The Distant Shores

by Santa Montefiore

  Mrs Carbery is slowly coming to terms with the idea that she is dead. After having spent decades living in a dreamlike state, going about her usual routine in the reality she has created for herself, she is beginning to wake up. The illusion is trembling and petering out like reflections on water. She is starting to inhabit the same realm as me, and she isn’t liking it one bit. ‘Castle Deverill is a hotel, you say?’ she asked me in confusion when I tried to explain the truth. ‘Get away with you, Miss Kitty. I suppose with all his lordship’s guests it might sometimes feel like a hotel. Although what would I know? I’ve never stepped inside a hotel before.’

  ‘The castle no longer belongs to a Deverill—’ I began.

  At this she crossed herself, a horrified expression on her face. ‘Then what has become of Lord and Lady Deverill, I ask you? God save them and protect them from all harm.’

  ‘They died a long time ago. You remember the fire, don’t you, Mrs Carbery?’

  She frowned, a troubled look darkening her face. ‘The fire…’ she muttered, fishing out the memory from somewhere deep inside her. For sure, she had buried it, along with the death of my grandfather Hubert, who was her master.

  ‘And you remember my grandmother, Adeline, going mad in the western tower, the only part of the castle to survive the fire? You remember her death, surely?’

  The furrows on her forehead quivered as she fished out that memory too, from the silent, still waters of her subconscious mind. I realized then that the fire, the deaths of my grandparents and her own beloved son had caused her to lose her mind and, in death, to somehow create and inhabit this illusory world.

  She looked at me then with terror in her eyes as the fog cleared and images surfaced one by one to reveal the truth that she had wilfully concealed. ‘I remember the fire, indeed I do,’ she whispered, astonished that she could forget it. ‘I remember forming a human chain and passing buckets of water, but they were useless against the flames. The whole building was burning and there was nothing we could do about it, but watch it destroy the place we loved.’ She put a hand to her mouth. ‘What happened after that? I don’t recall… I can’t…’

  I knelt beside her chair and took her hand. It was like she was awakening from a coma and having to face head-on the trauma that had put her there. ‘You stayed at home, Mrs Carbery,’ I told her gently. ‘Your daughter Bessie looked after you. You remember Bessie, don’t you? She was only a child but she took care of you like a little mother.’ Mrs Carbery narrowed her eyes, straining her mind to retrieve and confront those painful recollections.

  ‘Bessie, yes, I remember my Bessie. Where is she now?’

  ‘She is still living.’

  ‘But my son was killed.’ Her eyes dimmed. ‘My son was taken from me.’ She pressed a hand against her lips again, smothering the sob that came with the pain.

  ‘Your son died in the civil war and you died shortly after.’

  She sighed, resigned. ‘So, it’s true. I really am a goner.’ She shook her head in disbelief. ‘I don’t feel different. My heart still hurts.’ She took her hand from her mouth and put it to her chest. ‘It still hurts, here. Should it hurt now that I’m dead?’

  ‘The heart is your soul, Mrs Carbery. Your soul can never die.’

  ‘Oh, if this is death then I don’t want it,’ she wailed. ‘What about Heaven, then? What about that?’

  And I couldn’t help her. She knew she was dead but the light didn’t come as I thought it would. I expected to know very well how to send her on her way, but I didn’t. I couldn’t. She gazed at me in horror. ‘Heaven is where you’ll go—’ I began, but she didn’t believe me.

  ‘I’ve been bad. I must have been bad,’ she mumbled.

  ‘You’re not bad, Mrs Carbery. You’re just lost,’ I told her.

  ‘And you?’ she shot back. ‘What about you?’

  ‘I’m lost too,’ I replied, and for the first time I doubted myself. I had refused to move on. Was it possible that when I decided I was ready I wouldn’t find my way home?

