House of Shadows

by House of Shadows (UK) (retail) (epub)

  ‘You’re not old.’ I smiled at him.

  He winked at me and then took out his pipe, which added to his elderly image. ‘Compared to you, I’m geriatric, Riana. You are just a young bud of a girl, so take a tip from me: life isn’t all about business and making a “go” of things – important as those things are at your age – it’s also about the heart and about love. Which reminds me! Where is that charming American pilot these days? I rather thought he was keen on you.’

  ‘Away on duty, I suppose.’ I didn’t know why I felt the need to lie to the colonel, but the story of Tom going into the river and wanting to disappear was something I had to respect, even though I didn’t understand it.

  ‘He hasn’t met with some sort of accident, has he? You look anxious, my dear.’

  I hesitated a moment. ‘I’d rather not talk about Tom, if you don’t mind.’ I suppose my tone was cold, discouraging any further questions, because the colonel puffed on his pipe for a moment without answering.

  ‘I wonder if we’ll see any ghosts tonight, my dear.’ He broke the silence, and I felt relieved. I hoped I hadn’t offended him, but being a paying guest didn’t allow someone the privilege of enquiring into my private life.

  ‘Perhaps.’ I didn’t commit myself. Ghosts were touchy beings, if they existed at all.

  Breakfast was a noisy, cheerful affair. It seemed that everyone had forgotten Colonel Fred’s accident. But I hadn’t. I looked around the assorted guests: Mr Bravage, young William, Colin, Mrs Timpson Smith with her neatly-cut hair and rather thin, rouged face. Plump Betty, her cheerful smile making her beautiful, and all the others who as yet were not personalities to me. None of them had any reason to hurt the colonel that I knew of. He must have slipped, missed his step. He liked his drink, and who was to say he hadn’t had plenty of that when he went up the stairs?

  * * *

  That evening I had a call from Mr Readings. He wanted to come to Aberglasney to talk to me about another exhibition. I tried to put him off, explaining I had guests, but he was persistent. ‘I haven’t anything even started yet,’ I said at last. ‘I’ve been off my painting for a few weeks.’

  ‘Even more reason for me to talk to you,’ he said. ‘Oh, and I’ll be bringing my lady friend with me, so make it a nice double room, will you?’

  I found Mrs Ward reading a postcard in the kitchen. She had a sour look on her face, and when I sat down beside her at the well-scrubbed table, she slid the card over to me. ‘From our Rosie,’ she said bluntly. ‘She’s safe and well and so is the baby, and she’s living with some man in Ireland.’ The anger in her voice was tempered with pain, and I felt like putting my hand over hers to comfort her, but she wasn’t the type for sentimental gestures.

  ‘Well, that’s a relief,’ I said. ‘At least she’s all right – not murdered, as we all thought.’

  ‘She’s without shame, that girl.’ Mrs Ward had tears in her voice, though her face was cold and stony. ‘I brought her up to be a good girl, but she wouldn’t learn from the mistakes I made, would she? She had to go and mess up her life – and the child’s too.’

  ‘Don’t be too hard on Rosie. She’s very young.’ I tried to sound soothing.

  Mrs Ward replied at once. ‘She’s no younger than you, Miss Riana, and look at you – making a business for yourself, as well as being a fine painter. I don’t see you running off to bed any man who comes along and offers.’

  I felt the colour bloom in my cheeks. ‘No one’s offered, Mrs Ward.’ I made an effort to smile, but she wasn’t amused.

  ‘You are far too respectful of yourself to go to bed with a man without a ring on your finger.’

  ‘Anyway—’ I changed the subject ‘—we have two more guests coming, so will you make up a double room when you have time, Mrs Ward?’

  ‘Aye, I’ll do that after supper. We’re having lamb stew and fresh cheese and for the main meal beef and vegetables. I thought we’d finish up with steamed pudding and custard.’

  ‘I don’t know how you do it.’ I really admired her; no one could coax the local shops into generosity like Mrs Ward.

