by Alicia Hope
I saw a corner fireplace dripping cobwebs, some ruined antiques shoved against the wall, and a dust cloth covering a bundle on the floor. When I lifted a corner of the cloth (hoping nothing with eight legs, a winged carapace, or whiskers and a long tail would emerge), something glinted in the torch light. It was a gilded picture frame, broken into pieces, with a canvas clinging to it in jagged strips. Thankfully most of the painting was there, so I was able to piece it together on the floor, like doing a jigsaw.
It was the portrait of a young woman, seated beside a baby grand piano under a large picture window, with a fire smouldering in a corner fireplace. The view through the window was of a harbour. And when I illuminated the woman’s face, I could clearly see the Brande Topaz eyes smiling conspiratorially at me. That’s when I knew for sure I’d found a portrait of Elizabeth Lorienne, nee de Brande Barlow.
And that’s not all I found … but sorry Mum, I’ve got to go. I’ll email you the rest of the story tomorrow.
Sorry for the ‘to be continued’!
Luv,
CR
Chapter Eleven
Dear Diary ...
A blood-curdling scream rent the night air, jarring Claire-Rose upright from where she’d been reclining on the bed, computer on her lap. The laptop jiggled at her sudden movement and she grabbed it with both hands to steady it. Hastily finalising the email to her mother, she pressed ‘send’ as another fearsome shriek ripped the darkness. Stiffening, she waited, heart pounding, for the next auditory assault. When footsteps raced along the corridor and past her door, she pulled the quilt under her chin like a fabric shield.
What the blazes was going on?
From outside her door she heard a masculine voice bark, ‘Room ten.’
Number ten, just up the hallway. The Fox’s room. Oh no….
Another anxious voice cried, ‘What’s wrong?’ and was met with an impatient grunt as more footsteps rushed past.
Claire-Rose got to her feet, thinking, one in, all in. She pulled on her robe, tying it firmly around her waist, and padded to her unit’s door which she opened a crack. The commotion was increasing outside. Further along the corridor she saw a man tugging down a crumpled tee shirt over what appeared to be hastily-donned track pants. He strode purposefully up to the open doorway of room ten, and hesitated there just long enough to run a hand over his sleep-tousled hair before going inside.
A group of people gathered outside the doorway, and Claire-Rose recognised Alan Jenkins, Mandeep Singh-Samra, and the Meiers. Poking her head out further, she caught the sound of loud sobbing coming from the room. Immediately anxious for Jill Fox, she stepped out and made her way up the corridor to join the throng. When she got closer, her ears picked up Byron’s deep voice coming from inside. It sounded like he was soothing Jill, whose sobs were indeed beginning to subside into tearful hiccups.
Peter Fox’s plaintive voice carried out the door. ‘Damn near gave me a heart attack with all that screeching!’
‘I doubt your wife did this to frighten you, sir.’
‘Oh, I wasn’t frightened,’ Peter huffed, affronted, ‘just rudely awoken.’
‘Right....’ Byron’s voice was even but Claire-Rose caught a hint of disdain in it.
She had reached the doorway by this time and stood beside Alan Jenkins to peek inside. Byron was standing beside Jill holding her hand, while Peter, in ‘Bob the Builder’ pyjamas, sat on the bed looking annoyed.
‘Now tell me, Mrs Fox,’ Byron was saying gently, ‘what happened?’
‘What’s going on?’ Claire-Rose whispered to Alan.
‘Not sure,’ he replied gravely, ‘maybe an intruder.’
Claire-Rose sucked in a breath and crept further into the room to reassure herself Jill was alright. Scrunched hard up against the headboard with the bedclothes drawn tightly under her chin, Jill’s eyes appeared enormous in her deathly pale face. They kept scanning the room for signs of danger.
‘Oh...,’ she moaned, and a shudder ran through her body, ‘s-so c-cold.’ Rubbing her face with a trembling hand, she repeated, ‘Oh.’
‘Take your time.’ Byron’s tone was low and soothing.
‘I-it ... h-he ... came out of the b-bathroom,’ and she pointed a trembling finger, ‘and was leaning o-over me....’
‘Who was?’
