House of Shadows

by Iris Gower

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Recent Titles by Iris Gower from Severn House

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Recent Titles by Iris Gower from Severn House

  BOMBERS’ MOON

  DESTINY’S CHILD

  EMERALD

  FIDDLER’S FERRY

  HEART ON FIRE

  HEART IN ICE

  HEART OF STONE

  PROUD MARY

  A ROYAL AMBITION

  SEA WITCH

  SPINNERS’ WHARF

  HOUSE OF SHADOWS

  Iris Gower

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First world edition published 2010

  in Great Britain and in the USA by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

  Copyright © 2010 by Iris Gower.

  All rights reserved.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Gower, Iris.

  House of Shadows.

  1. Women artists – Fiction. 2. Women household employees –

  Crimes against – Fiction. 3. Suicide victims – Fiction.

  4. Wales – Fiction. 5. Suspense fiction.

  I. Title

  823.9'14-dc22

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-246-7 (ePub)

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-6907-4 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-250-5 (trade paper)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  ONE

  The house should have had a haunted air, but on this fine late-spring day the stonework radiated warmth, the glass in the windows seemed to reflect golden light and there was no mist hanging over the chimney pots. It seemed a fine, normal country mansion, and it was one I coveted. One day I would take out my paints and make a picture of it – my very own Aberglasney. It had an air of peace about it, and I could have hugged it to me – my very own house.

  And yet five young girls had died in this house more than twenty years ago, killed, though whether accidentally or intentionally no one knew, for the mystery of their deaths had never been really solved.

  Murder was one theory, lead poisoning another, but Edwin Mansel-Atherton, the accused, had killed himself before the trial, so nothing was ever proved one way or another.

  I walked in through the open door and stood in the large dusty hall and stared around, wondering where I was supposed to meet Mrs Mansel-Atherton.

  And then, drawing me from my reverie, she was there standing before me.

  ‘Are you sure you want to take the old house on, dear Miss Evans?’ she said without preamble.

  The old lady was odd, dressed in what looked like Victorian-style clothing, with a little lace cap hanging from the back of her head like pictures of Queen Victoria, and she was wearing a warm woollen shawl because, I suspected, the house was so cold. It was hard to believe she was only about seventy years old.

  ‘I’ll show you around, shall I?’ She was clearly eccentric, but lovely in an old-fashioned way. She smiled sweetly and waved her delicate, ladylike fingers towards the interior of the house.

  She took me on a tour of the house. ‘This,’ she said with a hint of bitterness, ‘is the room where the supposed murders took place.’

  I looked round the huge bedroom, painted blue halfway up the wall, the top part whitewashed with cracking paint. It was sparsely furnished with a bed and a plain wardrobe and a wash stand – although the room was big enough to fit three or four times as much furniture, I thought – and it was cold. It wasn’t a very prepossessing start to my tour of the house, but a sense of excitement washed through me. I wanted Aberglasney.

  ‘I’m sure I want the house, Mrs Mansel-Atherton –’ my tone was positive – ‘and call me Riana. I’d much prefer it.’ I gazed around, imagining it as it would be: a grand house, refurbished, parts of it rebuilt, restored. The grounds were huge, so a nature park, a flower garden, a hotel with swimming pool . . . the possibilities were endless.

  ‘How much do you want for it?’ I asked at last, my throat dry. I had very little money; enough, perhaps, for a deposit. The rest would have to come from loans and, hopefully, investments by patrons who liked my rather florid painting style. But I would have it. Aberglasney.

  ‘Well, Mrs Mansel-Atherton?’

  She turned her head on one side, peering at me almost coquettishly. ‘Beatrice, please. To you, dear Miss Evans, the sum will be what they call derisory, providing I can be here as often as I want.’ She showed me a bill of sale – what some people would call a contract – and I gasped at the cheapness of the price of the house.

  ‘“Be here.” What do you mean by that?’ I asked.

  ‘Just to visit, dear, that’s all. I know this will be a good buy for you, but there’s a great deal of restoration needed. I want the old place looked after by someone who cares. I have no living relatives, you see, dear; no heirs to take over from me. And remember the American servicemen are still here, which makes selling difficult, but I’m sure they’ll soon go home now the war is over. Until those men go away and take their Nissan huts with them the house is not very saleable, you understand?’

  I stared at this frail old lady, her skin soft as a rose petal but her eyes shadowed. She had her sad memories; I could see it in those expressive eyes.

  ‘But Mrs Mansel— Beatrice, the price is ridiculously cheap, even so.’

  She held up her hand. ‘No buts. I know what I want. My solicitor drew up the deeds some time ago. All we have to do is get you to sign them.’ The paper was on the desk; she gestured to me to look at it. ‘It’s all in order, legal and binding. Once you sign it, Aberglasney is yours. Can you live with the ghosts, dear?’

