Butterfly Island

by Corina Bomann

  Diana pricked up her ears. “A letter?”

  “Yes, something she brought with her. A letter her mother was said to have given her. I never saw it myself, but I heard Daphne and Emily talking about it. It was the straw that Beatrice clung to—without it, Daphne would have sent her away for certain.”

  “What about Emily?”

  “Oh, she was besotted with Beatrice from the word go, saw her as a kind of big sister.”

  The male domination was giving way to a matriarchy. Mr. Green’s comment slipped into Diana’s mind.

  “Anyway, Emily and Beatrice were inseparable from the start, coming at first more from Emily—she had her heart set on doing some good for the lost woman. Beatrice was very withdrawn, probably because she was tormented by memories of her flight. It wasn’t until a few months had passed that she became a little more approachable. She never confided in anyone about what had happened, but it gave her an inner strength that made her whole being seem even more radiant and beautiful.” A rapt gleam shone in the doctor’s eyes, soon driven away by a shadow. “Beatrice’s death following the birth of her daughter, Johanna, was a great shock to us all. She had been subject to bouts of frailty, but we put that down to the deprivation of her wartime journey and the pregnancy. Although we were relatively well provided for here, it wasn’t enough for her to put weight on.”

  Diana hugged her shoulders. They had never talked about the story of her grandmother’s death before. Emily had never told anyone the details. Not even her mother knew more than the very basics. Diana hadn’t expected to hear it now.

  “During the contractions there was sudden, unexpectedly heavy bleeding. The midwife and I were completely at a loss. We suspected a tear, and hoped to stop the bleeding with an operation. After the baby was born I fought for her life for over an hour, but in vain. She had lost too much blood.” Sayers’s shoulders, which had tensed up as though he were still in the operating theatre, sagged. “As I was performing the post-mortem on her body, I noticed that she had a piece of shrapnel in her abdomen. I have no idea why she never complained of it. It’s possible that it entered her body unnoticed and moved around until it reached an artery.”

  “In that case her death could have happened at any point,” Diana said uneasily. She realised how close her family had come to extinction.

  “Yes, that’s true. She could have died during her pregnancy. But God, or whoever else, wanted her baby to be born. Given the later events, you could even say that for once, at least, fate showed a little kindness to the descendants of the Tremaynes. Emily remained childless after losing that first baby.”

  The silence that followed his words was like an echo from earlier days. Images of the past slipped closer, surrounding them like soldiers, leaving Diana and the doctor with no choice but to give in to them.

  “Have you seen your grandmother Beatrice’s beautiful grave? I wonder if it’s fallen into disrepair by now?” Sayers’s voice shattered the silence like a hammer on a pane of glass, making Diana doubly attentive. “I haven’t been to the churchyard for a long time. Now my own time is approaching, I avoid the place like the plague.”

  As the past withdrew back into the shadows of the house, Diana shrugged, a little bewildered, ignoring the doctor’s joke.

  Her grandmother’s grave was only a vague shadow from her childhood memories. A shadow with wings, as Emily had set a marble angel to watch over it.

  “I still haven’t got round to looking. Aunt Emily employs a gardener to take care of it.”

  “Maybe you should pay your grandmother a visit. Unlike me, you have nothing to fear from death. Beatrice would certainly be interested to see the kind of woman her granddaughter has become. You’re the spitting image of her, if I may be so bold as to say.”

  Diana was suddenly overcome by a guilty conscience. Was it really the case that the dead could see? If so, both her mother and her grandmother would be horrified by what Philipp had done to her—and of course by her reaction to it. She was sure that no woman in the family before her had wrecked parts of her own living room.

  “I’ll go as soon as I’ve sorted out the paperwork.”

  Sayers looked at her as though to check whether she intended to keep her word. Then he nodded and felt in the inside pocket of his jacket. “Here’s my card, in case anything happens or for when Emily is well enough to receive visitors. You can call me at any time, whether you want a heart-to-heart or simply need some help around the house.”

