The Hidden Legacy: A Dark and Shocking Psychological Drama

by GJ Minett

  And she cried, of course. You’ll think me remarkably stupid but I don’t think it had dawned on me at any stage that this might be something she wouldn’t want to hear. I was so bound up in the lies and the secrecy and the overwhelming need for the truth to come out that I never once asked myself whether she might be better off not knowing, especially after all this time. If I’d been blessed with a little more imagination and, dare I say it, empathy, I might have realised she’d managed to find a way to come to terms with what had happened and was happy with the distorted version of the truth that had been fed to her. It was only when the tears began to flow and she started shaking her head that I became aware of my questionable motives for making this journey. It might have been cutting the cancer from my own heart but it certainly wasn’t doing much for her.

  But there was another aspect to this which didn’t strike me immediately. Instead it crept up on me, starting as a vague suspicion and eventually developing into full-blown conviction. It seemed to me her tears were reserved for Peter’s death and the mind-numbing futility of it all – Josef’s illness, the mistaken identity, O’Halloran’s quixotic crusade. But there was no real sense of shock over his true identity. I’m not sure what I was expecting exactly – anger, disbelief, outrage maybe? But there were none of these – indeed, she seemed more taken aback by my own connection to the whole history of John Michael Adams than that of Peter Vaughan and it was difficult to escape the conclusion that at some stage he must have confided in her – and I can only marvel at the courage required for such a conversation, given what would have been at stake. I was so convinced that she knew that I asked her outright but she simply shook her head and cried once more. Somehow it felt intrusive to pursue it any further.

  We took a walk around the grounds to avoid being conspicuous and when she’d had a chance to compose herself, she asked exactly what it was I wanted. When I told her I hoped to leave the cottage to her, she said she didn’t need it. She was perfectly civil about it but quite adamant. She didn’t want it. When I said I wanted to do it for Josef, to go some way towards making up for what had happened all those years ago and that maybe I might leave it to you instead, she became angry for the first time. She was absolutely determined that this was not going to happen. I did my best to talk her round but it was obvious I was wasting my time.

  I tried ringing her again the following week but had to leave a message. In the end, it wasn’t Barbara who rang back but her uncle, Mr Balfour. He was very pleasant, charming even, but equally firm in his stance. He explained that your mother didn’t want to be reminded of things that had been buried for so long. She had no interest in inheriting any cottage from me and was equally insistent that her daughter be kept out of it altogether.

  When I asked him if you had a right to know the truth and decide such things for yourself, he took me to task for imagining that your mother had not been through these selfsame arguments a thousand times over the past thirty years. She’d decided on what she believed to be in the best interests of her daughter. Did I really think I knew better? And to round things off, he asked me if knowing the truth was always the best way forward. Did I, for instance, feel my life had changed for the better the moment I discovered what Josef had done? And was there nothing in my past that I had kept secret rather than share with those closest to me? You can just imagine how that particular point struck home.

  So I did as I was asked. I kept my silence and stayed away, leaving you with the version of reality they’ve chosen for you. It’s only now, as I sense my life is drawing to a close, that I feel the need to backtrack slightly. And it is only slightly – I left plenty of checks in place to ensure that you would only learn what you decided to know. If you’ve reached this stage, you’ll appreciate that I left it very much up to you. You’ve had plenty of opportunities to walk away. But I felt the need to do this, Ellen. The truth does matter. My life is a testimony to what can happen if you try to suppress it. Once I’m gone, the truth disappears with me unless I leave a trail for you to follow. I can only hope that, for once, I’ve done the right thing.

  Just one more thing before I leave. I didn’t tell you everything about my trip to Langmere Grove. When I first arrived there, I was asked to wait in Reception while someone went to fetch your mother. While I was sitting there, the main doors opened and a woman came through, manoeuvring a pushchair with one hand and clinging on to a little girl with the other. She went up to the main desk and lifted the girl onto the counter, exchanging a few jokes with the women on Reception. At one point she turned and smiled briefly as if to acknowledge my presence, before returning to the conversation she was having. Then, after a few minutes, she picked the girl up and disappeared into one of the offices at the rear of the building.

  You won’t even remember it, Ellen, but I do. I’ve never forgotten. And I suspect that even if I hadn’t received the photos from Mr Mahon, I would have known you.

  Anywhere.

  Yours with affection,

  Eudora

  February 2008: Ellen

  Ellen finished the final page, acutely aware of Kate’s eyes boring a hole in the side of her face. When she reached Eudora’s signature, she lingered over it for a few seconds, pretending to reread the entire sheet. She traced the final few lines with her forefinger and only when she was absolutely sure she’d be able to pull it off did she turn to her friend and offer a reassuring smile.

  She isolated the final page and slipped it onto the back of the pack before reaching for the envelope on the table. As she did so, a handful of sheets slid from her lap and onto the floor as she grabbed frantically to secure them. With a muttered curse, she reassembled the pack, making sure the pages were in the correct order. Then she tapped all four sides on the surface of the table to even out the edges before thrusting the sheets back into the envelope. It was a tight fit and in her impatience she pushed too soon, causing the envelope to tear down one side. With a sigh, she threw it onto the table and closed her eyes, allowing her unsupported head to loll uncomfortably over the back of the sofa.