  I smiled, humouring the old lady. ‘Oh, I can live with ghosts. Don’t you worry about me.’

  ‘Then all we need is your signature.’

&n
bsp; I took up the pen she offered me, dipped it into the ink pot and signed quickly in case she changed her mind. I could afford the old ruin, but the restoration . . . well, that would be a problem, but one I was sure I could overcome.

  Mrs Mansel-Atherton had already signed the bill of sale, even before I had agreed to her conditions. Her signature was bold and flourishing, as if she was young and strong.

  ‘See you soon, dear,’ she said cheerily, handing me the paperwork. ‘Take it to my solicitor and the house will be legally yours.’

  I left Aberglasney reluctantly and climbed into my waiting van – an old ambulance, battered but sound and strong – and as I drove away from my house I wondered if I’d been taken for a fool. The hall, run down though it might be, was such a bargain . . . perhaps too much of a bargain to be true.

  And the eccentric old lady wanted to visit when she liked. But still, there was no harm in that. She probably loved the old place, but found it was crumbling away around her. I’d do anything to keep the hall, and I would soon find out if the bill of sale was legally binding when I went to see the solicitor in town later on today.

  The solicitor, Mr Jeremy of Jeremy Bevan and Brown, wore a long coat and small glasses. He peered at me, and then at the paper, suspiciously. ‘You are rather young, Miss . . .?’

  ‘Evans,’ I prompted.

  ‘Ah yes, Miss Evans.’ His tone suggested I needed confirmation of who I was. ‘Mrs Mansel-Atherton signed this document in my presence,’ he said, ‘and now you must do the same if this –’ he waved the document – ‘is to be legally binding.’

  ‘Of course.’ I signed again where he indicated and sat back in my chair.

  ‘Right, Miss Evans,’ he said. ‘You are now the owner of the Mansel-Athertons’ house.’

  I left the small dusty offices on a cloud and stood in the street watching, without seeing, the big dray horse plod past, the load of beer barrels on the cart rattling ominously.

  I put the crisp deeds into my bag and snapped the clasp shut with a firm click; I was now the proud owner of a ruin called Aberglasney and, I giggled to myself, the ghosts of the past.

  TWO

  The builders were taking over my house; plasterboards, white-overalled men and ladders seemed to proliferate in the large rooms. Summer had arrived: the sun was shining, the birds were singing in the overgrown gardens and my heart was light.

  I was now in debt, it was true, and Mrs Mansel-Atherton – who insisted I called her Beatrice – showed no signs of leaving. When I broached the subject she laughed a delicate laugh with her tiny hand over her mouth. I said no more. Perhaps she thought it was part of the deal that she stayed, but she was quiet, unobtrusive, and I never saw her unless I wondered into the blue room. It wasn’t her room, but she seemed drawn to it by some mysterious bond, though it was empty and cheerless at the moment. ‘But not for long,’ I said aloud. It would be decorated and furnished, and one day it would make a lovely guest room.

  Occasionally, I saw lights flickering across the landings, and I wondered in amusement if the ghosts of the five maids were at their nightly haunting. Heavens! If I turned the place into a hotel, what a draw the ‘ghosts’ would be. I’d never seen any maids flitting around in voluminous nightgowns, but then I was a sceptic and didn’t expect to see anything of the sort.

  Gradually, I learned the story of Beatrice’s life. She had married her husband when she was only twenty-one. She had one son who had gone to war and never returned, killed in action. ‘So you see, my dear –’ she never called me by name – ‘I’m just a lost old widow without a soul in the world to care if I’m alive or dead.’

  I changed the subject. ‘What about the five maids who died, Mrs . . . Beatrice?’

  Her small white hands fluttered. ‘Oh dear, I thought you might ask about that.’ She bent her head and her veil hid her face.

  ‘The story was they were murdered by my husband, Edwin.’ She paused. ‘It’s a lie, of course. Edwin never went near the maids, and to kill all five of them in one night would have taken a more cunning man than my Edwin.’ She twisted her fingers together. ‘He was to be hanged, you know. So unjust, an innocent man to be hanged for a murder that wasn’t even proved to be a murder, but unable to bear the disgrace and the injustice, he shot himself. I’ll never rest until his innocence is proved. I always insisted the maids died because of the paint.’

  ‘The paint? Surely that was just a rumour?’

  ‘So they say, but the paint, it always smelled funny to me.’ She looked up at me, her eyes brimming with tears. ‘I’m sure a smart girl like you could find out for me . . . find out about paint and fumes and things.’

