Silent Faces, Painted Ghosts

by Kathy Shuker

  ‘Hello Angela...Lovely day,’ Terri added vaguely.

  ‘Are you doing anything tomorrow evening?’ Angela’s green eyes studied Terri’s expectantly.

  ‘Er...no, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Good. Would you have dinner with me? Peter’s going to see a friend who’s ill and Lindsey’s working late. I hate eating alone.’ She smiled, like a politician. ‘Anyway, it’ll give us a chance to get to know each other. Say seven-thirty for cocktails?’

  ‘Sure. Thanks.’

  Terri continued into the house, frowning. Angela’s manner had definitely cooled of late. So why the invitation?

  *

  They ate outside, sitting at the long iroko table under the pergola with two citronella candles lit to keep the flies away. The sun still bathed the terrace in a warm glow, dappled where they sat by the fronds of the vine climbing overhead. Across the background thrum of the cicadas, birdsong started up again as the air slowly cooled. Angela had gone to some trouble with the meal, serving melon and blackberries doused with limoncello, followed by grilled John Dory with French beans and tiny roast potatoes, all accompanied by generous amounts of red wine. But Terri had drunk little, despite much pressing, and the conversation had so far been polite but stilted. A succession of questions about herself, her travels and her family had produced only wary, guarded answers. Behind the apparently casual questions she was sure Angela had an agenda.

  Now Angela returned from the kitchen with two dishes of crème brûlée and a chilled bottle of white wine. She poured the wine into fresh glasses.

  ‘So the work’s going well?’ She picked up her spoon. ‘All going to plan?’

  ‘Yes, more or less. Though there’s still a lot to sort out to make sure everything comes together.’

  Angela took a spoonful of dessert. ‘And Peter seems to have warmed to you. Honestly, I’m amazed. He’s not the easiest person to work with and he was in such a bad mood after that fall. What have you done to make him so co-operative?’

  ‘Me?’ Terri gave a weak laugh. ‘I don’t think I’ve done anything. And we do still have...differences.’

  ‘It’s a brave person who argues with Peter,’ said Angela lightly, ‘...or perhaps someone with, shall we say, particular qualities?’

  Terri didn’t reply, unsure what she was being drawn into. Angela abandoned her dessert and picked up her glass, looking at Terri speculatively.

  ‘I see you and Lindsey seem to be hitting it off. I’m afraid she finds it quiet here. But she told me you went together to a concert in Ste. Marguerite the other night. Did you have a good time?’

  Terri had not been anywhere with Lindsey since the shopping trip but she remembered seeing the posters in the village.

  ‘Yes, the tribute band.’ Terri spoke a little too quickly. ‘They were very good, though not really my thing, honestly.’ She frowned. ‘But surely Lindsey could move away if she finds it too quiet here, go and live somewhere bigger? She doesn’t have to stay.’

  Angela didn’t quite manage a smile.

  ‘No, of course...she could. The thing is: she’s quite nervous. I try to encourage her to get out and meet people but she likes to stay close. Perhaps it’s just as well; she’s always had a tendency to fall in with the wrong sort. She’s easily led. I suppose it makes me...protective.’

  The barb was unmistakeable. Out of the corner of her eyes, Terri watched Angela down the last of her wine and reach for the bottle.

  ‘Wine not to your taste?’ enquired Angela, glancing at Terri’s barely touched glass.

  ‘It’s very nice, thank you. I just don’t drink a lot.’

  ‘I see.’ Angela refilled her own glass and picked it up, taking a generous draught.

  Terri finished eating, laying the spoon down and folding the napkin onto the table. ‘Delicious,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’

  Angela was staring at her, an odd expression on her face.

  ‘I suppose you’ve heard about all the sadness in Peter’s life?’ she said.

  Terri hesitated. ‘Yes, well...some.’

  ‘Peter told you?’

  ‘No. Lindsey. She told me his first wife died in childbirth - when I asked about the portrait.’

  ‘Ah yes, the portrait...The one you admire so much.’ Angela nodded, toying with her unused dessert fork. ‘But then Lindsey doesn’t know much of what happened before she was born. We thought it was wiser that way.’

