She blew out her candle and put it on the dresser.
‘There now, we’re ready,’ said Mrs Beal, looking at her handiwork with pleasure.
Helena sat on one side of the table, and Mrs Beal sat opposite her.
‘Tell me, Mrs Beal, do you have a key to the east wing of the attic?’ Helena asked, for she knew she must unravel its secrets soon, or say goodbye to sleep. ‘I would like to air it, but the door is locked and there isn’t a key on my ring.’
‘No, I don’t have any keys for upstairs. Now if you find you’re missing a key to the wine cellar or the dairy, I can help you there. I’ve the keys for all the rooms below stairs.’
‘No, thank you, it’s only the attic key I need. Do you know if Mrs Carlisle kept any spare keys anywhere?’
Effie dropped a handful of cutlery, which clattered against the flags.
Mrs Beal shook her head and tut tutted as the girl picked up the kitchen utensils.
‘Sorry, Mrs Beal,’ gasped Effie.
‘Just you make sure you clean everything properly,’ said Mrs Beal.
‘Yes, Mrs Beal.’
‘Now what were we talking about?’ asked Mrs Beal.
‘The key to the attic. I wanted to know if Mrs Carlisle had a spare set.’
‘Not that I know of. She was a very organised lady, though, and I’m surprised there’s a key missing. Are you sure it’s not on the ring?’
‘Quite sure.’
‘It’s possible she never had one. Some of the rooms are never used. They probably haven’t been opened since her ladyship was alive.’
‘Her ladyship? Did his lordship have a wife?’ asked Helena, thinking that here was the answer to the mystery of him crying over a grave.
‘Lor' bless you, no, his lordship’s never been married,’ said Mrs Beal. ‘I meant her old ladyship, his mother. Ah, a wonderful woman she was. A great lady. Always had a kind word for everyone. “That was a very good stew you served us up yesterday, Mrs Beal” or “I want to thank you for all your hard work, Mrs Beal. The banquet was a great success.’
‘So his lordship never married,’ mused Helena.
‘He never needed to, not with his brother —’
She stopped suddenly.
‘I didn’t know he had a brother,’ said Helena.
‘Oh, yes. But you don’t want to hear about all that,’ said Mrs Beal. She took the kettle from the fire and made the tea.
‘On the contrary, I’m interested in the family,’ said Helena, and waited for the cook to go on.
Mrs Beal looked to be weakening, but there was another clatter as Effie dropped a pan and Mrs Beal’s attention was distracted.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Mrs Beal, going over to the young girl.
‘Sorry, Mrs Beal,’ gasped Effie.
‘That pan’s given years of good service, and if it’s properly looked after it’ll give years more,’ said Mrs Beal admonishingly.
‘Yes, Mrs Beal,’ said Effie, picking up the pan and putting it back into the sink.
Mrs Beal returned to the table, grumbling about the difficulty of finding good help in such an isolated spot. Helena tried to induce her to talk about his lordship’s family again, but Mrs Beal had evidently decided that discretion was called for, and Helena could not persuade her to say more.
Instead, Mrs Beal recounted the troubles of her position, talking about the likelihood of the fishmonger retiring, and the scandalous way the dairymaids flirted with the farm hands instead of keeping their minds on churning butter.
As she talked, Helena listened with only half an ear as she wondered about Lord Torkrow’s brother. He must be a younger brother, otherwise he would have inherited the title. Where was he? At school, perhaps. That would explain why he was not living at Stormcrow Castle.
Why did Mrs Beal not want to talk about him? Was he the black sheep of the family? Was it just boyhood mischief, or was it something more? Was he . . . dangerous? Had he attacked, or even killed, her aunt? And had Lord Torkrow buried her aunt, saying nothing, so that his brother would not be sent to Bedlam? Was that why he had been crying in the graveyard? And was that the meaning of her nightmare?
Such fantastic ideas were ridiculous, she told herself, looking round the cosy warmth of the kitchen and she resolutely banished them from her mind. But once she left its safety and comfort, the ideas returned to haunt her. In the cold stone corridors they did not seem so far-fetched. The castle was dark and mysterious. It was also very old. It must have seen some terrible things. And the graveyard? What had it seen?
She knew she would have no peace until she had visited it again. She decided to go past it on her way to the village, in order to see Mrs Willis about appointing some maids, and read the inscription on the tombstone. If it bore the inscription Mrs Carlisle . . . she could think no further. First, she must find out who it belonged to, then she could worry.
There were some tasks that she needed to complete first, but she resolved to go after lunch.
