‘I love dogs,’ Serena said. ‘I wouldn’t mind seeing a ghostly one. What sort of breed is it?’
‘No one’s asked that before,’ Eve said. She sounded annoyed that she didn’t know the answer. ‘It’s some sort of hound, I think, long and lean rather than big and shaggy. It belonged to Lord Lovell, the guy who disappeared during the Wars of the Roses.’
A bell rang, away down the passage. Eve jumped up. ‘That’ll be Ross come to change the barrels over. Don’t rush to finish up here,’ she added.
The guy who disappeared during the Wars of the Roses…
The words struck a discordant note with Serena, reminding her again of Caitlin. It was a curious coincidence that this was a place where more than one person had vanished over the years. She remembered her grandfather telling her about Francis Lovell, who had owned the Old Hall in the fifteenth century. He had been the closest friend of King Richard III and he had disappeared after the Battle of Stoke in 1487. Serena smiled as she drained her coffee cup. Her grandfather had always said she got her love of history from him and certainly she had been obsessed with Francis Lovell’s story when she had been in her early teens. She had been obsessed with Richard III for that matter; he had been one of her first historical crushes along with King Arthur, Robin Hood and Anne Boleyn.
But Francis Lovell had been special, not least because she and Caitlin had been friends with a boy called Jack Lovell who had lived in the village. Serena had often wondered secretly whether Jack was Francis’ descendent but she had never asked because she hadn’t wanted to appear uncool. She had cherished a number of adolescent dreams about Jack, maybe because she was so obsessed with Francis and had somehow conflated the two of them. It was a little embarrassing to remember it now, as teenage crushes so often were years later, but it had been very intense and real at the time. Even now she could remember that the infatuation she had had with Jack had felt so real it had been physically painful.
Serena turned the empty coffee cup around in her hands, feeling a surprisingly strong pang of loss. It was just nostalgia for the golden days before Caitlin’s disappearance, of course, but she regretted now the way that she had dropped Jack so ruthlessly along with all her other friends at Minster Lovell, in the aftermath of losing her sister. She hadn’t been able to begin to deal with her own emotions in that devastating time, let alone cope with anyone else’s, but looking back it felt harsh.
She set down the coffee cup and got to her feet, dusting the toast crumbs off her jeans. She wasn’t sure she would ever be hungry again after that breakfast. In a funny sort of way, it felt as though it had helped fortify her for what was ahead of her. The day was certainly going to be a challenging and stressful one.
The pale sun was gilding the ruins of the Old Hall now, softening the harsh grey stone to shades of cream. The shadows of bare branches danced against the walls, the early morning light glinting on the river. Serena hesitated. The manor house where her grandparents had once lived was owned by the Heritage Trust now and open to the public to visit from 9.30 a.m. during the winter season. Her plan had been to take a tour that morning before heading into Oxford, but suddenly it seemed impossible to move, impossible to take that final step over the threshold of her past. Suppose she did start to remember what had happened the last time she and Caitlin had stayed there? Suppose she did not?
Fear gripped her. For a second it had a stranglehold on her throat and she could hear nothing but the thud of her heart. The minutiae of other people’s lives going on around her faded away, the distant voices of the students as they set out on their hike, Eve talking to Ross down the corridor, a clank of barrels being unloaded, a constant faint drone of traffic from the main road at the top of the hill.
‘All finished now?’ Eve, like a jack-in-a-box, popped up in the doorway, making her jump. It broke the spell. Serena rubbed the damp palms of her hands down her jeans. Everything would be fine. If she remembered any details of the night Caitlin disappeared then that would be helpful, to her and to the police. If she remembered nothing then she was no worse off than she was now.
‘Yes, thank you,’ she said. She could see that Eve had the vacuum cleaner in tow and was keen to get on. ‘I think I’ll go for a walk.’
Up in her room she pulled a padded jacket from the heavy mahogany wardrobe and slipped it on over her jeans and striped navy-and-white jumper. The wardrobe, and a massive, carved wooden chest that took up almost all of the opposite wall, gave the room a dark and oppressive feel. Serena pulled the coat close, taking some sort of comfort from its warmth. She’d paid a flying visit home to the flat to grab a few clothes on her way to Minster Lovell; her packing for her US trip hadn’t been remotely appropriate for England in March.