  * * *

  Now Mrs Carbery is creating havoc. Poor Annie Dineen refuses to go into the linen room. She says it’s haunted. It’s cold, she complains, and is inhabited by a furious woman who shouts at her to leave her in peace every time she goes in to fetch clean linen for the beds. Now that Mrs Carbery knows she is dead, she is determined to make everyone as miserable as she is. If I rattled the odd doorknob to frighten people, she is banging all the doors like a madwoman. Fortunately for the hotel, she is unable to make herself heard most of the time. Her mind is unfocused and she has no understanding of how it is done. I am not going to enlighten her. But for poor Annie Dineen, who can see her, Mrs Carbery’s fear is a real problem. I overheard Mrs de Lisle talking to Mr Dukelow and giving him strict instructions to sort out these alleged hauntings. ‘I don’t want my staff frightening the guests,’ she said firmly. ‘Do something about it at once!’

  I’m not sure how he can.

  * * *

  I am drawn to the Hunting Lodge where Alana has turned up unexpectedly to speak with JP. When Mrs B opens the door JP’s ex-wife does not wait to be invited in. She greets the old housekeeper warmly but briskly and marches right on in before Mrs B can think of something to say to stop her. She watches in alarm as Alana strides up the corridor towards the library. She knows where to find JP.

  He hears her approach before he sees her and his energy contracts. If he had a shell like a tortoise he would retreat inside it. He freezes at his desk, pen poised above the letter he is writing, eyes wide with anticipation. He knows it is her. He has been expecting, no, fearing this. And he is in no doubt why she has come.

  A moment later she is in the doorway. He lifts his chin. ‘Hello, Alana,’ he says coldly.

  She puts her hands on her hips. Her anger is a miasma around her that I can see as clearly as mist. ‘We need to talk,’ she says.

  He gets up stiffly and walks round to the fire. He lifts a log out of the basket and throws it into the grate. He is making time. But he can only delay the inevitable. ‘Do you want a drink? Some tea?’

  ‘I won’t be staying long,’ she replies tersely. I think she feels she has more power standing, so she doesn’t take a seat. She is not here as a guest, after all. It is over twenty years since she stood in this library as a guest, when my parents lived here. They were happy then. We were all happy then.

  ‘I hear there’s a Writer in Residence up at the castle,’ she says. ‘And she’s writing a book about your family.’

  ‘That’s true,’ says JP. He stands with his back to the fire. The log crackles and sizzles behind him as it becomes engulfed in flame. He lights a cigarette with trembling hands.

  ‘I understand you’ve allowed her to go through your family records. That’s very generous of you.’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘Why would you do that?’ Alana’s face pinches with fury. ‘I don’t understand why you would allow the enemy into your home and give her free rein to rake through your family’s history. Why would you do that?’

  ‘I think she’ll do a good job of it,’ he answers. He takes a drag of his cigarette. The fingers on his other hand twitch in agitation. I know he is desperate for a drink. If he had known Alana was coming he would have downed half a decanter of whiskey in preparation. As it is, he is sober and struggling.

  ‘You don’t know anything, JP.’ He makes to speak but she interrupts him. ‘How well do you know this woman? You don’t. You’ve just met her. You don’t know what she’s going to do with the information you give her. Certainly, she’ll want to write a book that sells. Scandal sells, JP, and she’s going to want to fill her book with it. Does she know about Kitty’s affair with my father? Is that going in the book?’ I have been so focused on the disintegration of JP and Alana’s marriage and the selling of the castle that I have not considered my affair with Jack. But Alana is right. If Margot finds out about that, poor Emer will be hurt all over again. Even though I am dead, I’m sur
e the wound his betrayal inflicted on her heart has never fully healed. How could it? Alana is looking out for her mother.

  ‘And what about Archie’s suicide?’ she continues. ‘Celia is still alive. Have you thought of her? She won’t want that tragedy unearthed and written about for all the world to read. And your half-brother Harry’s homosexuality? If you think this woman is going to leave all those things out of the book, think again. If she does her job well she’ll dig it all up. There are plenty of people around who will give her the gossip. Make no mistake. She’s not your friend. She’ll just be your friend for as long as she needs you. Then she’ll disappear back to England and you won’t see her for dust. She’ll make a mint out of the book and you’ll be left looking stupid. And what about us? Do you want everyone to know why our marriage broke down? Do you really? Because I don’t, JP.’

