But only someone who spent a considerable amount of time as a houseguest would have seen through the obvious ‘shape-up’ that the hostess, or indeed their little group of servants, had effected. It was like a house cleaned up in a hurry, she thought, where the dust had been pushed behind the rugs, and the corridors swept in a frenzy.
* * *
Coffee and petits fours consumed, everyone retired to follow their different pursuits. It was time for Helena to leave her observations for a moment, and start with other kinds of pressing matters. Before leaving the room, Helena asked Mrs Ashby for a private word, and the older woman motioned to be followed into a sitting room off the hall, at the right of the main entrance, presumably her morning room. It was sparsely furnished with a desk in its centre as its main feature, a woman’s desk on which to write letters or compose menus to deliver to the cook, and little else. Helena was surprised to see something as modern as a telephone hanging from a corner, an interior line communicating with the rest of the house itself.
‘Mrs Ashby. I would like to see Lady Matthews at once,’ she started. ‘I also need to visit the Tudor ruins as soon as possible.’
Although Helena had already visited them in secret, she wanted to see the old woman’s reaction to her request. She wasn’t disappointed: her face drained of life, turning as white as the parchment diligently set out on the desk for letter writing and menu setting.
‘Pray, tell me, why do you require to see the ruins?’
‘It’s an obvious place to start looking.’
‘But nothing has ever been found there!’
‘Mrs Ashby, I don’t expect to “find” anything, exactly; but, all the same, I need to see the place for myself. From what Lady Matthews explained to me in London, the ruined Tudor manor was the usual playground for the three missing children.’
‘Wouldn’t you prefer to be taken to your room first, and freshen up? The ruins will be there tomorrow, and the day after.’
‘Mrs Ashby, please. I do not like being idle when working on a case. There is still light, and no better moment than the present.’
‘We should have had the whole thing pulled down. Down!’ Mrs Ashby said, with unexpected passion, and added no other word. Helena had what she needed.
* * *
The matter of the ruins’ reputation was for now resolved. However, her secret trip to visit them earlier in the week had elucidated two obvious questions: who was the woman that she saw there? And what was she doing in the ruins? A few well-placed, discreet enquiries among the servants elicited the information that she was a beggar who kept appearing all over the estate, that she had tried to get into the actual house at least three times, being rebuked and succeeding only on one occasion. She was thought to be a non-dangerous creature, and generally idiotic.
* * *
The following morning Lady Matthews did not come down for breakfast. Helena had not seen her employer yet, and she needed to double-check some facts that had emerged since their brief interview in London.
‘Mrs Ashby, I need to have an interview with Lady Matthews as soon as possible,’ she explained. The woman looked frankly puzzled. Helena wondered whether she had any inkling as to how her work was accomplished, and gathered not.
‘I will also need to see the children’s nursery.’
Mrs Ashby’s brows shot up.
‘The nursery has been shut for two decades, Miss Walton. Damp problems.’
‘I ought to see the places where the children spent most of their time. Please let me know whenever you can grant my request.’
And with this, Helena left, hoping to command some notion of urgency rather than impertinence. She knew from the servants that Lady Matthews had been indisposed, but she needed to see her nonetheless. She went out of the house, and left the grounds at a brisk walk, to all intents and purposes to take the air.
The servants had also provided her with information regarding a recently deceased local poacher. It seemed that there would be no inquest into his death, as he was an old man who had lived a long and happy life. Still, the gathering expected that morning in Old John’s house was an invaluable occasion to take the measure of some local characters.
As soon as she was out of the estate, she found herself opposite a long field heaving with activity. It was the planting season, a group of men gathered in the distance around a tatty ploughing engine. A long line of land workers was marching ahead of her in the road. She thought about catching up with them, but they were too far away.
