In a daze, Mr. Green stood at the kitchen window, where he had a good view of the garden and part of the park, which had never been restored to its former glory since the war.
Although he was not a particularly sentimental man, tears were running down his face. Silent tears, since he would never have allowed himself to cry out loud. After all, this was his place of employment.
But the death of his mistress troubled him, not only because she had been a good mistress, but because the responsibility for revealing the secret to Miss Diana was now his alone. He would no longer be able to consult Mrs. Woodhouse and had to depend on the instructions she had already given him.
He hurried to the bureau near the door and took out the telephone directory that had not been used for a long while. He slipped the envelope inside it into his jacket pocket. Madam had never told him what the letter said, but it was clearly very valuable. Her instructions were for it to find its way to her great-niece surreptitiously—as though she had stumbled across it by chance. Until now, the assumption that Madam would be among them for quite a while longer meant he had not even thought about it. But maybe an idea would occur to him during the journey. Miss Diana would certainly want to go to the hospital after notifying the undertaker.
Grasping the phone directory, he hurried through to the living room.
Diana was very grateful to Mr. Green when he arrived with the phone book already open on the page showing local undertakers.
All at once the memory of her mother’s funeral was with her, and the mountain of formalities she had to plough through. Fortunately, this time she had Mr. Green at her side, which did something to mitigate the sense of being overwhelmed.
“Norton and Fenwick have a very good reputation locally—we could certainly rely on them for a tasteful funeral, which is what your aunt would have wanted. Would you like me to call them?”
“No, I’ll do it myself in the car. We ought to set off as soon as possible.”
“But of course, Miss Diana.”
On her way out, Diana’s eyes fell briefly on the painting of the scene by the lakeside. For a moment she thought she saw a resemblance to her aunt in the child Victoria’s face. Trying to keep control, she got into the Bentley, which then swept off across the gravel.
As the calming murmur of the engine surrounded her like a security blanket, Diana sighed. “To be honest, I don’t know whether I’m ready to see her.”
“She won’t have changed much,” Mr. Green replied. “I was also afraid of what death might have done to my mother. But in the end it wasn’t too bad. She looked as though she were asleep. Maybe the hospital staff will have taken Mrs. Woodhouse down to the morgue to prepare her for the undertaker.”
As if aware of the pragmatism in his own voice, Mr. Green fell silent.
Diana hadn’t even noticed. She stared at the landscape passing by the window and said abruptly, “You may think I’m crazy here, but I’d like to see her again, despite my fears. I don’t want my last memory of her to be when she was covered in tubes and wires.”
“That sounds anything but crazy to me,” the butler replied. He accelerated, ignoring the speed limit sign he had just passed.
Fortunately, there was enough activity on the ward that no one had time to look at Diana with pity or sympathy.
The nurses at the station indicated for her to take a seat and wait for a moment in the corridor. As Diana gazed absently at a bed that was being pushed past her, she felt strangely calm. Of course grief raged inside her, but her fears had gone. She no longer needed to worry about Emily. If there was such a thing as a heaven, she would be with her loved ones and be able to tell them what she’d lived through during her years without them.
Dr. Hunter suddenly appeared in front of her, making her jump out of her skin.
“Oh, Doctor, please excuse me!” Diana pressed a hand to her breast. “I was completely lost in thought.”
“No one could blame you.” The doctor shook her hand. “I’m very sorry.”
Diana nodded then rose, assuming the doctor would not want to speak to her there in the corridor.
“We’ve taken her to the chapel of rest. We knew you’d be coming, so we didn’t want to take her straight to the mortuary. I assume you’ve informed the undertakers?”
“Yes.” Diana felt as though the ground had suddenly opened up beneath her feet, as though she were having a panic attack. You have a doctor on hand, she told herself quickly. He’ll catch you if you faint.
“Good. Shall we go? I take it you’d like to see her once again?”
She must have nodded, because Dr. Hunter now led her to a room at the far end of the corridor.
Her heart leapt to her throat, and she felt like telling the doctor she had changed her mind, that the gallery of images of Emily she carried in her heart would be enough.
But then the door opened and Diana saw her.
Beneath the sheet, Emily’s body looked as fragile as an old porcelain doll’s.
Freed from the tubes and wires, she really did look as though she were asleep. Only the dark shadows beneath her sunken eyes betrayed the suffering she had recently endured.
Her hair, which someone had arranged lovingly on the pillow, looked like a bride’s veil interwoven with copper strands.
“She died peacefully,” Dr. Hunter said. “She simply went in her sleep. When the alarm sounded, we tried to revive her, but she had made her decision.”
Was death really something you could decide on? Could Emily have come back if she’d wanted to? Or had she believed that she would finally be able to leave because she had told her great-niece about the existence of the secret?
Diana pressed her hand to her lips as tears ran from the corners of her eyes. Despite the burning in her breast, she was unable to give in and cry out loud. She couldn’t help thinking that Emily had only held out for so long because she wanted to instruct her to uncover the family secret.
These thoughts caused her to miss the doctor’s explanation of the cause of death. It was not until he laid a sympathetic hand on her arm that she came to herself.
