‘Like what?’ How do you explain the splinter in my foot, for instance?’
Susan shrugged. ‘It could have been in your foot for months, and only recently became dislodged so that it dug in enough for you to feel it. I don’t know, my dear, but there’s always a rational explanation for every mystery.’ She did not sound too convinced at her own words though.
‘I hope you are right, Susan, because I don’t like the idea of going mad, or of some four hundred and fifty year old spirit invading my dreams. One thing I am sure of though is that the answer must be at Ravenscreag Hall, where it all began twenty-four years ago. Maybe not in Isabella’s novels, but somewhere in that house is the answer to all this, and I intend to find that answer if it is the last thing I do.’
Part Two
The Master of the Scrolls
June 1987
Ravenscreag Hall was where it began so many years ago. The first dream and each successive dream all led to the moment of Gloria’s return.
Of course, she knew she would return, eventually, one day, but she had not thought it would be so soon, with the memory of that last teenage dream still so fresh in her mind. Fourteen years was not nearly long enough, she thought, as she drove up the long tree-lined driveway that led into the estate.
The trees were overgrown and the driveway overrun with weeds. The knots of green sprouting through the gravel forced Gloria to drive slowly, which did not bother her too much, since it delayed her final return to the house just that little while longer.
If the driveway was anything to go by, she wondered in what condition she would find the house itself.
The trees ended and so did the undergrowth of weeds that scraped the underside of Gloria’s car, and there up ahead loomed the house, tall, dark, and menacing.
A single glance was all it took to send shivers of fear-fuelled paranoia down Gloria’s spine, and she slammed on the brakes, still some score yards from the house; the house which, looking as it always had in the past and in her memories, filled Gloria with such dread that it was an almost physical manifestation within her body.
She scolded herself mentally. Get a grip, Gloria!
During the endless journey all the way up from Sussex, Gloria had been persuading herself that it was going to be easy to just drive up to the house and go inside, yet she realised now just how much of a delusion that had been.
Tears sprang to her eyes, which were riveted on the ivy-choked house, as she realised she could not go on.
‘Let’s be rational about this,’ she said, half-aloud, wiping her eyes. ‘I have nothing to fear from this house. The dream followed me south, so it’s obviously unconnected, and besides, Nana Turner will be here to keep me company.’
As she said these words, she saw the arched front door of the house open, and a tall, muscular man with dark curly hair whom she did not recognise stepped out into the early evening sunshine, followed by a vaguely familiar, frail old woman who relied heavily on a walking stick. Gloria smiled as her grandmother, leaning on the man, waved the stick in the air, beckoning to her.
Releasing the hand brake, Gloria put the car back in gear and drove the rest of the way up to the house, barely noticing how free of weeds the rest of the gravelled drive was. Finally, she pulled up outside the oak front door, and switching off the engine, jumped out of the car, raced around the bonnet and threw her arms round the old woman’s neck, kissing the top of her white hair.
‘Hello, Nana Turner,’ she cried tearfully, releasing the old woman, shocked at how increasingly thin and bony her grandmother had become with age.
‘Well, what do you expect, child?’ Mary Turner cackled, revealing large gaps between what few teeth remained. ‘I am ninety-seven next month, after all!’
Gloria struggled to repress her laughter, but failed. ‘I see you still possess your amazing mind reading abilities.’
Mary shivered, hugging her knitted shawl tighter around her tiny body. ‘It’s cold out here. Help me into the house, child. Phil will bring your things.’
Gloria took Mary’s arm, and they entered the house.
*
Later that evening, Mary informed her granddaughter of what a godsend Phil McFadyen was. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without him,’ she said as they sat in the drawing room. A log fire raged in the hearth, causing Gloria to sweat in the heat, but she made no comment, because she understood her grandmother’s need for perpetual warmth.
Phil had worked at Ravenscreag Hall for the past five years. He cooked and he cleaned the whole house, with the assistance of his sister, Samantha – who for some reason known only to herself preferred to be called by her middle name, Wilma, and while they shared the housework, the grounds were Phil’s domain.