At last she arrived at the cottage. Exactly as she had expected, a few neighbours, the priest, the local historian, and a young local woman who was introduced as a cousin and helper to Dr Wilson, also present, as well as the local constable, had all descended en masse upon the little place. Helena was asked how she had come to be in those parts. It sufficed to say that she was a guest of Lady Matthews, interested in the history of the estate, and she had wanted to pay her respects to one of her older tenants.
‘Old John surely had many stories to tell about the estate, Miss Walton,’ the reverend simply said, and he added, somewhat pensively, ‘Blessed Edmund preserve us! Blessed Edmund preserve us all!’
‘And St William of Norwich,’ muttered the young constable. ‘Poor Old John; always knew he would be gone at dusk. “At dusk the devil will come and devour me,” he was fond of saying,’ he chuckled.
Helena said nothing. The young woman had apparently found the corpse, but Helena wasn’t interested enough in a death by old age to talk to her. Still Helena sensed that she regarded her with interest. She had an unruly mat of pale blonde hair, which seemed to stay up without the need for pins, and a nervous and alert gaze that followed her around the room.
One of Old John’s granddaughters was serving tea, struggling with the large teapot. She went to help her, and finally served herself a scalding cup that burned her tongue.
‘Thank you so much for the tea. What is your name?’ asked Helena.
‘Rosie.’
‘Thank you, Rosie.’
As Helena had expected, the cottage was the closest dwelling to the Tudor ruins. She managed to snatch a few words with the old poacher’s daughter outside of the cottage, where the men could not hear them talking. Helena went straight to the point: had anyone seen anything peculiar? Something they could not explain?
‘Aye, aye, miss. All that.’
She and the children had seen an ‘odd-shaped’ version of Old John the previous night, wandering about. Apparently, she was sure that the ‘false’ Old John would not do anything to harm the children. She said something very perceptive, in Helena’s opinion: he looked like he was made of mushrooms.
‘But you knew he was harmless?’ she ventured.
‘Aye. But I didn’t want the children to see him like that, miss.’
‘Why is that?’ Helena asked.
‘’Cause, miss, no one should see anything that it wasn’t meant for this world, do it changes you for the rest of your days,’ she explained. ‘Do’ meant ‘if it should happen’, a much more absolute phrase, Helena thought, than her own clumsy equivalent.
The young blonde woman who had been introduced as Dr Wilson’s assistant appeared at the door, hovering over the conversation. Old John’s daughter made her excuses and went back into the little house.
‘Hello.’ It was Eliza Waltraud.
‘Hello.’
Helena had noticed Miss Waltraud did not flinch at her Spanish surname, which made her instantly like her. She assessed her to be in her late twenties. Helena lit a cigarette.
‘May I have one?’ Miss Waltraud asked. Helena offered her a little enamel box, which contained some roll-ups and matches, kept in a clever little contraption on one side.
‘This is nifty,’ Miss Waltraud pointed, appreciating the object, as she took a deep drag of the fragrant tobacco.
‘It is created particularly to fit into the secret pockets in the fold of a dress.’
Miss Waltraud smiled at this.
‘Clever! I should get one for myself.’
They both smoked for a few seconds without saying anything else.
Eventually Miss Waltraud offered, ‘Have you seen her?’
‘Who?’
‘The butler’s daughter, Dot.’
‘No, I haven’t. Do you think I should?’
‘Are you not the lady detective?’
Helena smiled. ‘You have the advantage of me.’
‘I apologise. There has been some talk among the servants…’
Miss Waltraud threw the cigarette butt on the ground and stepped on it.
Helena produced a flask. ‘Cranberry liquor, from the north of Spain. Would you like to try it?’
‘No, thank you.’ Miss Waltraud paused for a moment and then took a breath, as Helena took a sip from the flask. ‘Around a month ago I found a girl while out walking, wandering around the marshes, and Peter, Dr Wilson, took her under his roof. He looked after her for a few days.’ Helena nodded to make her continue. ‘Eventually she was removed to a facility in Yorkshire for catatonic cases. You see, she was catatonic, in a very similar way to—’
‘You mean like the butler’s daughter? Is she also catatonic?’
