When Lucy had met her lover, she had pretended to be as sophisticated as Cat. Her acting was successful. Her lover thought he had found someone well-to-do, educated and influential. Men were so gullible at times. Lucy had giggled about it afterwards, and had joked with her friends about how easy it was to convince the poor sod she was an heiress. The charade had been carried off without a glimmer of guilt on Lucy’s part. She imitated Cat Carlisle, pretending to be something far beyond her station in life. It only stood to reason she would attract a lover of that same ilk. Now she had to tell the truth. And she and her lover would need to marry.
She asked herself, What would Cat Carlisle do? And when the kindly woman brought her tea, she said, ‘Thank you,’ with an affected upper-class accent, removed her gloves and waited for the woman to pour for her.
The tea, along with a plate of toast and eggs, went down well and gave Lucy strength.
After thanking the woman who had been so kind to her, Lucy set out, relieved things were going as planned.
A group of boys were playing some sort of a game with sticks and rubbish bin lids. One of the boys – clearly the leader if size were any indication – stood before the group and raised his stick, holding it like a sword. ‘We’ve got dragons to slay, mates. Who’s game?’ Off they ran, shouting warrior cries, chasing their imaginary dragons. Lucy smiled as she walked past them up the lane, following the instructions given to her by the lady in the café. If she had a little boy, she hoped he would have an imagination and a gang of lads to play with.
Lucy had found her lover’s address after snooping through his wallet when he was in the shower. Later she had looked the address up on a map and memorised the directions, writing them down and then repeating them over and over in her head, until she knew them backwards and forwards. Turning down a narrow, wooded lane, she saw three cottages on either side of the street, situated far enough away from the road to provide ample privacy. All were made of the same grey stones and had a myriad of hedges and green lawn surrounding them. All the houses were well maintained, but her lover’s stood out. Several beds of rich dark soil were on the far side of the yard. Lucy recognised rows of cabbages, and a few other plants and shrubs. An old oak tree, its leaves an autumn burst of oranges and reds, was laden with acorns. As Lucy approached, two squirrels shimmied up the trunk. Gathering her courage, she stood at the end of the path and braced herself. This conversation was not going to be an easy one.
Just as Lucy was about to step onto the pathway leading to the house, the front door of the cottage opened. Some unknown force made Lucy duck out of sight and move behind a box hedge. Peering between the branches, she watched as a woman stepped into the yard carrying a basket under arm. The woman’s hair had once been blonde, but was now laced through with silver strands of grey. She wore an old tattered apron over a boring tweed skirt and a linen shirt and jumper.
Lucy watched as the woman strode across the lawn to the chicken coop, right towards Lucy’s hiding place. She held her breath, as the knowing exploded in her belly, threatening a fresh wave of nausea. Oh, how she would have loved to explain away this woman’s presence, a housekeeper or a sister, living in her lover’s house. But there was no mistaking the thick gold band around the woman’s finger. The hot salty tears ran down Lucy’s cheeks. She didn’t bother about sopping them up with her handkerchief, didn’t spend a minute worrying about her make-up. Now she knew why her lover hadn’t insisted on knowing more about her. His distance had been deliberate. Her lover, it seemed, had secrets too.
Chapter 5
Once Margaret had left the house, Hugh felt like a dark cloud had floated by, leaving him in the cleansing sunlight. After spending the morning dealing with domestic chores, namely washing the dishes, ironing his shirts – he only scorched one – and sweeping the floors, he decided to spend the rest of the day working outdoors. Earlier, he had seen a pile of logs in the dilapidated shed on the property. If he could find an axe, he could attempt to split them for firewood. Grabbing his coat, he headed outside, but instead of heading to the shed, he headed to Vera’s. Her back door stood open, as if inviting him to call on her. Surely there was no harm in saying good morning.
He found Vera on her hands and knees, a bucket of bubbles near her and a brush in her hand. He watched for a moment as she worked industriously on the floor, scrubbing like a washerwoman.
‘Hello?’ She flinched when he called out, nearly knocking the bucket over. Jumping to her knees with a spry nimbleness that surprised him, she said, ‘Good morning. You’re up early.’