Mary loved the similar looking brother and sister team of helpers. With their wild gypsy looks they were polite and courteous, and clearly adored her. They were locals who had lived in the village of Ravenscreag all the thirty-four years of their lives, and Mary treated them both as though they were her own grandchildren – which, since her only grandchild had not bothered to pay her a single visit in over a decade, was something nobody could complain about and everyone could understand. Indeed, this small fact made Gloria realise just how selfish she had been.
‘I hadn’t thought of the fact that I’m your only grandchild,’ she muttered, trying hard not to faint from the heat of the room.
Mary smiled. ‘I understand your reasons for not visiting, although I feel you have been perhaps a little foolish in not facing up to your fears before now.’ Gloria was not given a chance to respond as Wilma appeared, informing Mary that it was half past eight; time for bed.
‘I have my routines,’ Mary said to Gloria. ‘By the time I finally get to bed it’ll be a quarter past nine, and believe me, at my age one needs all the sleep one can get. I shall be down for breakfast around half past nine tomorrow morning, but if you’re up earlier, just go ahead without me.’
Gloria stood and kissed her grandmother on each cheek. ‘Good night, Nana Turner,’ she whispered. ‘I won’t be much longer myself, anyway. It’s a long exhausting drive from Neville Hill.’
‘That’s one of the reasons why I never visit you, because the long drive would probably be the end of me.’
‘Nonsense, Nana Turner. You could fly all the way around the world and back again tomorrow, and you would still live to be a hundred.’
Mary smiled weakly as Wilma helped her from her chair and across the room to the door, where she turned. ‘I hope you haven’t made any plans for tomorrow. I want to have a very long talk with you and catch up on all that you’ve been up to.’
Gloria nodded, smiling. ‘I’ll keep tomorrow free.’
‘Good.’
When Mary and Wilma had gone, Gloria sank wearily into the large armchair that her grandmother always sat in, and found it extraordinarily comfortable, despite its lumpy appearance.
She sat watching the flames in the fireplace as they gradually dwindled away, and, as though they were made of lead, she closed her heavy eyes. She was asleep within seconds.
Wilma reappeared shortly after to tell her which bedroom was hers for the duration of her visit. She decided against disturbing Gloria, who looked peacefully content in the chair, so she reached for the blanket, which was under the chair for Mary to wrap around her arthritic legs when they became chilled, and tucked it around Gloria’s slumberous body before she switched off the light and tiptoed from the room.
*
When Gloria awoke late the following morning, sunshine was discernible through the drawn heavy drapes adorning the windows, and she sat up stiffly, sending the blanket billowing to the floor. She glanced at her watch, shocked to discover it was rapidly approaching ten o’clock.
Later, having refreshed, she joined her grandmother in the breakfast room adjoining the kitchen – both newly redecorated a stark and almost clinical pristine white – and Wilma explained that she had decided against awakening her, allowing her instead to sleep as long as she
needed.
Gloria smiled at the considerate young woman. ‘Thank you.’
Phil appeared several times during the course of break-fast, each time disappearing almost immediately, having obtained what he wanted.
Mary had called Phil a godsend, and it was not difficult to see why. He and his sister had transformed the house and grounds from the wreck Gloria remembered into a magnificent home and grounds of neat, tidy, proportionate splendour.
‘We hated the thought of the estate becoming a ruin, so we decided to do something about it,’ Wilma said, seating herself at the breakfast table while drinking a glass of pure Highland Spring Water. ‘The house as you see it now is how we believe it would have appeared in the years just after its completion. Your grandmother very kindly supplied us with paintings and pictures, all of which were from the late Nineteenth Century, and we saw what the house was like in its glorious heyday.’
Gloria nodded approvingly. ‘It’s certainly a lot better than when I was last here. Nana Turner had fired most of the old staff and the place was falling apart.’ She turned to her grandmother. ‘I don’t know how you coped for so long without help.’