  JP stares at her. He is searching for words, but they don’t come. She has left him pink-faced and floundering like a fish washed up on a beach. ‘For the sake of our children, JP, cease all contact with her at once.’ Then her expression changes. She looks at him steadily and I see real compassion in her eyes. ‘I did not marry a fool,’ she says softly. ‘But I’m afraid that is what you have become.’

  ‘You have no right to come in here and tell me what to do, Alana,’ he exclaims and I think of a cornered dog and how it might snarl and growl, with its back to the wall and nowhere to run.

  ‘I do have a right, because I am the mother of your children. I have every right to protect them. And I am protecting you, too, not that you’ll ever thank me for it.’

  ‘Protecting me from what?’ he asks with a bitter chuckle.

  ‘Yourself.’ He glares at her. ‘I have nothing else to say,’ she adds.

  ‘Mrs B will see you out.’

  ‘I’ll see myself out,’ she corrects and leaves the room. His eyes linger on the place where she stood as if she has left an imprint there. He sways a little then makes for the drinks tray. He pours himself a large glass of whiskey and downs it. Ash from his cigarette drops onto the carpet but he doesn’t notice. He pours himself another drink. He is riddled with guilt. Sure, he wants Margot to tell his side of the story, but it is clear to me now that he also wants to inflict pain. He is a wounded creature lashing out at those closest to him, hoping that they will suffer too, as he is suffering. That’s what unhappy people do.

  He takes the decanter and his empty glass to the armchair where he sits and stares into the fire. He refills his glass, leans back and sighs heavily.

  Alana is right, she did not marry a fool. How did it get to this?

  Chapter 11

  That afternoon a storm blew in, battering the cliffs and whipping up the sea so that it rose and fell in waves as high as buildings. Fierce winds whistled around the castle walls and rain thrashed against the windowpanes like thousands of little claws scratching to get inside. There was an uneasy feeling in the hotel. The bones of the building creaked and groaned and everyone spoke in hushed voices, as if nervous of some unseen presence that stalked the corridors. Margot had decided to remain by the fire in the castle’s drawing room and read through some of her notes. A pale-faced maid came in to draw the curtains, shutting out the darkness and the storm. Margot lifted her eyes off the page and watched her. She knew most of the hotel’s staff by now and was considered very much part of the furniture. The girl smiled at her, but knew not to chat. However, Margot sensed, by the weary look on her face, that something was amiss.

  ‘Is everything all right, Evie?’ she asked when the maid came to chuck another log on the fire.

  Evie glanced around to make sure she wasn’t going to be overheard. ‘It’s Annie again,’ she whispered. ‘She’s having a right old meltdown, she is.’

  ‘Ghosts again?’

  ‘I think it’s the storm. Storms always put the wind up people. We Irish are a superstitious lot.’ She gave an impish smile. ‘Trouble is, an old place like this is always going to be haunted, isn’t it.’

  ‘It’s really not that old,’ Margot corrected her. ‘Celia Deverill rebuilt it in the 1920s.’

  ‘But that’s the thing. It’s on the site of the old castle, and that was built in the seventeenth century. It doesn’t matter how many times it’s rebuilt, the energy of the original building is still the same, like a blueprint. Beneath all of this is some very ancient magic.’

  Good Lord! Margot thought to herself, but she refrained from rolling her eyes. ‘You’re not afraid of it, then, this ancient magic?’

  ‘Of course not! I find that sort of thing fascinating. I mean, how much is out there that we can’t see? I haven’t seen a ghost yet, but I swear I sometimes feel like I’m being watched.’

  Margot thought of her friend Dan Chambers. Why was it that every time someone mentioned a ghost she thought of him? She closed her notebook and stood up. Perhaps there was a way of harnessing these so-called ghosts, of taking advantage of them for the good of Mrs de Lisle’s business. If everyone believed the place to be haunted, why not profit from it?

  She found Mrs de Lisle in her private sitting room having a meeting with Mr Dukelow and Mrs de Lisle’s PA Jennifer, who was a polished young American woman with flawless olive skin and glasses. The meeting seemed to be informal. They were drinking tea and Mr Dukelow, at least, was making his way through a plate of biscuits. Jennifer perched on a chair, notebook open, fountain pen hovering. Mrs de Lisle herself was in the armchair, teacup in one hand, saucer in the other, looking as if she was simply enjoying a pleasant afternoon with friends.

