The Mercer's House (Northern Gothic Book 1) (3 page)

Why hadn’t Jonathan searched for Helen years ago, Zanna wondered. Perhaps, as happened with many people, his final illness had brought home to him what was important, had given him the wish to put things right. Zanna had been dealing—badly—with the collapse of her own little world when he had called her home and told her of his prognosis, so his decline and death had just been one more item to add to the list of things to put to the back of her mind. He’d wanted her to look for Helen and bring her back to say goodbye, but that had been impossible at the time. Zanna had been wallowing in her own misery and could think only of herself then.

Now her father was dead and buried, and she was left to regret that he had chosen to die just when her own life was falling apart and she had no strength to think about it. She couldn’t say she felt grief at his loss, since they’d never been close. But as time passed and she gradually emerged from her own self-absorption, she’d begun to feel guilty at not having made more of an effort. She had always believed he’d failed her as a father, but perhaps she’d failed him too. He had wanted her to find Helen, and she’d made a vague promise and then gone away and done nothing, because she didn’t have time. She had to stay where she was in case Adam wanted her back—and for so long she had been sure he
would
want her back, in spite of Ellie, and what had happened with Garrett. No; she wouldn’t think about Garrett. That had been her own fault. She’d hurt him, and he hadn’t known how to deal with it. But they’d got over it and it was best forgotten now. He was still her friend, and Adam was still her friend, and Ellie was still her friend, and everything was fine now. They were grown-ups, after all, and there was no need to hold grudges over what had happened in the past.

Zanna sat in the bar until late, talking to Ewan and Joe and some of the other customers who came in. It was midweek, so the bar emptied early, and after everyone had gone Ewan challenged her to a game of darts, which became increasingly silly as the drinks went down. She finally went up to bed at midnight, walking a little unsteadily. It was warm and stuffy in her room, and she threw open the sash to let in the breeze, and peered out into the darkness. There was no traffic, and she could just hear the sound of the waves at the end of the street. A light winked out at sea: perhaps a fishing-boat. She watched it for some time, then at last pulled her head in, dropped her clothes on the floor and fell into bed. The streetlights had gone off, but there was a moon, and she lay awake for some time, watching the moonbeams as they drifted slowly across the floor, and the curtains as they rippled softly in the night breeze.

Z
ANNA SLEPT badly, although the bed was comfortable enough, and by six-thirty was wide awake. She rose and went into the little en-suite bathroom, and fumbled for some painkillers in her washbag, to get rid of the nagging headache that was no doubt due to all the beer she’d drunk the night before. Then she returned to the bedroom and looked out of the window as she tossed the pills down with some water. The sun was just beginning to rise, and the skeletal fingers of lilac and grey and gold that crept slowly up from the horizon promised another hot day, although the weather forecasters had been warning that the heatwave would be gone by the weekend. Zanna had a sudden longing to go outside and taste the fresh dawn. She dressed quickly, a dress and cardigan over a swimsuit, then picked up her portable easel and the bag that held her paints, and headed downstairs. She could hear a clinking of dishes from the bar as she passed through the lobby, although there was no use in going in, as breakfast wasn’t until seven.

Once out in the street, she hurried down to the beach and set up her easel with a small canvas, then pulled out her oil paints and began to work quickly before the sun emerged fully and the scene was lost. After half an hour she allowed herself to pause and regard her work. By now the colours in the sky had faded to a pale mauve blending to blue, and she could do no more, but she was satisfied she’d captured as much as she could. It felt good to be painting again after her long, self-imposed break. She cleaned off the brushes and wiped her hands, then left her things and walked down to the sea.