  She lifted her chin in the air and went stiff with pride. ‘The villagers know which side their bread is buttered,’ she said. ‘We are good customers, so it pays to keep the folks at Aberglasney well supplied.’ She allowed herself a tiny smile. ‘And, of course, the Americans created a lot of trade as well, and it has dawned on the shopkeepers that now the air force men have all gone back to America they need our custom.’

  ‘Thank goodness for your contacts.’ My words were heartfelt. In these days of austerity after the war I was lucky to get ordinary supplies, let alone extras.

  Mr Readings and his lady arrived just as Mrs Ward was serving supper. With the good news about Rosie, I’d finally managed to hire the services of a village girl to help. She had the strange name of Treasure, and she really was one to me. According to Mrs Ward the girl was slow but was willing – and, as Mrs Ward put it, ‘she’ll train, given time’.

  ‘My dear Riana.’ Mr Readings kissed me on the cheek, and his lady friend did a little curtsey.

  ‘I hope you’ll call me Diane,’ she said gently. She had a Welsh accent, and I was amazed by the coincidence when she told me she had been brought up close to Aberglasney, though this was the first time she’d been back in years. She was a sweet lady and very refined, but I knew she took Mr Readings to her bed whenever she had the chance.

  As usual there was a great deal of chatter at the supper table, high voices and jolly laughter – that was, until the wonderful electric lights I’d installed in the ground-floor rooms went out. I could hear a small scream from plump Betty.

  ‘Everyone stay calm,’ I announced in my best authoritative voice. ‘We have oil lamps and candles, so no one panic.’

  Between us, Mrs Ward and I soon had the dining room lit again. Treasure, meanwhile, stood helpless with fright, her eyes wide. ‘Is it the ghosts of the five maids playing tricks on us?’ She was quaking with fear.

  ‘I do hope so, dear girl,’ Colonel Fred said heartily. ‘That’s what we are all here for, after all.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, girl,’ Mrs Ward reprimanded. ‘Ghosts, indeed. It’s all a load of rubbish.’

  ‘Keep your voice down, Mrs Ward,’ I said. ‘Don’t let my guests hear you saying such things. We don’t want to put them off, do we?’

  ‘But you don’t believe in such things, do you?’ Mrs Ward eyed me with her usual common-sense expression.

  I shrugged. ‘Who knows? My guests believe it, and that’s why they come to ghost-haunting weekends, so we don’t bite the hand that feeds us, do we?’

  Mrs Ward nodded sagely. ‘Well, I will say I’ve never been in a house with such strange happenings before.’ She spoke loudly so that the guests would hear. ‘Shall I serve the pudding now, Miss Riana?’

  The sombre mood was dispelled a little as large helpings of steamed syrup pudding were served with rich egg-filled custard. Wine glasses were filled, and soon the business of the failed lights was forgotten and the laughter and sound of voices raised in enjoyment could be heard once more.

  Later, as Treasure carried heavy tray-loads of dishes through to the kitchen, the lights came back on and Mr Readings took me to one side.

  ‘Don’t worry about paintings until you are ready, my sweet little Riana.’ He was a little carried away with the wine. ‘Waiting only makes my customers more eager to own one of your precious works.’

  Diane came anxiously to Mr Readings’ side. ‘I don’t want to trouble you, dear, but I’ve a little headache coming on. Do you mind if I go to bed?’

  ‘Of course not, my dear Diane.’ Mr Readings turned back to me. ‘I would very much like you to think of the next exhibition, however. Perhaps a little more “free” this time, with the ghosts – and the buildings or staircase or whatever – done in an impressionist style.’

  Diane was pulling at Mr Readings’ sleeve. ‘I am a little nervous about going to bed alone. Will
you come along with me?’

  ‘Please do go to bed, Mr Readings,’ I urged. ‘It’s been a long drive from London, and I promise to think over what you have said.’

  To my relief, he kissed me goodnight on my cheek, and arm in arm the couple went upstairs. I wished all my guests were such early birds, but Colonel Fred was only just setting up his ghost-hunting equipment, while plump Betty was hovering nervously at the foot of the stairs, clinging to the arm of young William.

  That night nothing happened, except that I started on a new painting – perhaps inspired by Mr Readings’ words or by the need to make some money. The painting was adequate, but had no soul, and I left it half-finished and went off to bed. The guests were still making merry downstairs in the sitting room, but I was used to their noise by now and managed to ignore it.

