The Property of a Gentleman: One House. Many secrets.

by Catherine Gaskin

  The house, which from the front appeared to be two storeys, grew to three at the centre. There was a cluster of low-ceilinged rooms with half windows that looked over the roofs of Thirlbeck and through the stone frieze. Here was the litter of generations – old trunks, bedsteads, riding boots, a collection of cricket bats, a croquet set. If Askew had a childhood, it was here, but he had not sought any of it, nor wanted it about him. The narrow corridors all came back to a steep stair – a Victorian edition which must have led down to the wing on the rear of the house which the Tolsons inhabited. I turned back. This was territory which I could not invade, and there nagged the thought that somewhere in those rooms where they lived there might be a smallish, perhaps dark picture, a portrait of a man in a sixteenth-century tunic with a small, austere ruff, a man with the Hapsburg chin, the man who had ruled most of the world as Philip the Second of Spain, painted by the hand of the Greek, and sent to inspire trust and hope in his little Spanish protégée, the one he called 'cousin’.

  As I retraced my way through the unused rooms of that floor, the Condesa’s scent still seemed to go with me; but I knew I was now merely imagining it. She could not have been everywhere, nor so recently. It was the strength of her personality, not her perfume, that was so strangely pervasive.

  For the first time since I had been in that house sleep did not come easily, and when it came it was fitful. The sense of the closeness of the Spanish Woman seemed at times to press on me; I woke to the faint noises that the rooms always held, and again the familiar shadow that had no substance. It was not fear I felt, but something that tugged at me with overriding urgency, a feeling akin to that I had had on the night of Gerald’s illness. I even went to check at Gerald’s room. He slept peacefully, a single shaded light burning, the flex of an electric bell, rigged up by the Tolson son who had a way with such things, trailing across the floor, into the corridor, and to the adjoining room where Jeffries slept.

  I returned to the Spanish Woman’s room, and, unable to sleep, I went and lighted a candle and took it to the long table. Then I brought the Book of Hours and the letter from Philip. I studied those words over and over, and Vanessa’s translation, turned the pages of the book, felt the essence of the centuries in its pages, the faith and trust and great hope of a young Spanish girl who must have held these things among her dearest possessions, who must have sat as I sat now, the lighted candle on the table beside her. But where would she have hidden the portrait of the man whose words must have been almost as sacred to her as the text in this hauntingly beautiful book? Juana Fernández de Córdoba, Mendoza, Soto y Alvarez, the name written in her careful script. They had taken her life, and the life of her child, the great gem she wore; they had tried to take away her identity, but they had not succeeded. She had no known grave, but she had lived in legend as none of the Birketts had lived. If they had taken everything else, would they have left the portrait of the most hated man in England? To the Birketts of the time the name of the painter would have mattered less than nothing, and to keep the portrait of Philip would have seemed close to treason. Was all that had survived of the Spanish Woman just the great gem, and this book and the paper with the seal and signature of England’s greatest enemy? And how had her little Book of Hours escaped the vengeful, frightened hands of the Birketts? I went and sat in her chair, put my feet on her footstool, the light of the flames of the fire I had kept up all night, and the paler light of the candle met across the room, and the presence of the Spanish Woman seemed a cogent reality. She had to have left more than these few things – she had to. I still held the book in my hands, and by the light of the fire I tried to understand something she had written at the back of the book, words I couldn’t understand but which must have been important to her to have written them here. Was this a message she had meant to leave, and I couldn’t read it? The Condesa could possibly have done so, but I had no intention of showing this to her.

  I slept there in the chair and woke to the dying fire, the first sleepy twitterings of the dawn chorus of the birds on a spring morning, and to the sound of a vehicle passing on the road that led past the house and on up the valley to Brantwick. The eastern light was glowing over the top of the mountain, and that had been Nat Birkett’s Land Rover taking him to his watch at the shelter.

