Butterfly Island

by Corina Bomann

  Diana turned, her eyes still on the letter in her hand. “I found this under Daphne’s coffin. An envelope.” She turned the letter over. It was addressed to Grace Tremayne, but she couldn’t see either a sender or a date. Although the envelope was only loosely sealed, Diana decided to open it later. She was finding the vault more unsettling with every moment that passed. She had a strong sense of the eyes of her ancestors upon her.

  “Have you looked to see what’s inside?” Somehow Mr. Green didn’t seem surprised.

  “No, I’ll look later.” Diana shoved the envelope into her pocket. “I think this is the space intended for my aunt. Do you agree? Below her mother.”

  “I’m sure Mrs. Woodhouse would be satisfied with that.”

  Diana peered into the darkness beneath the coffin, shuddered, and drew back. Maybe Grandmother really didn’t want to be buried here, but preferred to be up in the open air where she could gaze at the stars. Or up at the tea-leaf wreath.

  She realised the gardener was probably waiting for her outside. After a brief discussion about the arrangements for the funeral, she sent Mr. Green back home. She decided to walk. On the way she met a few people, to whom she gave a friendly greeting, although this only earned her some bemused looks. Once, she reached into her pocket to get the letter out, but then let it be. Instead, she wondered who could have tucked it under the coffin. Emily, maybe? Had someone stolen it and then, struck by a fit of guilt, not known what else to do with it? But who would have been able get into the vault?

  Once back at Tremayne House, she went straight to the study and flopped down into the chair behind the desk. A leaden heaviness weighed down her limbs.

  She considered going to lie down on the sofa and sleep, but the letter wouldn’t leave her in peace. What was in it? Could it have been there waiting for her for all those years since Daphne died? It was dusty enough for that. And since it was cold and dry down there, it was no surprise that it had hardly any patches of mildew. However, there were a lot of dirty fingerprints on the envelope, and its edges were greasy. As Diana turned it over, she even thought she saw a few drops of blood on the front.

  She carefully smoothed out the envelope on the desk protector. It had probably been crumpled up at some time and then carefully smoothed, possibly even pressed between the pages of a book. The fine creases had remained, but it looked like a crinkled garment that had been ironed at too low a temperature.

  It was addressed in typescript to Grace Tremayne at Tremayne House. Diana’s great-great-grandmother. There was no sender’s name.

  Her hands trembling slightly, Diana pulled out a sheet of paper. It looked no less dirty, but at least there were no traces of blood. The ink had run, indicating that the letter had got wet at some stage. The folds looked fragile, almost as though the fine wood fibres of the paper would fall apart if touched.

  The letter was short, but its few lines caused Diana to lean back in her seat in amazement. Emily’s grandmother, Victoria, apologised to her sister, referred to a scandal and announced that a man, whom it appeared Grace loved, would be coming to visit. Victoria also promised always to be there for Grace’s family.

  What had happened? And why hadn’t Grace and Victoria been in the same place? Diana turned the letter over but found no reference to where it had been sent from, only the date: 15 February 1888.

  That was only a year and a half after Henry had received the telegram informing him of the death of his brother. And now this letter. What did the two things have to do with one another?

  Diana looked at the secret compartment regretfully. Did the answer lie in there? It was a pity that the key would take a while longer to be ready. It was now Thursday, and the funeral would soon be upon them.

  After reading the letter through again, she suddenly remembered what Dr. Sayers had told her: that Beatrice had been carrying a letter, and used it to ask for help. Was this that letter? That old promise of help?

  That was certainly what the wording of the letter implied.

  Diana brooded over it for a while longer, but no answer came to her. She finally conceded that she would be better off going to bed. After carefully slipping the letter back into its envelope, she laid it down with the telegram and pack of tea before switching off the light and climbing the stairs.