‘I like the mornings. I just wanted to thank you for the food last night. I’m afraid my wife wasn’t terribly hospitable.’
‘That’s all right. Maybe I shouldn’t have dropped over without an invitation.’
‘An invitation is hereby extended. You’re welcome anytime. What are you up to today? Other than housework.’
‘Almost finished scrubbing the kitchen floor, then I need to pick the rest of my apples.’
Hugh found himself staring at Vera’s lips as she spoke, remembering their stolen kisses so very long ago.
‘Would you like to help? I can make you lunch in exchange for labour. There are ladders and bags in the shed back there. I’ll be with you in just a second.’
It took them two hours to clean the apples off the tree. They worked side by side, enjoying the fresh air and the sounds of the birds. When the apples had been picked, they sat down to bowls of fresh vegetable soup and big cups of tea. They ate in companionable silence, until Vera brought apple pie to the table and cut them each a large piece.
‘I still love apples,’ Vera said.
‘I remember your father’s orchard.’
‘He liked you,’ Vera said.
‘Have you lived here long?’
Vera nodded. ‘This was my grandmother’s house. She left it to me when she passed.’
Hugh leaned back in his chair, appreciative of the home-cooked meal and Vera’s easygoing manner.
She tossed her napkin on the table and leaned back. ‘With the exception of that summer in Scotland when I met you, most of my holidays were spent here. I was grateful to inherit this place and have come to think of Much Killham as my home. My husband hates it here. Wants to move someplace warmer.’
‘Surely you’re not leaving.’
‘No. I’m staying put. But I don’t want to talk about George and me. Tell me about yourself, Hugh. Have you had a good life?’
Vera’s direct question took Hugh aback. Had he had a good life? She poured tea for them and fussed around the kitchen, giving him time to contemplate the years that had passed.
‘Not really,’ he said. ‘I’ve been blessed with the things I need to survive, but my marriage is loveless, and as I sit here and think about your question, I realise that my life has never been my own. I’ve served, it seems, at the whim of my mother and my wife. Both of them have judged me, and both have found me wanting.’ He slapped his knee. ‘But I’m finished with them. And I’m vowing, Vera, with you as a witness, that I’m going to start living my life the way I want. Hang everyone else.’
He hadn’t realised that his words had moved her, until one lone tear spilled over onto her cheek. Without thinking, Hugh reached out and took her hand. They sat quietly for a moment, until Vera gently took her hand away and dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief.
‘Mine hasn’t been so good either,’ she said, her voice tremulous. She tucked the handkerchief into the sleeve of her blouse. ‘I also am in a loveless marriage. George and I grew up together, knew each other since we were bairns. I didn’t have the same passion with him that I had with you, but we married right before he signed up. I’ll never forget that day in 1915 when he left on the train. Or the day he came home, for that matter. He was different. So many of them were. Oh, god, the nightmares were horrible. But I stuck by him, hoping it would get better.’ She gave Hugh a wistful glance. ‘It never did.’
‘Vera, I’m so sorry,’ Hugh said.
‘Don’t be. It doesn’t matter.’
‘He’s a fool,’ Hugh said. ‘I’d give my eye teeth to have a wife like you.’
‘Thank you,’ Vera whispered. She turned to face him, her eyes soft, her face full of warmth and friendship. ‘Enough sentimentality. I’ve got some things for you to take home. If you could reach that basket for me.’ She nodded to a tall set of shelves against the wall. Hugh took down a basket and waited while Vera packed it full. She wrapped newspaper around glass jars of apple butter, added a cabbage, four eggs, two jars of peas and half a loaf of bread.
‘Thank you,’ Hugh said.
Vera laughed. ‘You’re the one who deserves thanks. I’d still be up on the ladder picking away if it weren’t for you. We’ll call it a trade,’ she said.
Surprised to see it was nearly three o’clock, Hugh thanked her again, took the basket, and headed back to his own empty cottage. The chill in the air reminded him of the firewood he would need to get through the evening. He hurried to the shed and got busy, chopping until his arms ached.