The sand and the air were cool, but she was feeling heavy and sticky after her night in a stuffy hotel, and the water enticed her irresistibly. She threw off her dress and sandals and stepped into the water. It was freezing, but she kept on walking until she was up to her knees, then her waist, and then with a gasp of shock she immersed herself fully and began to swim with strong strokes out to sea. She kept going until she had warmed up, then turned back to look at the shore, treading water. The tide was receding, and to her surprise she found she had drifted some way, and was much nearer than she had supposed to the outcrop of rocks, against which the waves were dashing in angry surges. Evidently the tides here were much stronger than they looked, and even as this thought struck her she felt herself caught in a strong eddy, which buffeted her further towards the rocks. She began to swim, but for a few moments the water held her and she couldn’t pull away from it. She kicked hard, fighting against the undertow, which was now pulling her inexorably towards the rocks, and as she did so she again thought she heard voices somewhere nearby. For a second she lost her concentration and glanced around, but there was no-one in the water except herself. She was now near enough to the outcrop to feel the spray from the waves, and she redoubled her efforts. For a long moment she made no headway, then suddenly, just as she was starting to get frightened, the eddy changed direction and she was able to free herself and swim back towards the shore.

As soon as her feet touched the sandy bottom she stood up, and as she did so she froze for a second, because there, standing by the water’s edge, was the man she had seen the day before, gazing at her intently again. He had a dog with him, which splashed happily in the shallows, and again Zanna had the feeling of a forced stillness, or some kind of repressed emotion. He was closer this time, and she could see him more clearly, and she was disconcerted to find that he was better looking than she had imagined—the sort of man she would normally have been attracted to had he not been staring at her so rudely. As she emerged from the water, dripping and self-conscious in her clinging swimsuit, she once again met his eye defiantly, and he looked away.

‘It’s not safe to swim on this side of the rocks,’ he said, by way of explanation. ‘I thought you might be in trouble.’

‘Thanks,’ said Zanna. ‘But I’m all right. I came back in as soon as it got too strong.’

‘We have a drowning here every couple of years or so,’ he said. ‘You don’t want to be one of them.’

‘I won’t,’ said Zanna. ‘I’m pretty careful.’

‘Good,’ he said, then suddenly: ‘Is that your painting there?’

‘Yes,’ said Zanna, and waited for him to comment on it, but he didn’t. Instead, he nodded and turned to continue his walk. Zanna was slightly taken aback for a second, but she soon realized she was cold and shivering, so she picked up her clothes and went to fish her towel from her holdall. By the time she had changed and packed up, the beach was deserted once again.

She went back to the Coach and Horses to have some breakfast, as the swim had cleared her head and she was hungry. After that she showered and dressed, then clipped her long, dark hair into a neat chignon and applied a little mascara and lip gloss—just enough to give her face a bit of colour. Satisfied with the effect, she smiled at herself in the mirror. After several months in which she’d cared little about how she looked, she was pleased to note that she was starting to take an interest in her appearance again.

Her appointment with Alexander Devereux was at half past ten and it was now quarter past, so she left the Coach and Horses and set off to walk to the Mercer’s House along the beach. The tide was almost fully out now, and the sun was warm, and a few people had come out to enjoy the last few days of an Indian summer. Zanna walked along the beach and up the steep path that led to the Mercer’s House, then stopped to take in the full view of the building. She had little knowledge of architectural styles, and was wondering when it had been built when she noticed the date above the front door: 1793. Close to, she could now see that the house was in a state of some disrepair: although the stonework looked solid enough, the paint on the window frames was peeling, and the path that led up to the door was overgrown. How much was the upkeep on such a place, Zanna wondered.

Taking a deep breath, she rang the doorbell. It was answered promptly by a tall man of indeterminate age, although Zanna guessed him to be somewhere in his sixties. He wore an habitually wistful expression, which stretched into a wide smile when he saw her.

‘You must be Zanna, yes?’ he said. ‘Alexander Devereux. Tess! Down, girl!’ This last was to the border terrier which had just shot out of the house and was capering around Zanna’s legs. Zanna thought she recognized the dog as the one she had seen on the beach that morning with the watching man, as she had begun to call him in her head.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Alexander, once Tess had been subdued and shooed back into the house. ‘She gets very excited when anyone comes to the door. Come in, come in!’