  I woke as dawn was creeping into the room and got up quickly and went to the gallery. At once I could see what was wrong with the painting. I squeezed out some fresh oils and – still in my nightgown – began to paint almost in a frenzy of enthusiasm; some might call it inspiration, but paint I did until my eyes began to close again in weariness.

  I tiptoed back to my bedroom and fell asleep again, feeling relaxed and content with what I’d achieved.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  I was wakened in the late morning by the appearance of a man at the side of my bed. I opened my mouth to scream and a hand was placed against my lips, a gentle hand. It was Tom.

  I held out my arms to him, and he held me close. I could feel the hardness of his body against mine and had the almost uncontrollable desire to pull him under the sheets with me. He released me and sat on the bed, and I felt a sinking feeling of disappointment. I never knew if Tom wanted me in a special way, or just as a friend. ‘Thank God you’re safe,’ I said. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘I can’t tell you right now, hon. It’s a military thing.’

  ‘Rubbish!’ There was anger in my voice. ‘Why would the military need to try to steal my business from me? To threaten my life and yours? Tell me the truth. I’m not a child.’

  ‘Our lives are linked,’ Tom said. ‘Whoever is after some information guesses that you know what I know.’

  ‘And what do you know?’

  ‘If I told you, you’d be in as much danger as I am.’

  ‘I am in as much danger as you are,’ I pointed out. ‘From the time I arrived here, someone has tried to harm me. At first I thought the attacks had something to do with Aberglasney, but they have everything to do with you and your military secrets.’

  ‘The two are inextricably linked. Don’t you understand?’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Tom, stop talking in riddles. Of course I don’t understand.’

  ‘Perhaps that’s just as well. You can’t tell what you don’t know.’

  ‘I wouldn’t tell if I did know anything,’ I protested.

  ‘Ever had a root canal without anaesthetic?’ Tom’s voice was wry.

  ‘You mean I could be tortured?’ The thought made me wince. ‘But the war is over, Tom, and so is all that kind of thing.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  I sat up, hugging the sheets and blankets around my shoulders. ‘Anyway, why are you here? What’s happened? By the way, you smell like you’ve been sleeping on a rubbish tip!’

  ‘I’m not surprised I smell. I’ve been hidden on the island, remember?’

  ‘I don’t remember much of anything, except that I called and called for you and got no answer. You could have been drowned or captured or anything!’

  ‘I did warn you it was best my enemies thought I was dead, didn’t I, honey?’

  Suddenly, I was furious with him. Angry that he didn’t kiss me, that he didn’t tell me he loved me, that he didn’t even talk to me as if I was an intelligent adult. ‘Stop treating me like a child!’ I heard my voice quiver.

  Tom took me in his arms, and his kiss was all I could have wished it to be. His mouth parted mine, and I felt my breath become ragged. I wanted him to caress me, make love to me, but he pulled away. ‘I need a shower.’

  ‘That’s the truth,’ I replied.

  ‘You must have an exhibition in London soon,’ he said into my ear. ‘It’s vital you have some work ready within the month. Understood?’

  He left me, without another word, and I saw him lower himself from the window and my heart was in my mouth. I didn’t know if I should love him or hate him. Did he love me, or was he using me for some scheme of his own? And yet I found myself in my studio, almost as soon as he had left, mixing my paints and obeying his command as if I was a slave girl and he my master.

  My other painting was almost dry; soon I would glaze it and it would be finished. This time I did a painting of the stairs – in greys and blues, with just a narrow slant of yellow-orange light, falling from the landing down into the large ornate hall, to give the canvas some colour. A ghostly shadow sat on the stairs, one arm raised to the balustrade and a long thin sleeve revealing a slim delicate arm. The face was hidden by long sweeping hair, which was almost transparent against the darkness. It was good; even I knew it was good, perhaps the best thing I’d ever painted. I seemed to improve with every work I executed. Was I really such an accomplished artist, I wondered, or was something in the house urging me on?

