The Lamorna Wink (19 page)

He said, “That's a very nice Turner, there behind you.”

She looked around, as if it were someone else's Turner, and said, “Morbid, I'd say. It was Mr. Hayter liked that one. He died not two years ago.” It was as if death came to Mr. Hayter because of the painting.

But Death and Turner did give Melrose an opening. “Wasn't there an awful tragedy at Seabourne several years ago? Two children drowned, I believe.”

She was only too pleased to discuss it, which she did at length, as it gave her one more opportunity to exonerate herself. Her own account was exactly the same as Macalvie's. Winding it up, finally, she said, “You see, sometimes they'd go down there to get on Mr. Daniel's boat. You know, their father's. That's what police thought, that they wanted to get to the boat.”

Not bothering to correct her on that score, Melrose said, “But how could Bletchley get a boat in among those rocks?”

Emily Hayter was not at all interested in boatmanship and waved the question away. “Well, he could, is all I know.” She had been interrupted by nonsensical questions and now would get back to her own report. “Something woke me, something like a yell or a cry. I'm up on the top floor, so it's a distance. And I thought if some noise would reach up there, it must be pretty loud. So I put on my robe and slippers and went downstairs. It was dark and I couldn't see down to the first floor; anyway, you can imagine I was alarmed. Then I stiffed myself up”—here she sat straighter, stiffing herself—“got a torch, and—” She paused to select another slice of apricot bread.

“You went—”

“Straightaway to the children's rooms. When I saw they were out of bed, I got a worse fright than I'd got from the noise. I looked all through the house, calling them. Nothing. No one. Did I tell you the Bletchleys went off? Did I mention that?” She clearly disapproved.

“Then, you—”

“Well, I went outside, of course. There wasn't no one, nor did I hear anything. Only the sound of the sea. I must've been out there for a good twenty minutes, looking through the woods, and there was nothing. I didn't want to stay out, it being the middle of the night. I'll tell you something, sir.” Her voice dropped to a sibilant whisper. “There's legends round these parts about that house—”

A legend. Oh, great. He must rush to inform Brian Macalvie. He pasted a smile on his face and hoped she'd get back to reality if he was patient.

“—that it's built on the graves of a family that was murdered in their sleep.” She leaned across the table, close enough for him to smell her nutmeggy breath. “The place they say is haunted by the ghost of a governess named Marianna.”

There's always a governess, often named Marianna or some version of the name. Well, he needn't feel so superior. Who had been mooning about, hoping the imaginary Stella would turn up? He frowned, thinking again of Karen Bletchley's story: a woman on the other side of the pond.

“The poor girl fell in love with some pirate. He only wanted to rob the place blind, of course. He did and he left and she never saw him again.”

“Ah.” He was not sure what he was ah-ing about. “And where did whoever saw it see this ghost?”

“On the cliff above those rocks.” Ever closer, she leaned toward Melrose, pulling her skirts more tightly down over her knees. “They say she stands there always looking out to sea.”

Ever stood she, prospect impressed.
There it was again, the line from Hardy. He felt the same unutterable loneliness wash over him, despite the warm cottage, the pleasant homely woman, the apricot bread. . . .

He roused himself from the cloud that settled over him to hear her say, “. . . and one of the Decorators—”

There they were again, those marvelous boys, the Decorators! They'd certainly left their imprint on Bletchley.

“He claimed he saw this ghost in the kitchen. But those two were—well, I can't imagine they were very dependable.”

It was clear what she thought of “those two.” Melrose turned to another subject. “Bletchley certainly has its share of bizarre and unhappy occurrences. This unfortunate woman who seems to have vanished—her nephew waited on me at the Drowned Man.”

She was nodding her head before he'd half finished. “That'll be Chris Wells you're talking about. As you say, a strange thing to happen.”

“She owns the Woodbine Tearoom, doesn't she?”

“Her and Brenda Friel. Good workers, those two, and make no mistake; operating a business like that, that's hard work for not much return. I help out sometimes with my berry pies. They're real popular, my pies. If they go away, I go in and help out young John, Chris's nephew. I'd say a lot of kids could take a page from his book.”