  Diana thanked him and he leaned back, glancing up at the ceiling and smiling as though he had found something he recognised there.

  “Yes, this house! It’s almost like a second home to me. I can still see the domestic clutter that was all over the place here when I was young. The work in the hospital could be horrific at times, with unbearably cramped conditions and dreadful hunger, but I’d never want to delete that chapter from my biography. Despite all the suffering, there were good times, too.”

  They talked for a while longer about less serious subjects before Dr. Sayers took his leave, promising to call back in a couple of weeks and make sure everything was all right. Diana knew the real reason behind it—he didn’t want to spend his Wednesday afternoons alone—but she enjoyed the doctor’s company, even though it had stirred up a lot of suppressed knowledge.

  Diana returned to the living room and sank down on the sofa. Her legs had suddenly become incredibly heavy. Dr. Sayers’s story had summoned up such clear pictures in her mind that it felt as though her grandmother had died only yesterday. Beautiful Beatrice, whom she only knew from a photo. Her face was somehow overlaid with Emily’s—Emily who was now also on the threshold of death.

  Maybe I should go to the grave after all and make sure everything’s OK, now that Emily no longer can. In any case, a small voice whispered in the back of her mind, you should think about where Emily is going to be buried if the worst comes to pass.

  Donning a cardigan against the chill, she made the ten-minute walk to the village churchyard. There was something hypnotic about the crunching of gravel beneath her shoes, clearing her head and enabling her to sort out all she had heard.

  She had walked about halfway when the sun finally succeeded in breaking through the cloud. All at once the place looked completely different, the wild brambles and grass sparkling with bright raindrops, the birds singing more loudly and a cuckoo somewhere in the distance announcing the onset of summer.

  The sun’s broken through now, Diana thought. Could it be a sign?

  Although she didn’t believe in that kind of thing, the unexpected sunlight suddenly filled her heart with lightness as she saw the cemetery surrounded by its stone wall. With its chestnut trees and magnificent yews, it always seemed a little more sheltered here than anywhere else. The Tremayne family vault was an imposing sight among the gravestones and crosses. Diana had never paused to wonder why her grandmother had not been buried there, but now the question thrust itself insistently into her mind. Was there no room in the vault? Had Daphne prevented her from being brought here, or had it been her own wish?

  It didn’t take her long to find the grave of Beatrice Jungblut. The angel holding out a protective wreath over the ivy-covered gravestone greeted her from afar.

  The chapel had probably once been at the heart of the graveyard, but time and the gradual expansion of the place meant that the centre point had now moved by some fifty metres. The angel, whose wings made it slightly taller than the chapel, now formed the radiant centrepiece of the cemetery.

  It was hard to tell whether it was intended for the shadow of the wreath in the sunlight to create a frame around the dates of birth and death; in any case, the effect was a pretty one and made Diana smile.

  “Hello, Grandmother,” she said softly, crouching down and tracing the engraved letters and numbers with her finger.

  BEATRICE JUNGBLUT

  NÉE FELDMANN

  1918–1945

  Whoever was responsible for tending the grave did their work
very well.

  She had always thought it silly to speak to the dead, since even as a child she had been convinced that there was no afterlife. But now she felt compelled to tell this woman, whose legacy to Diana consisted of no more than a photo and her genes, what had happened during the years since she had last visited the grave. She began with her studies, how she had met Philipp and established her practice. She ended by telling her about Philipp’s infidelity, that Emily lay dying, and that she felt as though her world was about to break apart.

  As she looked up at the wreath, which the angel was now holding above her, she noticed something strange about the leaves. She had never seen a wreath with serrated leaves like this! This was not laurel. With a strange fluttering in her stomach, Diana got up and took a closer look. It was the most remarkable piece of sculpture she had ever seen. The leaves were very detailed, as though they had been created following precise instructions. Diana sighed as she ran a hand over the marble, which was so smooth that not a single speck of moss or lichen had adhered to it. Oh, Emily, if only I could ask you.