She fumbled her phone into her coat pocket and zipped it up, changed her trainers for hiking boots and went back downstairs. The sound of the droning vacuum cleaner reached her from the breakfast room. There was no one else about.
Serena stepped out of the pub door and into a puddle. It must have rained overnight although the ragged grey dawn had now given way to something brighter and more hopeful. The wind was chilly and made her eyes smart. She wished she had thought to bring a scarf, hat and gloves as well. She’d have to pick them up later. Her hair, long, fine and mouse brown, darker than Caitlin’s had been, was already tangling and blinding her. She brushed it away from her face impatiently and pulled up the hood of the jacket.
A horn blared and Serena took a hasty step back. The pub was right on the corner where the road narrowed to cross the medieval humpbacked bridge over the river. Standing here on the edge of the tarmac was asking to be mown down by commuters who were in too much of a hurry to appreciate either the view or the tourists, so instead she slipped around the side of the building into the car park. Her small blue hire car was the only vehicle there, tucked away in a corner beneath a sprawling ivy-clad fence, and for a moment Serena experienced an almost overwhelming urge to jump in it and simply drive away, running from the past yet again.
Instead she crossed the car park to a wooden gate that opened directly onto the water meadow and set off, not towards the village, but across the fields towards the ruined hall. The River Windrush, a small and picturesque tributary of the Thames, was narrow here, and slow, winding lazily in a series of loops amongst the dead stalks of bulrushes, bugle and ragged robin. A path cut through the grass. It was dry immediately underfoot although Serena sensed the mud below. She walked slowly, listening to the splash of the river and the quacking of the ducks beneath the bridge.
The edge of Minster Lovell Hall land was marked by a clump of tall trees: poplar and sycamore and plane. There were also some ancient oak trees garlanded with mistletoe in their high branches. Serena remembered her grandmother, who had died when they were in their early teens, warning her and Caitlin not to eat the berries because they were poisonous. Serena’s mother had thrown a fit when she had heard and suggested the mistletoe should be cut down, whereupon their grandmother had retorted that the plant had been sacred to the druids and that they had no right to destroy something that possessed mystical powers. Serena’s mother wasn’t remotely mystical but she had recognised defeat when she saw it and the mistletoe stayed. Serena felt a rush of pleasure to see that it was still here.
The poplar and oak trees encircled a large square, shallow pond overgrown with weed and grasses that Serena remembered well. In the summer holidays she and Caitlin had played here, hunting for shards of pots and the slivers of tesserae from the mosaic floors of the Roman villa that was said to be hidden beneath the pool. Now Serena could see nothing in the murky green waters. Rooks and jackdaws rose in a cacophony from the treetops as she passed. There was no path as such any more; her footsteps led her between the pond and the river and right into the ruined hall itself, all fallen stone and jagged ledges.
Serena stopped, took a deep breath, and tested her reaction. This was where she had been found on the night that Caitlin disappeared, huddled semi-conscious in the
corner of the tower. Apparently when someone had touched her shoulder to rouse her, she had screamed hysterically but she remembered nothing of that. She remembered nothing at all before the moment she had come round in hospital in Oxford, asking what had happened.
She walked slowly over the grassed courtyard towards the range of buildings on the other side. These had been the kitchens and stables – there was a sign board in front of her that the Trust had installed to give visitors an image of how the now-crumbling buildings had once appeared – and to her left soared the high walls of the great hall and the chambers beyond. Serena had half-expected to feel a rush of panic by now and some recognition that something so traumatic had taken place here that her mind had blanked it out. She waited for her heartbeat to accelerate and her chest to tighten as it had done in the past when she had experienced panic attacks. Nothing happened. Both her mind and body seemed indifferent to this place, recognising nothing strange nor familiar about it.
