The Snow Angel

by Lulu Taylor

  ‘I know,’ Emily said, trying to appear as friendly as possible. ‘It’s an odd story, I suppose. I inherited a house from my aunt, Cressida Fellbridge, and I’m trying to work out what happened to her. We thought she’d emigrated to Australia but it seems a great deal more complicated than that.’

  Sudden amusement flickered in the other woman’s eyes. ‘You could put it like that.’ She opened the door. ‘You’d better come in.’

  The interior of the house was neat and well kept. In the small front sitting room there was a desk with a computer on it and a printer underneath.

  ‘I work from home,’ Maggie remarked as they went in, as if to explain it. ‘Do you want something? Tea?’

  ‘No thanks, I’m fine.’ Emily sat down gingerly on the sofa. It was difficult to assess exactly how welcome she was. Maggie sat down on the chair opposite, her expression now warmer.

  ‘So,’ she said, ‘it’s very interesting to meet you. I always wondered when someone would start to ask questions. Your family must be a bloody odd one, if you don’t mind me saying. Your aunt claims to be in Australia and no one so much as guesses that she wasn’t there.’

  ‘So we were right. She never went, did she?’ Emily asked, excited to hear that their detective work had been successful.

  Maggie nodded her head. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘How much of the story do you know?’ Emily said eagerly. ‘Why didn’t she go? What were you and your mother doing there instead?’

  Maggie smiled. ‘I’ll tell you what I know. But first, I just want to say that we owe your aunt a huge debt of gratitude. My mother had always dreamed of getting away from England. Her life was hard and miserable here, and my future was pretty bleak too. Thanks to your aunt, we had a different life. My mum lived by golden sands and blue seas just like she’d always wanted. And she knew I’d have a decent life too. But your aunt also gave us money when times were tough. She never forgot us, even when we’d more or less lost touch with her.’

  Emily smiled, delighted. ‘That’s wonderful. I don’t know the whole story yet, but I’m so glad that there’s something to celebrate. I’ve only just worked out that my aunt wasn’t in Australia at all, and I’m still trying to find out what happened to her, and who was living at December House. I thought it was a woman called Catherine Few, but that doesn’t appear to be the case. So I guessed that Catherine had gone to Australia, but that’s not the case either if you and your mother were the ones who went.’ Emily shook her head in bewilderment. ‘But why? Where is Catherine? And how on earth did she manage to leave me her house if she never lived there?’

  Maggie sat back in her chair and frowned. ‘I’m not sure how much I can help, I’m afraid. I can only tell you what I know,’ she said. ‘About what happened to us. Mum never told me the whole story. But I was there for some of it. I was there when they first arrived.’

  ‘Who? Catherine and Ralph?’

  Maggie shook her head. ‘No. It was her. Cressida Fellbridge. She arrived with the artist bloke.’ She smiled to herself. ‘He was good-looking, no doubt about that, and you could tell they were in love, it was written all over them. They seemed grown-up to me but they must have been young. In their twenties. My mother had looked after the house for the family for years, since my dad died, and in return we got to live in a little cottage on the edge of her land.’

  ‘Keeper’s Cottage?’

  ‘That’s right.’ A faraway look came into Maggie’s eyes. ‘Poky little place but we loved it.’

  ‘So Ralph Few and Cressida were at the cottage without Catherine.’ Emily thought this over, then said, ‘How long were they there?’

  ‘Weeks, I think. They arrived in the depth of winter, I know that.’

  ‘And then what happened?’

  Maggie pursed her lips. ‘The truth is, I don’t know. I used to go up to the house to help Mum. One morning I got there and Miss Fellbridge was there, white as a ghost. She told Mum to send me away, so she chivvied me off to the cottage. But I stayed there, hanging around the garden, trying to see what was up. I couldn’t make out anything. In the end, I gave up and went home. It was freezing, you see. I remember that cold.’ She shivered. ‘I couldn’t cope with it now, not after the years of living in Australia. You never want your bones that cold again, if you can help it.’

  ‘What did your mother tell you?’