  It was chill in the dawn when I walked to find him. Everything – the trees, the grass – was beaded with moisture, morning swirls of mist clung to the tarn. But it was a morning of great radiance, like the one I remembered coming out to when I had known that Gerald would be all right. This morning, though, my mind and feelings tossed in unquiet speculation. I was weary of it all; I longed to be free of the thoughts of Vanessa, of her strange connection with this place; I wanted to be able to go and talk to Gerald, to try to explain, or to have him explain to me about Vanessa. But this was impossible. Gerald could not be worried now by such things. So I walked out in the dawn to talk to Nat Birkett, still almost a stranger.

  But when he greeted me it wasn’t as a stranger. I moved quietly through the larch wood to the shelter, but he had long ago been aware of my approach. The shelter was a kind of three-sided hut, with the open side facing away from the crag where the eagles nested; the crag was watched by binoculars through a long cut in the other side, with a sort of shelf where the watcher rested his elbows during the long sessions holding the glasses. It had no floor but the forest ground. A little Sterno stove was for making tea, and a few biscuit tins stored the provisions.

  He came to meet me. ‘I’ve been missing you, Jo. Have you done any more stupid things like climbing Great Birkeld? There’s water for coffee on.’

  He had put his arm around my shoulders in a way that was warmly companionable, and I was instantly conscious that this was not enough. All at once I wanted much more from Nat Birkett. He seemed to be treating me with the sort of absent-minded affection which he would give to his collie. The collie was there with him, his long soft snout thrust against my hand. From him I could take mere affection; he was a dog. I began to realise that soon I would be leaving Thirlbeck, and Nat Birkett as well.

  ‘I followed you,’ I said. ‘I heard the Land Rover and knew it was you coming up here.’

  ‘Yes, I saw the light. In the Spanish Woman’s room.’

  ‘You knew it was the Spanish Woman’s room? I thought wild horses wouldn’t have got you on a tour of Thirlbeck.’

  ‘I knew it,’ he said. There was abruptly a chilling quality in his voice. Perhaps I shivered, even with the warmth of his body close to me. ‘You’re cold. I’ll make the coffee.’

  The night had been long. I could feel my eyes swollen from lack of sleep, the worries of Thirlbeck and Vanessa’s connection were back with me, and now this added new dimension of being acutely, painfully aware of Nat Birkett, and feeling that I was being pushed aside into an affectionate friendship, which would be forgotten when I left. ‘Any brandy?’ I said.

  ‘It just so happens ...’ He brought out a hip flask. ‘Do you make a habit of vigils? You always seem to be wandering around in the dawn.’

  I ignored the question. The mug of coffee laced with brandy was comforting between my hands, the liquid warm on my tongue, in my throat. ‘Anything to eat?’ He passed over a meat pasty; I suppose it was either Jessica’s cooking or her mother’s. ‘How did you know – about the Spanish Woman’s room?’

  ‘Who hasn’t heard about the Spanish Woman?’ he answered. ‘Patsy once said to me that the Spanish Woman haunted that house – she and that bloody great rock she brought from Spain to Thirlbeck. That I’ll inherit too, and all the bad luck that goes with it. I hope to God Askew lives to be a hundred. With some luck I might be dead before him – but unless they’ve abolished the whole House of Lords by then, that would leave the bad luck to Thomas.’

  ‘Are they really unlucky – the Birketts?’

  ‘The Birketts aren’t unlucky. It’s the Earls of Askew who are unlucky. You take a plain, ordinary but clever man of business like Askew’s grandfat
her – a good farmer and one who wanted to do something for farming. Then he becomes Earl of Askew, and everything goes wrong. He has only one son who survived, and he’s a bit off his head – enough to make him retreat into Thirlbeck and never see a soul. They were rich then, the Earls of Askew. He could have had any sort of life he wanted, but he couldn’t seem to enjoy even the life of a recluse. No better place to be a recluse than Thirlbeck in those days, if that was your choice. My father’s generation he was – a bit older, really, but my father knew him and thought him a poor creature, dominated by his mother. Then he quarrels with his only child. That child has covered himself with sporting honours at Eton, and more when he has the only year he manages to last at Cambridge. Then he dashes off to the Spanish Civil War, marries a Spanish girl, and a Catholic – and they all begin to think that the Spanish Woman is returning to take Thirlbeck back again – ’

  I sucked in my breath. ‘I never thought of that!’