Then she saw the manor house. It was sheltering in the western corner of the ruins, next to the church, small and square, grey, with lichened stone and a slate roof and diamond paned windows. A shaft of sunlight cut through the trees like a blade. Immediately the green of lawn and hedge lit up as though illuminated, displaying a neat box parterre and sculpted yew trees.
Home.
Serena felt the visceral pull of it, the roots that anchored her to this place and to her past. It was a shock to feel it so strongly. This she recognised. She had turned her back on the place and had run from family tragedy and the horror of Caitlin’s loss, but the ties connecting her to Minster Lovell Hall were too strong to be broken. Instead of fighting the sensation of inevitability she relaxed into it and let the sense of coming home wash through her. It felt incredibly comforting. Tears stung her eyes. She had not been expecting that at all.
The house looked very different to the way she remembered it. When she had visited in her childhood and teens, the gardens had been wild and tangled, an adventure playground of overgrown pathways and ponds and hidden sunny corners. The house too had had a more tumbledown air about it but everything looked so much better cared for now that it belonged to a heritage charity. Her grandfather had sold it about a year after Caitlin’s disappearance, when hope of her return had died and his health was fading with it. Serena’s grandmother had already died five years before that. There had been nothing to keep him there.
Ten years of renovation and conservation had wrought a huge difference. The place sparkled, beckoning the visitors in. Serena felt a pang of loss, as though the changes that had swept away the dust and decay had also brushed aside something precious – those golden sunlit hours with Caitlin, lying on the lawns reading, playing hide and seek between the trees, so many other memories… Until that last summer when both she and Caitlin had been moody teens in their different ways and for a little while it felt as though the whole structure of their twin-ship had become frighteningly fragile.
There was a small sign by the gate with an arrow pointing around to the side of the building and the words ESTATE OFFICE AND INFORMATION CENTRE printed neatly below. That, Serena assumed, was where she would find the ticket office and possibly a guide book. It would be interesting to see how Minster Heritage had interpreted the history of the site.
‘Serena? Serena Warren?’
Serena froze. For a moment she thought she had imagined the sound of her name, that it was no more than an illusion conjured by the past. Then a shadow drifted across her and she realised she was not alone.
She turned slowly back to the ruins of the hall.
A man was standing beneath an arched doorway at a right angle to her. The sunlight was behind him so that he appeared no more than a silhouette. Above him soared the remaining wall of the great hall with its huge pointed window and weathered stone tracery. He took a step towards her, out of the shadow of the door, and the light fell on his face. Immediately she recognised him. It was Jack Lovell.
Serena’s heart did a little flip but before she could start to analyse her feelings, something shifted in her mind, like brightly coloured kaleidoscope pieces breaking up, to reform in a new pattern. The scene – Jack Lovell walking towards her through the ruins – was so familiar that she was sure it must have happened before, and yet she couldn’t quite grasp it… And before she could see what the pattern was, the images had gone.
She watched as he approached her. He’d certainly changed. Gone was the lanky boy she remembered, who had always been absorbed in his books. He had grown up tall and broad-shouldered, wearing the same sort of outdoor gear she was dressed in: boots, jeans and padded jacket. He had a lean, intelligent face and when the wind ruffled his thick dark hair, he raised a hand to smooth it down again. Serena recognised the gesture and again felt that tiny skip of the heart. How odd that she had been thinking of him only that morning, and here he was.
‘Jack,’ she said. She felt dumbfounded, too surprised to pick her words. ‘My God, what are you doing here?’
Jack looked amused and immediately Serena felt as self-conscious as she had been around him eleven years before when she had had her crush on him.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I mean… How are you? It’s been such a long time…’ She could feel the colour crawling into her cheeks. Could she sound more gauche?
‘I’m very well, thank you,’ Jack said. ‘I didn’t expect to see you here either.’ He held out a hand formally to shake hers and Serena felt the warmth of his smile. She might not have kept in touch with Jack but she knew that these days he worked as an investigative journalist, specialising in high-profile cases of corruption and miscarriages of justice. This easy charm, cloaking an authoritative manner, was part of his professional armoury. She’d caught a few of his programmes on TV and he’d been very compelling on screen. She could see that the camera would love him.
