The Chandelier Ballroom (28 page)

‘Great big thing it was – all glittery. I suppose it was impressive and caught everyone’s eye, but his wife told me she thought him a complete fool wanting to install a thing like that, acting as if he was lord of the manor. Her words, but I had to agree with her. He loved impressing people although I didn’t say that to her face. She said he was completely taken in by the tale the person who sold it to him told about some heiress having owned it.’

As old as she was, Sarah Dunhill could tell a good story and she had the WI members enthralled.

‘Well,’ Sarah Dunhill continued, sipping her cup of tea, ‘this rich woman apparently lost her entire fortune in 1929, during the Wall Street Crash, like a lot of people did.’

Mrs Dunhill was old enough to remember the impact of that terrible time, men losing their jobs, her husband being one of them, out of work for a good few years, leaving them struggling. Her two married sons had also had it hard, they with small children and nothing she and her husband could do to help them. ‘It took the outbreak of this war to finally see men back in work,’ she added to understanding nods.

‘Apparently, the woman became destitute,’ she went on, warming to her subject while her audience continued sipping their tea and nibbling their biscuits, their eyes widening with interest. ‘And she had a lover who walked out on her when he found she had no money left. I expect he was living off her but she couldn’t see it. And she was so devastated she hanged herself.’

Sarah Dunhill paused, aware of letting her story run away with her.

‘Or so the tale goes,’ she continued stoutly. ‘Hung herself from the very chandelier Mr Butterfield bought to put in that big room.’

Pausing only a moment to look around her captive audience with an almost challenging eye, she continued in a mysterious tone, ‘And if you ask me, I believe that’s where the haunting started. There was never talk of it before he bought the house. It’s said the woman, whoever she is, warns the person who sees her that the one that person loves will be unfaithful. I for one fully believe it.’

There were several nods of agreement mixed with a few sceptical mutterings. It was the latter to whom Sarah Dunhill now fixed her gaze. ‘You think it’s silly? Well, Mrs Wainwright here will bear out my story. Tell them, Mrs Wainwright, what Joyce Johns-Pitman told you about what she saw and how creepy that chandelier made her feel every time she entered that room.’

Pushed into complying, Jennifer Wainwright nibbled her lip. It was one thing to gossip, another to sit in front of a group having to address them cold, especially about the ramblings of a woman who’d killed her husband, albeit unintentionally, ending up in an insane asylum. Where she was now, she had no idea, and would rather not know. It was all in the past.

‘Well,’ she began hesitantly. ‘I was a friend of hers for a while. She was a rather shy person and didn’t make friends easily. She did become a member of the WI but never really mixed.’

‘But what
did
she see in that house?’ prompted one of her listeners, bringing her back to her story with a bit of a start.

Taking a hold on herself, she went on, talking fast, needing to get it over with. ‘She always said that she was uncomfortable in that big room. So was her mother. She said her mother was sensitive to such things.’

For a moment she paused, hoping to have said enough, but urgent egging on forced her to continue for another minute or two.

‘It was a long time ago now. She did tell me that she saw a woman in the room when it was dark – on another occasion too, when the woman said her husband was being unfaithful. And it was true. He was carrying on with his secretary.’

‘I remember that,’ someone burst out. ‘And she stabbed him …’

‘And there’s that soldier too,’ someone else interrupted. ‘After killing that sergeant in his unit, he kept going on about seeing an apparition.’

‘Whatever,’ Jennifer muttered, and sat back in her chair, glad to be done with her part of the story.

But between them Sarah Dunhill, Florrie Evans and herself had set the members talking, eager to relay it to others around the neighbourhood. And so the story had grown.

‘I don’t think this ghost has anything to do with the woman found in the wine cellar.’

‘I think it could be.’

‘No, it has more to do with the one who hung herself, I’m sure.’

‘It certainly gives you the shivers though, doesn’t it?’

And so it went on; Jennifer Wainwright and Sarah Dunhill’s accounts, borne out by Mrs Evans, would be enough to keep people talking about it for years to come, strengthened by the soldier’s story at the court martial.