  ‘Nothing. But I knew something was up. She seemed in a state, though she wouldn’t tell me what it was all about. All she said was that I wasn’t to go up to the house until she said I could. I had to stay in the cottage. She made me promise. Two days she went up there without me. And then . . .’ Maggie was lost for a moment in her memories. ‘The snow came, the way it used to round there. The whole world buried in white. Oh, that wind! The chill. I never felt anything so bitter in my life. And once it came, there was no going anywhere. But I do remember that Miss Fellbridge came to us, through the snow. I don’t know how she did it. And she stayed for hours in our little room downstairs, by the fire, talking to Mum. I sat on the stairs and listened as hard as I could, but they were too quiet for me to hear. The next day, my mother told me that we were leaving England for good, to live in Australia. It was a shock for me. I knew it was something to do with Miss Fellbridge, but I didn’t find out till years later what it was.’

  Emily leaned forward, absorbed by the story. ‘What was it?’

  ‘She sent us there. My mum travelled there as Cressida Fellbridge. I was her niece, Miss Maggie Kemp, travelling with her aunt to Australia. And then, a while later, Mum went to a lawyer’s office with the identification Miss Fellbridge had supplied, and accepted a sum of money on her behalf.’

  ‘Some kind of payment?’ Emily asked.

  ‘Support, I suppose. Like I said, she never forgot us. Even years later, money would arrive for us somehow. Then, when my mum died, she wrote to me.’

  Emily blinked. ‘Do you have the letter?’

  ‘Yes, I do, actually.’ Maggie got up and went to her desk. ‘I kept it as a memento, and because it was kind of intriguing.’ She shuffled through some files and pulled out a piece of paper. ‘Here it is.’

  Emily took it, excited. A link to Cressida at last.

  Dear Maggie

  I was so sorry to hear that your mother had died. She was a wonderful friend to me, and always devoted to you. She helped me in my greatest hour of need, and I’ve never forgotten her kindness, strength and bravery. Many people would have quailed in the face of what we did together – I think I would have if she hadn’t been strong. Being able to help you enjoy a new life in Australia made me very happy. It was a small gesture of thanks to your mother for allowing me to have my own new life, living with the man I loved.

  I send you all my sympathy and love. Bless you, Maggie.

  CF

  Emily stared at the paper. CF. Cressida Fellbridge. Catherine Few. She couldn’t bring herself to be one or the other in the end.

  ‘Does it mean anything to you?’ Maggie said.

  Emily shook her head. ‘I don’t know what she and your mother did.’

  ‘Me neither.’ Maggie smiled. ‘They both took it to their graves, it seems. Maybe they robbed a bank.’

  Emily laughed politely and then said, ‘But there’s something I don’t understand about Cressida and Ralph being at the house. Where was Catherine Few? Did she arrive after you’d left?’ Talking more to herself than Maggie, she said, ‘But she couldn’t have. Your mother took Cressida’s identity with her. She must have had Catherine’s ready to assume.’

  ‘I don’t know who this Catherine is that you’re talking about. I never saw her at the house, only Miss Fellbridge and her bloke. My mother never mentioned her.’ Maggie shrugged. ‘Sorry. That’s all I know.’

  Emily sighed. She had some answers but not the one she really wanted. Why did Cressida send her housekeeper away with her identity? And what happened to Catherine?

  Maggie fixed her with an intense look and said, ‘There’s one th
ing I will say. I was with my mother near her end and she said a few things that frightened me. I always knew she hid from me what happened in those days when I wasn’t allowed to the house. It was hard to know what she was saying sometimes, but if you want to know the answer, then you should look in your garden.’ She sat back again. ‘That’s all I’m saying. Look in that bloody garden.’

  The children had one more afternoon with Will before they all headed back to December House.

  Diana hugged Emily at the end of it. ‘Thank you for coming and bringing the children,’ she said, her eyes shining. ‘It’s made all the difference! Can you see how much better he looks?’

  Emily had seen no difference at all but she nodded. She knew that Diana would cling on to the changes that only she could see. They would bring her hope.

