The Distant Shores

by Santa Montefiore

  ‘Cork is indeed a beautiful county and there’s much to see, especially for a historian like yourself. By the by, your biography of Eva Perón was very well received here. We have a copy in the library. Perhaps you’ll sign it for us.’

  Margot was delighted. Her first biography, which had taken three years to write, had been a bestseller when it was launched the summer before. She knew that she owed much of her success to Andrew Lloyd Webber’s musical Evita, which had debuted some seven years ago and given her the idea for her book. Indeed, had it not been for the show, most people in the United Kingdom wouldn’t even know who Eva Perón was. But Margot also knew that, in spite of that advantage, the book was good and deserved its success.

  ‘Of course I’ll sign it for you,’ she said distractedly, running her eyes over the paintings in elaborate gold frames that hung on the wall. ‘Were these here when Mrs de Lisle bought the castle?’ She peered at one of the inscriptions, not recognizing the name of the young man in the gleaming suit of armour. Disappointingly, he was not a Deverill.

  Mr Dukelow stopped on the landing and put his hands on his hips. ‘I’m afraid, with the exception of Barton Deverill in the hall and Tarquin, his grandson, in the drawing room, the most valuable paintings were auctioned off by Lord Deverill before he sold the castle. Fortunately, Mrs de Lisle was able to purchase Barton and Tarquin, but the others are part of her own collection and on loan to the hotel. As I’m sure you know, she’s an avid collector and a woman who takes great trouble with details. She wanted the castle to retain its authentic feel. They look like they’re family portraits, don’t they? But they’re not. I couldn’t tell you who they are of.’

  ‘Might there be someone here who does know what the original features are and which are Mrs de Lisle’s contribution? I’d love to get a feel of what the castle was like when it was a home.’

  Mr Dukelow’s veneer slipped a little and he looked unsure. ‘The only person who really knows the castle is its previous owner, Lord Deverill. He lives in the old Hunting Lodge on the estate. I believe that was not part of the deal when he sold the castle to Mrs de Lisle. I doubt he’ll want to speak to you, I’m afraid. He’s a recluse.’

  Margot wasn’t surprised. ‘It must have been hard selling his family home,’ she mused. ‘After all, it had belonged to a Deverill for over three hundred years. He must have felt great shame in being the Deverill who let it go. The Deverill who sold it to a de Lisle so that it could become one more hotel on their long list of luxury hotels. I wonder what the rest of his family think of it now that it’s full of people like me tramping insensitively over their memories.’

  Mr Dukelow looked at her, his face full of admiration. ‘You do have a way with words, don’t you, Miss Hart. I have never thought of it like that. I suppose it takes the mind of a historian to consider the people who lived here before. My mind is very much in the present moment and in the future. This is one of the finest hotels in the world and it’s my job to ensure that it remains so. Mrs de Lisle will accept nothing less.’ They continued up the stairs. ‘There was very little artwork remaining when the castle was sold. But I believe the four-poster beds and some of the furniture was bought with the castle. Mrs de Lisle gutted it and renovated it, keeping what was good and getting rid of what was not. The project took six years to complete. The building was in very poor condition even though it was rebuilt in the 1920s, after it was razed to the ground by a terrible fire. Mrs de Lisle is American, so she likes certain standards, which is why the hotel is such a success. You’ll see, Miss Hart, how she has managed to retain the feeling of history and family while bringing it into the modern era.’

  Margot smiled to herself as he spouted the company mission statement. ‘I can tell that already,’ she said. ‘Does Lord Deverill live alone?’

  ‘He does,’ Mr Dukelow replied.

  ‘And the Hunting Lodge is close by?’

  ‘Yes, you can try knocking on his door, Miss Hart, but I cannot guarantee he’ll open it.’

  ‘I’m not a woman who is easily put off when I’m on the trail of a good story.’ She was sure that she would inveigle her way into Lord Deverill’s confidence somehow.

  ‘The trouble is, it’s his story and I’m not sure he’ll want it published for all the world to read. However, there are people in Ballinakelly who have lived here for generations and would probably be happy to help you with your research. I can put you in touch with them if you like. It would be my pleasure. I know Mrs de Lisle would like me to help you in any way I can. We’re honoured to have a Writer in Residence and want your stay to be as productive as possible.’