“I’ll leave you alone with her for a moment. Feel free to stay as long as you want. When the undertakers arrive, I’ll send them in.”
Diana thanked him with a nod and heard the door closing softly behind her.
After standing for a while by the bed, she drew up a chair and sat down.
“I’ve found the first clue,” she whispered as she stroked Emily’s hair and felt the coldness of her skin. “But how does it all fit together? I so wish you were here to help me.”
Diana fell silent, waiting for an answer she knew would not come. Eventually there was a knock at the door, and two men in black suits entered. Diana greeted them briefly, then withdrew after taking a final look at Emily. I’ll keep my promise, she thought as she leaned against the corridor wall and cried softly.
As promised, the locksmith appeared in the afternoon. The ringing of the bell tore Diana from sleep. Exhausted when she’d arrived home, she had stretched out on the sofa for a while, but her bones still felt as heavy as lead. She rejected the brief notion of simply not opening the door and hurried to see who it was. I promised Aunt Emily.
The locksmith, a white-haired man in blue overalls who looked well into his sixties, stiffened as she opened the door and looked at her in surprise. “Is everything all right, miss? Should I come back later?”
Of course, he could see she’d been crying.
“It’s OK,” Diana replied, wiping away a tear that had trickled from her left eye. “I received the news today that my aunt has died.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear it. I knew Mrs. Woodhouse—she sometimes employed me to cut keys for her. She was a lovely lady.”
“Thank you, it’s very kind of you to say so,” Diana replied, blinking in daylight that seemed a little too harsh for eyes.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to call back some other time?”
“No, please come in, M
r. Talbott.”
As she stepped aside to let the locksmith in, she noticed Mr. Green pass by with a wheelbarrow full of hedge clippings, a dogged expression on his face.
Everyone has their own way of dealing with grief, Diana thought, secretly wishing she also had some physical activity to help her let off steam. Maybe I should go for a walk, or a bike ride.
With the indifference of someone who had seen the place plenty of times, Mr. Talbott followed her down the corridors without taking much notice of his surroundings.
“I had no idea that you’d worked for my aunt before,” Diana remarked, feeling somehow obliged to make conversation with him. It was like being at the hairdresser’s. Even if you had no desire to talk to a complete stranger, you finally gave in and began with the weather if only to put an end to the sullen expression in the mirror.
“Yes, Mrs. Woodhouse wasn’t exactly talkative. But a very pleasant woman all the same. As long as everything was done as she wanted it, she let you get on with it. It’s just a pity she didn’t find another husband. Apparently there were one or two suitors, at least that’s what people in the village say.”
Was Aunt Emily really the subject of village gossip? Diana wondered. As a child she hadn’t been aware of any of it, as she had only left the protected acres of the park occasionally and had hardly had any contact with the village children.
They had reached the study and Diana said no more. The room beyond the double doors seemed to make no impression on the locksmith, either. But the secret compartment behind the shelf caused him to exclaim in surprise.
“What would Tremayne House be without secret compartments and hidden passages! No English manor house was built without one. That’s what I always said to Mrs. Woodhouse, although she didn’t want to hear any of it.”
Were there really any secret passages here? Or perhaps a cellar full of secrets?
Diana stepped aside and watched the man feel his way around the frame of the little door, as though he were expecting magical symbols to appear. After scrutinising the compartment with its little lock, he took a lump of what looked like modelling clay from his bag.
“These days, locksmiths swear by silicone guns,” he said as he did so. “But I don’t want anything to do with them because they can glue up the lock sometimes. I stand by the old methods.”
Diana had nothing to say to that since she knew nothing about the locksmith’s trade. She let Mr. Talbott do what he thought right, and nodded in approval as he showed her the imprint of the lock.
“Look at this! I think it will be one of the finest keys I’ve ever made! Give me a few days and I’ll drop it off for you.”
Diana thanked him and accompanied him to the door. Instead of retiring to the living room, she went back to the Tremayne study. A strange feeling of calm had descended on her in the presence of the locksmith. She ran her fingertips meditatively over the surface of the desk, then sat down on the chair, which creaked lightly. She glanced at the secret compartment and the books that surrounded it, before turning to the window.
How magnificent the garden must once have been! Mr. Green did all he could to keep it neat and tidy, but it no longer quite fulfilled the traditional image of a luxuriant English garden. And yet there was still a reassuring feel to it. Diana began to realise why her ancestors had chosen this room to work in; this room, which had always given her goosebumps as a child, that had changed now that Emily was dead, she was amazed to realise. It was as though the house had fully accepted her as its mistress now.
Her grief for her great-aunt abated slightly, and Diana soon decided to move her “headquarters” to this room. She fetched her laptop, the phone, the scarf, the pack of tea, and the old telegram from the living room and arranged them in the study.
When she had finished she remembered she had other things to see to first. She needed to notify the vicar, inspect the family vault, and attend to the formalities with the authorities. With a sigh, she stroked the soft silk of the scarf before drawing up a checklist.
7
Over the next couple of days, the funeral preparations took up so much of Diana’s time that she had no chance either to think of her law practice or to pursue the secret further.
