by Lulu Taylor
What was Cressida escaping? What would make a young woman suddenly go, all alone, to Australia and lose all touch with her family? It’s a very strange thing to do.
Her imagination lost itself in the snowy landscape again as she thought it over.
Cameron is right. Catherine must have known that Cressida is dead, or she would have mentioned her in the will. So . . . were they in touch? Did they stay friends somehow? Maybe there are clues here in the house.
She sat up suddenly, putting her book on the bed beside her, and gazed about at her bedroom, trying to imagine Cressida here. She saw a young woman alone in the house. Perhaps too alone . . . perhaps driven mad by solitude and cold and deciding, suddenly, to leave for a new life in a warmer world.
It’s a sort of answer, I suppose.
She tried to picture Catherine Few – what would she look like? Emily imagined a tall, slim woman with fine features. An artist with a noble look to her face, opening letters from a small boy in Australia and deciding to answer them. It was an odd thing to do, there was no doubt about it. And yet . . .
How else could the letters have been answered, if Cressida wasn’t here and Catherine Few was?
Emily suddenly remembered the crate of pictures in the attic and her promise to Tom. On impulse, she got out of bed, put on her slippers and grabbed her torch. No time like the present . . .
Upstairs, the apples were still there. She must remember to take them downstairs. Making cider would never happen; she would chuck them out and keep the best ones for crumbles. The crate was still sitting in its place, the lid left on the top. Tom hadn’t bothered to nail it back down. She put the lid on the floor. There were probably eight or so canvases stacked beneath. She lifted out a few and placed them in a manageable pile. Then, tucking her torch under her arm, she picked them up and took them downstairs to her room. There, she laid the canvases on her bed and looked at them.
She liked her snow.
Each one was set in a land blanketed in white, and each contained the same view, although from different angles. One looked back at the house, another caught just the side of it, but they all had a view of the mountain beyond and the garden. Emily had the distinct impression that they were not painted in the same year, though she couldn’t say why. Every one had something emerging from the snow in exactly the same place, not far from the orchard, alongside the back wall.
Emily noticed that one of the paintings had a clearer image of whatever it was than the others. She pulled it up off the bed and held it under the lamp, squinting at it.
Well, how odd. It’s . . . an angel. A stone angel. You can just see it emerging from the snow. It must be a garden ornament of some kind. But there’s nothing there now – I would have noticed an angel in the garden, I’m sure of it. I’ll double-check tomorrow, though, just in case.
Now that she’d identified it, she saw that all the pictures held the same thing, covered in snow and sometimes barely visible but most definitely there. A stone angel with a pair of stone wings and a bowed head, emerging from the blanket of snow.
How strange. And somehow . . . how sad.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Cameron inspected the paintings, which Emily had laid out in a row along the windowsill in the morning room. He’d come up early from the pub after breakfast.
‘Bloody hell, these are bleak,’ he said, then cast a look at the children eating their toast. ‘Sorry, but they are.’ He shivered. ‘It’s cold enough now – I had to wear my fleece to bed last night. It must be pretty awful in the winter.’
‘I just thought you might like to see them. You were very interested in Catherine Few yesterday. This is all I have of her. Her other things were sold.’
‘What, everything?’ asked Cameron.
‘Only two things were left. This dresser’ – she gestured to it – ‘and the easel upstairs.’
Cameron looked at the dresser with interest. ‘Well, this looks promising.’
‘It was completely empty, I checked it. And it’s just got my bits and pieces in it now. Amazing how quickly it filled up with junk.’ There was a knock at the back door. ‘Hold on, I’ll get that.’
James stood on the step, a box in his arms. He smiled at Emily as she opened the door. ‘Hello there! I’ve got some things for the children. I found some old jigsaw puzzles and a brilliant wooden train set that I thought Joe will love.’
‘That’s so kind of you, James, do come in.’ She stepped back to let him in and he came into the warm kitchen.