‘Oh, I was s-so f-frightened!’ Jill dragged a hand over her eyes and took a sobbing gasp of air.
‘Understandably, but who was leaning over you?’
‘A m-man....’
‘Do you know who it was?’
‘N-no, but I ... well, it might’ve been....’
‘Who?’
‘You’ll think I’m crazy.’ Jill cast a furtive glance at her flustered husband, who had risen to his feet to stare down at her with a supercilious expression on his florid face.
‘No we won’t.’
‘Oh, I think you will.’
‘Who might it have been, Mrs Fox?’ Byron persisted, patiently.
She paused to chew on her bottom lip before whispering, ‘A ghost.’
Peter gave a snort and rolled his eyes, earning himself a black look from his wife.
Byron frowned. ‘A ghost? You think you were attacked by a ghost?’
‘I knew it, you think I’m crazy, don’t you?’
‘No, but—’
‘He ... it ... was in old-fashioned dress.’ Jill’s voice grew stronger. ‘Why would a prowler bother with fancy dress?’
Both men looked sceptical but said nothing. Byron glanced at the bedside table and saw a bookmarked novel Jill was obviously in the middle of reading. The title jumped out at him. ‘Graves and Ghosts at Gatsby Manor’. He reached over to grasp it, taking in its appropriately dark, evil-looking cover.
Jill went on, ‘And he said ... he s-said....’
‘What did he say?’
Squeezing her eyes shut, Jill took a deep breath before blurting, ‘He said, “You sully my castle with your damnable presence”, or something like that. And when I screamed, he came c-closer, leaning right over me, and yelled, “Be gone!” and then d-disappeared.’ She shuddered again. ‘Oh, his breath felt so cold against my face, and smelled like the sea. It sent a chill through me, like someone had walked over my grave. And his eyes ... they were black holes, but with an evil light in their depths.’ She shivered and drew the blankets tighter around herself.
While Jill was describing her attacker, Byron glanced toward the door and saw Claire-Rose. He beckoned her to join him at the bedside and surreptitiously handed her Jill’s novel, open at the bookmarked page. He pointed to the first paragraph and Claire-Rose read, ‘The wraith slithered closer until she felt its foul breath against her cheek. She squeezed her eyes shut as the black hole of a mouth rasped, “Begone, dull creature! Do not sully my home with your disgusting presence!”
Exchanging a glance with Claire-Rose, Byron stepped back from the bed and said kindly, ‘I’ll go and make you a cup of tea, Mrs Fox. That’ll restore your spirits ... er ... make you feel better.’ He scowled at his unfortunate choice of words.
‘Yes, thanks,’ Peter replied.
Byron eyed him with some amusement before making his way out of the room. As he passed Claire-Rose he whispered, ‘I think she’ll be OK, but could probably use some female comfort.’
‘Looked to me like you were doing just fine,’ she murmured, placing Jill’s book back on the bedside table. ‘Until the “spirit” slip-up of course.’ She winked.
He grinned ruefully and left to make a cup – make that two – cups of tea. He had a sneaking suspicion if he only returned with one, it would be commandeered by the wrong recipient.
‘So, Jill, been an exciting night for you, hey?’ Claire-Rose smiled encouragingly and sat beside her on the bed.
‘You could say that.’ The frenzied light had left Jill’s eyes and she was slowly peeling herself off the headboard. ‘Oh, I was so scared....’ She turned solemn eyes onto Claire-Rose. ‘They think I’m stupid, don’t they?
Saying it was a ghost.’
‘I doubt that. You’re talking to people staying or living in a – how did Emma describe it? – oh yeah, a “haunted neo-gothic castle”.’
Jill rested her head on the pillow and closed her eyes. ‘I hope you’re right. But either way, I’m convinced it was a ghost.’
Claire-Rose patted her hand comfortingly, but her eyes strayed once more to the creepy-looking novel on the bedside table.
I don’t like to criticise someone who’s been scared out of her wits, but I think I know what was behind her big fright, and it was no ghost.
* * *
‘I’m glad to see it’s not only me who looks the worse for wear after a broken night’s sleep.’ Sally gave a wry grin and glanced around at the others. ‘We’ll probably all sleep like the dead ... er ... sleep well tonight.’