Hugh discovered the news of Martin Shoreham’s suicide quite by accident. It wasn’t until early evening, just as the sun went down, that Hugh unpacked Vera’s basket. He unwrapped the newspaper from the jars of apple butter and was so focused on putting things away, he nearly missed Martin’s picture. The photo was an old one, taken at Christmas about five years ago. The original photo had been of Martin, Hermione and their three boys. Hugh knew this because he had taken the picture himself. Curious, he flattened the paper and read the headline. ‘Prominent Industrialist Commits Suicide.’ He grabbed the counter, holding himself upright with a white-knuckled grip. The paper was a day old, which meant Martin had killed himself right after Hugh and Margaret had left.
Martin. Dead.
He opened his last bottle of good Scotch and took a long drink, right from the bottle, letting it numb the feeling of worry that had taken hold. What had Margaret and Martin been discussing so earnestly at the party? Whatever she said had distressed him. Had Martin given her that money? Taking the stairs two at a time, Hugh stood in the threshold of Margaret’s room.
He pulled her big trunk away from the wall and opened the lid, rifling through the clothing that wouldn’t fit in the wardrobe. Turning to the small writing desk, he opened the only drawer. There wasn’t anything there. He tried to push it shut, but something was caught. Taking the drawer out, he felt around until his fingers landed on a batch of what felt like crumpled papers, but was actually a regular-sized envelope. He tore a chunk of the corner while extricating the envelope from the drawer. Heart pounding, he took the envelope downstairs and sat down on the couch to read the letter written in Martin Shoreham’s familiar handwriting.
Margaret,
I see you’ve found my family. You know full well that if Hermione were to discover that I kept another woman and that we had children together, she would be destroyed. I also know that you’ve never been one to consider the feelings of others, especially when you stand to gain financially. If it weren’t for Hugh, I would take your letter to the police. Blackmail is a crime, but I would never subject Hugh to the embarrassment of your actions. You should be ashamed of yourself. Please know that I have no intention of giving you any more money. You know that I have a mistress. You know that we have a child. I have already paid you handsomely for your silence, but if you choose to disregard our agreement, you may proceed as you wish. But know this. If you ever come near me or my family again, I will report you to the police and use my not insignificant influence to see you ruined legally, financially and socially.
A bitter taste flooded Hugh’s mouth. He hurried to the sink and vomited there, heaving until he was empty. His thoughts turned to Hermione. If Hugh told her what Margaret had done, Martin’s betrayal would come to light. When it did, Hermione would be devastated. She would be forced to deal with the embarrassment, the anger and the betrayal on her own. There would be no chance to confront Martin, no chance for healing and forgiveness, no chance to honour all the years they had before Martin betrayed her.
What if he took the letter to the police and reported Margaret’s blackmail? Blackmail was a criminal offence, wasn’t it? But better judgement prevailed. No police. At least not now. He would deal with Margaret himself. The time for reckoning had come.
Chapter 6
Thomas Charles walked home from the Rivenby Constabulary, enjoying the cool night air. The moon was getting fuller, and as Thomas walked he recalled childhood tales of the October moon and its mystical power. Funny that the fond memories of his grandmother telling ghost stories about the October moon should creep into his mind now. He stepped into the welcoming cover of the woods that circled his house, Heart’s Desire, taking the shortcut home. The sun had gone down ages ago, but his eyes had adjusted to the dark, and the moon cast dappled shadows on the path before him. Stilling his breath, he listened for any unnatural night noises. In the distance an owl hooted. He stopped, straining his ears for the sounds of rustling in the bushes near him. Nothing. Exhaling slowly, he chided himself for being paranoid and continued on his path.
There was no denying Thomas had been tense of late. Beck and the missus, the married couple who served as his valet and cook, had noticed it. Even Cat had noticed it. In fact, Cat and her current venture to protect battered women lay at the root of his anxiety. How could he not worry for her safety? While he admired what she had accomplished – taking the vast inheritance she’d received from her late husband and establishing a refuge for women – there was no denying the inherent danger. But her efforts had paid off and every woman who had sought help had been trained at Emmeline Hinch-Billings’s school and sent off to start a new life of independence, a life free from abuse. Of course, in a fine example of her stubbornness, Cat had refused any outside security, especially if it were to be provided by men. Thomas knew it was only a matter of time before some angry husband came calling. But Cat wouldn’t listen to reason, and Thomas knew better than to argue. Pushing those thoughts away, he hurried towards his house, the lights warm and welcoming through the window.