  ‘I don’t—’ I stopped speaking when I saw the pleading look in Beatrice’s eyes. ‘Perhaps I could go to the library in Swansea or something,’ I said lamely.

  She stood up. ‘I realize petrol is still in short supply,’ she said, ‘but there’s a good train, you know, into Swansea.’ She stood up. ‘I think I’ll take a turn in the garden, stroll under the yews, sit down for a while and take the air.’ She smiled her charming smile. ‘I might go away for a few days, dear, so don’t worry if you don’t see me for a while.’

  Strangely enough, I missed her. Not that she ever intruded into my life in any way, but she was always there – sitting in her room or in the blue room where the maids had died.

  Curiosity drove me to the library later that week. I’d been to the bank and convinced my manager that I had another sale: one of my paintings was wanted by a rich family in the area. It was only half true; the lady in question had shown an interest in a half-finished painting of Aberglasney. Mr Pruedone, the under manager, sorted out more money, though his mouth was pinched and disapproving of ‘lady artists’ – who, to his mind, were no better than dilettantes in a man’s world – and then, with a sigh of relief, I went out into the noisy street and then into the library.

  In the welcome silence of the reading room, I took off my hat and settled to leaf through old newspapers. I was getting bored, until I found the story of the death of the five young girls.

  The evidence against Mr Mansel-Atherton was circumstantial. The housekeeper, a Mrs Ward, had seen him outside the blue room that night with something, she knew not what, in his hand. She went on to the landing later and heard gasping and groaning noises. Later still she went into the bedroom to find the maids all dead. Each one of them had their hands against their breasts, nightgowns awry, hair loose and tangled.

  Mrs Ward was found to be a woman of impeccable honesty, an ardent churchgoing Christian who would never swear an oath on the Holy Bible unless it was the truth. On this fragile evidence Mr Mansel-Atherton was arrested – and then released on bail because Beatrice Mansel-Atherton had sworn he’d never left her bed that night.

  Questions buzzed in my mind, such as: was a doctor called to investigate the scene? Was there medical evidence that the girls had been interfered with? I determined to broach the subject with Beatrice, even though intimacy was a very sensitive issue.

  I made some notes and then left the library. Outside, the streets were busy and sunny, and the black thought of murder drifted from my mind as I strolled around Swansea, looking into shops for fabrics for curtains and cushion covers. Gradually, I forgot the ghosts of my house and concentrated on the thrill of plans to restore my mansion.

  It was late in the evening when I arrived home. The train journey from Swansea had been a swift one, but the station was a long way from Aberglasney. I had arranged for a car to pick me up, but the road outside the station was empty.

  I waited a while and then began to walk, because there was nothing else I could do.

  A car passed me, stopped, and then backed rapidly towards me. I thought at first that the car I’d ordered had caught up with me, and I sighed in gratitude. Already, my feet were aching in my new shoes that pinched like the devil.

  The dark shape of the car screeched towards me at an alarming speed, the black heavy wheels bearing down at me, the car
bonnet – shiny and black in the rain – looking large and menacing as it hurtled towards me. Whoever was driving the car was trying to hit me!

  I took a flying leap and landed in the ditch at the side of the road. Another car was coming towards me, its headlights picking out my startled face in the gloom. The black car zoomed away into the distance, gears grating, wheels spinning.

  ‘Sorry I’m late, madam –’ the driver leaned forward from his seat – ‘but I seem to have arrived in the nick of time.’

  His voice was strangely accented: a trace of American, or Canadian perhaps. Not what I was expecting from a driver of a hired cab. I tried to dust down my skirt; a button had come off my coat and the front bagged out unbecomingly. I’d lost my hat, and I was horrified and puzzled by what had happened.

  ‘Who are you?’ I asked suspiciously.

  ‘You hired the car service from the Frazer Car Firm for six thirty outside the station. They phoned the office where I work and said they couldn’t make it, so I came instead.’

  ‘And who are you and . . .?’

  ‘I’m Tom Maybury, and I’m working at the air force camp stationed at Aberglasney.’

  ‘Show me some identification,’ I demanded, still suspicious.

  ‘Here are my dog tags, miss.’

  ‘My name and destination?’

  ‘Miss Evans, and your address is Aberglasney mansion. Do you want me to open the door for you or not?’

  I jerked the door open myself, climbed into the car and sank back thankfully on the creaking leather seat. I was shaken. Who on earth would want to harm me? I had no enemies in the small village; no one knew I was here except for the Americans who were stationed near the perimeter of the grounds.

  I breathed a sigh of relief as the car pulled to a halt outside my front door. The thought of the attack still gave me a thrill.

  The driver opened the door for me, and I realized I had lost my bag. ‘If you’ll wait here, I’ll go and get some money to pay you.’ I realized I was still shaking.