  8

  “Sleep well, Aunt Emily,” Diana whispered after ensuring her aunt had taken her proper place among her ancestors in the family vault. To her enormous relief, the funeral service had been just as she had envisioned it—and surely how Emily would have wanted it. She thanked the pall-bearers, local men who were hardly younger than Emily herself but who would not have missed the opportunity to pay their last respects to the mistress of Tremayne House.

  Meanwhile, the mourners had gathered around the entrance to the church, some of them talking in hushed tones to Reverend Thorpe, whom Diana also wanted to thank.

  On the way back to the car, she stopped to look once again at the impassive angel holding the wreath over Beatrice’s grave. Remembering her strange dream, she examined the face more closely—but it was not a woman’s face she saw. The features were clearly male. Male and somehow . . . exotic.

  Diana tilted her head as she tried to work out the possible nationality of the angel. Did it actually have one? Or had it merely been a personal notion of the sculptor’s—someone he knew, perhaps, and wanted to immortalise in this monument?

  A hand on her elbow drew her out of her reflections. Mr. Green had appeared beside her without her realising.

  “Is everything all right, Miss Diana?” His voice was scarcely above a whisper.

  “Yes, I think so. I was just looking at the angel. His face . . .”

  Mr. Green raised his head, eyes narrowed.

  “It’s a man,” he observed. “I assume he’s one of the archangels.”

  “Don’t you think there’s something exotic about him?”

  “It never occurred to me before . . .” The butler paused briefly, then nodded. “You’re right; his features aren’t really European. Maybe it’s a personal touch by the artist.”

  “Could be.” A thought flared up in Diana’s mind, but she couldn’t quite grasp it. “Come on, we shouldn’t keep the others waiting.”

  Almost all the mourners followed them back to Tremayne House. Mr. Green had arranged for some helpers, women from the village who had declared themselves willing to cut the cakes and serve the tea.

  After Diana had spoken a few words to the guests and thanked them for coming, a subdued murmur arose, spreading through the old building and ironically giving it life that it had missed for so many years.

  Among the many unfamiliar faces, some of whose names she didn’t even know, Diana was glad to see Dr. Sayers.

  “I’m glad you came,” she said as she shook his hand.

  The doctor gave her a sad smile. “It was the least I could do for my old friend. It’s a real shame she’s been called away from the world, but that’s the way things go. It’s probably my turn next.”

  Diana didn’t know how to reply—who was she to know a person’s life span? A change of subject occurred to her. “You must have seen how well-tended my grandmother’s grave is.”

  “Yes, I have. And to be honest, it’s a sight that gladdens my heart. I regret that I haven’t visited it for so long, but as I’ve already told you, I’m unnerved by the way death seems to be watching men of my age.”

  Diana pursued her train of thought. Should I really ask him?

  “I visited her grave shortly after you came to see me, and a few things struck me as strange.”

  A knowing look lit up the doctor’s face. “You must have wondered why she isn’t buried in the vault.”

  “Among other things.”

  “Well, that’s one of the mysteries Daphne took to the grave with her.”

  “Could it be that she still suspected my grandma of being an impostor?”

  “No, I’m sure that wasn’t the case. I believe the reason goes much furthe
r back, but no one here knows what it is. All we do know is that something must have happened between Daphne’s aunt Grace and her father, which led to him removing Grace from the Tremaynes’ inheritance.”

  Diana raised her eyebrows. That was something she hadn’t known.

  “Seriously?”

  Dr. Sayers nodded. “After the death of old Henry Tremayne, Victoria, the second-born, took over the house and the estate, and later left it to her daughter, Daphne.”

  “Maybe Grace didn’t want Tremayne House. My mother once told me that she married in around 1888. She had her own house on the Baltic.”

  “As I said, no one knows any details. But Daphne was always cool and reserved with Beatrice, as though she knew about the earlier incident. Beatrice herself knew nothing about any of it. She kept her distance from Daphne, but was really close to Emily from the word go. They were like sisters—and no wonder; they were around the same age. Her death broke Emily’s heart and was probably what led to Emily’s increasing withdrawal when she was a young woman.”