  The children were much more at ease with the new version of their daddy on the second day. His slow speech and twisted body didn’t bother them and they were soon climbing on him, chattering away and almost enjoying the fact that busy, impatient Daddy now had all the time in the world for them.

  ‘When will we see Daddy again?’ Carrie asked, as the car made its slow progress out of the city.

  ‘Soon,’ Emily promised. ‘Granny and I are working out how we’ll do it. But it won’t be too long before we’re back.’

  She and Diana had also talked about the divorce and she’d been relieved at how easily Diana had accepted it. She had clearly come to terms with the fact and no longer wanted to berate Emily for her treachery. They talked about the legal advice Emily had received and how best to proceed. The financial aspect would not be controversial: Emily would keep what she had, and in return there would be no maintenance or help with the children.

  ‘We can revisit that when Will’s better and can work again. I’m sure his pride will mean he’ll expect to support the children,’ Diana said seriously.

  Emily nodded, thinking that Diana’s belief in this mythical recovery of Will’s would make things easier in a way. But then again, she was right about him waking up. Maybe she’s right about him getting back to normal.

  But she didn’t believe it. Will would never be the same again.

  The return to December House lifted all their spirits, and the sight of James’s battered Land Rover gave Emily a pleasant tingle of anticipation. James leapt out as they approached and was ready to greet her with a hug as soon as she got out.

  Are you all right?’ he asked, kissing her cheek.

  ‘Yes. It was fine,’ she said.

  ‘We saw our daddy! He lives in a bed now,’ Carrie explained.

  ‘So I understand,’ James said. ‘Isn’t that lovely? Just like Charlie’s grandparents in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.’

  Carrie thought about this and said, ‘Yes. He has adventures in his bed because it can fly.’

  ‘You have to tell me all about it,’ replied James as he picked up Joe. ‘Hello, old man. How was your trip to the smoke? Let’s go inside and have a cup of tea and some apple juice. And my mother has sent you some rather special biscuits which she made herself.’

  As they headed for the door, James scooping up most of the luggage with his spare hand, Emily looked around the garden at the front of the house.

  Look in that bloody garden.

  The words had played through her mind ever since her encounter with Maggie Kemp. Every time she thought of it, a nasty shiver prickled down her spine. Why would anyone look in a garden except to find . . . She didn’t even want to think about it. Then suddenly an image floated through her mind: she saw a stone angel emerging from a blanket of snow, its head bowed in sorrow. She heard James’s voice in her mind.

  It sounds gruesome. More suitable for a graveyard than a garden if you ask me. Creepy things, angels.

  She gasped, stopping as the others walked on. Oh, Cressida. Is that what happened? Is that what your painting is trying to tell us? Oh no.

  PART FOUR

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  The snow didn’t come that night, but the threat of it lay over them, as heavy as a blanket. Cressie woke when she heard howling, confused at first, unable to understand what was going on. Then she remembered.

  Catherine’s here! She’s shut herself in the studio. How on earth did I manage to fall asleep?

  But they had, made drowsy by the warmth she and Ralph shared under the bedclothes and by the subsiding of the adrenalin that had rushed through them during the encounter with Catherine.

  The howl was low at first, a kind of crooning sound, a night noise that might have been a fox if it had not been so near. It took a while until it sank far enough into Cressie’s consciousness to wake her. When she realised that the sound must be coming from the studio, she slipped out of bed. She was still dressed. Letting herself out as quietly as she could, she crossed the landing towards the studio door and pressed herself up against it, listening. From behind it came that awful sound, like a crying without the tears, a long low wail of sorrow and despair.

  Cressie listened, her heart beating faster. What would Catherine do now?

  Her mind is unbalanced. It must be.

  How could it not be? she wondered. What sister would try to take the place of a wife in her brother’s life? What kind of desire for possession lay at the root of such behaviour? She had never sensed anything about their relationship that would cause her to question the truth of their situation. She had believed their story entirely. But perhaps we often accept what we’re told and don’t see the clues in front of us. In the light of what she now knew, when she recalled the days in the studio she thought she could see that the signs were there. But so slight and subtle that it had been almost impossible to pick up on them.