  ‘You OK?’ she heard Kate ask.

  ‘Fine.’

  A floorboard creaked upstairs – even though she knew it was just the cottage adjusting itself, her heart thumped wildly for an instant. How did anyone ever get used to this degree of isolation? She could only assume that something in Eudora’s nature had put her in tune with the place so that these noises became part of the furniture for her.

  ‘You want to talk about it?’

  ‘Sure. Not now though, eh?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Maybe later.’

  ‘Whenever you like.’

  Kate sounded so solemn Ellen almost wanted to laugh, however inappropriate that might be. It was so not Kate. Somehow it just added to the air of unreality that had crept over her during the past hour or so . . . as if none of this had actually happened, nothing had really changed. At any time she could get to her feet and walk back into the life she’d always known. As if . . .

  ‘Is it me or is it hot in here?’ she asked, getting to her feet and heading for the hallway.

  ‘Hot?’

  ‘Stuffy.’

  She plucked her hat and coat from a peg and walked back into the conservatory, grabbing a scarf as an afterthought. Kate looked up in surprise.

  ‘Where are you going?’ she asked, unable to keep the concern out of her voice.

  ‘Out. Just for a bit.’

  ‘You can’t go out in this. It’s Ice Station Zebra out there.’

  ‘I’m not going far. Just fancy a bit of fresh air.’

  ‘I’ll come,’ said Kate. She started to rise from the sofa but Ellen waved her back down.

  ‘Ten minutes, Kate. OK?’

  Kate started to protest, then looked closely at her before nodding.

  ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Ten minutes . . . and then I call for the huskies.’

  Ellen smiled and finished buttoning her coat. She pulled the hat down low over
her forehead and wrapped the scarf around the lower half of her face. Then she gave Kate a hug.

  ‘Stick what’s left of the pizza in the microwave,’ she said. ‘We’ll finish it when I get back.’

  Kate picked up one of the remaining slices and deliberately took a bite out of it. Ellen smiled again, then walked back into the hallway. As she opened the front door, the wind howled and threw it against her, causing her to fall back against the boot racks in the hallway. It was enough to make her pause at least before she finally stepped out into the cold night air.

  ‘Ten minutes, mind,’ she heard Kate call out as she pulled the door to behind her. Then she bowed her head and tried to follow the outlines of the footpath beneath the snow which had now risen above ankle height. At the gate, she turned left for the first time. She knew the bottom half of the village by now but had never followed the winding road up the hill towards the pub whose virtues Liam Sharp had been extolling. She had no idea how far it was – it certainly wasn’t visible from the cottage, even in clear daylight. Even so, she reasoned, there was no harm in setting off in that direction. It wasn’t as if there was much to look at, whichever way she went. The snow was falling less densely now but the road was unlit and the strong wind watered her eyes, making it difficult to see too far in front of her face.

  After no more than a few yards the road came to a fork. She had to step right up to the signpost to read what it had to say. It seemed to be guiding hikers to footpaths in all directions but the one she wanted read: ‘WAYFARER’S INN – 150M’. She bore left and carried on climbing, following the winding road until she could make out the hazy glow up ahead. By the time she reached the empty car park, it felt as if she’d walked miles.

  She nudged open a gate and hurried the final few yards to the entrance. Once out of the wind, she unravelled the scarf and shook the snow from it, as the pub sign creaked and groaned above her head. She waited until she was through the doors before she did the same with her hat and opted to keep the coat on until she knew for sure how warm the Lounge Bar would be.

  She was pleasantly surprised when she stepped through into a brightly lit room with a low oak-beam ceiling and old stone walls. A roaring log fire in a large open hearth dominated the far corner of the room and she headed straight for it, unbuttoning her coat as she went and draping it over the arm of a sofa which had seen better days. Then she went to the bar, nodding briefly at the three men standing there who seemed to be the only customers willing to brave it out on such an awful night. They made a half-hearted attempt at conversation about the weather, then left her to order her drink from a saturnine barman, whose hangdog expression evinced barely a flicker of curiosity as to what she was doing here on a night like this.

  She opted for a glass of red wine before changing her mind at the last minute. Instead she asked for a brandy, then made it a double, causing one of the men to raise an eyebrow. In your dreams, she thought. Where the double brandy had come from, she had no idea. She hadn’t had a glass in years, not since Jack had gone through his connoisseur phase and tried to win her over to Armagnac. She’d never really taken to it but remembered it as something that burned her insides on the way down and brought tears to her eyes, which was just fine by her. If ever she needed cauterising, it was now.