Alan dug her in the ribs and they both spluttered with restrained mirth. Claire-Rose gave a token smile, thinking the Jenkins were being a tad callous. Even if it were only a bad dream brought on by reading a scary book just before bed, Jill had been badly shaken. She, along with Peter, was conspicuous by her absence that morning. Claire-Rose glanced around the table. In addition to herself and the Jenkins, Thomas and Mandeep were the only other heavy-eyed guests to join them at breakfast.
Thomas appeared to share Claire-Rose’s opinion of Sally’s insensitivity for he said moodily, ‘I am glad someone is enjoying zis.’
The Jenkins had the sense to look chagrined as Alan hastened to say, ‘Don’t get us wrong, we feel bad for Jill. But part of the reason we chose to holiday in a castle is ’cos we hoped there’d be some spooky entertainment.’
Thomas gave a grunt. ‘Vell zen, you must be wery happy.’
‘Not happy Jill had a huge fright, of course,’ Sally blurted.
Thomas looked down his nose at her before lowering his gaze to frown into his cereal bowl, growling, ‘And I am not happy, eezer.’
‘Oh? What’s wrong, Thomas?’ Claire-Rose took another bite of her toasted Turkish bread and studied him intently. He certainly didn’t look his usual cheerful self.
‘It is a husband’s place to be vorried for his vife, is it not?’
Everyone paused mid-chew, mid-sip, mid-spoon, to stare at the young man. The realisation he was breakfasting alone for a change hit them all at the same time.
‘Is Selena alright?’ Claire-Rose asked quietly.
‘She ist ... not feel so good.’
‘Is she unwell?’
‘No, it ist not that....’
Claire-Rose put a comforting hand on his arm. ‘What, Thomas?’
‘Selena too has had a ... scare.’ He turned troubled eyes on her.
There was a clatter as Mandeep dropped a knife onto his plate, and everyone jumped.
Claire-Rose glanced around the table, saying lightly, ‘A jumpy lot this morning, aren’t we?’ which brought rueful grins to most faces. Thomas’s expression, however, remained grim.
‘Yah, zis morning is not so gudt.’
‘Did something happen?’
Thomas nodded gravely.
‘Please, tell me,’ Claire-Rose prompted.
‘I told her I vould not zay anysing, but I do not sink zat is right.’ He narrowed his eyes and stared intently into Claire-Rose’s. ‘Ve are all in zis together, yah?’
This met with nods of agreement around the table. Although the suspended spoons, cups and butter knives had all been put down, everyone remained staring in rapt attention at Thomas.
‘Last night, Selena was gettingk ready for bed. She was havingk a shower in ze bassroom, but zen she rrrips open ze door,’ and Thomas startled everyone by jumping to his feet to act out the scene, ‘and scrrreams, but no sound it comes out.’ He opened his mouth wide and screwed up his face to demonstrate her terrified countenance as gasps rippled around the table.
‘I go in to help her, yah?’ He was greeted with silent nods. ‘Ze room, it is steamy from ze shower. My Selena, she likes it hot, yah?’ When his fond smile was met with mute stares, he hurried on. ‘Selena, she vas vashing her hair and sought she heard a sound. Ven she opened her eyes, she saw....’ He took a deep breath. ‘Ze shower curtain coming toward her, vis a face in it.’
‘A face?’ Claire-Rose breathed.
‘Yah, a face.’
The mouths of everyone listening had taken on similar ‘O’ shapes.
‘But ven I looked, I saw nussing.’
‘Oh, poor Selena. Is she OK?’
‘Yah, she vill be alright, just a little shooken.’
Claire-Rose swallowed a smile at his faulty English while thinking, this is another example of an overactive imagination going WAY too far. Even so, she gave a start when a hand touched her shoulder. She jerked around.
‘Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.’ Byron cast an amused glance around the table. ‘Are you guys telling ghost stories again?’
Everyone sat back in their chairs and put on their best casual faces. There were some dissenting murmurs and head shaking, but nobody would look Byron in the eye.
‘I thought as much.’ He chuckled and shook his head at them. ‘Ghost-crazy, that’s what you all are.’