  All at once it occurred to her that she had seen leaves like these once before. She couldn’t remember exactly where, but they were incredibly familiar. The fluttering in her stomach grew in intensity, and she was overcome by an urge to refresh her memory. It was so strong that she turned on the spot and ran to the gate, where she almost crashed into two elderly ladies on their way to their relatives’ graves armed with watering cans and rakes. She barely noticed the disapproving shakes of their heads as she was already racing down the lane.

  She had never been particularly athletic, and was reminded of the fact as she dragged herself, puffing and panting, up the Tremayne House steps. Mr. Green had returned and parked the Bentley in the garage, but he left the doors open in case of emergency.

  After a brief pause to catch her breath, and ignoring the stitch in her side, she flew into the kitchen, scaring Mr. Green so much that he almost dropped the teapot.

  “Miss Diana! Has something happened?”

  Diana ignored him. She made for the kitchen cupboard, tore open the two small drawers, then opened one of the little doors.

  Got it! With a triumphant “Ha!” she picked out a small package. It was only then that she noticed Mr. Green looking at her as though she’d lost her mind.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Green,” Diana said in embarrassment, pressing the package to her chest like something of immeasurable value. “I didn’t mean to make you jump. I just wanted to be certain.”

  The butler raised his eyebrows. “Certain? That we haven’t run out of tea?”

  Diana laughed. “No, Mr. Green. But it looks as though Aunt Emily allowed herself a little indulgence at my grandmother’s grave.”

  “What do you mean?” the butler asked with a frown.

  Diana told him about her conversation with Dr. Sayers, which had led her to visit her grandmother’s grave.

  “It was probably because I haven’t been there for so long and could now see the details with fresh eyes,” she began. She turned the package she’d fished from the cupboard over in her hands and held it aloft. “The wreath that the angel’s holding over the grave, framing my grandmother’s dates with its shadow, is made of tea leaves.”

  A little later, they sat at the kitchen table over tea and cakes. “A wreath of tea leaves,” Mr. Green murmured thoughtfully. “Are you sure?”

  “Totally sure,” Diana insisted after washing down a bite of cake with a mouthful of tea. “The leaves are just like the ones on this pack. Of course they’re a little more ornate, but I’m sure the guardian angel’s wreath isn’t laurel.”

  Thoughtfully, Mr. Green studied his tea plate, which cutlery had scored with innumerable tiny scratches over the years. “Why would Madam do something like that?”

  “Don’t ask me,” Diana replied. “Whatever the reason, it’s very strange.”

  “Maybe your grandmother was particularly fond of tea? Or could it have been something more mysterious? There must be a good reason why fortune tellers read tea leaves.”

  Diana shook her head. These explanations didn’t satisfy her—Emily wasn’t superstitious. If someone had offered to read her tea leaves, she would simply have laughed. It was more credible to think that Diana’s grandmother simply had a liking for tea. But would such a liking be enough to have her grave decorated with tea leaves?

  “Have you anything against me taking this pack of tea and keeping it as another clue to the family mystery?” she asked.

  Mr. Green looked up from his teacup in surprise.

  “Of course not. We have plenty. Anyway, you’re the lady of the house now—at least until Madam returns.”

  Diana found it touching that the butler had not given up on his mistress, and she almost felt ashamed of the way her heart told her that Emily’s last days were approaching.

  After tea she went back to the living room where she added the little pack of tea with its spicy smell to the scarf and the telegram.

  I’ll have to find a box for them if this goes on much longer.

  She worked until the evening, answering emails from her practice and ignoring another—from Philipp. What else could he want but to attempt to justify himself? And what did he want to talk about? Her angry heart had no desire to know.

  As she snuggled up wearily against the arm of the sofa, she realised that the search for her family history was like a game she had played with Emily as a child. Emily had been mistress of the scavenger hunt, hiding scraps of paper around the house to be found and pieced together to form a message. It was just a pity she was in hospital and couldn’t give her any clues.