True to her resolve, she set out as the clock on the stables chimed one. She paused at the threshold. A light rain was falling. Lifting her hood, she made sure it covered her head, tucking in a stray wisp of hair, then she set out across the courtyard. From the direction of the stables she could hear the muffled sound of horses snorting, but there was no other sound in the stillness.
It was cold and wet underfoot, and she was glad of her stout boots. The drizzle was dispiriting. The clammy air made her face damp, and her cloak was soon beaded with water. She went under the arch and then across the moor until she reached the low wall she had struggled over the night before. She saw the gap and went through, trying to remember the direction she had taken. She had walked forward until she had tripped over a fallen headstone . . . she saw it . . . and then she had moved forward again.
She walked more slowly, hoping to find the exact spot, but the rows of graves all looked the same. She stopped when she thought she had reached the right place and examined the tombs and headstones. There was nothing remarkable about them. Some were simple and some were ornate. Some told of long lives, and some of short. John Taylor, Bella Watson and Henry Carter had all lived for more than ninety years. Richard and Lucinda Pargeter had died before they were twenty-two. But she could see nothing that would account for Lord Torkrow’s grief, nor could she see anything bearing the name Carlisle.
She walked slowly through the graveyard, looking for any signs of a recent burial, but she could not see any disturbed earth. The graves were all at least a year old, and most of them were much older.
She began to feel more easy, knowing that her aunt had not been consigned to the ground. She felt ridiculous for having pictured Lord Torkrow as a murderer who had visited the grave of his victim, overwhelmed by remorse, when instead he was simply a taciturn man, who was at that very moment probably doing nothing more alarming than taking breakfast and starting his business for the day. As for the grave he had been crying over, it was a private matter, and she should not meddle in it.
Leaving the graveyard behind, she continued on her way to the village. She walked briskly, enjoying the warmth her movement brought her. She had need of it, for the drizzle had intensified and she bent her head against it. She only hoped it would not rain until she reached her destination.
She was not to be so fortunate. Before long it was raining steadily. The rain came down more and more heavily, and she was just wondering whether she had better turn back when she heard an ‘Urgh!’ and raising her head she saw a woman hurrying along the road towards her. The woman was wrapped in a cloak and wore a bonnet on her head.
She looked up and their eyes met. They smiled briefly, two strangers acknowledging the dreadful weather, and Helena was emboldened to ask: ‘How far is it to the village?’
‘It’s a tidy step, and there’s more rain to come,’ said the woman, looking at the darkening sky. She added: ‘If you would like to take shelter, my cottage is not far away.’ She glanced to her left, where a trac
k ran off from the road.
Helena hesitated, but her cloak was sodden and if she remained out of doors she would soon be soaked to the skin.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
The two women fell into step and turned off the road. The track was rutted, and they trod carefully, trying to keep out of the mud and puddles. Before long they came to the cottage. It was a sturdy building of stone, with small windows set deeply into the thick walls. There was a wall round the garden, and a gate was set into it. The garden contained a few hardy shrubs which were looking as bedraggled as Helena felt, and she was glad when they reached the door. The woman opened it and they stepped inside.
The hall was small, but it was clean and well cared for. The woman removed her pelisse, bonnet and gloves and hung them on a peg, then turned to Helena.
‘I am Mary Debbet,’ she said, laughing as she pushed her wet hair out of her eyes, ‘and I am very pleased to make your acquaintance.’
‘I am . . . Elizabeth Reynolds,’ said Helena, wishing that she did not have to lie. ‘I am the new housekeeper at the castle.’
She thought Mary might withdraw, and tell her she would be welcome to sit in the kitchen until the rain stopped, but instead Mary said: ‘Here, let me help you off with your wet things.’
She helped Helena remove her sodden cloak, and hung it up to dry, then led the way to a door on their left. She paused with her hand on the door knob.
‘You will meet my brother in the sitting-room,’ Mary went on. ‘Please, do not be offended if he does not get up. He was wounded at Waterloo, and his nerves have not recovered. The doctor prescribed complete rest, and that is why we have taken a cottage on the moors.’
‘I understand,’ said Helena.
Mary opened the door and they went into the sitting-room. It had rough walls painted in shades of cream, and oak beams supported the ceiling. The small window was latticed, and the window ledges were very deep. To the right was a large fire, and in front of it sat a gentleman of perhaps five and thirty years.
‘We have a visitor,’ said Mary.
He looked up, but did not stand.
‘Mrs Reynolds is the new housekeeper at the castle,’ she said.