Though the newspapers had looked on what the accused had said as having been concocted by the man as a means of making himself appear insane, in the vain hope of saving his neck, to those of Wadely it was solid evidence of a ghost at Crossways Lodge, probably that of the woman in London who’d hanged herself from the chandelier around fifteen years ago.

The war was over. In cities, towns, villages, they danced, cuddled strangers, bunting and Union Jacks appearing from attics, cellars and sheds to be draped from houses or across streets from every support available.

Food hoarded for months for this very occasion was now brought out to be laid out on long rows of tables, kids eating more than they would have done in a week a few months back.

The night was lit by bonfires, blackout curtains that had for years draped windows every night burned alongside the wooden bunks from Anderson shelters and any combustible debris from bombed buildings.

Pianos dragged outside accompanied the dancing and singing, while anyone even slightly gifted as a musician went from street to street with whatever guitar, trumpet, clarinet or instrument they could play.

Fireworks produced from God knows where were let off, as if people hadn’t had enough of explosions these last five years, prompting squeals from the children and cries of warning from their mothers.

Tomorrow life would return to normal, knowing that no longer would there be cause to be afraid. Only those who held the country’s purse strings felt that burden, saddled with the problem of how the country was going to pay for the war now it was over, at least in Europe, conflict still going on in the Far East.

For the time being, however, people celebrated. Their husbands, fathers, sons, daughters would be coming home again safe and sound. Those whose loved ones wouldn’t be returning watched the excitement and tried to be glad for them.

In Wadely, Crossways Lodge had been vacant and neglected ever since the army left a year ago, its grounds overgrown with no one going anywhere near the place if they could help it, the word haunted now on everybody’s lips. How could it not be haunted when proof of it had been given by so many? Now, even to walk past the gates brought a shiver down the spine, and that was proof enough. Often the eye could glimpse some unexplained movement in the bushes or the ear catch an unexpected sound – a disembodied voice or just the stirring of branches or some small animal? It didn’t matter. It was better to keep clear of the place.

‘So what
do
you want me to do about your property in England, Ben?’

The tone was more a criticism than a question and Benjamin Lacey glanced up with rheumy eyes from his armchair at the man who’d acted as his solicitor for more years than he could recall, and shrugged as he always did when the house in England was raised.

‘I’m informed,’ Arnold Hammond went on, taking the shrug as no real answer, ‘that since the army moved out, other than half-hearted repairs to that fire damage, nothing has been done Each month it is left unattended it will continue to deteriorate. Last winter hasn’t helped matters.’

With a weary sigh old Ben let his gaze wander from a letter Hammond had handed him to stare through the open French windows of this rather exclusive residential home for the elderly, to brilliant sunshine spreading across the Vancouver skyline. Beyond its wide harbour, where ships from all over the world visited, the mountains were shimmering in the heat of a July afternoon.

His mind saw those bleak, British winter days, dimly remembered as a youngster. Apparently its winter this year, 1947, two years now since the war had ended, had been particularly miserable, the whole country gripped by freezing weather, bringing chaos and shortages.

Ben grimaced. Why on earth did his sister want to leave him a property in that Godforsaken country of wet summers, colourless autumns and gaunt winters? Vancouver never had snow. Every autumn leaves would turn gold and russet and bronze, the country transformed by colour.

Hammond was still nattering on. ‘All right, so you were compensated for the fire, but the entire property is depreciating all the time you delay the decision to sell it. It’ll need more and more work done to it as time goes on and it’ll become increasingly hard to sell. Something ought to be done about it. And I would suggest you come to some firm decision about that, and very soon.’

Ben made no answer. He would much prefer not to be badgered into decision-making. He was too old to make decisions. They tired you out. The thought of going through all that bloody rigmarole of having to sell a place he’d not wanted from the start, being asked to sign papers, all the time being pushed by Hammond made him tired even thinking about it.

‘Mr Lacey, Ben. Are you listening?’ Arnold Hammond’s tone was starting to sound a mite exasperated.

‘Of course I’m listening. I’m thinking,’ Ben returned testily.