  ‘Can I disturb you a moment?’ Margot asked from the doorway. She figured that, if they hadn’t bothered to close the door, they wouldn’t mind being interrupted.

  ‘Please come in,’ said Mrs de Lisle with a smile. ‘We’re just discussing the storm. I’m glad I’m not flying out this evening.’

  ‘It’ll have blown over by tomorrow,’ Mr Dukelow reassured her.

  ‘The forecast is good for tomorrow,’ Jennifer added earnestly. ‘In fact, it says the cloud will clear by early morning and the sun will come out mid-morning.’

  ‘I’ve got an idea that might interest you,’ Margot began.

  ‘Take a seat, Margot,’ said Mrs de Lisle. Margot sat on the sofa, beside Mr Dukelow, who reached for another biscuit. Margot sensed he was nervous. He did not have the figure of a man who gorged on biscuits. ‘So, what’s this idea of yours, Margot?’ asked Mrs de Lisle, head on one side, an interested frown pinching the smooth skin between her eyebrows.

  ‘Well, it seems to me that there are many who think the castle is haunted,’ she replied. ‘And lots of people love the idea of ghosts. Perhaps that’s something you could exploit.’

  Mrs de Lisle narrowed her eyes. ‘Go on.’

  ‘I have a friend who’s a medium. He’s extremely in demand. I went to one of his events a few years ago at the Royal Geographical Society in London and it was standing room only. I’m a sceptic myself, but even I was amazed at the information he was given by spirits in the afterlife. I mean, I’m quick to find explanations for that sort of thing, but I can truthfully say on that occasion I found none. It was extraordinary.’

  Mrs de Lisle thought about it for a moment. Whether or not she believed in the spirit world was neither here nor there. If she could make money out of it, she’d believe in anything. ‘That’s not a bad idea. Instead of trying to deny the strange sightings, we could make a feature of them. Good thinking, Margot. I like it. We could invite this friend of yours here. We could have a Medium in Residence.’ She smiled with cunning. ‘Perhaps, if he’s really good, he can get rid of the less appealing ghosts who seem to be upsetting my staff.’ She laughed and Mr Dukelow and Jennifer laughed with her.

  ‘What’s he like, this friend of yours?’ she continued.

  ‘He’s called Dan Chambers. In his late sixties, I would guess. Handsome, debonair, charming. Just the sort of person who will enhance your hotel. He’s like a light to moths. People love him.’

 
‘How did you meet him?’ asked Mr Dukelow, trying to regain some ground.

  ‘We met about seven years ago in Montana of all places. I was doing a profile on Ralph Lauren and he was hosting a retreat out there. He’s a good person. If anyone can convince you that spirits are real and present, it’s him.’

  Mrs de Lisle turned to Jennifer. ‘Get his number from Margot, will you? Find out if he’s available to come over for a week in the spring. I agree with Margot.’ She smiled at her. ‘We could turn these so-called hauntings to our advantage.’

  At that moment there was a knock on the door. It was Róisín. ‘Excuse me, Mrs de Lisle, but there’s a phone call for Miss Hart. The woman says it’s urgent.’

  Margot couldn’t imagine who it could be. It wouldn’t be her mother and it was unlikely to be Dorothy, for they had spoken the evening before. ‘Where shall I take it?’ she asked, getting up.

  ‘I can put it through to this phone,’ Róisín suggested.

  But Margot knew she’d get little privacy in here. ‘I’ll take it at reception,’ she said, excusing herself and following Róisín into the corridor.

  When she put the receiver to her ear it was Mrs B’s quivering voice that rushed in a panic down the line. ‘Oh Margot, it’s me, Bessie. It’s his lordship. He’s in a terrible state. I don’t know what to do. I tried to telephone Master Colm, but I got his answer machine. I left a message but I can’t be sure he’ll get it and I really need help. His lordship’s been at the bottle, Margot. He’s upset. I don’t know what to do. I didn’t know who else to call.’

  ‘It’s okay, Bessie. I’ll come over now.’