The Haunted Lady (9 page)

Having received directions, we went inside. I closed the heavy door behind us as an extra demarcation line from the unhappy couple. The large entrance hall was barren of both furniture and decorations, which I found surprising. We turned to our right and as we approached the double doors leading to the drawing room, one of them swung open, and David Kershaw beckoned to us to enter.

The room was in stark contrast to the one we had just left. It was tastefully decorated and furnished, and, unlike the entrance hall, had the feeling of everyday use about it. Valerie Kershaw also greeted us and asked if we would care for afternoon tea. We accepted the offer of liquid refreshment but refused the idea of food. ‘We’re still recuperating from the late lunch Michael’s mother prepared for us. I think she’s an exile from the catering corps and was under the impression that she was feeding a regiment.’

‘You have a beautiful home,’ Eve said. ‘I was brought up in towns and cities and didn’t realise that there was so much money in agriculture.’

I winced at Eve’s bluntness, but far from being offended, Kershaw seemed amused by the remark. ‘There isn’t,’ he replied, ‘the money we get from the farms on the estate just about pays for the upkeep of the house and essential maintenance, but no more. We’ve been living hand to mouth for years. The house is a bit of a millstone, to be honest.’

‘David is right,’ Valerie confirmed. ‘I do the accounts and if there’s a bad harvest, or milk yields are down like last year, we have to subsidise the estate.’

‘I suppose the historical value of the house makes it worthwhile,’ I suggested.

‘Hardly,’ David replied, ‘the house is a fake, built by one of my ancestors out of his ill-gotten gains.’

‘How do you mean, “a fake”?’

Eve’s question was valid, but the response was surprising. ‘How old do you think this house is?’

‘I don’t know, two hundred years or so, I guess.’

‘Wrong. It’s no more than sixty years ago that building work started. Prior to that it was only a farmhouse; owned by the Kershaw family for generations. My grandfather inherited Elmfield Farm, as it was, but the estate was all but bankrupt until the First World War. He repaired the family fortunes by manufacturing weapons and decided to lavish the proceeds on this place.’

‘Not a bad inheritance,’ I suggested, pointing to the view, which stretched towards the distant Pennines.

‘That wasn’t all my grandfather inherited,’ David told us. ‘He had to pay a lot of death duties, as his father and older brother had died within six months of one another; a bit like our situation, really.’ He shrugged. ‘Fortunately, he had his brother’s widow to console him. It seems she did so in style, because they married soon afterwards and besides my father, she bore him four daughters, all within the space of eight years. There are quite a large number of distant cousins in various families around the county thanks to their productivity.’

‘So this house isn’t what it appears to be, but it must still be a very comfortable home.’ Eve suggested.

‘This wing is, because we’ve made it so, but to be honest, we don’t use two-thirds of the house. It’s far too big for our needs, and it would cost a fortune to heat and light on a daily basis,’ Valerie pointed out.

I was surprised at how open the couple were about the house and the Kershaw family history. Something of their openness was explained, together with their reason for allowing us to visit them, by David’s next remark. ‘I want to apologise for my abruptness earlier. I understand that I have you two to thank for my freedom. That detective sergeant told me that you had demolished their outlandish theory about that ghastly murder. I’m extremely grateful.’

The cordial atmosphere only lessened when we changed the subject and asked about David’s brother Andrew. The frankness they had shown up to that point ended immediately. If the atmosphere didn’t actually become frosty, it certainly cooled markedly. In answer to my questions, which were supplemented by some deftly posed queries from Eve, we gained little or no material information about either of Chloe’s parents.

I began by explaining that our wish was solely to try and help solve Chloe’s dilemma by asking about her father.

‘I’m afraid there’s very little I can tell you,’ said David. ‘Andrew was a good few years older than me, so our paths didn’t cross much, except during school holidays. When I was in secondary school Andrew was at university, and by the time I reached sixth form he had completed his National Service and was already working abroad, so we rarely saw him, except on snatched visits between postings. Apart from a couple of weekends, the next time I saw Andrew was when he asked us to come home to help him manage the estate as Father wasn’t well. So we came back. His wife had already died, so Valerie helped to care for Chloe as Andrew turned more and more to alcohol. Although the result of the post-mortem was a heart attack, to my mind Andrew died of a broken heart. In fact, if you wanted to be pedantic, you could almost call it a form of suicide, because I don’t believe he wanted to live once Debbie was dead.’