A rare medieval chalice had been smuggled out of occupied France and was now en route to Thomas for safekeeping. According to Stephen Templeton, one of the chalices had been stolen right out from under the guards, and after a harrowing chase, had arrived safely in England. Given this was the first item of value Stephen had received for safekeeping, extra security measures would be taken.
Stepping out of the woods and into the clearing, Thomas strode across the well-groomed lawn and reached the front door just as a car pulled up the long drive.
Beck and the missus opened the front door and stepped outside, a halo of light from the house behind them. The missus stood next to her husband, hands clasped in front of her. Beck, who seemed to enjoy the intrigue around the chalice, carried one of his many guns.
‘We’re ready, sir,’ Beck said.
‘I can see that,’ Thomas said.
‘And I’ve got tea ready. If you ask me, Mr Templeton is too old for this nonsense,’ the missus muttered under her breath.
‘Why don’t you set it up in the dining room? I think that would be most comfortable for Mr Templeton,’ Thomas said.
The missus nodded and headed back into the house as the car rolled to a stop. The driver, a tall man with a thatch of dark hair and broad shoulders got out of the car. Thomas was struck by the man’s quiet strength, and wondered how Stephen came to find him. When the man moved to the passenger door, Thomas saw the gun holstered under his suit coat. He also noticed the ankle holster and the knife sheathed in the man’s suit pocket.
Thomas approached the car and spoke to the driver. ‘Welcome. If you’d like to take the chalice and follow Beck, I’ll see to Mr Templeton.’
The man nodded at Thomas as he took a leather satchel out of the boot of the car and followed Beck into the house.
‘Hello, Stephen,’ Thomas said. He held out his hand to the old man.
‘Tom.�
� Stephen held on to Thomas as he hoisted himself out of the car, not letting go until he was steady on his feet. ‘I’ll be glad to get this chalice out of my house. I haven’t slept in a week. Keep expecting the Nazis to break down my doors.’
‘I see you’ve taken proper security measures,’ Thomas said.
‘I am probably overreacting, but better safe than sorry. That’s my motto. That’s Evan Fletcher, my guard. Evan’s a bit of a brute, but he is good at his job.’ He held onto Thomas’s arm, as they made their way to the house. Thomas hadn’t seen Stephen Templeton in six months or so and was surprised at the change in his friend. His clothes hung from his body. His cheeks had become gaunt, his eyes sunken.
‘I’m not dying, lad,’ Stephen said. ‘I’ve been ill with influenza. I’ll be right as rain in a few months. Just need to rest and put some meat on my old bones.’
‘Good to hear,’ Thomas said. Once in the bright lights of the house, Stephen let go of Thomas’s arm. The men moved into the study, where Evan Fletcher and Beck stood waiting, the leather satchel on Thomas’s desk.
‘Go ahead and open it, Tom. Let’s have a last look at it before you lock it away. I’ll just sit down, if you don’t mind.’
Beck moved through the room, closing the curtains, enjoying every minute of the intrigue. When the room was safe from prying eyes, Thomas unzipped the satchel and pulled out the chalice, which was wrapped in a velvet cloth. The missus moved over to the desk, watching quietly as Thomas removed the wrapping to reveal the treasure he had agreed to safeguard for the foreseeable future.
‘Bless my soul,’ the missus said. ‘I believe this is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.’ She stepped closer and studied the artefact. ‘Shouldn’t this be in a museum?’
The chalice was short and squat, made of gold so pure it shone even in the dim light. Chunks of amethysts, garnets, peridots and tourmaline were set around the edge, adding to the chalice’s luminescence. Thomas had never seen anything so unique and beautiful. The piece shimmered with something beyond its riches, as though all those who drank from it over the ages had left an imprint of themselves.
House of Lies Page 5