Work was clearly the yardstick Emily Hayter used to take the measure of man. Melrose would rate perhaps half an inch. “The lad is awfully upset.”

“And why not? Chris Wells is like a mother to him. His da died, and his own mother just went off when he was a little thing. Chris was her sister. I was thinking she might have gone to help that good-for-nothing relation of hers lives in Penzance.” She leaned nearer Melrose. “It's the drink taken over with him. I've no patience with that kind of thing.”

“Good lord, Mrs. Hayter, here I've been sitting over an hour and forgot why I came! I was wondering if you could spare me just a few hours every week to do some cooking. You've the reputation of being an excellent cook.” A little flattery never hurt.

He was right. If she hadn't before thought of herself as excellent, she did so now. “Well, I did do a bit of everything. How much time were you thinking of?”

“Oh, just once a week.” He'd decided he really didn't want anyone at all, for he was enjoying knocking about on his own. But he needed some reason to call on her. “I thought perhaps you could cook up a batch of food and freeze it and I could shove it in the oven or whatever when I needed it. You needn't bother with this week, as I'll be dining out a lot.”

They agreed on a time, and she took a notebook from behind a pillow on the couch (Melrose marveled at this secreting of the notebook; were a number of villagers after her cooking and charring schedule?) and wrote something down with the pencil attached by a string to the notebook.

“There. I've put in seven A.M. the Thursday after next. So that's sorted!”

Not for Melrose, it wasn't. “Could you make it a bit later, say, ten?”

“Yes, I expect so.” She gave him a look that suggested she couldn't imagine what he'd be doing at seven A.M. that her presence would interrupt. Out collecting fossils, perhaps? “If you don't mind me saying it, sir, it wouldn't come amiss to have something done with the grounds. They're looking poorly.”

“Ah. Yes, you're right. Have you someone in mind?”

“It's Jason Slatterly used to be gardener, and very good he is.”

“Perhaps it was he who laid a fire for me the first day.”

“I'm sure it was. He does nice little things like that for people.” Here she blushed furiously and tried to cover it up by raising her teacup to hide her face.

Had Mrs. Hayter romantic notions about Mr. Slatterly? This appealed to Melrose, this never-say-die attitude toward romance. And in one who, though not precisely stout, had the solidly packed form of a fireplug, little dimension to waist, hips, and breasts. “Tell me about him.”

“He was gardener for years when the Bletchleys lived there. The Decorators hired him back. But they wanted topiary designs. Mr. Slatterly couldn't see his way to doing that and argued against it. But those decorators would have their swans, wouldn't they? That's why the shrubbery on either side the front door has that ragged look to it. The Decorators messed the place about for nearly a year and then went back to London, where they should have stayed if I'm judge of things. This being Cornwall, we don't much care for the fancy ways of London.”

Melrose liked the way she made Cornwall sound like the Outer Hebrides. But then, Cornwall did rather think of itself as separate from the rest of England. And “fancy” London was trickling to Cornwall more and more for their second homes, buying up decrepit fishermen's cottages or great piles of stone set atop craggy cliffs, like Seabourne.

“This Mr. Slatterly, could you speak to him on my behalf?” My God, that was kingly enough.

She would be only too happy to do so.

He rose. “Well, thank you so much, Mrs. Hayter. And I'll be seeing you then in two weeks?”

“Yes, you will.”

“Fine.” Melrose let his gaze rest on the J.M.W. Turner, the original of which was in the Tate; had he looked at the painting in the Tate five minutes longer, it would have burnt a hole in his retina, the light was so glorious.

M
orris Bletchley really interested Melrose.

Anyone who could buy up a stately home (small, but still stately enough), home for generations to viscounts, barons, and baronets, and turn it around into a combination hospice and nursing home was worthy of interest. Especially when the someone was an American who'd made his fortune in fast-food eateries.