‘Did you ever meet Debbie?’

There was a pause, as Valerie leaned forward and adjusted the position of the magazines on the table in front of her, then stirred her tea vigorously. Still concentrating on the liquid, she told us, ‘No, sadly she died before we came to the Grange. In his few sober moments, Andrew used to talk about her, and how beautiful she was; how much he missed her, that sort of thing.’

‘Did he mention anything about her past, where she came from?’ Eve persisted, ‘We’re not being nosy; we simply want to help Chloe and Michael.’

‘Nothing that could help you, I’m afraid,’ David answered. ‘All I can tell you is that her name was Debbie Hunter, so I guess she was English.’

‘Do you know where your brother was working, or how they came to meet?’

David walked across to the dresser and picked up a silver cigarette case. He offered us it, and when we declined, shook his head and replied to my question, ‘No, sorry. Andrew wouldn’t talk about it.’

I was intrigued by his actions, and I also found his choice of ‘wouldn’t’ rather than ‘didn’t’ interesting. ‘Didn’t he write home, send a postcard even?’

‘No, Andrew wasn’t a great letter writer.’

There seemed to be little point in continuing that line of questioning, so I changed tack. I apologised for seeming to be intrusive but reminded them again of our intention merely to help. It was the right approach, and I could tell by their slightly warmer response that they too were concerned. Nevertheless, I wondered if they were unwilling to help rather than unable to, much as Chloe had implied.

A few minutes later Chloe and Michael came in, and I was relieved to see that they looked much happier than when we’d left them. I was also glad of the distraction from a conversation that had become strained at the least. As soon as was practical we said our goodbyes.

Chloe and Michael accompanied us to the car. Even for that short distance they were holding hands, which was a promising sign. I longed to satisfy my curiosity be asking how things had gone, but fortunately I had Eve to do that for me. ‘How did Michael persuade you to change your mind?’ she asked Chloe.

Chloe looked at her lover before replying. ‘He told me he would resign from the church and find another job rather than risk us being apart, and if that meant living together without being married so be it, he wasn’t prepared to lose me, because life without me would be without meaning.’ She paused and I caught the glint of a tear on her cheek as she continued, ‘I couldn’t imagine that anyone would be willing to sacrifice so much for me. I hope it won’t come to that, but if Michael is willing to forego his chosen career and way of life simply so we can be together I can’t turn him away, not when I love him so much.’

Eve fixed me with a glare, as if defying me to contradict her as she responded, ‘Rest assured Adam and I will do everything in our power to help. Unfortunately, we were unable to discover anything useful from your aunt and uncle, but we haven’t even begun to ask elsewhere yet, so there’s every chance that we will find out what you need to know.’

By way of reassurance, Eve hugged them both before we drove away. As we headed for Laithbrigg, I pondered Eve’s final remark. There was one slight inaccuracy in what she’d told Chloe, although it was at best negative. I
had
found out something useful during our conversation with David and his wife, although I didn’t quite know what to make of it.

Noticing my silence, Eve said, ‘It looks as if we’re getting involved again, whether we like it or not. Do you mind? Is that what you were pondering?’

‘No, I was thinking back to what we just heard. And, yes, it does seem as if we’re being drawn into Chloe and Michael’s troubles, even if we steer clear of the murders. That doesn’t bother me, what about you?’

‘I’d like to help because they’re such a nice young couple, and obviously right for one another. It would be a shame to see them unhappy when we might be able to prevent it.’

I paused and then asked, ‘What did you make of Chloe’s aunt and uncle?’

‘They seem very pleasant, and I was surprised at how open and frank they were.’

‘I agree with you, up to a point, but with a couple of notable exceptions.’

‘When we asked about Chloe’s parents? Yes, they did cool off a bit at that point, and they certainly weren’t very forthcoming. I wonder if the reason is that they don’t know anything, as they implied, or whether they are sick and fed up of being pestered with questions they can’t answer?’