  ‘Why? What did happen?’

  ‘You mean you don’t know about the tragedy?’

  ‘Do you mean about Madeleine’s son?’ said Terri uncertainly. ‘Celia did mention that he’d died.’

  ‘Celia...yes, I’m sure she did. Did she say how?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Maybe that’s just as well. Her version of events does tend to vary according to her mood.’ Angela glanced across at Terri as if considering the wisdom of saying any more. ‘The truth is he drowned. Tom – that was his name, but I suppose you knew that already – loved to swim. Went swimming every day virtually. And one afternoon he drowned in the swimming pool. Everyone was out except Josie...’ She shrugged. ‘...and the servants, I suppose. Josie was his older sister by the way.’ Terri nodded. ‘Oh, of course you knew that too. And you didn’t know about the drowning?’

  ‘No. How old was he?’

  ‘He was nine. Anyway, by the time we all got back, well, nothing to be done, I’m afraid. It was a tragic accident, but then he was very disabled; it was a miracle he could swim at all really.’

  ‘That’s awful,’ said Terri, automatically reaching for her glass and swallowing a mouthful of wine.

  ‘So you’re very pally with Celia then.’ It was a statement, not a question.

  ‘No, not at all. But she asked for advice about paintings for an exhibition so I went to look at them. Inevitably we got talking.’

  ‘About Madeleine?’

  ‘Yes, a little.’

  ‘Really?’ Angela looked at her sceptically. ‘Madeleine’s not the most obvious subject, is she? Tell me, did Celia approach you in London or wait till you came here?’

  ‘In London? I’m sorry, I’m not sure what you mean.’

  ‘Celia likes to go back to London once or twice a year to see exhibitions, she says. Maybe she approached you there, told you she could arrange something to your advantage? Or did she come to the studio when Peter wasn’t there and produced her little plan?’

  Terri straightened in the chair. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about. Why are you so cross?’

  ‘Cross? I think I have a right to be cross. I’m talking about inheritance, Terri, that’s what I’m talking about.’

  ‘What inheritance?’

  ‘What did Celia tell you about Josephine?’ Angela pressed. ‘No, let me guess: she told you that Josephine had a terrible row with Peter and ran away and that you’re probably the baby she was carrying at the time?’

  ‘Yes, actually. That is what she said.’

  ‘Of course. Because she’s done it before. She’s trying to create a fictitious granddaughter of Madeleine.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Oh come on, you can’t be that naïve.’ Angela smiled grimly. ‘Peter is a wealthy man. In France, direct line children and their offspring cannot be disinherited.’

  ‘So how would she benefit from that?’

  Angela snorted softly. She had drunk a great deal now and had a wild-eyed, woolly air. ‘Celia? She won’t, I assure you. She just hates me and wants revenge. But you might benefit, quite a lot – if you got away with it.’

  ‘Me? You think I’m after Peter’s money?’ Terri shook her head in amazement, felt anger bubble up inside her and briskly got to her feet. ‘That’s so...Jesus, words fail me. What do you think I am?’

  Angela sat back and regarded her dispassionately, cradling the last of her wine. ‘Don’t get all offended and go off in a huff. Look at it from my point of view. You come here to stay with us. I don’t know anything about you. Then you get all pal
ly with Celia. What am I supposed to think?’

  ‘I’ve come here to do a job.’ Terri leaned forward onto the table and fixed Angela with a hotly indignant gaze. ‘I am not pally with Celia and whatever plot she might have hatched, it’s nothing to do with me. I am not after Peter’s money. I don’t even believe half she says.’

  ‘Good.’ Angela continued to study her shrewdly. ‘Then there’s no need to get upset,’ she said, more calmly. ‘Please sit down. It was just something that crossed my mind when I saw you talking with her. That’s why I wanted to get to know you better...and get a few things clear between us.’ She picked up her glass, held it towards Terri and smiled a little drunkenly. ‘Let’s drink a toast to our new friendship.’ She waited, while Terri reluctantly sat down and did the same thing. ‘Friendship,’ said Angela and downed the last mouthful of wine. ‘The thing is,’ she said, putting the glass down, ‘you can’t be Peter’s granddaughter, because Josephine didn’t run away at all.’