  ‘They did. You’d think almost four hundred years hadn’t passed since the Armada. Then she had a son, and of course the earldom would go to a Catholic. But it never did. That poor bastard, Askew, manages to kill them both before they ever reached Thirlbeck, but almost in sight of it. Then he goes to gaol, then to war, and tries, I think, to get himself killed – honourably, of course. Instead of being killed, he ends with the Victoria Cross and the Military Medal. I’ve always thought he was trying to leave behind the bad luck of the Earls of Askew by leaving Thirlbeck. There’s something that hangs on in that place ... no wonder he’s stayed away. He’ll go again, soon, I expect. I would, if I were he ...’

  ‘Nat, at some time, sooner or later, you will be the Earl of Askew. What will you do? What will you do with Thirlbeck?’

  ‘With Thirlbeck? God knows ... tear it down, if I have the money.’

  ‘Nat – no!’

  ‘Why not? Who wants it? Who can pay the taxes on a thing like that, or keep it in repair?’

  ‘Who... who? I can’t say who. But people want it, Nat. They need it. They pour out from the cities all over the country ... from concrete housing developments. They drive hellish distances to see something different. Here, they come to see mountains they will never climb. With Thirlbeck they would come to see something that builders of four hundred years ago put together. Something that no one could afford to build today. That’s why they come. It’s a dream, Nat. They really couldn’t say it’s a dream, but they want it preserved.’

  ‘Why should it be preserved for them? That bloody stupid mass. They don’t know what they’re looking at.’

  ‘Nat...’ I was desperate. I was pleading for something that was not my own, which I probably would never see again. The words burst out of me, not of my making. ‘Nat, why is it so important to preserve golden eagles? Why are we here, this minute? Why did you get up before dawn? Why do you want to see that eagle rise off that crag? Why – why? Preserve the eagles. Preserve Thirlbeck. Why not? They’re both unique. You will never get either of them back again. If you lose this pair, perhaps in a hundred years or so another pair may come back to nest – there’s always the hope. Perhaps the young will survive, and come back and stake out their own territory. But once you tear down Thirlbeck, it’s gone for ever. I’ll tell you, Nat, when Thirlbeck is torn down parts of it will survive. But only parts. Chimney pieces, staircases, cornices, the furniture ... oh, yes, they’ll survive because museums are rich enough to buy parts. But who will have the whole? The whole won’t exist. Could you buy a golden eagle, Nat? Would you want to be able to buy it? There’s no price for an eagle. Who can pay for Thirlbeck? But somehow it has to be paid for.’

  Suddenly his mug of coffee turned over and the liquid ran over the ground. He rose slowly and went to the long viewing place in the wall, raised the glasses, and scanned the whole foreground and the horizon. In time, after minutes, he came back, sitting on the ground close to me.

  ‘Dear God, Jo, it has been paid for! Thirlbeck owes me everything. I owe it nothing. Do you know how Patsy died?’

  ‘They said ... yes, they said she died at Thirlbeck. Oh, Nat – I’m sorry. I shouldn’t – ’

  ‘Unique! You bet it’s unique! It can so seduce a sweet, simple little girl like Patsy that she will die there. Do you know how Patsy was found, Jo?’

  I felt myself shrink into my own body. Nat’s face was in torment. ‘They said ...’ I whispered.

  ‘Yes, I’m sure they said. They said all kinds of things. But do you know where and how she was found? I’ll bet no one ever told you that. No – it was agreed among us – the Tolsons and I, that it was an unfortunate accident. And when the person you love most dearly in the world is gone, you don’t have feelings of revenge – not against people like the Tolsons. There can never be an acceptable explanation. And nothing will ever bring Patsy back. So we just ... let it go.’