  She took her drink over to the table and settled into the sofa, which was considerably more comfortable than its well-worn condition had suggested. The fire was close enough for the heat to wrap her in a warm fug, which the brandy only enhanced. Somewhere far away, at the back of her mind, was an awareness that she’d come here to think, to absorb what she’d learnt and assess exactly what it would mean for her and her family. For Megan and Harry. She tried to focus but it was all too much of an effort right now. Everything was just too far out of reach. Every so often random thoughts broke through – Josef sitting in a car in the snow in Inverness; her mother placing flowers by the roadside in a village in Scotland; Eudora dragging Josef from a freezing car and struggling to get him up the stairs and into bed . . . and JMA.

  John Michael Adams.

  She pushed the thoughts away. She wasn’t ready for this. Not yet. Maybe after a good night’s sleep, she might be able to get a handle on things but right now, with several glasses of wine and most of the double brandy inside her, she just wanted to let it all go. It felt as if she’d been holding on for far too long.

  She got to her feet and stood directly in front of the fire for a few minutes, allowing the heat to wash over her and flinching every time a spark flew off the logs and disappeared up the chimney. The men at the bar had looked her way once or twice but no one had made a move in her direction and she didn’t know whether to be relieved or distressed at further evidence of her gradual decline. Not so gradual these days, she told herself. She tried to imagine what she must look like right now. No wonder no one was interested.

  The ringtone on her mobile took her by surprise. She whipped it out of her coat pocket, confident it would be Kate. Ten minutes, she’d said. She’d been gone at least half an hour and hadn’t once thought about her friend, who must be worried sick. To make matters worse, she’d been so self-absorbed, she hadn’t even considered the possibility that staying in a strange, creaking cottage, especially after the events of the past few days, might be unsettling at best for her. Feeling guilty, she flipped the phone open.

  ‘Kate, I’m so sorry –’ she began.

  ‘Where are you?’ The urgency in Kate’s voice drew Ellen up short.

  ‘I’m just up the road. Is everything OK?’ she asked anxiously.

  ‘Ell . . . you need to get back right away.’ A pause, then Kate continued. ‘Isaac’s here.’

  ‘Isaac?’ Ellen noticed the curious looks she was getting and instinctively lowered her voice. ‘Isaac Ross?’

  ‘Yes. How long will it take you to get back?’

  Ellen shook her head as if that might bring things into sharper focus. She tried to think of a good reason why Sam’s solicitor might have driven all this way in these conditions at this time of night. She couldn’t think of one that didn’t spell bad news.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Five, ten minutes? I don’t understand –’

  ‘Where are you exactly? He says we’ll pick you up.’

  Ellen laughed. ‘You can’t – he’d never get the car up here in this. I’ll be back down before he’s made it halfway up the hill. What’s going on, Kate? Why’s he here?’

  There was a silence for long enough for Ellen to wonder if the line had gone dead. Then, after what seemed like an eternity, Kate came back on the line.

  ‘I’m really sorry, Ell,’ she said, her voice almost unrecognisably subdued. ‘It’s Barbara.’

  February 2008: John Michael

  OK, he tells himself . . . enough. Enough of the fretting, all this pacing up and down in your room. It’s not helping one bit. If that got you anywhere, you’d have been there ages ago. Forget it – forget all the what-ifs, the maybes, the will-she-won’t-shes. Focus on what’s in front of you.

  So . . . does she know? No. Probably not. Not yet, at any rate.

  Is she getting closer? Looks like it.

  Does that matter? Yes! If she’s going to find out, he wants to be the one to tell her.

  So why not tell her? ’Cos it’s not that easy. What if she freaks out, turns to the media?

  Why not just go then? It’s not like you’re part of her life as it is – not in any meaningful way. Maybe not . . . but at least he’s there. He’s around. He can watch from a distance. And anyway, he doesn’t want to run any more. He’s had enough of it. Would rather take his chances and hope she doesn’t put it all together.

  So what would the professor say? He’d say the tide’s turning, you’re not in control any more, if you ever were. He’d say that when your emotions get the better of your judgement, it’s time to cut and run.

  So is that what you’re going to do?

  Is that what you’re going to do?
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  10

  February 2008: Ellen

  By the time they reached the M4 at Swindon, the snow had dwindled into isolated flurries. There was nothing either overhead or on the gritted road surface to justify the relatively sedate speed that Isaac was maintaining and Ellen’s anxiety grew with each passing minute. She had to remind herself that it would be churlish to complain, given how far he’d travelled to collect her.

  Isaac had insisted on driving her back to Chichester. He felt refreshed, having been chauffeured all the way to Oakham by one of his nephews. The latter was now at the wheel of Kate’s Celica, much to her disgust. She’d protested long and hard, insisting she was perfectly capable of driving until Ellen held up the two bottles of wine they’d consumed between them. Reluctantly agreeing to hand over the keys, Kate insisted on sitting in the front passenger seat where she could keep an eye on the lad. He looked a little too keen for her liking.

  Once she and Isaac were under way in the Bentley, Ellen listened as he put flesh on the bones he’d already served up. He’d never been one for soft-soaping and he didn’t pull any punches now. The word if was no longer on the agenda, he told her. It was now just a question of when. Barbara was in a coma and was not going coming out of it.