  The sound of grief from behind the door made a mixture of pity and fear course through her. It’s hopeless for her. She can never have what she wants because what she wanted never existed.

  Perhaps she could forgive Catherine for her deception, of both herself and others. But what was impossible to forgive was that she had hurt Ralph. The slow poisoning of him. The medicines mixed up according to a hotchpotch of ideas and theories and fed into his beloved body. His face came into her mind: dead white, his eyes trying to focus, his strength ebbing away.

  No. She’s been killing him. She must never come near him again. She’s dangerous. She had known the truth since the moment when she’d opened that one-line note in the hall of the Kensington house. That was what had propelled her up here on the frantic journey to reach Ralph before Catherine could harm him. She knew she was mad.

  But had Ralph’s words penetrated her fantasy world? Had they managed to rip away the veil of her delusions and show her the truth? And what would that knowledge do to her?

  The howling behind the door seemed to answer that question. Catherine was in the throes of something but whether it was remorse or fury, Cressie could not tell.

  She sank down to the floor and listened, clutching at her skirt with both hands as her breath came shakily. The noise was otherworldly and chilling. Someone possessed by emotion like that would be capable of anything.

  We’re alone together. Ralph is too ill to do anything. I have to be ready for whatever she might do.

  The howling grew louder and higher, more like a woman’s scream now. Then another noise accompanied it. Catherine was moving around. What was she doing? Footsteps moved over the wooden floorboards, going here and there as though she were circling the room inside. The screaming became broken by panting and gasps of exertion and Cressie could hear the tearing of canvas and objects hitting the floor and the walls.

  She must be destroying the studio and everything in it!

  Cressie stared wildly into space, trying to imagine what was happening behind the door. What will she do when she’s finished? She would be worked into a state of destruction. Would she come out from behind the door and start on the rest of the house? Was she allowing herself to descend into a state of rage that would free her from her grief and perhaps enable her to do s
omething terrible?

  What can I do? How do I stop her?

  Cressie got to her feet and hurried downstairs as quietly as she could. In the kitchen, she picked up a knife and hid it in her waistband, covering the handle with her cardigan. Then she raced back up the stairs, frightened that Catherine had taken this moment to emerge and find Ralph undefended. But there was a strange silence from behind the door, which was broken after a few moments by the sound of sobbing and muttered words that Cressie could not make out. The whirl of destruction seemed to be at an end and there was little more to hear apart from the soft crying. Cressie stood on the landing, poised in case she should hear the sofa being moved away from behind the door. Then, after a while, she sat down on the floor. She leaned against the wall and eventually, after what felt like hours, she began to doze. The house stayed silent.

  Cressie woke with a start at the sound of a bang from downstairs, and then remembered that Ursula would have arrived first thing.

  She jumped up, shaking sleep from her brain, and went to the studio door. From behind it came a curious noise that she could not identify, a strange sort of growl.

  Cressie hurried downstairs to the kitchen, where Maggie was already at the range, feeding it with logs to start up the flames, while Ursula was getting breakfast ready.

  ‘Ursula!’ she cried as she went in. ‘I’m so glad you’re here, I need your help.’ She cast a look over at the girl kneeling by the range, who looked up at her with mild curiosity in her chestnut-coloured eyes. ‘Oh, Maggie, of course you’re here too.’ She stared at the girl, flummoxed, then turned to Ursula. ‘I’m afraid we’ll have to send Maggie home,’ she said. ‘It’s really very important.’

  Ursula looked at her questioningly and seemed to see in her face that Cressie was serious. ‘Very well.’ She turned to her daughter. ‘You heard Miss Fellbridge, Maggie. You’re to go straight home and don’t dally. I’ll be there later. You can get on with your schoolwork until I get back.’ She said to Cressie, ‘She hates school. Only goes when it suits her. Go on, Maggie, you heard me.’