  The regret in Sayers’s voice was obvious and led Diana to wonder whether the doctor had been in love with Emily—new food for thought. But she felt close to solving the puzzle of the angel, and continued with her questions.

  “What about the angel? Does he represent anyone in particular?”

  “Not as far as I know. Emily commissioned him after the death of her mother. Before that, Beatrice’s resting place was marked only by the gravestone. I have no idea whether the angel was made in the likeness of any real person. It’s possible that he represents Beatrice’s husband, who was killed when they were fleeing. That would be beautiful, don’t you think? The husband is still protecting his wife in death.” Tears suddenly glistened at the corners of Sayers’s eyes. He brushed them away in embarrassment, his lower lip trembling.

  “That’s a really lovely thought.”

  Before the doctor could reply, one of the women appeared with a tray.

  “Would you like some cake?”

  Diana didn’t really feel like eating anything but, like Dr. Sayers, she took a plate with a black-and-white iced cupcake.

  “Anyway, it’s a lovely memorial to your grandmother, isn’t it?” said the doctor, continuing the conversation where they’d left off. “If you find out whether the angel’s actually modelled on someone, do tell me. After our conversation I’m dying to know.”

  “I certainly will,” Diana said. She bit into the cake and felt a little of her appetite returning.

  When all the guests had gone, Diana stood for a long while by the conservatory windows, watching the grey day gradually fade into black without a single ray of sunshine breaking through the blanket of cloud.

  When Mr. Green came to switch on the conservatory light, she stepped back from the windows and turned to him.

  “I think I’ve finished for the day,” the butler announced. “I’ve left you some hot coffee in the kitchen, and there’s enough cake left if you’re feeling hungry.”

  “Thank you very much, Mr. Green.”

  Diana noticed he had his coat over his arm. Was he going somewhere? He was hardly likely to get cold on his way to the east wing, where he had his apartment.

  “The funeral went very well, if I may say so. Mrs. Woodhouse would have been proud of you. And I’d be surprised if you haven’t made your mark among the villagers. After all, you’re the new lady of the house.”

  Diana smiled bitterly. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

  Mr. Green tilted his head in surprise. “Is there some reason you might refuse the inheritance? As far as I know, Mrs. Woodhouse had no other relatives.”

  “At the funeral tea, I discovered from Dr. Sayers that my great-great-grandmother was disinherited by her father. Dr. Sayers didn’t know the reason, but it’s possible that there may still be some legal provision preventing me from inheriting.”

  “Don’t worry yourself about that. Dr. Sayers must also have told you that Mrs. Woodhouse loved your mother more than anything—and you. I can’t believe she’d allow herself to be influenced by an ancient dispute. Otherwise she’d hardly have asked you to get to the bottom of the family secret. We’ll soon see once the will has been opened.”

  Although she knew Mr. Green was right, Diana still felt uneasy. Why had there been this rift between father and daughter? Once again she thought of the letter she had found under Daphne’s coffin. Why had it been lying there? Had Emily left it for Diana to find after she died?

  Mr. Green withdrew and Diana went upstairs, this time glancing only briefly at the painting of Grace and Victoria. In her room she undressed and slipped into a lavender-scented nightshirt from the chest at the foot of the bed. Emily had always left a supply of nightwear for her guests, even though visitors had been an increasingly rare occurrence. Although Diana was exhausted, her mind continued to race as she thought through everything she had found out, finally coming to the conclusion that things would only become clearer once the secret compartment had been opened.

  When the locksmith appeared the following morning, Diana had already had a brief crying fit. She had dug out an old photo album in the hope that she might find a picture of her grandfather. Instead, she had found a photo showing herself as a small girl in the park with her mother and Emily. The picture looked so natural that she had felt as though she were back there. She could smell the rose bushes and the grass the former gardener had always kept so neatly mown, and above all Aunt Emily’s characteristic violet scent.