She realised her hand was still in his and pulled it away hastily.
‘I come to Witney to visit my grandfather as often as I can,’ she said, a little at random. ‘He’s in a care home there. But I don’t come to Minster Lovell usually because of Caitlin – the memories, you know – it’s too hard…’ She stopped, hot and embarrassed, conscious that she was talking too much because she wanted to smooth over the awkwardness of their meeting. Why couldn’t she just shrug it off; say that it was nice to see him again and simply walk away? She’d mentioned Caitlin now but she really didn’t want to talk about her sister. Jack was as good as a stranger, not someone to confide in and her feelings about being back in Minster Lovell were too personal to share.
‘I saw in the news that Caitlin’s body had been found,’ Jack said. ‘I’m very sorry.’
‘Thank you,’ Serena said. She could feel him watching her, his dark gaze steady and rather too insightful for comfort. She didn’t want to get drawn into a discussion. ‘It’s been a difficult time,’ she said carefully.
‘I imagine it must be exceptionally hard for your whole family,’ Jack said. He shifted a little. ‘Now we’ve met up,’ he said, ‘I wonder whether you could spare me a moment? There’s something I wanted to ask—’
‘Jack!’ A woman scrambled through the ruined doorway and hurried towards them. She had a bulging rucksack and an air of preoccupation. ‘I thought we were meeting at the church,’ she said, ignoring Serena completely as she swung the rucksack off her shoulders and dumped it on the ground. It had a logo with MINSTER ARCHAEOLOGY written on it in bright blue letters. ‘Do you want to see the dig site or not?’ she went on. ‘We need to get in there before the rest of the forensics team arrive.’
Serena saw a flash of what looked like impatience in Jack’s eyes, swiftly gone. ‘Yes of course,’ he said. Then: ‘Zoe, you remember Serena Warren?’ He stressed her name slightly. ‘Serena, my sister Zoe. She was a few years younger than us so you may not have seen much of her back in the days when we all hung out together.’
‘Hi,’ Zoe said, barely looking up from fiddling with her rucksack to give Serena a qui
ck nod. ‘I’m sorry to be blunt, Jack, but since this is – strictly speaking – a police investigation as well as an archaeological dig, and you’re not meant to be here, you don’t really have time to chat with your fans right now.’
‘Zoe,’ Jack said, and there was steel in his tone this time. ‘Serena is Caitlin Warren’s sister.’
Zoe’s mouth fell open. She straightened up slowly, her face suddenly scarlet. ‘Shit,’ she said. ‘I’m so sorry. I hadn’t realised that the police had invited you to attend today. They told me they hadn’t spoken to Caitlin’s family yet about her burial site—’
Serena felt Jack shift beside her. ‘I think we’re at cross purposes,’ he started to say, but it was too late. Serena was remembering the conversation she had had back in Surrey with the local police constable, a bashful young trainee fresh from college who had turned his hat round and round in his hands whilst talking to her:
‘They located your sister’s body not far from where she disappeared in Minster Lovell, Miss Warren. I’m sorry that at present we can’t give you any further details yet about her burial…’
Serena felt coldness seep through her. Her sense of shock was visceral. She started to shake. Jack was saying something else but she cut right across him, surprised to discover that her voice was quite steady.
‘Do I have this correct?’ she said to him. ‘You’re here to see my sister’s grave, for some reason before we, her family, have been given any details about her death and burial?’
Zoe made a strangled sound. ‘It’s my fault, not Jack’s,’ she said, scrabbling the windblown dark hair away from her hot face. ‘I invited him because I knew he’d been Caitlin’s friend and there were some odd circumstances about the whole thing that I thought he might be interested in from a professional perspective—’
Serena swung around on her. ‘You make it sound as though this is some sort of amateur investigation,’ she said coldly, ‘instead of a police enquiry.’ She turned back to Jack. ‘My God, Jack,’ she said, ‘is this even legal, let alone ethical? I…’ Her voice cracked. ‘I can’t believe this.’
The Last Daughter Page 4