The Snow Angel

by Lulu Taylor

  Tom had sighed heavily. ‘That I don’t know. I’m going to seek guidance on that. Perhaps the spirit is free once Will’s unconscious, or perhaps it remains trapped in his body. I need to do some research on that.’

  Another ayahuasca ceremony? Emily wondered as she lay in the darkness. Are they legal in this country? She felt a stirring of fear, the first she had felt since she came to December House. She’d looked forward to Tom coming to the cottage, but that was because she still thought of him as the old Tom. The normal Tom. Had that Tom really vanished forever and been replaced by this new, rather spooky version with his talk of possession and spirits and evil? With his confidence in his own power as someone who had secret knowledge and possessed the power to confront demons?

  Or maybe he’s ill. The cannabis he smokes – they say it’s much stronger now than it used to be. Maybe he’s got some kind of mental issues from using too much of it.

  She would do some research herself, she resolved. Then she felt a kind of black amusement at the mental picture. Tom would be researching how to deal with evil spirits inside a comatose person, while she’d be researching cannabis-induced psychosis.

  But Tom’s my brother. I have to look out for him. I just wish I was more qualified to do it, that’s all.

  The next day, the red post office van came roaring up the drive. The postmen always drove like maniacs, Emily thought. What was it that made them all so reckless?

  ‘Postman Pat!’ shouted Carrie when they saw the van.

  ‘I think Pat’s a slightly safer driver, actually,’ Emily murmured as the postman went to the back of the van and pulled out a long, flat parcel.

  ‘Here you are,’ he said, propping it on the ground by the front door and holding out a pad. ‘Sign here.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She scribbled her signature and looked at the parcel as the postman strode back to the van and headed off. It was a cardboard box, well sealed with tape and with lots of ‘Fragile’ stickers on it.

  ‘How mysterious,’ she said as she tried to lift it. ‘It’s much lighter than it looks.’ She laid it on the hall table, which it almost filled. ‘Let’s get the scissors.’

  It took a while to slice through all the masking tape and then to cut away the cardboard. Inside, the contents were wrapped in thick layers of bubble plastic, bound with more tape. She cut it all away, catching a flash of gold as she did.

  ‘Birthday present!’ cried Joe, jumping up and down. Carrie was wrapping herself in the discarded bubble wrap, turning it into a dress.

  ‘I don’t think so. My birthday’s not for a month,’ she said. Under the bubble wrap, there was a soft cloth covering. She tugged that away and revealed at last a painting, large and framed in an ornate gilt frame. ‘Oh my goodness, it’s a portrait. And what a beautiful one!’

  The painting showed a young woman gazing out of the picture in a three-quarters profile, her brown eyes serious. She was beautiful, her dark hair shining with lustrous colour, her fine eyebrows arched, her mouth in calm repose. She wore a white shirt and a string of pearls around her neck and in her hand she held a bright blue silk scarf.

  The children lost interest, more keen on playing with the detritus, but Emily stared at it, transfixed. She’s lovely.

  Just then Carrie held something up that she’d found on the floor. ‘Look, a letter!’

  Emily took it. ‘Ah, the explanation.’ She opened it. Inside was a handwritten note on thick ivory paper.

  Dearest Emily

  Such a pleasure to talk to you the other night. I’m so happy to think of you and your family in December House. I’m happy, too, to send you this because I think that December House is where it belongs. It’s a portrait of your Aunt Cressida, painted not long before she left for Australia. It captures her very well. It is by an artist called Ralph Few, the person to whom she insisted on selling the house. I inherited it from my father and it’s right that it returns to the house.

  Don’t leave it too long before you call me again, it was a delight to hear your voice. Shall we try and bring some togetherness to this fractured family of ours?

  With love

  Uncle Harry

  ‘Aunt Cressida!’ she exclaimed, and looked at it again. She had never before seen a picture of her aunt, she realised. She touched her own brown hair. Do we look alike? she wondered. I hope so – she was so pretty. But what a wonderful painting. So Ralph Few painted it – Catherine’s husband. He was obviously very talented.

