I had seen photographs of the interior, of course, but nothing quite prepares you for the impact of the real thing. Size, for example. Like the exterior, it was so much larger than I had imagined that I felt intimidated at first. In my memory, English houses were small and cramped. But I was standing in a high-ceilinged room large enough for a party, with a broad wooden staircase directly in front of me leading to the upper landing, with railed galleries and doors leading to the bedrooms. I could imagine a host of people in Victorian dress leaning against the polished wooden railings and looking down on some theatrical performance, a Christmas pageant, perhaps, presented below, where I was standing, by unbearably cute children and costumed young ladies demonstrating their accomplishments.
A couple of well-used armchairs stood near the door by an antique sideboard, and a grandfather clock with a swinging brass pendulum ticked away to the left of the staircase. I checked the time against my wristwatch, and it was accurate. The walls were wainscoted to waist height, above which they were covered by flock wallpaper. A chandelier hung from the high ceiling like a fountain frozen in midair. All the wood surfaces shone with recent polishing, and the air smelled of lemon and lavender. Several gilt-framed paintings hung on the walls: Richmond Castle at sunset, two horses at pasture near Middleham, a man, woman and child posing by the front of the house. None of them was especially valuable, I thought, but nor were they the kind of cheap prints people pick up at a flea market. The frames alone were probably worth a fair bit. Who could afford to leave all this behind? Why?
Taking the suitcase that contained my toiletries and what few clothes I had brought with me, I climbed the slightly uneven and creaky wooden stairs to seek out a suitable bedroom.
Two large bedrooms took up the front of the house, one on either side, mirror images across the gallery, and I chose the second one I peeked in. A bright, cheerful room, with cream, rose-patterned wallpaper, it had windows at the front and side, four in all, letting in plenty of sunshine. A selection of sheets and a thick duvet lay folded neatly on a wooden chest at the foot of the bed. The room also had a pine wardrobe, a dressing table and a chair, with enough space left over to hold a tea dance. There were no pictures on the walls, but I would have fun searching around the local markets and antique shops for suitable prints. A second door led from the bedroom to the en suite toilet, washbasin and glassed-in shower unit.
One of the front windows had a small padded seat, from which I could see over the garden trees to the opposite daleside, the beck, the folly and the woods beyond. It seemed a pleasant little nook in which to curl up and read. From the side windows, I had a view back along the dale where I had just driven. I could see that, even though it was only four o’clock, the afternoon shadows were already lengthening. Without even bothering to make the bed, I stretched out on the mattress and felt it adjust and mould to my shape. I rested my head on the pillow – the sort that was thicker at one end than the other, and reminded me of an executioner’s block – and closed my eyes. Just for a moment, I could have sworn I heard the piano in the distance. Schubert’s third Impromptu. It sounded beautiful, ethereal, and I soon drifted off to sleep. The next thing I knew someone was knocking at the front door, and the room was in darkness. When I got up, found a light switch and checked my watch, I saw that it was six o’clock.
‘Mr Lowndes, I assume?’ said the woman standing at the door. ‘Mr Christopher Lowndes?’
‘Chris, please,’ I said, running my hand over my hair. ‘You must excuse me. I’m afraid I fell asleep and lost track of the time.’
A little smile blossomed on her face. ‘Perfectly understandable.’ She stuck out her hand. ‘I’m Heather Barlow.’
We shook hands, then I stood aside and asked her to come in. She was carrying a shopping bag, which she set down on the sideboard. I hung her coat in the small cloakroom beside the door, and we stood awkwardly in the large vestibule, the grandfather clock’s heavy ticking echoing in the cavernous space.
‘So what do you think now you’re here?’ Mrs Barlow asked.
‘I’m impressed. It’s everything you told me it would be. I’d invite you into the den or the living room for a cup of tea,’ I said, ‘but I’m afraid I haven’t explored downstairs yet. And I don’t have any tea. I do have some duty-free whisky, mind you.’