‘I don’t think you believe that any more than I do, and to be honest I find it impossible to credit that someone with Andrew Kershaw’s background would take up a career in the Foreign Office, become an accredited diplomat and fail to communicate each of his overseas postings to his closest family members.’

‘Why should he or they keep that a secret?’

‘I have absolutely no idea, but one thing I can be sure of, and that is that when they claimed not to know where Andrew Kershaw had been, where he met Chloe’s mother, and when they stated that they had never seen her, both were lying through their teeth.’

‘How can you be sure of that?’

‘When Valerie gave us that explanation about Chloe’s mother having died before she and David returned to the Grange she fiddled with something on the table and then stirred her tea. She did that even though she doesn’t take sugar. She was avoiding making eye contact. David did much the same thing, getting up and offering us cigarettes when we asked about Andrew. Those actions might seem irrelevant to a casual observer, but one of the first things I was taught when I was training to become a foreign correspondent is to look for signs that people are lying. Body language such as they displayed today are sure indications that they were being evasive.’

Mention of my former career didn’t seem important at the time, but it soon became relevant, thanks to Eve’s persistence. We had almost reached the junction where we turned off for Laithbrigg when Eve said, ‘There’s your man.’

‘What?’ I was concentrating on the tractor and trailer ahead of us, whose load looked less than secure.

‘That man you described, the one you keep on seeing, he was there.’

I looked to my left and right, but it was only when I glanced in the mirror that I saw the figure walking in the direction of the Grange.

‘You mean the apparition that was a figment of my imagination?’ I teased.

‘It certainly looked like him, the way you described him, and I reckon you were spot on, Adam, he does look out of place round here.’

After our return to Eden House we continued to discuss Michael and Chloe, but with no success. If anything, Eve was more determined even than me to find a solution. I think Michael’s promise to give up everything he believed in for the girl he loved had touched Eve deeply.

We returned to the subject the following morning over breakfast. ‘We need to find out exactly what Andrew Kershaw’s role within the Foreign Office was and where he was stationed. That might give some clue as to how and where he met Chloe’s mother. But the problem is knowing exactly where to begin looking.’

‘I don’t know how these things work, but if he was a diplomat, wouldn’t the Foreign Office be able to tell us where he had been?’ Eve suggested.

‘I suppose they might be, if we were able to supply them with a good and sufficient reason for asking. The problem we face is two-fold. First of all, they would not be happy to give out that sort of information to a private citizen. Apart from that, without digging through their records, it might prove impossible to discover anything relevant because it all happened so long ago. We don’t know exactly when it was, because Chloe can’t be sure how old she is and we can’t rely on anything her aunt and uncle tell us. The saying is that a week is a long time in politics, but anything approaching two decades is like a millennium in diplomacy.’

There was no doubt that my depressing appraisal of the situation cast a dampener over our discussion but, after thinking it over, Eve came up with a solution that was little short of brilliant. ‘If what you say is correct, and I’m sure it is, about the Foreign Office being reluctant to answer enquiries from someone lacking official status of any kind, do you think they might be more willing to cooperate had you asked that question while you were working for TV, or for a newspaper, perhaps? Maybe we could get the information via one of your former colleagues?’

‘That’s a superb idea, Eve. I think my first call ought to be to Paul Faulkner. He owes us a favour for the scoop we gave him, even though it did almost cost him his life. Paul isn’t connected to that side of the paper, but he should be able to put us onto the right track.’

‘In that case, if you’re certain he won’t mind, why not give him a call?’

‘It’s Sunday, and even Paul doesn’t work on Sundays,’ I pointed out.

‘OK, first thing tomorrow then.’ Eve certainly had the bit between her teeth, and her determination was infectious.

Encouraged by her enthusiasm, I phoned Paul next morning. He was extremely helpful, although I sensed his willingness to cooperate increased once he realised that my enquiry would not result in his personal involvement. ‘The man you need to speak to is our Diplomatic Correspondent, Simon Baines,’ he told me. ‘You remember Simon, don’t you? I think you worked with him for a short time, unless I’m mistaken.’