  ‘Why, what happened to her?’

  Angela sat back. Despite the softness and slur of her speech, her eyes still held a steely purpose.

  ‘Josephine had a row with Peter – that much is true. I hadn’t been here long enough to know her well but apparently it wasn’t the first – everyone said she had become very difficult after her mother died. And her brother had recently drowned so of course she was...distraught.’ She paused. ‘But I’m afraid Josephine went off and killed herself...out in the woods. She even left a suicide note, quite explicit, said she was sorry but she couldn’t cope any more. The body wasn’t found but the police thought that meant nothing. People had gone missing in the woods before. They’re enormous and full of wild animals: boar, you know, that kind of thing. But you can see why we fudged the issue with Lindsey. These things can be very impressionable on a young mind.’

  She leaned forward again, staring into Terri’s face.

  ‘So you won’t tell her about this, will you? In fact I’d advise you don’t tell anyone.’ She raised her eyebrows and looked at Terri meaningfully. ‘Peter would be absolutely furious if he found out we’d been talking about it.’ She nodded once to emphasise the point, her eyes never leaving Terri’s face.

  *

  Barely a quarter of an hour later, Angela retired to her room. She had insisted that Corinne would clear the dishes in the morning but Terri ignored her, and took everything back to the kitchen. Clearly Angela had forgotten that the following day was Sunday and Corinne wouldn’t be working. In any case Terri was glad of the activity and loaded the dishwasher before wandering back outside.

  The last of the light had faded to nothing and a velvet darkness had settled over the grounds. She blew out the candles on the table then found herself staring in the direction of the swimming pool, its eerie desolation and disuse now explained. But these were unnaturally long shadows that had been cast; Tom had drowned decades ago.

  Her thoughts were muddled and contradictory. So everything Celia had told her was false. Or was it? Why had the old woman not told Terri that Tom had drowned? And what other information might she be holding back? Presumably Angela was the more credible witness. Of course she was – Celia was several cards short of a pack. And yet Celia could be remarkably lucid when she chose and Terri was convinced she was not as confused as she pretended. Madeleine’s studio did, after all, exist, just as she’d said. But, feuds aside, why would either of them lie? Clearly Angela had Lindsey’s inheritance in mind. And Celia? Did she just like causing trouble? Angela’s pointed intervention had somehow only served to make Terri suspect there was more truth in what Celia said than she’d thought.

  But how and why had Tom drowned given that he swam every day? Terri turned and looked towards the top of the east wing, towering above her, an inky shape against the midnight blue of the sky. Her mother had committed suicide in London. But suppose she had been Peter’s daughter, and Angela was wrong and Josephine had indeed run away? Her behaviour and her desperation might have had their roots here, in Provence, several years before. And Celia said the girl had kept a diary. If Terri could find those diaries, perhaps she could prove it one way or the other...and maybe even begin to understand why her mother had behaved the way she did. It occurred to her for the first time, with a feeling very akin to hunger, that she needed to understand why.

  Chapter 12

  Terri pulled into the car park at Le Chant, saw Lindsey get out of her car and drew her own alongside.

  ‘Honestly, Lindsey,’ she said tersely, getting out, ‘if you expect me to cover for you, you should at least have the courtesy to warn me what the story is. You nearly landed us both in it.’

  It was six-thirty and she’d just got back from a shopping trip to the village. She’d intended staying to eat in one of the restaurant bars but she always felt conspicuous, eating alone, and had changed her mind as she often did. Now she pulled a bag containing cheese, cooked meats, salad and bread from the car while Lindsey stood watching her.

  ‘Sorry,’ Lindsey mumbled. ‘It was the first excuse I could think of.’

  Terri grunted and locked her car. ‘It’s OK. I covered it.’

  ‘So mama asked about it then? What did you say?’

  ‘I lied. I said we’d gone to that tribute concert. I assume that is what I was supposed to say?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Lindsey sheepishly. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘That’s OK. Are you just home?’

  ‘Yes.’