‘That’s all right. I know my way around. I ought to do. I’ve been here often enough over the past few weeks. Why don’t we go into the kitchen?’ She picked up the shopping bag and raised it in the air. ‘I took the liberty of nipping into Tesco’s and picking up some basics, just in case you forgot, or didn’t get the chance. Bread, butter, tea, coffee, biscuits, eggs, bacon, milk, cheese, cereal, toothpaste, soap, paracetamol. I took a rather scattershot approach. I’m afraid I have no idea what you eat, whether you’re a vegetarian, vegan, whatever.’
‘You’re a lifesaver, Mrs Barlow,’ I told her. ‘Food completely slipped my mind. And I’ll eat anything. Sushi. Warthog carpaccio. As long as it’s not still moving around too much.’
She laughed. ‘Call me Heather. Mrs Barlow makes me sound like an old fuddy-duddy. And I don’t think you’ll find much sushi or warthog in Richmond.’ She led me through the door to the left and switched on the lights. The kitchen, along with its pantries and larders, ran along the western side of the house and it was the most modern room I had seen so far. It certainly appeared well appointed, with brushed-steel oven, dishwasher, fridge and freezer units built in, a granite-topped island, nice pine-fronted cupboards, and a matching breakfast nook by one of the windows. All I could see was darkness outside, though I knew I must be facing towards the end of dale, where it dwindled into a tangle of woods beyond the drystone wall. The cooker was gas, I noticed, which I much preferred to electric because it gave me more control. There was also a beautiful old black-leaded fireplace – though I doubt, these days, that it was real lead – with hooks and nooks and crannies for kettles, soup pots, roasting dishes and witches’ cauldrons, for all I knew.
Heather started to unload her shopping bag on the island, putting those items that needed to be kept cool into the fridge. ‘Oh, and I know it’s very impertinent of me, but I also brought you this,’ she said, pulling out a bottle of Veuve Clicquot. ‘I don’t even know if you drink.’
‘In moderation,’ I said. ‘And I love champagne. I rarely drink a full bottle on my own, though. Shall I open it now?’
‘No, please, I can’t. I have to drive. Besides, it needs chilling. It would be criminal to drink warm champagne. But thanks, all the same.’ She put the Veuve in the fridge and glanced around at me. ‘I wasn’t sure, you know, whether you’d be alone, or perhaps with someone. You never mentioned anything personal in our conversations or emails, such as children, a wife or . . . you know, a partner. Only, it’s such a large house.’
‘I’m not gay,’ I told her, ‘and I’m quite alone. My wife died almost a year ago. I also have two grown-up children.’
‘Oh, I am sorry to hear that. I mean, about your wife.’
‘Yes. She would have loved it here.’ I clapped my hands. ‘Tea, then?’
‘Excellent. You sit down over there and let me take care of it.’
I sat and watched while Heather filled the electric kettle and flicked the switch. She was a joy to behold, and a long way from being an old fuddy-duddy. An attractive woman in her early forties, I guessed, tall and slim, with curves in all the right places, and looking very elegant in a figure-hugging olive dress and mid-calf brown leather boots. She was almost as tall as me, and I’m six foot two in my stockinged feet. She also had a nice smile, sexy dimples, sea-green eyes with laugh lines crinkling their edges, high cheekbones, a smattering of freckles over her nose and forehead, and beautiful silky red hair that parted in the centre and cascaded over her shoulders. Her movements were graceful and economic.
‘How much do I owe you for the groceries?’ I asked her.
‘All part of the service,’ Heather said. ‘Consider them a welcome-home presen
t.’ She dropped two teabags from a box of Yorkshire Gold into a blue and white Delft teapot and poured on the boiling water, then she turned to me. ‘England is your home, isn’t it? Only you were never entirely clear.’
Sometimes I wasn’t too sure, myself, but I said, ‘Yes. As a matter of fact, I’m a local lad. Leeds, at any rate.’
‘Well I never. My mother came from Bradford. Small world.’
She pronounced it ‘Brad-ford’. Everybody from Leeds pronounces it ‘Brat-ford’. ‘Isn’t it, just?’
‘But you’ve been living in America for a long time, haven’t you? Los Angeles?’
‘Thirty-five years, for my sins.’
‘What did you do over there, if it’s not a rude question?’