  She picked it up and looked at it again, seeing the brushstrokes and the use of the paint close up so that the painting ceased being a portrait and became a collection of colours and lines. She pulled away and it resolved into a woman again.

  ‘I’ll put it in the sitting room over the fireplace,’ she said out loud. ‘I think that’s the perfect place.’ Then she smiled at the portrait. ‘Welcome home, Aunt Cressida. You’re back in December House.’

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Emily was at her computer early, with the chorus of birds already loud in the garden. Now that the days were lengthening, she was waking early and sneaking downstairs for tea and a quiet read of the news websites before the children woke up.

  The sound of an incoming Skype call made her jump and she quickly accepted it. A moment later, Cameron Baxter’s face came into view on her screen. When he saw her, he smiled broadly and waved. ‘Hi, Emily! Greetings from Perth!’

  ‘Hi, Cameron.’ She smiled back. She could see her face in a small box in the corner of the screen but she tried not to be distracted by it. ‘How are you? How was the trip back?’

  ‘Yeah, good, thanks. Nice to be back in the warm. So, any developments at your end on the whereabouts of your aunt?’

  Emily shook her head. ‘No. But my uncle sent me a picture.’ She picked up the laptop and walked it through to the sitting room, where the portrait hung over the fireplace. She angled the camera so Cameron could see it.

  He whistled lightly. ‘What a looker! No wonder my dad couldn’t get her out of his mind.’

  ‘Did you tell him what we found out?’

  ‘Or didn’t find out, more to the point. Yeah, I explained it to him. He was puzzled. But the thing is, Dad’s not well. That was partly why I wanted to find your aunt: it would make him really happy. He’s thinking it over but he was sure that it was your aunt writing to him from England all through the sixties.’

  ‘So we’re back where we started.’ She took the computer over to the sofa and sat down. Cameron’s face looked rather washed out over the internet connection and the electric light behind him was harsh. It must be evening over there.

  ‘Kind of.’ Cameron smiled at her. ‘I did some detective work of my own and I’ve discovered that a Cressida Fellbridge was registered as arriving here in 1963. So I have to concede to you that, yes, she arrived. But I think she must have gone back. After her money came through. She went back to England.’

  ‘And lived here with Catherine Few?’ asked Emily, frowning. ‘I think someone might have noticed.’

  ‘Would they? Maybe the two women did live in your house together. You said Catherine Few was reclusive, right? Maybe that’s because there were two of them and they didn’t want to be seen at the same time by anyone.’

  ‘But her husband Ralph was here too,’ Emily pointed out. ‘Until he died.’

  Cameron grinned. ‘Lucky guy! A nice little ménage a trois, maybe.’

  ‘Ha ha.’ She thought for a moment. ‘I don’t know. I’m just not sure about that. He painted that picture, by the way, the one of Cressida.’

  ‘Did he? I thought the wife was the painter.’

  ‘They both were.’

  ‘Well, if you ask me, he fancied your aunt something rotten. He’s made her into a stunner.’

  ‘Or he did that for the money. It’s hardly a warts-and-all job. I’m sure she looked a bit less glamorous in real life.’

  ‘Hmm. Well, listen, I’m gonna keep looking. I’m gonna look at the letters your aunt – or whoeve
r – sent to my dad as well. There might be something in them. He’s going to look them out for me.’

  ‘That’s good,’ Emily said, intrigued. ‘I’d love to see them myself.’

  ‘I’ll get some copies, if he’ll let me. Well, that’s all the news from Oz right now. I’ll buzz you again if I find out anything more, okay?’

  ‘Okay, Cameron. Bye. And thanks!’

  Tom didn’t come after lunch as he usually did. They had fallen into a pattern – he would work during the morning, then come up to use the internet and do his emails. He’d hang around for a while, playing with the children, and then head off again in the evening to do more work until he slept.

  Emily kept looking out for him, wanting to tell him about Cameron’s call that day. But although he was interested in the mystery of Aunt Cressida’s whereabouts, it didn’t seem to have the same fascination for him. Even the portrait of Cressida had failed to pique his curiosity very much. He’d stared at it for a while and said, ‘A bit chocolate-box for my tastes.’ Then he’d looked at her and said, ‘How much money is this guy’s work going for these days? Do you think it’s worth much? Because I think we should consider it a joint possession, don’t you?’