‘Well, I’d advise not to think too long. Or soon the place will be in no state to afford you any profit at all. Even putting it on the market this very day, it’s going to be a job to sell. And you don’t want to lose out. If we do it now it’ll still make money. If we don’t, in the end it’s going to cost more than it’s worth to put on the market. You’ll see hardly any return at all.’

Hardly any return! Ben Lacey gave him a sharp, perceptive glance. He knew Hammond of old. Efficient solicitor, very reliable, he’d been with him for years, but in all honesty, in the end he was only out for the biggest fee he could get. The better the price they got on the house, the higher would be his fee and he’d do his damnedest to make sure of it. How long it took coming to a satisfactory transaction with whatever buyer came along would certainly affect Hammond’s pocket. For himself, he had enough money to see him out in comfort for what was left of his years. There was no one to leave it to when he did shuffle off. All he wanted was a quiet life. Not so with Arnold.

‘The longer it stays unoccupied, the worst its condition will become,’ Hammond was saying. ‘Before long you won’t be able to give it away.’

Again Ben shrugged. ‘No use to me all those thousands of miles away.’

‘We know that. But that’s no reason to leave it to deteriorate. I assure you, Ben, once you give me the go-ahead, there’ll be no need for you to lift a finger. That’s what I’m here for.’

And for your bloody good fee, thought Ben, beginning to feel slightly choleric now. He was too old to be bothered with these things. All he wanted was to sit back in this quiet, comfy, retirement home, his every need taken care of, his food cooked for him, having one of the staff trundle him around the grounds, well-paid staff judging by the fees they charged, having himself helped to bed, knowing there was always someone on hand should he need extra help, woken in the morning with a cup of tea and a couple of biscuits. It was all anyone of nearly ninety-one could need.

Just the life – if it wasn’t for his solicitor badgering him about that bloody property back in England. Well, it was best to get it over and done with. He gave a deep sigh and sank back into his chair.

‘Do what you want, Arnold. So long as you don’t come bothering me with a bloody mound of papers to sign.’ His hand was far too shaky to hold a pen, much less sign his name as he once could, although he had Hammond to witness whatever scrawl he made that would serve as a signature. ‘I suppose you’re right. You always are. Just stick it on the market. It’s no use to me all that way off. Just take the first offer that comes along.’

‘If that’s what you want?’

A small seed of irritation mounted in him, making him feel suddenly worn out. ‘For Godsake, Arnold, just get on and do it!’

As Hammond readied to leave, Ben closed his eyes. He was leaving himself wide open to being fleeced by the man, who’d make sure of a tidy bit for himself, but he was too old and weary to care. Besides, who else was there to leave his money to? No relatives, not even a distant one. He might leave a decent bit to this home. The rest maybe would go to the state – or he might even leave it all to Hammond himself. He didn’t blame the man for wanting to make sure his pocket was pretty well lined. He’d been a good, reliable solicitor for years, and once Ben was gone, why should he worry who actually benefited? In a way he almost looked forward to leaving this world. But first, get that blasted place in England out of his hair. He was sick of it.

‘Very well, Mr Lacey,’ Hammond assured gently.

Until now his voice had been clipped and business-like, even though he’d spoken to his elderly client in layman’s terms he could understand. There was a time when old Ben Lacey had been as sharp as a tack, no getting anything over on him. But now, if one fancied to be unscrupulous, one could do the old chap out of everything he had, and Hammond suspected he wouldn’t have noticed so long as he was fed and cared for with all the attention he was now receiving.

Hammond grinned wryly. He wouldn’t do that to the man. As irascible as Ben had become and had been in his time, he looked on his solicitor as a friend, and decent people didn’t fleece friends, well, not too drastically. No, he’d make sure he took his proper fee plus maybe a bit extra Ben Lacey wouldn’t miss. And as Ben himself had often said, who else had he to leave his money to?

‘I shall do my utmost to see you’re not bothered with too many details,’ he said in a soothing tone. ‘But you do understand I will have to consult you from time to time.’

‘Yeah, yeah, I understand.’ The reply was wearily impatient, leaving Hammond to withdraw, his client left in blessed silence other than the low murmur of his fellow residents, most of them sunk down like him into the soft cushions of their high-backed reclining armchairs.