After selecting a coffin, talking to the vicar, and completing the formalities, she went into town and bought a classically tailored black suit and black silk blouse, black tights, and black court shoes. Now all she had to do was arrange the grave itself.
Mr. Green was a step ahead of her and already had the keys to the vault ready before she even thought to ask.
“What on earth would I do without you?” Diana said. The butler responded with a slight bow.
“It’s my duty to help you, Miss Diana, nothing more.”
“You’re simply too modest, Mr. Green,” Diana replied, amused by the old-fashioned gesture. “I should give you a pay rise. And then I hope you’ll let me into the secret of your first name.”
Mr. Green’s only reply was a subtle smile.
This time they drove to the cemetery, attracting curious glances from the people visiting various graves there. Although the days when the village was dominated by its major landowner were long gone, people still tended to stiffen with awe when their eyes fell on a member of the family—especially in a place like the churchyard and following news like that of Emily’s death.
With the looks causing the hairs on the back of her neck to stand on end, Diana entered the tomb of the Tremaynes, her distant ancestors, for the first time in her life.
Here, too, the graveyard gardener had done his work well. He clearly had a second key, since when she opened the wooden door, she was faced with neither a huge cloud of dust nor a heap of old leaves.
At first she had wondered how such a small vault could contain so many coffins. Now, standing in the doorway, she looked in vain for sarcophagi and urns.
As ever, Mr. Green was ready with an answer to the puzzle. Armed with a halogen torch, he shone it on a small wrought-iron door, which appeared to lead into complete darkness.
“The actual vault is underground. The narrow silver key opens the door.”
Diana found it strange to go down the narrow stairs and enter the little town of the dead. The circular underground room reminded her of an old Egyptian burial chamber that she’d seen in a National Geographic feature. Of course, she was well aware that wealthy families had their members buried in vaults such as this, but she had never been inside one. And this one was the tomb of her own ancestors. As a child she had sometimes wondered what it would be like to meet all those who had gone before her, to walk with them or ask them about the times in which they lived.
But now, instead of curiosity she felt only a sense of unease. This room, with its coffins arrayed on shelves and two sarcophagi dominating the space in the middle, showed her only too well what becomes of every person one day.
“The sarcophagi belong to the progenitor of the Tremaynes and his wife, don’t they?” Diana asked as she shone the torch over the carved plaques of solid stone.
“Yes, as far as I know,” the butler replied, still standing respectfully on the steps, which were bathed in faint daylight. “The other members of the family were laid to rest in their turn on the shelves. In some vaults it’s usual to give each of the dead their own compartment in the wall.”
Diana began in the front left-hand corner and slowly worked her way clockwise around the circular room. Name after name made its way into her mind, and she used their dates to attempt to form an imaginary family tree with spreading branches.
She finally stopped in front of one of the coffins. The magnificent oak was polished and decorated with beautiful marquetry that showed hardly any signs of age. As Diana rubbed the brass plate free of dust, she read:
HERE LIES VICTORIA PRINCETON, NÉE TREMAYNE, IN GOD’S PEACE.
12 SEPTEMBER 1873–15 AUGUST 1929.
The famous Victoria, Emily’s grandmother. Diana’s aunt had hardly ever spoken of her, which was hardly s
urprising since Emily had only been nine when she died.
If she had understood the arrangement of the coffins correctly, Victoria’s sister, Grace, would have been laid to rest somewhere near her. But there was no coffin with her name on it, as Diana discovered after shining her light on the others. She found the coffins of Henry Tremayne and his wife Claudia, and that of Daphne and her husband. None of these Tremaynes had lived to a particularly old age. As far as she knew, the same applied to her own family. No one had reached seventy; Emily was the exception.
The absence of Grace might be explained by the fact that her husband had insisted on her being buried with him. He had been a sea captain and was probably buried in East Prussia, where they had settled—Diana had gleaned that much from her mother. But why wasn’t Beatrice in here, either? She was a descendant of the Tremaynes. Why had she been given her own grave—with an angel bearing a wreath of tea leaves?
“Did you ever hear why my grandmother was buried outside the vault, Mr. Green?”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t,” Mr. Green replied from where he still stood by the door. “That was one of the things that was never discussed. But maybe it was your grandmother’s wish.”
Diana wondered whether Beatrice, weakened as she was by childbirth, had been in a position to express any kind of wish. When she was on her deathbed she probably hadn’t cared where she was to be buried.
Or had Daphne, ever mistrustful of her, insisted on it?
As Diana turned to the vacant space beneath Daphne, the beam from the torch fell on something under the coffin.
“What’s that?” she murmured in surprise, shining the light further underneath Daphne’s coffin. The piece of paper was yellowed and rather crumpled, and lay covered in dust at the foot end of the coffin. At first she thought the gardener must have tried to dispose of his packed lunch wrapper there, but when she drew it out she saw that it was an envelope.
“Mr. Green?”
Her voice echoed unanswered through the vault. The butler had gone back up.
“Excuse me, Miss Diana, did you call me?” he called after a moment, and hurried down the steps. “I just popped up to see whether the gardener is around.”
Butterfly Island Page 7