It was all circumstantial; not a shred of proof.'

‘Except for the bodies, dear. There were the bodies of the five young girls who died.' She looked up at me briefly. ‘Go about your business, now; put your plans into action. I can't wait to see what you're going to do to the old place.'

‘I'll install electricity next.' I spoke eagerly. ‘These gas lights are eerie and inefficient.'

‘I'd have the chimneys swept if I were you.' Her voice was mild. ‘Clear the house of smells.' Her eyes met mine briefly. ‘We don't want you dying off with poisoning, do we?'

She had a point, in view of her suspicions about the paint, by which she probably meant fumes. Sweeping the chimneys should be a priority, but that small item would have to wait until vital changes had been made. I meant to install proper heating and not rely on messy coal. So in the end I just had the main chimney swept – for effect, more than anything – so that the hall, library and sitting room could be used.

I slept well that night: no sounds from the blue room, no branches tapping on the windowpanes. Probably, there was no wind; it was a calm moonlit night. In the early dawn I woke abruptly. There was no sound, and when I drew the curtains the dawn was shedding a rosy light on the untamed gardens.

Dimly, a figure of a man became visible. He was staring up at the house – at my window! – and I drew back quickly. Who was he? Why was he spying on me? I hid behind the curtain, but when I cautiously looked out again the overgrown lawn was empty.

Perhaps I was imagining things. The dawn light was still full of grey shadows, the trees only now beginning to be washed with colour.

I dressed and then went to see Beatrice. She was up already. It was as though she never moved from her chair and never put down her lacework. There was an antiquated bathroom nearby and a tiny staff kitchen, both of which I assume she used though I never ever saw her walking about.

‘I'm going to Swansea again,' I said. ‘I want to look up some reference books, see what else I can find out about the murders.'

‘Not murders, dear,' Beatrice said firmly, ‘just deaths by mysterious causes. Please look up the construction of the paint.'

It irritated me the way she went on about the paint. No one died a sudden death because of paint!

‘I will,' I said, more to please her than anything.

As I left the grounds I saw one of the American officers smiling at me. I recognized him at once. ‘Tom, you're being an officer today then, not a driver?'

He put his finger to his lips. ‘That's hush hush. The driving, I mean.' He smiled, and his teeth looked very white against his tanned skin. Tom, I decided, was a very handsome man. ‘How are the ghosts behaving?' He winked.

‘How do you know about them?'

‘Everyone knows about the poor maids who died all on the same night, and everyone knows about the old lady who keeps them in order.'

I shrugged. ‘I don't believe in any of it myself. Don't say you do?'

‘What was it that Shakespeare guy said about more things in heaven and earth than this world knows of?'

‘Not quite correctly quoted, but I get the gist.'

‘And?'

‘And I've got a train to catch.'

‘Going to Swansea? I'll give you a ride if you like.'

I hesitated and then shook my head. ‘Thank you, Tom, but I can't afford to pay for a car. That's why I'm walking to the station.'

‘Who's talking about paying? I'm going that way so jump in. It's gratis. Free. I'll be glad of the company, for Swansea's a good way off.'

Thankfully, I climbed into the big jeep. What a treat, being driven all the way to Swansea. The rough road to the station was bad enough to manoeuvre, especially with the danger of erratic car drivers on the lanes.

‘Were you looking up at the house in the early light, Tom?' I asked as he did some trick with the clutch and the gears and set off through the lanes at an alarming speed.

‘Now, why would I want to do that?'

‘Any of your soldiers interested in ghosts then? Because some man was standing in the garden staring up at my window, just at dawn it was.'

‘I'll check on that,' he said, ‘but you know my soldiers are dark skinned Americans. Was this man dark skinned?'

I was confused for a moment. ‘No, definitely not. His face was illuminated by the dawn. He was fair, just like you.' I heard the accusing note in my voice and instantly regretted it. ‘I'm sorry, I wasn't implying—' I stopped speaking, not knowing how to go on.

‘That I was a sort of peeping Tom?' He grinned. ‘Excuse the levity.'

‘Tom, forget I said anything. It was too dark to see, really. I was probably imagining things.'

‘Like ghostly figures carrying lights along the landing in the middle of the night?'

‘You've seen them?' I stared at him, and he took my hand. It felt warm and strong and very nice.

‘There aren't any ghosts if you don't believe in them.' He lifted my hand to his lips and kissed it, and a shiver ran through me.

I drew my hand away. ‘Concentrate on your driving,' I chided, but I was somehow touched by his gesture.