Mary leaned forward. ‘Neither do I, child. I cannot imagine life without Phil and Wilma. I’ve long since forgotten what life was like before they came.’
‘Your grandmother treats us like part of the furniture,’ laughed Wilma. ‘In other words, she loves us to death.’
‘I treat you like my family,’ interjected Mary, chortling. ‘In other words… I love you both to death!’
Wilma patted her hand affectionately. ‘We wouldn’t have it any other way.’ She drained her glass of water and began clearing the breakfast things from the table.
‘Here, I’ll give you a hand,’ said Gloria.
‘You don’t need to. We should let your grandmother have a morning rest before she grills you.’
‘I don’t need a morning rest,’ snapped Mary, ‘and I won’t be grilling Gloria. But if she wants to help you, let her.’ She turned to Gloria. ‘When you’ve finished, join me in the library.’
‘Yes, of course, Nana Turner.’ As Mary left the room, Gloria and Wilma carried the dirty dishes over to the sink. ‘Right,’ said Gloria, ‘you wash, and I’ll dry.’
‘It’s easy to see whose side of the family you take after,’ laughed Wilma. ‘You remind me so much of Mary. I guess you’re very much what she must have been like at your age.’
‘I’ve never really thought about it before,’ sighed Gloria, ‘but now you mention it, yes, I suppose that’s probably be true. Nana Turner used to have black hair like me, as I believe her own grandmother did. In between, the other generations had red hair. I’ve often wondered whether, when I have children, they’ll have red hair, or whether with me the tradition will break.’
Wilma was intrigued. ‘How far back does that go?’ she asked. Genealogy had always interested her – she and Phil had traced their own family right back to the early Sixteenth Century – but never before had she heard such an unusual legacy.
Gloria shrugged. ‘I haven’t a clue. I don’t recall hearing anyone ever mentioning family members any further back than my great-great-grandmother – on my mother’s side, anyway.’
‘What about the men in the family? Does it affect them as well?’
Gloria studied Wilma’s face searchingly for a moment, and then shook her head. ‘I’d never really thought of it before, but on my mother’s side of the family, each generation has spawned just one offspring, a girl each time.’
‘Doesn’t that strike you as odd?’
Gloria shrugged. ‘As I said, it hadn’t really ever crossed my mind before, but yes, thinking about it now, it does seem rather strange.’
‘There’s probably a genetic defect in your family some-where!’
‘There has to be a reason, even for that.’
‘Why does there have to be a reason?’ asked Wilma. ‘There are many unanswered mysteries in the world, and none have any logical reasoning.’
Deep in thought, Gloria muttered, ‘It’s all to do with this house. Everything’s always connected with Ravenscreag Hall!’
‘What makes you say that?’
Snapping out of her reverie, Gloria smiled wanly. ‘Nothing. Sorry, I was just thinking aloud.’ They had finished with the washing up, and the clean crockery and cutlery was now stacked neatly on the work surface beside the sink. ‘I’ll leave you to put those away,’ Gloria mumbled as she dried her hands, once more deep in thought. ‘I have some questions I want to ask Nana Turner.’
Unlike the rest of the house – which was obviously now cleaned on a regular basis – the library on the first floor was as dusty and full of cobwebs as the other rooms had been at the time of Gloria’s last visit. The windows were filthy and only a little light filtered through the grime. A few naked bulbs, suspended from the ceiling at regular intervals, already illuminated the scene.
There was a musty smell of damp in the room. The many shelves groaned beneath the weight of countless books; books were stacked tenfold high on tables and chairs, with yet more books on the floor. It was complete chaos, with no sense of order.
Gloria hardly dared touch any of the books in case they suddenly fell apart in her hands. She shook her head sadly, wondering why her grandmother had so disgracefully neglected the room and its contents.
As she moved into the room, closing the door with a soft click, Gloria created a draught and sent a cloud of long dormant dust billowing in all directions.