  Margot’s room was in the western tower, up a narrow flight of stairs. The atmosphere changed the moment Mr Dukelow lifted the latch on the heavy wooden door. It was as if they were entering the oldest part of the castle, and the most secret. She knew from her research that the castle had been burned down in 1921 by nationalist rebels and only a small part had survived. She imagined that this tower must surely be a portion of that fortunate part. It consisted of a sitting room, bedroom and bathroom, with windows overlooking the gardens. With its low ceilings, crooked walls, uneven floor and strong almost deferential sense of the past, it was enchanting. Margot didn’t imagine there was a nicer set of rooms in the entire castle. The sitting room had a big open fire, which was glowing hospitably, and dark wooden beams in the low ceilings that sagged, betraying their great age as well as a weary satisfaction at having survived when all around them had perished.

  ‘I love it!’ she exclaimed, turning to Mr Dukelow. ‘It’s adorable. I couldn’t be happier.’

  ‘There’s a desk in the sitting room, but we’d like it if you spent some time writing in the drawing room downstairs. The guests would be delighted to witness the great artiste at work.’

  Margot laughed. ‘Oh, you flatter me, Mr Dukelow! But of course, you’re right. I will work down there and fend off my fans with my ink pen.’

  Mr Dukelow laughed. Margot’s enthusiasm was infectious as was the sparkle in her olive-green eyes.

  They were diverted by the sound of heaving and puffing and mutterings of ‘Jesus, help me’ coming up the stairs. Mr Dukelow went to hold open the door for the porter who was struggling with Margot’s suitcase. ‘I’m sorry it’s so large,’ she said as the elderly man, swollen-faced and sweating, heaved it into the room. ‘It’s all my worldly goods, I’m afraid.’

  ‘What doesn’t kill me makes me stronger,’ the porter gasped in an Irish accent as rich as Guinness, arching his back with a groan. Margot was certain she heard a click. He was much too old to be doing such heavy work, she thought.

  ‘That’s the spirit, Mr Flannigan,’ said Mr Dukelow, ignoring the man’s discomfort.

  ‘At least it won’t need to go back down until September,’ Margot added, hoping to extract a smile by giving him one of her most charming.

  Mr Flannigan glanced at her suspiciously. ‘Indeed, and if I’m spared, it won’t be me who’ll be lifting it. I haven’t been this worn out since me wedding night, God help us.’

  ‘Well, thank you for bringing it up all the same. It’s a lovely room and as long as nothing goes bump in the night, I’ll be very happy here.’

  Mr Flannigan caught Mr Dukelow’s eye. It was a subtle communication but Margot was much too sharp not to notice it.

  ‘Would you like anything brought to your room? A cup of tea, perhaps? A light meal?’ Mr Dukelow asked.

  ‘I’ll unpack and then come down and have supper in the dining room. I’m dying to see more of the castle.’

  ‘In that case, we’ll leave you in peace.’ The two men left the room, closing the door behind them.

  Margot sighed with pleasure. She couldn’t believe she was really here, in Castle Deverill. She went to the window and gazed out over the lawn. The scene of so many garden parties in bygone summers when the Deverills would inspire loyalty in their tenants and employees with tea and cakes, carefully chosen words and gracious smiles, staving off r
ebellion with arrows of charm. Now it shivered, silver grey and sodden, the memory of its glory days lost in the fog. Plants hibernated in the borders, trees looked forlorn without their fine leaves, only an enormous cedar with inky green branches was constantly vigilant – a giant keeping watch over the castle like a devoted old retainer who has vowed to defend it to the last. Margot was pleased she’d get to see it in summertime when the borders would be full of flowers and the trees thick with foliage. Her grandfather had told her a great deal about the gardens. How they’d played croquet on the lawn during the day and devil’s chase, which was the Deverills’ version of hide and seek, in the evenings. He’d kissed a girl in one of the greenhouses, he’d told her with a gleam in his eye. ‘Make sure you take a look at those,’ he’d said. ‘Like palaces they were, with jungles inside.’

