The Devil's Serenade (6 page)

In the downstairs bathroom, I put the seat down, switched off the light, and closed the door.

I made for the kitchen to clear up the mess and retrieve my glass. After that experience, I needed another drink. I switched on the light, stopped and stared.

The cellar door stood open. I knew it had been closed. I’d only been in a few minutes earlier and would have noticed it. I peered around the door and flicked the switch. With the extra lighting Charlie had fitted, the place wasn’t nearly so dark and daunting. I still didn’t feel like going down there though. Not when I was alone in the house.

“Hello.” My voice echoed off the walls. Then silence. I listened for a few seconds. Nothing. I pulled the door shut. Just before it closed, I thought I heard a sound. As if someone was dragging something heavy across the floor. I shut the door with a bang and locked it.

I stood for a few moments, catching my breath, while my mind raced. Neil. I had to admit he had put the wind up me with his stories of something in the bathroom. There was a perfectly logical explanation for this. I had left the door open and, preoccupied with my unwelcome visitor, simply not noticed it earlier. The sound I had heard was probably the door dragging as I pulled it shut. Maybe it needed a bit of sanding down, although it had seemed to close easily enough.

The theory sounded good. If only it could have been true. Because, at three in the morning, when I still couldn’t get to sleep, I remembered. Charlie had locked that door when he left. I’d seen him do it. And no one had opened it since.

Chapter
Five

I lay there, listening to the stillness, alert for any slight sound, and jumped when the wind sent a shower rattling against the window.

Surely I had to be wrong. Neil couldn’t have unlocked that door himself…or maybe I had missed him sneaking into the kitchen and opening it, to unnerve me. Try as I might, I couldn’t see how he’d done it though. I had been with him the whole time, except when I went to the kitchen to make him coffee. And when he went to the bathroom, I followed him into the hall.

I fell asleep sometime in the early hours. When I awoke, the clock showed nine thirty. I yawned, stretched and the night’s events flooded back. Strange, certainly, but somehow, with the sun shining once more, my fears had been pretty much washed away as if by the night’s rain.

Today, I would busy myself by visiting the local shops and, unlike the previous occasions when I had bought what I needed and left with barely an exchange of words, I would make a concerted effort to talk to people.
If you don’t feel confident, act as though you are.
I’d read that in a self-help book years earlier. It worked too, except that to do that, I needed to imagine myself as the adult version of the girl I had created for myself. Kelly. Unlike me, she would have grown up confident and self-assured. She would have had a career—maybe as a lawyer or doctor. As a child, I had always projected everything I wanted to be on to her. I hadn’t called on her for years, but, with a little updating, she would carry me through.

Until I had grown in confidence enough to relax and be myself, Kelly would be the public face of Maddie—the one with the outgoing personality, able to strike up friendly conversations with total strangers.

I dressed carefully for my outing in navy blue boot-cut trousers, low-heeled black shoes, lightweight navy jacket, and white open-necked shirt. With my leather purse slung over my shoulder, I looked like a professional woman on my way to an important appointment. Kelly would approve, although she would have opted for a pencil skirt to emphasize her perfectly shaped legs. I tucked my hair behind my ears, took a deep breath, and opened the door.

I made my way up the steep hill of the High Street, aiming for the convenience store at the top. Along the way, I passed a row of small houses. Traffic thundered past me along a too-narrow thoroughfare. If ever a town needed a bypass it was this one. I passed the condemned block of apartments across the street. They looked innocuous enough. Bland, gray concrete, featureless windows, and a communal door, with half a dozen or so doorbells and postboxes on both sides. The day was overcast, but not cold, with a smell of autumnal damp leaves and wood fires in the air.

A black dog, similar to an unusually large Labrador—but with a fiercer expression—stood outside the apartments and glared at me. I shivered and hurried on.

A few people passed me. One or two said, “Good morning,” and I returned their greetings. I hadn’t a clue who they were. They were being neighborly and I liked that. Soon, all being well, I would know all their names and be able to greet them properly, inquire after their various offspring, siblings, parents, and any related events or ailments. Soon, I would be part of this community. And Kelly was going to help me get there.

I picked up milk, a newspaper I probably wouldn’t read, a bar of chocolate, and made for the counter. I took a deep breath and imagined Kelly standing there in my place, poised and confident.

“Hello, I’m Maddie Chambers. I’ve moved into Hargest House.” I extended my hand over a selection of impulse buys—candy bars of all kinds, chewing gum, licorice.

The assistant smiled and nodded. “Thought you might be. You fit the description. I’m June Hughes. I own this shop. My nephew Charlie’s doing some work for you.”