‘Well, if we are, we have good reason to be,’ Mandeep said stiffly. He rose to his feet and bowed. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must return to my good wife’s side.’
Watching him stalk off, Claire-rose wondered why Randeep hadn’t joined them at breakfast.
When the others began talking quietly among themselves, Byron leaned down to smile into her eyes. ‘Are we still on for tonight?’
‘Oh, right, yes ... dinner tonight. Um—’
‘Don’t tell me you’re going back on your promise?’
‘No ... I…. Hey! I never made you any promise.’
‘Maybe not, but you also didn’t say no. So I’ve made plans—’
‘What sort of plans?’ She raised an interrogative eyebrow.
‘You’ll like them, they’re all above board.’ At her meaningful stare he went on. ‘I have a chilling bottle of bubbly I thought we could share while taking in the views of Witchcliffe Bay – have you been there yet? – and from the bay we’ll head into town for dinner at this great restaurant—’
‘Not the Chinese?’
He chuckled. ‘No, not the Chinese.’
‘And Skye?’ There was that eyebrow again, teamed with a mischievous glint in her eyes.
He frowned. ‘Why do you keep bringing her up? I’ve already said she’s not coming.’
‘Oh, so your relationship is....?’
‘We’re friends.’
Claire-Rose couldn’t resist giving a dubious snort, which he studiously ignored. ‘So, shall I pick you up around six?’
She shot him a sideways look before saying hesitantly, ‘OK.’
‘Great.’ His face broke into a wide grin and he turned to leave, saying over his shoulder, ‘See you at six then.’
Claire-Rose pursed her lips and her eyes grew troubled. So, I’m on a date with Byron, she mused. This is probably only a holiday flirtation, so he won’t need the standard warning about my commitment phobia ... or will that be taking too much of a risk?
Time and again over the desperate, guilt-ridden days following Kris’s accident, Claire-Rose had tried to reassure herself that she’d warned him of the possible short term nature of their relationship.
‘You need to know something about me,’ she’d whispered one night while he nibbled on her ear. ‘Kris, c’mon, it’s important.’
He’d sighed and withdrawn his blonde head, but his arms still held her tightly against him. Even Blind Freddy could tell Kris was merely indulging her, waiting just long enough for her to finish before resuming his delicious task. She’d tried to remain serious while he gazed at her, desire resonating from every fibre of his being.
‘Look, you need to know what I’m like, Kris, in case I stay true to form. In everything I do, I first get excited, then I get comfy, and then I get bored. And then it’s only a
matter of time before I get going. I don’t mean to hurt anyone, it’s just the way I am. So be warned....’
Sitting there at the breakfast table, Claire-Rose winced at the memory of Kris’s flippant bark of laughter following her earnest warning. But at the time, she’d found herself falling into a deep, lustful morass, confident she’d said all she needed to. Only she hadn’t, obviously.
And she wasn’t going to make the same mistake again....
Mon, 14 October, 14:34:57
From: Claire-Rose.Brande
To: Connie.Brande
Re: CR’s Travel Log, day 8 (part 2)
‘Phew! Been a bit happening since my earlier email, Mum. But I’m sure you want to hear the second part to my discovery story first.
OK, where was I? Oh yes, on my knees among the cobwebs and who-knows-what-else, at around midnight, in a restricted area of a haunted neo-gothic castle, staring at a torn painting of a long-dead ancestor. Nothing out of the ordinary, LoL!
Studying the picture, I noticed Elizabeth was holding a diary in her left hand. Her other hand rested on the arm of the chair, with the index finger extended ever-so-slightly, as though pointing at the fireplace. When I focused the torch’s beam on the fireplace in the painting, I noticed a brick in its surround that looked out of sync with the others.
Right about then, something brushed against me, and I had to suppress a frightened squeeeel! But it was only Topaz. I’d forgotten he’d followed me into the room. The rotten scoundrel sauntered over to the fireplace, parked his tabby butt in front of it, and proceeded to clean behind his ears. My torch was still shining on the fireplace in the picture, which gave me an idea. I got to my feet and went over to check out the real fireplace. When I brushed away the dust and cobwebs covering the surround, my fingers bumped over a slight protrusion. And that’s when I was sure I was standing in the room depicted in the painting.