‘I’ve got plenty more bits and pieces, you know, and they’re just mouldering away in the . . . oh.’ James stopped abruptly mid-sentence as he caught a glimpse of Cameron in the morning room. When he turned to Emily, she saw that his cheeks were stained red.
‘I’m terribly sorry,’ he said gruffly. ‘I didn’t realise you had a visitor.’
She saw his awkwardness at once. ‘Oh, this is Cameron Baxter. He’s from Australia. Cameron, this is my neighbour, James.’
‘Hi there, mate,’ Cameron said with a friendly smile.
‘Hello.’ James looked stiff, and didn’t smile in return. He looked at the row of pictures on the windowsill. ‘Artist, are you?’
‘Nah, these aren’t mine. They’re by the woman who lived in this place before.’
‘Mrs Few,’ James said, his voice sounding very English and disapproving.
Emily glanced at him. Oh no, he’s jealous! He must think I’ve picked Cameron up. ‘Cameron came on the trail of my aunt,’ she said quickly. ‘It’s an interesting story. In fact, I must talk to your mother again and tell her what we’ve found out.’
‘Yes.’ James stood staring at Cameron, his eyes hostile.
Cameron picked up on the atmosphere. ‘Well, Emily,’ he said easily, ‘I think I’ll be getting on my way. I think we’ve come to the end of the line for now. Let’s keep in touch, all right? I’m heading home the day after tomorrow. I’ll see what I can find out when I get back.’
‘All right. Thanks for calling in, it’s been really intriguing. I hope you have a terrific trip back to Perth.’
When Cameron had gone, James said, ‘So he’s just some random bloke who turned up, is he?’
‘Yes,’ she said calmly. His jealousy was amusing and rather sweet.
‘It just makes me worried, that’s all,’ he said darkly. ‘Thinking of you here, all alone, at the mercy of whoever might happen along.’
‘I’m perfectly all right, you know that. Now let’s have a cup of tea and we can get this railway set up.’ She went through to the kitchen, glancing out into the garden as she went. A thought struck her. ‘James, did you ever see a stone angel in the garden?’
‘What?’ he called through the doorway. He was showing Joe the trains from the box.
‘A stone angel over by the wall, near the orchard. Did you ever see one?’
‘No, I didn’t,’ James called back. ‘Very glad about it too. It sounds gruesome. More suitable for a graveyard than a garden if you ask me. Creepy things, angels.’
Emily stared out across the garden, so different in its spring raiment from the bleak snowscape of Catherine’s picture. ‘Yes,’ she said, with a sudden shiver. ‘Maybe you’re right.’
Tom didn’t come by train in the end. He drove up in his van, bringing a lot of stuff with him for the cottage. He seemed in a high mood when he arrived, full of excitement, his eyes sparkling. He greeted Emily with a big kiss and a hug, which was a relief.
‘Hey, it’s amazing!’ he said as they went into the brightly refurbished interior. ‘Your pictures were great, but the real thing . . .’ He sighed happily. ‘It’s perfect. What more can I say?’
They spent a happy afternoon unpacking and setting the cottage to rights, Carrie and Joe rushing about trying to help but adding to the chaos. It was still bare by the time they’d finished, but it was comfortable.
‘It has everything I need,’ he said. ‘Except . . . food. I completely forgot about that.’
‘Don’t be silly, come to us for supper tonight and then you can make a trip to the supermarket tomorrow for a big shop.’ Emily smiled at him. She was glad to see him so happy.
‘Great idea. Thanks.’
‘Oh,’ Emily said, ‘and here’s a house-warming present I got for you.’
Tom said, ‘You didn’t need to do that, Em, after all you’ve done here.’
‘It’s only little.’ She handed over a small package and watched as he opened it.
‘A torch!’ he said, as he pulled it free of the wrapping. ‘Now, that’s something I didn’t think of.’
‘It’s not just for power cuts,’ she said. ‘If you’re going to be walking back from our place to the cottage, you’ll need a good strong light. It’s pitch black out there. Honestly, it’s a bit of a shock to the system after London.’