‘Not at all. I wrote film scores. I still do. I just plan on doing more of my work over here from now on. After I’ve taken a bit of time off, that is.’ I didn’t tell her what I hoped to do during my time off. Talking about a creative project can kill it before it gets off the ground.
‘Film music? You mean like Chicago and Grease?’
‘No. Not quite. They’re musicals. I write the scores. The soundtracks.’
She frowned. ‘The music that nobody listens to?’
I laughed. ‘That’s probably a good way of putting it.’
She put her hand to her mouth. ‘I am sorry. That was so rude of me. I mean, I . . .’
‘Not at all. Don’t bother to apologise. It’s what everybody thinks. You’d miss it if it wasn’t there, though.’
‘I’m sure I would. Might I have heard any of your music?’
‘Not if it’s the kind you don’t listen to.’
‘I mean . . . you know . . .’ She blushed. ‘Don’t tease. Now you’re embarrassing me.’
‘I’m sorry.’ I named a couple of the more famous recent films I’d scored, one a huge box-office hit.
‘Good Lord!’ she said. ‘Did you do that? Really?’
I nodded.
‘You worked with him? What’s he like?’
‘I don’t actually spend much time with the director, but Mr Spielberg is a man who knows what he wants, and he knows how to get it.’
‘Well I never,’ she said. ‘Pinch me. I’m talking to someone really famous, and I didn’t even know it.’
‘Not me. That’s one of the advantages of what I do. I don’t get famous. People in Hollywood, in the business, know my name, and you see it in the credits. But nobody recognises me in the street. It’s sort of like being a writer. You know the old joke about the actress who was so dumb she slept with the writer?’
Heather smiled. The dimples appeared. ‘No,’ she said. ‘But I do now.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be crude. I’m just . . . you know, sort of anonymous.’
‘But surely the money must be quite good? I don’t mean to be even more rude and pry, but I do know that this house certainly wasn’t cheap.’
‘The money’s good,’ I agreed. ‘Enough so I don’t really have to worry too much, though I do need to keep working for a few more years yet before I can even consider retirement.’
‘If I may say so, you haven’t picked up much of an accent in your time in America.’
‘I suppose not,’ I said. ‘I never really thought about it. Maybe I spent too much of my time in the local drinking beer and playing darts.’
‘They play darts in California? In a local pub?’
‘Of course. The King’s Head.’
‘Is it like a real English pub? All I’ve seen are those dreadful phoney places they have in Spain and Greece.’
‘It’s what the Americans think an English pub should be like. Lots of junk all over the place, padded banquettes, walls cluttered with old photos and posters, Winston Churchill, British bobbies, Union Jacks, the lot.’
‘Well I never.’ Heather poured the tea and carried it over, sitting opposite me at the smooth pine table, careful to put down a couple of coasters before setting the cups and saucers on them. I won’t say she was gazing at me with stars in her eyes, but I was definitely elevated in her view. ‘I got these, too,’ she said mischievously, offering me the packet of McVitie’s chocolate digestives. ‘Bet you couldn’t get these in California.’
‘Bet you could,’ I said. ‘They have a little “shoppe” at the King’s Head. You can buy HP Sauce, Marmite, Branston pickle and Bisto. Probably McVitie’s chocolate digestives as well.’
‘Amazing. Anyway, I think you should find everything in working order,’ Heather went on, clearing her throat and getting back to business. ‘As I told you in one of my emails, the house is centrally heated. I set the thermostat to a comfortable level. It’s in the hall, so you can adjust it yourself if you need to. Watch out, though, the heating bills can be high. Using the fireplaces should help. The door to the coal cellar is under the stairs, and that’s where the firewood is kept. The telephone and Internet connections are in working order – at least, according to the man from BT – as are the satellite television and DVD player you ordered, across the hall. And that’s about it. Oh, before I forget, there’s a form and instructions for getting a television licence. I don’t know about America, but you have to have one here, or they fine you.’
‘I remember,’ I said. ‘My dad always used to complain about paying it. They used to send those little vans with the revolving aerials on top to catch people who hadn’t paid.’
‘They still do. And they’re a lot better at it these days. Anyway, I think you can do it online, if . . .’