  Every year the Deverills had held a grand summer ball. All the Anglo-Irish in the region were invited. Margot’s grandfather had talked about that more than anything else, even the hunt, which he’d adored. Margot sensed he’d been a real ladies’ man, dancing with all the girls. The secret to his success, he’d told her, was booking them in early so as not to miss a single dance. According to her grandfather, the Deverills were as wild as snakes. Not only out hunting where they outshone the other riders with their fearlessness, but on the dancefloor too. Bertie Deverill, who was his father’s friend and contemporary and would later become Lord Deverill, was the most dashing and all the young women wanted to dance with him. ‘The trouble was he often foxtrotted the ladies on upstairs,’ her grandfather told her, arching an eyebrow. ‘It was because of that my father did not allow my sister Abigail to dance with him. Abigail minded terribly having to turn down the host, but my father was insistent and quite right too.’

  Then Bertie had had his wicked way with a housemaid and got her pregnant. He later recognized the boy as his and, when his legitimate son Harry was killed in the First World War, Jack Patrick, known as JP, had become Bertie’s heir. Margot couldn’t see the Hunting Lodge from her window, but it was out there somewhere and JP, the present Lord Deverill, was inside it, keeping all the family secrets. She knew that, in order to research the last sixty years of his family’s history, she was going to need to speak to him.

  She unpacked her suitcase and put away her clothes, happily humming Jennifer Rush’s ‘The Power Of Love’, which was number one in the charts and a constant on every radio station. She placed her typewriter on the desk along with her notebooks, which were already full of her grandfather’s stories and accounts she’d found in old newspaper articles. The fire of 1921 had been widely reported in the English press at the time. There was a photograph of Hubert Deverill, Bertie’s father, who had died in the fire, and pictures of the RIC picking over the still-smouldering rubble. The criminals had never been brought to justice. The authorities knew who was responsible, of course they did. It was the time of the Troubles. British castles and ‘Big Houses’, as they were known, were being razed to the ground all over Ireland by the IRA in their fight for independence. Margot had discovered that a staggering two hundred and seventy-five of these beautiful houses had been burned down or blown up between the years 1919 and 1923. The Deverills were not alone, but that was no consolation. The perpetrators were free to continue their purge of British dominance without restraint.

  During her search through the newspapers, Margot had found an article about Celia Deverill, a cousin, who had bought the castle and rebuilt it at great expense. The photograph accompanying the article revealed a beautiful blonde in a fur coat and diamonds, standing alongside a somewhat chinless husband with a long, serious face. Celia, a ‘bright young thing’ of 1920s London, had caused a scandal when she had run off to Scotland with the best man on her wedding day. Margot’s grandfather had told her that there was talk of Celia’s father paying her husband Archie a fortune to take her back and it was with that money that Celia had rebuilt the castle. Then, just when things were going well for Celia and Archie, tragedy struck again. The Great Depression of 1929 wiped them out financially and Archie hanged himself on a tree right here in the castle grounds. Celia disappeared to South Africa and sold the castle to a mysterious Italian. Count Cesare di Marcantonio’s wife turned out to be Bridie, the housemaid Bertie had impregnated, JP’s mother. Margot patted the pile of notebooks with satisfaction. She’d barely begun to dig and she already had enough stories to fill most of the book. It was going to be a gripping read.

  At supper in the dining room Margot was given a round table in the corner. From there she could see the entire room, and very impressive it was too. She imagined it must have been the original dining room where the Deverills had enjoyed family meals, served by footmen in red-and-gold livery. There were elaborate plaster mouldings on the ceiling, art deco chandeliers in frosted glass and chrome, and tall windows hidden behind heavy velvet curtains in a rich shade of purple. Instead of works of art there were enormous panels of hand-painted landscapes. The effect was stunning and Margot, who loved anything of beauty, was drawn into the bright purple mountains and vivid green fields. She imagined that those must have been commissioned by Celia Deverill herself, because they were part of the bones of the castle and could not be removed.