‘Ah, thanks, sis.’ He hugged her again. ‘Very thoughtful.’
‘You’re welcome. Listen, I’ll take the kids back and give them their supper. You have a bit of chill time in the new place, and come over when you’re ready. It’s stew for dinner, so no hurry to get to me.’
The evenings were getting ever longer as the spring ripened towards summer. The walk back from the cottage was beautiful in the hazy light, the birds singing in the woodland, the undergrowth full of life and lushness. She watched the children, Joe stumping along in his boots looking for any patches of mud he could jump in, and Carrie with a long stick, singing to herself as she brushed it through the brambles. There was such utter calm and peace.
I’m so glad this house came to me. We’re safe here. She thought of Catherine Few, living here after the death of her husband and into her old age, until she came to contemplate her own death and what should happen to December House afterwards. Thank you, Catherine, for giving it to me. I think perhaps you saved my life.
The nightmares had gone. Her serenity, shattered in the accident along with her leg, had returned. It’s like it was before that terrible night. But in her heart, she knew that things had been turning bad before the accident. She just hadn’t wanted to think about it. Her life with Will had seemed too complete, too stable, too outwardly perfect, for her to start admitting the truth. If she’d done that, she might have had to begin destroying it herself.
Will did that for me. He brought the whole thing crashing down so that I could start again. In a way, perhaps, he’s done me a favour.
But he had paid a heavy price. He lay in hospital still, sleeping on and on in his limbo state.
He wanted to die, she thought. She could find so little feeling for him now that the fears were at last at rest. A kind of remote pity was the best she could do. But I’m alive. What will happen to me? What will I do?
Existence had been so day-to-day for months now that she hadn’t tried to look to the future. At some point she would have to re-enter the world, think about working again, perhaps even contemplate a relationship. I don’t want that yet, she thought firmly. Perhaps it wasn’t only a conscious decision, though. Her body seemed to be telling her that it had its own needs and intended to wake her up to that fact – if her unlooked-for response to James’s presence meant anything. She watched the children, their heads bright against the undergrowth. They come first. I’ll be alone for as long it takes to make sure they’re all right.
Tom came over for dinner, walking from the cottage as the evening became soft and balmy and tiny black shapes swooped rapidly through the air.
‘Bats,’ Emily said, as one flicked soundlessly past. ‘They live in the barn, I think.’
Tom held out a bottle of wine. ‘I forgot food but I remembered the booze. Here you go.’
‘Thanks. Come in. The children won’t go to sleep till you say goodnight to them, so you’d better go up.’
She was just serving up the dinner as Tom came into the morning room after his goodnight duties were completed. They sat down and ate, talking over the practicalities of the cottage.
‘How long are you staying?’ Emily asked, chasing up the last of the stew on her plate.
Tom shrugged. ‘Not sure. I’ve got some work to do but I brought everything I need with me. I’m going to use that second bedroom as a work room. There’s no rush for me to go back.’
‘That’s great. The children will love having you near.’
‘I might need to pop up here to use the internet. Will that be all right?’
‘Of course. Whenever you like. I’ll give you a key so you can come in when you want.’
‘Did you look at those paintings? I meant to ask you earlier.’
‘Yes, I did. The thing in the snow . . . it’s an angel, a stone angel, always in the same place and always covered in snow.’
‘Really?’ Tom looked bemused. ‘How weird. I take it there’s nothing there now?’
‘Nope. And James from up the road says there’s never been anything there at all.’
‘That’s really strange. I’ll take a look at the paintings tomorrow and maybe scout around a bit.’ He looked down at his plate, toying with the remains of his mashed potato. He frowned and when he looked up at Emily, his eyes were grave. ‘I was kind of pissed off with you about the cottage – not giving it to me outright, I mean.’
Her heart sank. They’d been getting on so well. Was it all just a prelude to a row of some sort? ‘Oh.’