‘Exactly—or, rather, like Dot used to be in the early days. She has improved a little with the passing of time, apparently.’
‘I see.’
‘Well, most doctors in the area have been here at some point to see Dot, and are aware of her history.’
‘So your cousin remarked on the similarities between cases? It sounds strange, certainly, but why should this interest me, I wonder?’ Helena said this smiling, trying to put Eliza at ease. She took another sip.
‘Dot wasn’t born like that; she was found like it the day Maud, Alice and Flora vanished.’
Helena had not expected the conversation to take this turn. She had not expected this at all.
‘That is very interesting indeed. What did the doctors have to say? About the cause of her condition?’
‘Not much. They put it down to the shock,’ she explained. ‘It is curious, to say the least, is it not? The way most female maladies are put down to shock, over-exhaustion, hysteria. It almost seems as if the good doctors are trying to find reasons not to worry about our ailments. We are not worth that much to them, I guess,’ she concluded.
‘And what do you think?’
‘Me?’ The woman laughed at this. ‘Believe me, no one cares to hear my opinion.’
Helena felt a pang of sadness on hearing this. It brought too many memories back.
‘Well, I do.’
‘In that case… I would very much like to show you a couple of places around here. The collapsed church, the factory, and the ruins. Especially the ruins.’
‘Oh, I know the ruins…’
‘Then you must know.’
‘I must know what?’
‘That “there are more things in heaven and Earth…”’ Eliza smiled again. ‘Look, would you like to meet Dot now?’
‘Now?’
‘I help look after her, and I need to give Mrs Burroughs a rest soon.’
Helena agreed. It was an opportunity too good to miss. But she was getting worried about the implications of what she had just heard. Had the child in the estuary been catatonic as well, or merely fainted? She couldn’t have said.
* * *
When Helena re-entered the house, the butler informed her that Mrs Ashby wished to see her. Helena thanked him and followed him into a room where Mrs Ashby sat behind a gigantic desk that made her look diminutive.
‘Miss Walton-Cisneros,’ she said. Helena noticed it was the first time she had used her full name since their acquaintance, and knew herself in trouble. ‘You have not been idle these past couple of days. I gather you have covered much ground already,’ she said.
‘I would have covered much more by now if I had been informed of certain things that I’ve had to find out by myself, Mrs Ashby.’ The old woman smiled oddly, got up, and went to a cabinet. Helena wondered whether to continue, but there was nothing to be gained by class-conscious delicacies and, although she imagined she was risking her displeasure, she added: ‘And I don’t normally accept cases to “be idle”, something my clients normally appreciate; when their intention is to find the truth and not to obfuscate it, that is.’ Helena felt relieved when the old lady laughed at her words. It was difficult not to feel a little bit imposed upon by her aristocratic demeanour. Helena knew her late husband had been an earl and wondered why Mrs Ashby didn’t use her own title. She opened two gold-gilded panel doors to reveal a collection of decanters and glasses.
‘Too early for a sherry?’ Mrs Ashby ventured.
‘Thank you, I’d love one,’ Helena replied, and the old woman indicated by a gesture that Helena should sit on one of the chairs by the fire. She was a bit damp from a light rain outside, and welcomed the opportunity to dry out a little and ingest something revitalising. It struck Helena that she had never seen this woman perform any task, no matter how minor, and it was odd to see her serve the drinks and bring them to a side table set between both chairs with her little bird-like steps. She wondered if she should have offered to help her.
‘Where is Lady Matthews?’
‘Lady Matthews has a slight headache. She’ll be down for dinner.’