‘I am pleased to meet you,’ he said. His speech was slurred, but his words were polite and sounded genuine. He held out his hand, but it trembled and he dropped it again.
‘Please, do sit down,’ said Mary to Helena. She rang the bell, and a neat maid appeared. ‘Tea, Jane, please. We are cold and wet and need something to cheer us.’
Jane bobbed a curtsey and withdrew.
‘I hope your business was not urgent,’ said Mary, glancing out of the window, where the rain poured down. ‘I think you will be with us for some time.’
‘No, luckily it can wait. It is very good of you to take me in.’
‘On the moors, we help each other,’ said Mary. ‘We have to. It is very different to living in a town. Out here, it is possible to freeze to death when the snow falls, and whilst I don’t believe it’s possible to drown, it is certainly very unpleasant when the heavens open.’
The maid returned with a tray, and Mary poured the tea. She was a beautiful young woman. Her dark hair was sparkling with raindrops, which clung to it like diamonds. It was drawn back from her face in a tight chignon, but the severity of the style only served to enhance the beauty of her face. She had a creamy complexion and dark eyes. Her cheek bones were high, and her nose and mouth were well shaped. Her figure was good, and her well-cut gown suited her. She must have had many suitors in town, and Helena found it admirable that she had chosen to accompany her brother to an isolated spot for the good of his health, rather than indulge in the frivolities that must have been her lot in a more civilized location.
‘Did you have some shopping to do in the village?’ Mary asked.
‘No,’ said Helena, sipping her tea. ‘I was going to see Mrs Willis, to ask her if she could help me to find some maids.’
‘Ah.’
‘There were girls working at the castle until recently, but they left, and I am finding it difficult to manage without them.’
‘Yes, I’m sure you are. The castle is very large to manage alone. But it isn’t surprising the girls left. There is a lot of superstition hereabouts. They were frightened of the strange noises in the attic, and instead of attributing them to the creaking of old wood and the sighing of the wind, they attributed them to ghosts and ghouls.’
‘You know about that?’ asked Helena in surprise.
‘There is not much to talk about in a small village,’ said Mary with a smile. ‘We all know everything. Tell me, have you heard any chains rattling or children crying? They are apparently everyday sounds at the castle.’
‘No,’ said Helena, smiling, too, at Mary’s humorous tone of voice.
‘You do not seem very happy, however,’ said Mary, her expression becoming more serious. ‘I don’t suppose the castle is really haunted?’
‘No, of course not,’ said Helena quickly.
‘But there is something troubling you,’ said Mary thoughtfully.
Helena put down her cup.
‘There are noises,’ Helena admitted. ‘But they are just the noises typical of an old building. It is taking me some time to get used to it, however. I have never lived in a castle before.’
‘It must be exciting,’ said Mary.
‘I believe it would be, if I did not have so much work to do’.
And if I was not so worried about my aunt, she added to herself.
‘Yes, it must be difficult to keep clean. Old buildings always are. I hope you find the servants you need, though they may not be much use. Mrs Carlisle had a hard time making them work, I believe. They were more interested in gossiping, or so she told me.’
‘Did you know her?’ asked Helena in surprise.
‘Oh, yes, we both did. We were very fond of Mrs Carlisle. She was an intelligent and interesting woman. We made her acquaintance at church, and she was good enough to visit us when she had an afternoon off. We do not have much company, and her visits were a treat for us, until . . . ’
‘Until?’
‘Until they stopped.’ Mary picked up the teapot. ‘Would you like another cup of tea?’
‘Yes, please.’
Mary poured the tea, but did not continue.
‘It must have been disappointing for you,’ said Helena, prompting her.
‘Yes, indeed. I asked Lord Torkrow if she was ill, thinking this must be why she had not called, and he said —’
‘Yes?’
‘He said she had gone to care for a sick sister and would not be returning.’ Mary hesitated, and Helena had the feeling she was going to say that she did not believe in the story of the sick sister. Mary was clearly troubled, but did not seem to know how to begin. Then her expression changed, and Helena guessed that her sense of propriety had won out over her need to talk about her anxieties. Instead of expressing any fears, she simple said: ‘It is a pity.’
‘It is indeed,’ said Helena.
There was a pause and then, in a slightly artificial tone of voice, Mary said, ‘I am sorry not to have seen her one last time. We have a poetry book of hers, which she kindly lent to my brother.’
‘I didn’t know my —’ Helena stopped herself saying aunt just in time, ‘predecessor liked poetry.’
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