  She had ordered a glass of wine and was just beginning to enjoy it when Mrs Walbridge, the lady she had seen in the lobby earlier, approached her table. She too had changed, swapping her sensible walking shoes and tweed suit for a scratchy blue skirt and silk blouse embellished at the throat with a gold-and-amethyst brooch. Her grey hair was swept off her face and tied in a soft bun, and her little brown eyes were lively and intelligent behind spectacles, giving her the air of an old schoolmistress. She smiled at Margot and introduced herself. ‘Forgive me for intruding,’ she said, ‘but I understand you are the Writer in Residence here and I wanted to shake your hand. Your book on Eva Perón was a frightfully good read.’

  Margot did not object to people talking to her, in fact, she welcomed it. Most people possessed something of interest, even if one had to dig a little to find it. She offered the old lady a chair and a glass of sherry. ‘I grew up in Argentina and was in my fifties in the 1940s when the Peróns were at the top of their game,’ said Mrs Walbridge, making herself comfortable and looking forward to that glass of sherry. At the mention of Argentina in the 1940s Margot was able to place her accent. It was the clipped, upper-class inflection of a dying breed of Anglo-Argentines who lived in Hurlingham, Buenos Aires, and only married within their small circle of British expats. ‘So I have first-hand experience of that dreadful woman. You were very fair in your book, balanced, I would say, because although she was an ambitious adventuress to the British, to the Argentines she was a saint. Of course, there’s an argument for both sides, one has to acknowledge that, and you handled it well, I thought.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Margot replied.

  ‘I could have told you some damning stories about her had we met when you were doing your research. Perhaps then you might not have been so balanced.’ She gave Margot a knowing smile. ‘Pity, really, that we didn’t meet before. What are you working on now?’

  ‘The history of the Deverill family.’

  Mrs Walbridge’s eyes lit up. ‘Ah, that’s why you’re here. They have an interesting history, don’t they?’

  ‘They certainly do.’

  ‘Lots of drama. That’s what you need in a book. Lots of drama, otherwise your readers get bored. Although I’ve never been very partial to a dramatic life myself. I prefer peace and tranquillity. I like the waters to be smooth.’

  The waiter promptly brought Mrs Walbridge her glass of sherry and Margot watched her take a sip then smack her lips with pleasure. She decided to be bold. ‘I hope you don’t mind but I couldn’t help overhearing you talking to the manager earlier. I thought you were leaving for England.’

  Mrs Walbridge pursed her lips and lowered her voice. ‘You are not wrong. I most certainly had it in mind to leave, and as soon as possible. I’ve spent two nights here al
ready and have barely slept a wink on account of the strange occurrences in my room. But that Mr Dukelow has the charm of the devil. He managed to persuade me to stay by suggesting I move into a different part of the hotel.’ She leaned forward and whispered. ‘He hasn’t charged me for the two previous nights. Isn’t that good of him?’

  ‘When you say strange occurrences, do you mean ghosts?’

  She lowered her voice. ‘I do, Margot.’

  Margot laughed. ‘I’m curious. What exactly did you see?’

  Mrs Walbridge’s face tightened. ‘An old woman in uniform, black dress and white apron, bustling about my room.’

  ‘Cleaning?’

  ‘Well, I’m not sure she did much cleaning,’ she said with a sniff. ‘There was still dust beneath the bed in the morning.’

  ‘I don’t suppose Mr Dukelow believed you.’

  Mrs Walbridge narrowed her eyes. ‘If he didn’t believe me, why then has he taken the first two nights off my bill?’

  ‘Because he doesn’t want you talking about it and upsetting the other guests.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Mrs Walbridge conceded. ‘Although I would guess that this is not the first time a guest has complained of strange occurrences in the night.’

  ‘Well, you won’t upset me, Mrs Walbridge,’ said Margot. ‘I don’t believe in ghosts.’

  Just as the words escaped her lips her glass of wine toppled over and spilled onto the white tablecloth.

  Mrs Walbridge blanched. ‘Did you see that?’ she gasped. A hand shot to her throat.

  ‘I knocked it with my elbow,’ said Margot, picking up the glass and placing a napkin over the crimson stain.

  ‘I didn’t see you touch it. That glass fell over all on its own, I’d bet my life on it.’ The old lady’s eyes rolled slowly as she searched for the culprit in the air around her. ‘It’s here,’ she whispered darkly. ‘I can feel it. The air has gone cold. Can you feel it? That’s what ghosts do. They turn the air cold.’