On this particular golden September afternoon, Melrose stood gaping at the land beyond the high windows of the old Sheepshanks—now Bletchley—Hall. Formerly the ancestral home of the Viscount Sheepshanks (or so the brochure told him), the grounds were simply magnificent, a blaze of marigolds and purple orchids blanketing much of the ground, but also arranged in knot gardens and parterres. The brochure had been given him by an overbearing, stout woman in a gray bombazine dress who had taken his request to see Mr. Morris Bletchley, as she no doubt took all requests. Her face did not change its expression of being put-upon, as this seemed to be her lot in life. She had gone off to fetch Mr. Bletchley, after directing Melrose to wait in this beautiful room in which he was standing, looking at an ornate fountain in which dolphins frolicked with bronze fish and cherubs; beyond this lay a gentle downward slope of lawn to the dip of a stream that bisected the land. Shallow steps led down to it, drifts of late-season grasses, and clumps of spotted orchids grew along its banks. Dahlias, cyclamen, and purple clematis grew on the downward-sloping lawn. About the grounds were situated white benches on which now sat one youngish woman, no doubt one of the inhabitants of Bletchley Hall, all diagnosed as terminal, a diagnosis Melrose sincerely hoped was not acting itself out as he watched.

Sharing this room with him was an old woman who had probably got here under her own steam, given the silver-headed cane her hand was still closed around, but who was now peacefully sleeping.

The idea behind the hospice movement was that one could die at home, in familiar surroundings. So in this regard it wasn't a hospice; yet it was a happy combination of both hospice and nursing home—if “happy” was the word. Melrose thought that if one had to die away from one's own home and kith and kin, one couldn't do better than Bletchley Hall. Or even given the choice between home and Hall, one might choose Bletchley. This was one of the times when he thanked God he had money. To be old and infirm was bad enough; to be old and infirm and poor was unthinkable. Deathbed scenes (he'd always thought) were grossly exaggerated in their display of filial devotion, the melodrama of relations gathered round the bed, weeping copiously, a battalion of black figures. More likely it was several hundred quid to the mortician and take her away. Or the family would all be out watching a cricket match or tucking into a set tea while Gran or Mum was expiring in an upstairs bedroom. No, the actuality of the moment of death leaned more toward the absence of loved ones than toward their presence.

But at Bletchley Hall, one could be certain of one's death being well-attended, the sheets white, the pillows plumped. Melrose could hardly wait for Sergeant Wiggins to see it.
There
was a man who could appreciate upscale care!

The room in which Melrose waited was not especially large, but the ceiling vaulting above his head was resplendent with elaborately carved moldings; the room drank up sunlight as if pitchers of it were spilling across the huge oriental rug that shimmered like silk, and angels could have danced on the sun-beams. The old lady sitting in a big Jacobean chair that dwarfed her was so lit up she might have been called to a higher glory. Melrose hoped she slept. In a place like this, it did not pay to investigate.

The stout woman in gray returned to tell Melrose that Mr. Bletchley was on his way and then crossed the room to raise her voice to the old lady: “Mrs. Fry! Mrs. Fry! Time to wake up!”

Why? wondered Melrose. Surely, Mrs. Fry's caravan had reached a stage in its slow journey when it wasn't “time” to do any bloody thing at all. Time for her had gone completely out the window with the withdrawing light. Time was of no consequence.

And why was it necessary to yell at old people as if they were all deaf? A few more Mrs. Fry's and Melrose was rising to assist when the old lady twitched awake. How could she help but wake with that voice barking in her ear? Now it told her it was “Time for your tea, dear.”

As the stout woman (labeled MATRON, she obviously functioned in some sort of managerial position) helped Mrs. Fry up and out, an elderly man in a wheelchair buzzed in and up to Melrose and held out his hand.

“Morris Bletchley. People call me Moe. You wanted to see me? You wouldn't happen to have a fag, would you? As long as it's not that mentholated crap.”

He gave Melrose a once-over, as if evaluating him for good-times possibilities. Melrose wished he'd stuck a flask in his back pocket.

“I do, yes.”

Moe Bletchley turned the chair and started toward the door with a “follow me” wave. As Melrose followed, Bletchley said over his shoulder, “Smoking room's this way. Got to be careful here. Emphysema, emphysema. Wouldn't want anyone with lung cancer watching me enjoying myself while I'm on the way to it.” Bletchley laughed, mostly through his nose. “You too.”