‘Really?’ Helena had not seen her hostess since she got to the abbey. ‘Mrs Ashby, if I may, I was engaged by Lady Matthews, and I would like to report directly to her. I have not seen her since I got here. I have many questions for my employer, questions that have arisen during this investigation. I do not know what you may think my work entails, but I assure you, in order to test and retest the ongoing theories that may arise, it is advisable to remain in contact with one’s employer. Obviously, if there are difficulties, or if the person who engaged you is detained, or indisposed, it is a shame, but it would be much better for me to acknowledge this fact at once, instead of being led into this absurd game of hide-and-seek. Pray tell me, will I be able to see Lady Matthews at all while I’m here? I do not normally abandon my cases, but let me tell you that my approach to this investigation will vary a great deal if my employer does not make herself available to me.’
Mrs Ashby remained silent a few seconds.
‘Is that all?’ she simply asked.
‘It is certainly all I would like to say to you, yes. But, if you really are going to act as the true mediator between your friend and myself, I advise you to memorise to the slightest detail all her movements and impressions of the day the children disappeared, because I need a first-hand account, in her own words.’
Helena could not tell in truth why she felt so frustrated by Lady Matthews’s lack of interest in her progress. Perhaps it was because the woman had seemed interested in her methods back in London, perhaps it was because Helena was starting to sense something darker in her refusal to cooperate. Why had she not mentioned the factory at all? What was she hiding?
A sharp sound pierced the air, and it took Helena a moment to understand the telephone on the desk was ringing. Mrs Ashby got up with determination, and walked towards the little device with more energy than she had yet seen her display. She picked it up brusquely.
‘Yes?’
Someone spoke at the other end of the line, but Helena could not hear a word they were saying.
‘I see. Please inform Dr Wilson. Do the usual.’
Her business-like manner, handling such a modern machine, was somehow baffling, like an anachronism. She put the receiver down.
‘May I ask what that was about?’ Helena hoped she understood that she was conducting an investigation, not simply being nosy.
‘Nothing you should worry with. However, I would appreciate it if from now on you avoided asking questions of the child. She is having a very difficult afternoon.’
‘The child? Do you mean Dot?’
‘That’s right.’
It was odd how she didn’t say her name.
The ol
d lady looked intently at Helena, finished her sherry in one gulp—not a very ladylike gesture—and put the empty glass down.
‘Very well, I’ll see what I can do for you. Wait here, please, Miss Walton.’
* * *
It had not crossed Helena’s mind that she was going to be summoned there and then, but something of what she said had struck a chord with Mrs Ashby. She stayed sipping her sherry, expecting the American woman to come back to let her know when she could expect a private interview with her hostess. To her surprise it was the butler who appeared.
‘Miss Walton, Lady Matthews will receive you now. If you would be so kind as to follow me.’
Helena got up. They climbed up the main staircase, and took a turn to the eastern wing, the opposite one to where Helena was staying. They climbed one more floor, reaching a large corridor that had the faint feeling of not being much used: some pieces of furniture had white sheets covering them, some windows were shut with that finality one expects in abandoned houses. The only sign that the place was in use was the eternal sempervivum in their little vases and china saucers. The butler stopped in front of one of the doors, and he knocked in that soft butlerish manner, opened the door, stepped inside to murmur something Helena didn’t catch, and held the door open for her. As she entered, he, with a deft servant’s movement, left noiselessly, closing the door behind him.
It was the anteroom parlour adjacent to the lady of the house’s bedchamber. It was decorated in pastel colours, with frills, and faded oil paintings of floral arrangements. But it also had the faint air of a room hardly ever used, as if it were lacking ornaments somehow. And it had a particularity not very common among landed ladies: the walls were covered in a profusion of little framed black-and-white photographs, competing for the available space among the oil paintings. They were all haunting, and they were all like the three Helena had been entrusted with in the folder Lady Matthews had given her on the day of their first acquaintance.
The Broads, the mirrors of water over the fenlands, the fragile and barely standing wooden windmills, the miniature bridges, the little boat with its square sails over a water so quiet, so smooth, horses and carts ploughing the fields, the eel catchers considering an osier eel trap, the huge corn stacks in the middle of a long field. A canal, endless. And everywhere that flatness, that sense of a land without end.
The Golden Key Page 15