He stepped back and Zanna followed him into a long entrance hall, whose walls were covered in peeling wallpaper. The tiles on the floor, too, were old and chipped. Tess was still bouncing and barking, and Alexander shut her in a nearby room.

‘She’ll be all right in there for a while,’ he said. ‘Come into the kitchen. I was just making coffee. You’d like some, wouldn’t you?’

He didn’t wait for a reply, but led her through the hall, which ended in a staircase that wound up around a central stairwell to the top of the house. Zanna stood at the bottom of the stairwell and looked up to the roof, in which there was a large skylight that let in the sun. The air was filled with particles of dust. Alexander opened another door at the end of the passage, which led into the kitchen. The room was a mixture of the antique and the merely old, with a large, sunken white sink under the window at one side, and an enormous dresser that looked as if it must have been there since Victorian times, while along another wall was a row of fitted cupboards which dated back perhaps twenty or thirty years, together with a modern oven and fridge. Alexander switched on the electric kettle and rooted about in a cupboard, while Zanna looked about her in curiosity, her attention caught by the eclectic arrangements. Above the dresser on the wall was an old servants’ call box, and she went across to look at it more closely. It had a little window for each room, so that the maids would know which bell to answer. Back door, front door, dining room, study, dressing room, Zanna read.

‘Glorious, isn’t it?’ said Alexander. ‘It doesn’t work any more, of course. And even if it did there’s no-one here to come running, more’s the pity. There’s only us.’

‘Us?’ said Zanna.

‘Oh, just Corbin and I, and Will when he’s here. Corbin is my brother,’ he explained. ‘Will is my son. He lives in Edinburgh most of the time, but he stays here often. He’s here somewhere, unless he’s gone out. Corbin’s been unwell. Had a stroke, unfortunately, and can’t walk very well any more, so he’s mostly in a wheelchair. It’s very frustrating for him, especially since it’s mainly affected the physical side of things. His brain’s all right, as far as we can tell—or at least, let’s say he’s still all there. We’ve only got instant, I’m afraid. I’d offer you tea, but we’ve run out of teabags. Milk and sugar? Now, let’s go and sit down.’

He handed Zanna a mug of coffee and led her back along the passage to a large living-room which was furnished much less eccentrically than the kitchen. Alexander directed her to a comfortable armchair and pulled up a little table for her, and Zanna sat and sipped her coffee, admiring the high ceilings and the carved fireplace, while he bustled about.

‘And so you are Helen’s niece?’ he said, once he had sat down himself. ‘You’ll think it odd, but I had no idea you existed until last week. Helen always kept quiet about her family.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry to have emailed you out of the blue like that, but my father died last year, and I said I’d—’

She broke off, as she realized shamefacedly how long it had taken her to set about fulfilling her promise—far too late for Jonathan to be reconciled with his sister. But Alexander was looking at her with sympathy.

‘I’m terribly sorry for your loss,’ he said. ‘It must be very hard to lose a parent when you’re young. Is your mother still alive?’

‘Yes,’ said Zanna, although that was another problematic relationship she didn’t want to talk about. ‘I’m all right, thank you. I’m only sorry it took me so long to find you. It didn’t occur to me at first that Helen might have got married, and then I spent ages looking through the marriage records, and after that I had to trace you. It’s lucky for me you’re quite well known.’

He laughed.

‘Am I well known?’ he said. ‘I suppose I am, in my own field. There can’t be many historians with my name. So, then, you are trying to trace Helen too. I’m afraid we haven’t done much that way ourselves in recent years. I look for her name online once in a while, just in case she’s got into the papers, or launched a business, or something like that, but we gave up the proper search quite a while ago, as it was obvious she didn’t want to be found. And she might have gone anywhere; we simply don’t know. She used to talk about Canada, and how she longed to paint the mountains, but whether she went there, or stayed in Britain, or went somewhere else I can’t tell you.’