  My life was full of questions, the main one being did Tom love me. But I was also worried about my work – was it natural inspiration or some spiritual intervention? I didn’t know the answers, and yet I finished the painting in two days: one for the initial composition, and the second day for making the small changes I thought necessary. There weren’t many: a little flare of light on the sweep of the hair; the pattern of colour in the carpet briefly revealed in a narrow patch of light; and one bare long finger highlighted as it touched the balustrade.

  When I had completed the painting, exhausted, I went to the kitchen, where Mrs Ward had left me a cold pie and some beef sandwiches. I made a hot cup of tea, realising I’d eaten nothing all day. I was losing weight, and I was thin to start with. I could feel the clothes hanging off me, and so I decided to treat myself to a new frock when I went into Swansea. I rarely bought clothes so I had coupons to spare, and suddenly I was filled with the urge to dress up, have my hair done and put on some lipstick. What I must have looked like first thing yesterday morning I dreaded to think. And yet my heart lightened as I remembered the way Tom’s mouth had parted my lips and how I’d wanted him to love me, to make love to me, however improper it might be, however wrong and forward, and me a single girl. Such behaviour could only have been excused in the war; then death had been an ever-present threat.

  The next morning I was in my studio again when Mrs Ward came up to me with a tray of Camp coffee that smelled strong and delicious. ‘Have you heard the gossip?’ she asked, her eyes curious as she examined my face.

  ‘No. I’ve been working hard for my next exhibition.’ I made a gesture towards the painting.

  She hardly glanced at it. ‘More ghosts,’ she said with raised eyebrows. ‘Anyway, you know Tom, the American air force man?’

  ‘Of course I know Tom.’ I was impatient and a little worried. ‘What gossip could there possibly be about him?’

  ‘It seems he’s run away to London and got involved with an heiress,’ she said, watching my face carefully.

  I managed to hide my shock. ‘Good for him,’ I said smoothly. ‘I hope he’ll be very happy.’ I turned away and began to work like a fiend. I was outwardly composed, but inside I felt as if jagged glass was tearing up my heart.

  * * *

  In the next few weeks I found that work was my salvation from the bitterness, anger and jealousy that seemed to eat my soul. My paintings were executed with a frenzy of brush strokes and in strong colours, but always with a shadowy corner and an ethereal being, hardly there, behind a stone arch or similar. Outside the house and in, I painted scenes of the shadowed hallway, the landings, and even the blue room, and wished that Beatrice was there to talk to about my tr
oubles.

  Mrs Ward poked and pried, but I remained elusive and avoided her when I could; she seemed to feed off my misery. It seemed to me that she was blooming and I was fading away into nothingness like my ghosts.

  * * *

  The day of the exhibition dawned. In the early morning, a van arrived to take my canvases to London. Gone were the days when I was expected to transport them myself. Now I was treated like royalty, Mr Readings practically putting out the red carpet for me.

  Red; that was the colour I would wear, I decided. Once the van had left, I took the train to London and sat in the first-class compartment like a lady born to riches and honours. No one would know I was grieving inside.

  I’d heard nothing from Tom – not a word of explanation, not even a plain letter telling me of his whereabouts. I still felt his last kiss on my lips, and I pushed the thought away in case I began to cry.

  At Swansea, Miss Grist got into the compartment and gave me a sunny smile as if nothing had ever been wrong between us. ‘Lovely crisp day,’ she said as she sat down, letting a flurry of cold air in from the corridor before she pushed the door shut and pulled her fur collar around her face. Her hat of soft felt with pretty bird feathers she pulled into place on her brow, and I realised she looked very smart; far from her usual frumpy self. ‘I’m actually coming to see your exhibition,’ she said, almost preening as she adjusted the hat. ‘I thought it was time to see what all the fuss was about.’

  ‘Might you steal my ideas for yourself?’ I couldn’t help the sarcasm. ‘Just as you stole my list of guests. That didn’t work, fortunately for me. It seems your ghost was a trick.’

  ‘And yours isn’t?’ She took out a small mirror from her bag and reapplied her lipstick. It was a new lipstick – still very expensive and exclusive after the barrenness of the war years. I couldn’t resist staring at it.