  She’d agreed. It must seem unfair, the way things kept coming her way from the family. It was only right to share

  When Tom didn’t appear, she wondered if he was on the trail of the stone angel in the paintings again. As soon as he’d realised that the same statue was in every painting, he had become quite interested in looking for it. It certainly wasn’t in the garden and he’d not yet found it in a shed or ditch. He hadn’t stopped searching for it, though. Emily gave up waiting for him and got the children into their sturdy shoes. ‘Come on,’ she said, ‘we’re going for a walk to Uncle Tom’s cottage!’

  They were both delighted, and the walk through the garden, over to the woods and on to the cottage was a pleasant one. The door was unlocked and she opened it, saying, ‘Hello! Tom? Are you there?’

  The downstairs was empty and looked different from when she had last seen it. It was messy, with rubbish and art materials scattered everywhere. Empty plates and mugs had been abandoned on every surface, and the ashtray on the table was overflowing. There was a strong fug of cannabis in the air.

  ‘Oh lord,’ Emily said, looking around. Her spirits sank. This wasn’t what she had hoped to see. She’d imagined a neatly kept home alive with the spirit of industry, but maybe that wasn’t how Tom accessed his creativity. What did she know about it, after all? She went over to the table and saw that Tom’s laptop was there, with a webpage open. She peered at it and saw that it was about the scientific breakdown of the ingredients of something. A drug? Is he going to try and make something? And where is he? Emily turned to the children and said, ‘Carrie, will you play with Joe outside, darling? Don’t wander off. I’ll be out again in a moment.’

  She went quickly upstairs. The door to the second bedroom was open and she glanced inside. It had a work table and shelves now, and there was stuff everywhere: paper mostly, but also scattered pens, books, old posters and newspapers. Every surface was covered, and another ashtray spilled ash onto the table. Emily went to the other door and pushed it open a little. Tom was on the bed, sleeping soundly, his long deep breaths resonating around the room.

  He seemed more than just asleep, almost as though he’d passed out. But perhaps that was her imagination.

  He probably had a late night, she told herself. He’s an adult. He can live how he likes. It’s not for me to say.

  Nevertheless, she felt gloomy as she descended the stairs, and she was glad to get outside again to the fresh air after the fug of the cottage. It seemed as though Tom was doing a lot of smoking.

  I must look up the effects of cannabis. I’ll do it when I get back home.

  When they reached the house, though, it was just in time to see James’s Land Rover pulling to a halt outside. He jumped out and waved as he saw them approaching across the garden.

  ‘Hello, Conways!’ he called. ‘I hope you don’t mind a quick visit.’

  ‘Of course not,’ Emily said, swinging Joe up into her arms so that she could carry him swiftly over the grass. ‘Are you stopping by for tea?’

  ‘Just quickly,’ James said. ‘I’ve got Mum in the car and remembered you said you’d like to speak to her again. We were just passing and I thought . . . well . . .’

  ‘Oh,’ Emily said, trying not to sound flustered. ‘How nice. I’m not sure what state the house is in.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that,’ James said, going round to the passenger door. ‘We don’t mind.’

  People always say that but it’s me who minds, Emily thought, hoping she hadn’t left everything in too much of a mess. She went round the car to greet Mrs Pendleton.

  The old lady looked at her with sympathetic eyes as James helped her down. ‘I told him drop-in visits aren’t always welcome but he wouldn’t have it.’

  ‘It’s fine, really. Lovely to see you. Please come in.’

  She led them down the passage to the morning room and James and his mother sat at the table while she made the tea.

  ‘The house is looking charming,’ said Mrs Pendleton, glancing about approvingly. ‘So very nice to see a young family in here again. A place like this needs to be kept alive. It’s the only way old houses mean anything. They’re quite useless when they’re empty.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Emily said, collecting cups from the dresser. ‘We love it here. It’s a quiet life at the moment, but that seems to suit us.’

  ‘Yes. James told me a little of what you’ve been through,’ Mrs Pendleton said, with a sympathetic look. ‘And he said you’ve got some more questions for me.’