Mary appeared from behind a bank of shelves at the far end of the room, silhouetted against the grey light that managed to sneak in through the dirty window. ‘Ah, there you are, child.’ She could see her granddaughter’s shocked look and correctly guessed what was going through the young woman’s mind. ‘Contrary to what you might believe,’ she began in her rasping voice, ‘I have not neglected these books. The damp smell is just the walls – an ailment that Phil has long since put right. Only a few of the books are damaged.’
‘Do you come in here often, Nana Turner?’ ventured Gloria, certain her grandmother was telling the truth about the condition of the books, but still unwilling to fully believe it without first checking.
Mary watched Gloria pick up and inspect several books, mildly amused at the young woman’s distress at the thought of what the damp might be doing to the first editions. ‘I come here only when necessary. Unfortunately, I now add few books to this collection: prices today make it prohibitive, and I have enough to worry about with the upkeep of the house and all the bills and staff wages and things, without adding to it by buying exorbitant numbers of books for the sake of a collection that I didn’t even start. Pretty much the only new additions these days are your own works, my dear, plus a handful of others.’
‘Do you ever read any of these?’
Mary shook her head. ‘I’m afraid I’m not much of a reader, child. I haven’t really read much since about the time of my wedding. I tried to read one of yours once, but – and please take no offence – I couldn’t get into it.’
Gloria shrugged. ‘No offence taken. I know my novels are not everyone’s cup of tea. How many books do you have here?’
‘I really have no idea,’ replied Mary. ‘I’ve never had the inclination to count them all. Maybe one day that’s something you might like to do?’
‘I might do that, Nana Turner. Tell me, if you come up here only when necessary, by which I assume you mean to store any new books you might have acquired, then what exactly are we doing here now?’
‘You wish to read two of the novels I have in this collection.’
Gloria was not entirely surprised, after all her grand-mother did seem to possess future knowledge as only a seer could. ‘How do you know that?’
Mary grinned like an impish five year old. ‘Your mother telephoned me yesterday morning. How else did you think I could possibly know not only that you were coming, but that you would want to read two of my books?’
Gloria smiled sheepishly, glad that the fault on the telephone line seemed fixed. ‘How else indeed?’
‘And also, I believe you require some books to assist your research into your next novel?’
‘That’s right, it’s set in the Sixteenth Century, the reign of King Henry the Eighth.’
Mary nodded, suddenly understanding. Everything became clear. ‘This sudden urge to find out all you can about Isabella Neville is to do with your dreams, isn’t it? You believe her to be the woman in that nightmare you used to have?’
‘Yes, I do.’ Gloria sat in one of the chairs, first wiping away a layer of dust. ‘This week the dream returned, for the first time in fourteen years. And I wasn’t even here at Ravenscreag Hall!’
‘And how, pray, did you sleep last night?’
Gloria frowned. ‘Actually I slept very well.’
‘No dreams?’ pressed Mary.
Gloria shook her head. ‘None.’
‘Then I think we can assume your curiosity has exorcised them!’
Gloria did not share her grandmother’s cheerful optimism. Only time would answer that question. It was just a matter of waiting, which was the hardest part; awaiting the night, awaiting the dream, and fearing sleep – in case she suddenly found herself drawn into that nightmare once more, unable to free herself until it was too late.
‘Do you know anything about Isabella Neville, Nana Turner?’
‘I know enough, more than enough – perhaps even too much,’ Mary responded vaguely, igniting Gloria’s curiosity.
‘What do you mean by that, Nana Turner? What exactly do you know of her? Was she, for instance, related to us?’
‘Why do you ask that?’
‘Isabella’s husband was named James Trevayne, as was your grandfather.’
‘Yes, he was indeed.’
‘Was he a descendent of Isabella’s husband?’
‘I don’t think so. Isabella and James had no children together.’
‘Didn’t he marry again after Isabella was murdered? Did he have any children by that other woman? Nana Turner, how do you know so much about Isabella?’
Master of the Scrolls Page 5