  6

  During the night, beneath the old bed’s heavy, slightly musty sheets, Diana dreamed she’d returned to the cemetery. This time it was shrouded in morning mist, through which she thought she could hear voices. She looked down at herself and saw that she was wearing nothing but her nightdress. Her naked feet left slight imprints on the sandy path, and her hair, which was longer than in reality, floated freely like a veil behind her.

  Nothing seemed to have changed since her visit, apart from the strange whispering that remained a mystery behind the thick, pinkish cloud of fog. The angel was still holding the wreath over the grave. The sun had been swallowed up by the fog, and there was no shadow to fall around Beatrice’s dates, yet the monument was nevertheless an impressive sight.

  All at once, something gently brushed Diana’s cheek. Recoiling, she saw that a butterfly had appeared out of the mist—a small, exotic-looking creature that flew by her and fluttered around the angel, finally settling on the wreath.

  At its touch the leaves awoke and came to life—green and shiny. Then colour began to spread up the arm holding the wreath, too. And so it continued, until Diana was looking not at an angel, but at a woman with flaming-red hair, robed in a white shroud. Tears were running down her face, golden as tea. Suddenly she looked up at her and implored, “Bring him back to me.”

  These words, full of unspeakable sadness, startled Diana. She looked around in bewilderment and realised a little later that she was back in her room, having kicked off all the sheets.

  Sobbing, she sank back down on to the mattress. It was only a dream, she told herself, but the thought that her great-grandmother had appeared to her in person to make her appeal sent a shiver down her spine.

  Unable to go back to sleep, she lay, agitated, staring at the ceiling and wondering what kind of butterfly it was and how it had come to the cold English shores. On a ship? Carried by a current of air? Stowed away on board an aircraft?

  Her eyes finally closed as dawn was approaching, and she slept dreamlessly until her phone alarm woke her. Though she’d had a restless night, Diana rose from her bed. She wanted to visit Emily in the morning so she could be back for the locksmith, who had said something about coming in the afternoon.

  After a refreshing shower—the hot water had been somehow reluctant to make its way down the pipes—followed by tea, t
oast, and marmalade in the kitchen, she went into the living room, where she spent a moment weighing up the possibility of telling Emily about her discovery before remembering it was unlikely she would have been brought out of her artificial coma yet.

  Diana had just slung her bag over her shoulder when the phone rang. Both she and Mr. Green, who was waiting in the doorway, froze.

  She had no idea why, but all at once she was overcome by a sense of foreboding. Who could be calling them?

  “That must be one of Madam’s friends,” Mr. Green attempted to reassure her, but his voice, too, sounded uncertain.

  “I’ll get it.” Diana reached the phone on the third ring.

  “Hello. Woodhouse residence,” she said, in case it was one of Emily’s friends. Dr. Sayers, maybe, asking after her condition.

  “St. James’s Hospital, Dr. Hunter.” Diana remembered him. “Am I speaking to Mrs. Woodhouse’s granddaughter?”

  “Yes, this is Diana Wagenbach,” she replied, feeling a knot in her stomach.

  “I’m very sorry, Mrs. Wagenbach,” he continued after a brief pause. “Your grandmother died a few minutes ago. We did all we could.”

  Diana lowered the receiver. Her arm had suddenly lost all its strength to hold it.

  “Hello?” she heard the voice asking down the line.

  After staring into space for a brief moment, she hung up, then turned back into the hall in a daze. Mr. Green’s expression darkened.

  “Everything all right, Miss Diana?”

  Diana shook her head as her eyes filled with tears. “She died a few minutes ago.”

  All Diana knew next was that Mr. Green guided her to the sofa in the living room. He asked if there was anything he could do; she responded with a shake of her head. He nevertheless appeared a little later with a freshly opened pack of tissues and a cup of tea, before withdrawing discreetly back into the kitchen.

  After staring for a while into the fireplace, which was surrounded by portraits of people long dead, the paralysing shock of the news lifted and Diana gave herself up to her grief.