  ‘Well . . . I had a visitor from Australia and he said that he thought Cressida Fellbridge had lived here much longer than we’d assumed, because she wrote letters to his father. From here, apparently. And we wondered . . .’ She laughed. It sounded very fanciful to say the idea aloud. ‘We wondered if there was any way that Catherine Few and Cressida Fellbridge could have lived here at the same time.’

  Mrs Pendleton looked startled. ‘Oh no. I don’t think so. I saw Mrs Few often enough to know her well. I never saw anyone else, only her husband. He was getting a little confused towards the end, though. He didn’t appear to know her name at times, poor man. So sad when she clearly adored him. I don’t think there was ever anyone else here, and I’m certain we would have known if there was a Fellbridge here. I told you how I had the impression that Mrs Few didn’t want to see any of the old family in any case.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Emily said, frowning. ‘I’d forgotten that.’ She put the cups on the tea tray. ‘Shall we go through to the sitting room? It’ll be much more comfortable in there.’

  They stood up and James led the way through the door at the far end of the morning room that led into the sitting room. Emily followed, stopping to put the teapot on the tray. When she got into the sitting room, Mrs Pendleton was standing in front of the fireplace, quite transfixed by the portrait.

  ‘I meant to tell you,’ Emily said, seeing her there, ‘that my uncle sent this over to me. Isn’t it lovely? It was painted by Ralph Few, as it happens. It’s my aunt Cressida, the woman who sold the house to the Fews.’

  Mrs Pendleton turned to look at her, amazement in her eyes. ‘Oh no, my dear, it’s not your aunt, I’m afraid. Most certainly not.’

  Emily gasped. ‘What do you mean?’ she stuttered. ‘Of course it is.’

  ‘No, no. I’m quite certain.’ Mrs Pendleton turned to look back at the portrait. ‘She looks younger and more glamorous than she did when I knew her, but there’s no mistake. I saw her quite often, and this, my dear, is Catherine Few.’

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  ‘I bloody hope this is worth it.’ Cameron’s face looked bleary on the screen and his hair stood up on end where he had mussed it with his hand.

  ‘It is, it is,’ Emily said excitedly. She was so glad he’d
answered, knowing it was the early hours of the morning in Australia. But Cameron evidently kept his computer in his room. ‘You’ll never guess what . . . I showed the portrait of my aunt to Mrs Pendleton and she says that it is definitely Catherine Few.’

  ‘What?’ Cameron looked bewildered.

  ‘Yes! I know! She knew Catherine for years, she can’t be mistaken. But it was sent from my uncle Harry and he should know what his sister looked like, right?’

  ‘Right.’ Cameron screwed up his face. ‘God, I can’t follow this. I’m still asleep. What are you saying?’

  ‘That Catherine Few and Cressida Fellbridge were the same person!’ Emily could hardly contain her excitement. It all made sense, a strange, crazy sense. ‘She never went to Australia! She stayed here!’

  ‘Hold on.’ Cameron yawned and then said, ‘But she did come to Australia, remember? I found the evidence. And she appeared at the lawyer’s office with her ID when she claimed her inheritance, according to your uncle.’

  ‘Oh yes.’ Emily’s excitement died down a little and then she said, ‘So she went and then came back, like you suggested.’

  ‘Maybe that’s it. It’s certainly the only answer.’ Cameron grinned at her. ‘But good work, Emily. I’m impressed. It’s a huge piece of the jigsaw you’ve just fitted there. Looks like we’ve got a case of an identity mix-up. We just have to work out exactly how it all happened, that’s all. But hey, no problem! We’ll do it. I’m gonna get my hands on those letters as well and take a look. I’m going over to Dad’s today.’ He gazed into the camera. ‘There’s just one thing. There was an actual Catherine Few, right? So what happened to her?’

  Emily shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I just assumed Catherine Few was a made-up person and that Cressida called herself that for her own reasons – to escape her family and live with Ralph Few.’

  ‘Ah. So it was love all along. Yeah . . . that makes sense. But see what you can find out about Catherine Few before she married Ralph, okay? And we’ll reconvene later.’