I shook her hand and also smiled. “News travels fast.”

“You’ll get used to that here. And the fact everyone pretty much knows everyone else’s business. They’re probably related to them too.”

“It’s a small town. I’m afraid I’m more used to the city, although I did spend summers here as a child.”

The smile faded. “With old Miss Grant. She was your aunt, I believe?”

“Yes. Did you know her?”

June handed me my purchases. “Not very well. I don’t think most people did, towards the end. She never went out, you see. Had people to ‘do’ for her.”

June didn’t sound as if she approved of people having others to ‘do’ for them. Or maybe something else was on her mind. Her tone had become almost frosty.

“Well, it’s been nice to meet you. I’m sure I’ll be in again soon.”

June’s smile ended at the corners of her lips. “Yes, do. I’ll look forward to it.” The words and the expression didn’t match. And I knew which I believed.

* * * * *

I had been putting off sorting out Aunt Charlotte’s bedroom, but a nagging thought that maybe—just maybe—I might find some answers, hardened my resolve to go in there. I opened the door to the scent of lavender. A massive bowl, crammed to the hilt with dried blooms, stood on top of a chest of drawers. Under the large bay window stood a desk, covered in photos. Here is where I would start. I set down the large empty cardboard box I had brought with me and sat on the stool. The desk was a traditional, light oak with a polished top, a blotter, and a pen holder—containing an eclectic mix of Parker fountain pens, propelling pencils, and cheap ballpoints.

One by one, I picked up the photos in their silver frames. There were two taken of me. One on my own, holding a kitten I couldn’t remember—but definitely not mine. Mother wouldn’t allow animals in the house and Aunt Charlotte never had any, as far as I could remember. The other photograph of me was with my aunt. She was holding my hand and I was smiling. Aunt Charlotte’s expression bothered me. She was standing at a slight angle, looking over my head, as if something had caught her attention that concerned her.

The other photos were of the rear garden I had barely explored since I returned. Here it was, as I remembered it from my childhood, in full rosy magnificence—complete with the beautiful, aromatic lavender border whose bounty now fragranced her room.

I took hold of the brass handles and pulled open the top drawer. Inside, notepaper and envelopes were neatly arranged on one side, while on the other, I found a book—leather bound, with a gold-colored clasp. My heart beat a little faster as I lifted it out, and I hesitated before snapping it open. A pang of conscience hit me. I may be about to intrude on my aunt’s most intimate secrets. I nearly put it back, but my desperate need for answers made me flip it open. It was a notebook which I quickly discovered—as I flipped through the pages—Aunt Charlotte had adapted into an occasional diary. A page-long entry would be followed by a gap of days, or weeks, until the next one. Most of the earlier entries concerned her gardening or the shortcomings of some of the staff she had employed on Nathaniel’s behalf. One entry was dated June 16th, 1960.

I played “Serenade in Blue” for Mr. Hargest on the piano today. If ever the old saying about music soothing the savage breast was true, it is true of his reaction to it. He had been reading in the library and startled me when he opened the door. I thought he was going to tell me to stop, and be quite angry for disturbing him, but on the contrary.

“What is that song, Charlotte?” he asked. He put his hands on the piano, and I noticed his palms were flat on the surface, not clenched or in any way threatening.

“It’s an old Glenn Miller song,” I told him. “I’ve always loved his music but I think ‘Serenade in Blue’ is my favorite. It brings back memories.” I didn’t tell him they were bittersweet and that for ten years or more I couldn’t bear to hear it or play it. Now, I seem to want to do both all the time. Perhaps that is a signal I have moved on.

“I have never heard it before,” he said and I must have looked startled, because he laughed—the first time I can ever remember him laugh. “I never listen to popular music,” he said. “Only classical. But henceforward, ‘Serenade in Blue’ will also be my favorite. You can play it as often as you wish.”

He couldn’t have surprised me more. I wish he hadn’t spoiled it by looking at me in that way that makes me so uncomfortable. His eyes seem to pierce through to my soul, as if he is trying to possess me. Sometimes I think I shall have to leave this place and find another position but where would I go? It isn’t easy being a woman alone in this world. Especially one without any money or much family to support her.

Oh, Aunt Charlotte, I thought. Surely, even in 1960, you didn’t have to stay where you felt uneasy around your boss. But that was over fifty years ago, I reminded myself. A different world—especially for women.

I read on, discovering things about my aunt’s life she had never talked about. To me, at any rate.

Playing “our” song reminded me of that wonderful summer with Freddie before he turned 18 and joined up. 1944. How long ago it seems and yet, in another way, it could have been yesterday. We went to the village midsummer dance and I wore a blue dress I’d made from an old gown of Mother’s she no longer wore. I was so proud of myself for saving on my coupons.