  They walked up the path together. Sami was raking the gravel on the terrace and touched his cap to their greeting as they passed. The previous evening, Terri had seen him mowing the stretch of lawn in careful stripes; that morning he’d been brushing the stone paths, something she’d never seen him do before.

  ‘Sami seems very busy at the moment,’ she remarked. ‘Is there something happening?’

  ‘Aunt Patricia is coming to stay,’ replied Lindsey gloomily. ‘Mama’s sister. It’s her annual visit. She’s arriving tonight.’

  Terri grinned. ‘Is that not good?’

  ‘She’s all right.’ Lindsey pulled a face. ‘She interferes. And she talks too much, very fast, without really saying anything. Father teases her about it all the time but she never gets it. She takes him seriously.’ Lindsey flicked Terri a glance and smiled suddenly. ‘It can be very funny.’

  There was a huge display of flowers in a jug on the hall stand and a strong smell of lavender in the air; the floor had recently been washed. Lindsey carried on through and up the stairs and Terri crossed into the kitchen where she found Corinne kneeling on the floor, a bowl beside her, cleaning the oven. They exchanged a greeting as Terri put some of the chilled goods in the fridge.

  Corinne straightened up, stretching her back.

  ‘You’re working late,’ said Terri, in French. Corinne had been remarkably patient with her attempts to improve her language skills, painstakingly correcting her more glaring errors. They had gradually formed a relationship of sorts though Terri would have hesitated to call it friendship; Corinne was too guarded for that.

  ‘I have to stay; there is a lot to do,’ Corinne said now. ‘Excusez-moi.’ She walked into the utility room and emptied out the bowl before returning to the kitchen. ‘Madame’s sister is coming to stay, and everything has to be absolutely perfect.’ She rolled her eyes just as Angela marched in, looking at her suspiciously.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, girls,’ she said pointedly. ‘Corinne, you haven’t made the bed yet.’

  ‘No, Madame. I am doing it next. I have cleaned the bedroom though.’

  ‘I know. I’ve just put some flowers up there. I’m hoping we’ll eat at eight-thirty...assuming her flight’s on time. Lay up in the dining room, will you?’ Angela breezed out of the room again with a distracted air.

  Corinne peeled her rubber gloves off and dropped them on the side of the sink, sighing wearily.

  ‘Let me give you a hand with the room,’ said Terri. ‘No, really,’ she insisted, as Corinne protested. ‘It
’ll take half the time if we both do it. And I’ve nothing special to do.’

  Corinne reluctantly agreed and led the way upstairs. She retrieved sheets and pillow cases from the linen room and took them into ‘Rubens’, the bedroom at the front of the east wing.

  ‘Is this where she’s staying?’ asked Terri, dismayed.

  ‘Yes, Madame Patterson always has this room.’ Corinne tossed the sheet across the bed and Terri caught it, smoothing it out across the mattress.

  ‘How long does she usually stay?’

  ‘Three weeks,’ said Corinne laconically. ‘Sometimes longer.’

  ‘Oh. Is she married or does she come alone?’

  ‘Seule. She is widowed. She has two sons and three grandchildren.’ Corinne gave a wry smile as they raised the mattress and tucked the sheet under. ‘And she talks about them all the time.’ They placed the mattress down and she raised a hand, mimicking a mouth talking, rocking her head side to side. She glanced warily towards the door and they moved to tuck the other end of the sheet, working easily together. They each began drawing a case over a pillow.

  ‘From the outside it looks like there’s another floor above this side of the house,’ Terri remarked casually. ‘You can see a line of low windows.’

  ‘Yes. There’s an attic.’

  ‘What’s it like?’

  ‘I don’t know. I never go up there.’

  ‘Oh. I thought you might have had to clean it.’

  ‘Clean an attic?’ said Corinne incredulously. ‘Do you do this in England?’

  Terri smiled and shook her head but she was disappointed. To judge from Corinne’s expression and disinterest, she knew nothing of Madeleine’s studio. Terri had hoped Corinne might have been able to tell her something about it, might even had access to another key.

  They spread a light counterpane over the bed and smoothed it out.

  ‘Corinne?’ fluted Angela’s voice from the hall.

  ‘Oui Madame?’ Corinne hurried from the room.