I said I’d been doing most of my banking and bill-paying online for years now, so that raised no problems. ‘I’m sure everything’s fine,’ I said. ‘The owners certainly seem to have left a lot of stuff behind. I didn’t expect quite so much.’
‘Yes. Well, I did warn you. I can arrange for anything you don’t want to be taken away. But we all wanted a quick sale. You, too, as I remember.’
‘No problem. If there’s anything I don’t want to keep, I’ll get in touch and maybe you can help me get rid of it?’
‘I’ll do what I can. Would you like the guided tour after tea, or should I leave you to explore on your own at leisure?’
As pleasant a tour guide as Heather Barlow I could hardly imagine, but I had a craving to be alone in my new home, to learn its surprises, stumble across its hidden nooks and crannies, discover its smells and creaks for myself, and to experience it for the first time in the way I expected to continue living here: alone. ‘I’ll explore by myself, if you don’t mind. Unless you think there’s anything I ought to know.’
Heather hesitated. ‘No . . . er . . . not that I can think of. Nothing. Any problems, you can always ring me at home or at the office. I’m sure you have the details already, but I’ll leave you my card in case.’ She dug into her leather handbag.
‘Is something wrong?’ I asked.
‘No. Why? What makes you ask that?’
‘You just seemed a bit flustered by my question, that’s all.’
‘Did I? I can’t imagine why.’
‘Is the house haunted or something?’ I asked, smiling. ‘I mean, it’s so old I can imagine all sorts of things happening here over the years. Serving maids having the master’s baby in secret, you know, all sorts of hush-hush upstairs–downstairs business. Ghostly governesses. Mysterious children. Something nasty in the woodshed. Maybe a gruesome murder or two?’
‘Don’t be silly. Whatever makes you think that?’ Heather Barlow toyed with her hair, wrapping a long strand around her index finger. ‘You do have a vivid imagination. Mind you, I suppose that’s exactly the sort of thing an American would say.’
I smiled. ‘Touché.’
She sipped some tea, then smiled back. Her pale pink lipstick left a mark on the cup. ‘Do you believe in ghosts?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I haven’t seen one yet.’
‘But you’ve only just arrived. You haven’t spent a night here.’
‘I don’t see why people should see ghosts o
nly at night, do you? Anyway, I was just wondering, that’s all. It’s no big deal. I’m not scared or anything. It’s just that in America you hear about these queer things happening in England. Mary Queen of Scots slept here, headless bodies, haunted houses and all that. It comes with the territory. People think it’s quaint. Like the King’s Head.’
‘Yes, well, I have always thought Americans are rather gullible as regards some of the more fanciful flights of British history,’ Heather Barlow said, with a dry laugh to take the edge off the criticism. ‘I shouldn’t worry about ghosts if I were you. They don’t come with this territory. At least, nobody has ever reported seeing a ghost in this house, night or day. All old houses have their peculiar histories, of course, their terrible memories and their darker moments, perhaps, but they don’t necessarily manifest themselves as ghosts. And this may also be one of the few houses in the county where Mary Queen of Scots most certainly did not sleep. Now I really must go. My husband will be wondering where his dinner is.’ She finished her tea and stood up. Was there an angry edge to her words? Was she mentioning her husband for my sake? Did she think I was flirting with her?
I followed her towards the front door, took her coat from the cloakroom and helped her into it. She dug in her pocket for her car keys. When she found them, she turned to me with a new smile fixed in place and held out a square of cardboard. ‘You’ll need this if you drive into town. It’s a parking disc. Just set it for the time you arrive and display it on the dashboard. You’ve got two hours.’
I took the disc. ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘Thanks for coming by, and thanks for everything you brought. Especially the champagne.’
‘You’re most welcome,’ she said, ‘though if you drink it all yourself, the next time you see me you may be more grateful for the coffee and paracetamol. Goodnight.’ And with that she dashed off, leaving me to stare at the closed door for a few moments, until the sound of her car starting shook me out of it. Then I shrugged and went back into the kitchen. I was impressed with Heather Barlow. She had gone out of her way to welcome me to Kilnsgate.
Before the Poison Page 2