  He picked up the mug and placed it among the biscuit tins, as if he were trying to decide whether he should say more. He sighed, and looked back at me. ‘We thought she was lost. She just simply ... disappeared. Her car was still at Southdales – she couldn’t have gone too far. We didn’t even know she was gone until she failed to show up to meet the school bus. It was Richard’s first year at school, and she always wanted to be there to meet him. I started telephoning around – all the Tolsons, first, of course, and any other place within a few miles walking distance. No one had seen her. Every farmer round here searched outbuildings – any place at all it was possible for her to be. I thought I’d go out of my mind that night. It was November, and it had suddenly turned bitterly cold. A hard frost. If she were out in it, I just knew she couldn’t survive. We organised a big search for the next morning at first light – all through the Thirlbeck Valley, all around the tarn. It was a hellish day. It was so long I can remember every minute of it, and yet it got dark so quickly. Then, when the light was gone, Tolson suggested a search of Thirlbeck itself. We had no reason to suppose she was there – Jessica had been there all the day she disappeared, and she said no one had been at the house. The thing that made Tolson suggest it, really, was that La Española was gone from its safe – and yet the alarm system was still connected, and working. Thirlbeck wasn’t the way you know it now. Try to imagine it with all those metal shutters always in place. Those downstairs rooms always dark, always needing electric light ... Patsy wasn’t in the Tolsons’ wing, and there was nothing to indicate that she was in the front part of the house. But with La Española gone, and she missing as well ... that was when Tolson suggested a complete search of the house.’

  ‘Nat ... I’m sorry. Please, no more. I shouldn’t have said anything.’

  ‘Be quiet, and let me talk, will you?’ He was hunched on the ground beside me, his arms wrapped about his knees, his chin thrust down towards them. He lifted his head.

  ‘She had a heart condition – something left over from rheumatic fever as a kid. The valves of the heart had been damaged – they’d narrowed down. It hadn’t caused her much trouble until about that time, but she was getting breathless, and small things made her tired. We went to London to a consultant, and he said they could operate – and she might live to be an old woman. He said he could do it in about six to eight weeks – you have to wait for the really good guys unless it’s an outright emergency. So we came home and we were waiting for her to be called back to London. That’s why I didn’t really believe she had set out on a long walk without telling anyone ... she wasn’t strong enough for that sort of thing. And she should never have been under really severe stress.

  ‘We found her, Jo, eventually, in the Spanish Woman’s room. She was lying against the door as if she had exhausted herself utterly by banging and calling. She must even have tried to break a window. Those old fastenings on the windows are very stiff and bent out of shape. I suppose she didn’t have the strength to open any of them. Some of the diamond panes of glass had been broken, and we found pieces of some blue china under the window and down on the gravel below. But of course unless someone ha
d been actually looking up at the window when she was trying to attract attention, there was terribly little chance of her being seen or heard. The lock of the door was jammed. We had to use a jemmy to break it open. At first we thought the door was locked from the inside, but Ted Tolson, who took the lock apart afterwards, said the whole mechanism had jammed because parts of the metal were worn. It was the original lock that’d been put in when the place was built. Patsy had made it worse, he thought, by trying to turn the key to free it. It just jammed tighter. Well, these were things that didn’t concern me at the time. All I knew was that Patsy had died there alone – probably during the night, cold and alone, and frightened. Her heart just couldn’t take the state of panic she must have gone into. Dr Murray, yes, how did he put it? He said it was an inefficient machine that had been made to work too hard. That’s a pretty technical way to describe how a girl died. She lay there, my little Patsy, and she had La Española in her hand.’

  ‘Oh, God, Nat! La Española ... why?’

  ‘Why – who knows why? We’ll never know that. She’d been encouraged to go to that house, to walk through it, to get familiar with it and everything in it, as if it were already hers. Tolson encouraged it. The way he encouraged her to come and look at La Española, to take it, handle it. I suppose he thought she should learn not to be afraid of it – of those stupid stories they tell about it.’

  ‘Did he teach her how the alarm system worked?’