“You look a proper sight for sore eyes,” Freddie said as he led me out onto the dance floor. The band struck up a familiar Glenn Miller song. Freddie held me close and hummed along with the melody. “You’ll always be my ‘Serenade in Blue’,” he said.

I was so happy, tears filled my eyes. Some must have spilled over onto Freddie’s cheek because he stopped dancing.

“What’s the matter? Did I say something wrong?” He looked so worried, poor lamb.

“Oh no,” I said, feeling silly. “You said everything perfectly. As always.”

He smiled and I loved the way his eyes creased up. Such a handsome man, my Freddie.

“You’re my girl now, Lottie,” he said. No one ever called me Lottie but him. Always Charlotte. Not Freddie. I was always his Lottie. “Promise me you’ll wait for me. And that you’ll write to me every day I’m away.”

“I promise, Freddie. Come home safely.”

“I will. Jerry won’t catch me. You’ll see. I’ll be strolling up your path again in no time.”

But you never did, did you, Freddie? Six months later your plane was shot down over the North Sea and I thought my world had ended. Part of it had.

Today, all I have are the memories. No one—not even Nathaniel Hargest—can take those away from me. And now I can bear to listen to “our” song and play it again. I have my employer’s blessing to do so any time I choose. Who would have guessed it? Perhaps Mr. Hargest does have a heart after all.

A tear splashed onto the page and I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. In all those years, I’d had no idea Aunt Charlotte hugged these secret memories to herself. I wondered if Mother ever knew about Freddie.

I sighed and turned the pages. Occasionally my aunt made mention of her employer’s uncertain temper. An entry for November 30th, 1960 read:

Mr. Hargest ordered me to fire the cook today. For the second time in a week she overcooked the cabbage. It was lucky I had my wits about me when he summoned me to tell me. He had a heavy glass paperweight in his hand which sailed close past me and smashed against the wall. His anger is something to be avoided at all costs. Needless to say I sent the cook packing! Goodness alone knows where I’ll find another one. News travels fast in this town and even as far as Rokesby Green. There’s nothing for it. I shall have to advertise in
The Lady
. I’m afraid Mr. Hargest won’t like the cost, but what am I to do?

I read on, past 1960 and into 1961, right up until May 1964 where, curiously, some pages had been ripped out. Those that remained contained little enlightening information. Most entries concerned my aunt’s increasing discomfort with Nathaniel Hargest’s behavior although, infuriatingly, she revealed little in the way of detail beyond the occasional mention of her employer’s temper tantrums.

Then there was a gap until 1967 and an entry for June 1st:

I have taken up gardening. I find it comforting and quite therapeutic. I am hopeful of an excellent first bean harvest. My little vegetable garden has given me something to concentrate on. It has helped reduce the pain of the last couple of years and, of course, the kitchen benefits. Not that Mr. Hargest notices.

News of little Madeleine’s birth has given me renewed hope. Maybe, in spite of everything, what they have told me is true. Maybe all will be well after all.

There the makeshift diary ended, with nearly half its pages blank. I was more perplexed than ever. Who had told her all would be well? I hadn’t a clue what that was about. I was beginning to think I hadn’t really known Aunt Charlotte at all. She had harbored so many secrets. My sense of unease cranked up a notch.

I put the book back where I had found it.

The second drawer initially revealed nothing except a slim, black book, bound in leather. I picked it up and opened it.
Book of Shadows
was embossed in gold on the front. I remembered reading about those once. Wiccans had them. They wrote spells inside them, or favorite sayings, words of wisdom, potions and so on. Turning the pages revealed that Aunt Charlotte had filled hers with poems and recipes, but one curious little entry caught my attention. Headed, simply, “Willow”, it listed a number of occult uses of the tree—from carving talismans, to rituals for protection and for summoning spirits.

Spirits of willow protect me. Spirits of willow come to me. Spirits of willow let no harm come from the darkness and the evil ones…

May the Lord and his Lady protect me through this holy willow…

I put the book down and rummaged through the drawer. My fingers closed on something and I pulled it out. A slim, tapering twig had been fashioned into a wand. A further dig and I pulled out a small wooden pendant on a broken necklace of thin leather. The delicate carving was of the pagan figure known as the Green Man. I stared at it in wonder. I couldn’t remember Aunt Charlotte ever mentioning anything to do with the occult and yet here she was with books of spells, magical rituals and, as for the lavender I had thought so innocently pretty, it turned out that too had magical connotations.