‘Yeah. I felt like there was a selfishness of spirit there that I didn’t expect from you, Emily. We’ve always been close, you’ve always looked out for me. But I got the impression that you were going to keep all this for yourself, even though it only came to you through being related to Aunt Cressida, just like me.’
She stared at him, not knowing what to say. How did she explain to him the powerful urge she had to protect her children and provide for them? ‘It’s . . .’ She bit her lip. ‘You see, Will was our breadwinner, the man who brought in the money. Lots of it. Suddenly he wasn’t just not there, he’d taken everything we had and left us exposed and naked. I was terrified. Then . . . when this place came . . . well . . .’
‘Yeah, I can see that, of course.’ Tom leaned back in his chair, still serious. ‘I totally get that. But that’s almost my point in a way. Will.’ He fixed Emily with a piercing stare. ‘I think he’s infected you with his spirit.’
She blinked at him. ‘What do you mean?’ she said cautiously. They were entering that territory again – that way of thinking that Tom had adopted slowly but surely over the last few months.
‘I’m going to say some things you might find hard to hear,’ Tom said, ‘but I know them to be true, so I want you to hear me out. The truth is that you’ve changed. There’s a hardness about you now, a selfishness that isn’t really part of your character. And I believe there’s a reason for it.’
‘Yes?’ She felt a pang of hurt but told herself not to respond. Better to hear him out and see where this is leading.
‘That reason is Will.’ He stared at her as if assessing the impact of his words upon her. When she said nothing, he went on. ‘I believe that Will is part of the dark forces in this world. He manifests all their characteristics. He works in finance; he’s materialistic and status-conscious; he’s greedy and grasping and would sacrifice just about everything in pursuit of money.’
Emily stifled a small gasp, struck by the word sacrifice. Tom was right about that – Will had been willing to sacrifice so much for the sake of his pride. Did that mean Tom was right about other things too? He’d always been perceptive and attuned to others. Maybe he really did have some kind of deeper understanding of what was going on in the world.
‘That places him in a very dark part of the spectrum,’ Tom went on. ‘I’d go so far as to say that he’s probably possessed by evil.’
Emily blinked at him in surprise. ‘Really?’
Tom laughed sardonically. ‘I know it sounds crazy. You’re probably thinking I am crazy.’ He leaned forward suddenly and fixed her with a penetrating gaze. ‘But I’m not. I always sensed Will’s aura was an unpleasan
t one: red and prickly and full of anger and malevolence. I worried for you when you married him but I could see why you fell for him. It was just after Mum and Dad’s accident and you needed someone like him to put the world to rights. Perhaps you couldn’t see that other side of him. For a while I wondered if you would be the making of him but it hasn’t happened that way. Instead, his evil has overpowered your goodness and begun to turn it into its own creation. That’s what evil wants: to destroy good and create more creatures in its own mould until the whole world is divided into masters who rule in luxury, and slaves who have to obey them – the universe run on satanic lines.’
Emily felt a chill tingle her skin. This was strong stuff. It sounded utterly crazy and yet for some reason it affected her.
Tom spoke quietly but in a tone of utter conviction. ‘You’ve been infected, Emily. You’ve got an evil spirit inside you. Will put it there. But don’t worry. I can help you get it out.’
Emily lay awake after Tom had gone, staring into the darkness, troubled. Tom was not only utterly convinced by what he was saying, he was extremely convincing in turn. He’d spent the rest of the evening telling Emily about his encounters with evil in the world and how he’d come to the knowledge that certain forces were out to destroy him.
‘I always knew that Will had a hatred for me,’ he’d said. ‘I could read it in his face. Do you know he actually recoiled from me when I came too close to him? I noticed in the last year or so that he could hardly bear to be near me. I knew what it was: the spirit that possessed him hated me coming too close. He knows that I’ve got the power to recognise and destroy him.’
It’s like The Exorcist, Emily had thought. Is it real? Her scepticism told her that it was not but she’d always respected Tom’s opinions and valued his intuition. Where would she draw a line? ‘So what’s happened to Will’s spirit now? He’s in a coma. Is the spirit in one too?’