  All at once she recalled again what Dr. Sayers had said about the angel at the funeral tea, and how lovely it was to think of a man keeping watch over his wife even after death. That had been too much for her shaky emotional balance.

  The tears had kept her from looking for a picture of her grandfather. And now, as she went to answer the door, the idea seemed completely absurd to her. Why would Emily have kept a photo showing Beatrice’s husband?

  “My goodness, it seems like I always come at the wrong moment.” Mr. Talbott offered her a clean handkerchief, but Diana shook her head.

  “I’m fine, thanks. Have you brought the key?”

  “Of course.” He held up a small brown-paper bag, fastened by a shiny sticker with the company’s logo. “You should try it out first. You never know with old locks like this one.”

  “I trust your abilities. After all, my aunt always did. Come in, I’ll fetch the money.”

  Diana hurried away and stopped herself just in time from getting out a euro bill from her purse. She noticed her mistake and gave him the payment in pounds. He handed her the bag. “The sticker was made by my grandson. He told me I should improve the way I present my services.”

  “That was very kind of him.”

  “Huh, he only wants to show me how he can play around on his computer!” Talbott retorted. “When I was sixteen I was more interested in girls than a machine that spews out images and stickers at the press of a button. But young people are different today, and the old ways are gradually disappearing.”

  He probably made this speech to his grandson at every opportunity, with the same gestures he was using now to emphasise his words. Diana smiled as she imagined the young man rolling his eyes before disappearing back into his virtual world.

  “You see, you’re smiling now. At least that means it’s not me who’s making you feel sad.”

  “Of course not, Mr. Talbott. And if you keep your business going for a little longer I’ll be contacting you again if I need any more keys cutting.”

  “Or if you lock yourself out. But I think if that happened you could rely on Mr. Green to climb up the drainpipe for you and slip in at one of the attic windows to let you in.”

  That finally succeeded in making Diana burst out laughing. A laugh that hurt her chest, but at least she was laughing.

  After the locksmith had left, Diana opened the bag, taking care not to damage the sticker. She found a small, old-fashioned-looking brass key, with a really pretty bow decorated to
match others in Tremayne House, with entwined leaves and a small flower. He had probably spent most of the time on this, as the blade was relatively simple.

  Would any other locksmith have gone to the trouble of making such an ornate key? Or had Talbott simply done it because he believed she was a second Emily?

  Her heart began to thump in her throat, and her sadness receded a little. The key in her hand seemed to pulsate as if it were magic. Her family’s secret. She’d discover what it was today.

  She took a deep breath, then turned and started along the corridor that she had not been down for a few days. This time her way was not illuminated by the glow of the lamps, but by light falling through two open doors. Mr. Green had been busy here, probably dusting the scary hunting trophies.

  She paused briefly outside the double doors, then took another deep breath and opened it. Nothing had changed. The dust that had settled since she was last here had been conscientiously removed by Mr. Green.

  Diana grasped the little key so hard that she could feel every contour.

  The metal warming in her hand, she moved to the shelf and pushed the key into the lock. A moment of tension, a moment of holding her breath. Then Diana turned the key. The blade met a slight resistance but pushed it aside, and the lock fell open with a soft click.

  Her hand was trembling a little, and she felt a twinge inside as she opened the door. With the smell of old masonry rising to her nostrils, Diana discovered a rectangular object inside.

  A casket. About as long as her forearm and a hand’s breadth high. It was made of rosewood and decorated with intricately intertwined foliage. At first glance the pattern looked Irish, but Diana strangely knew that this casket had been made in a far-off land.

  The compulsion to smell it was suddenly so strong that she raised the box to her nose. She realised with amazement that it didn’t smell of mildew or masonry. After all those years, it had a slightly sweet smell that she recognised. Had someone kept cinnamon sticks in it?