House of Shadows

by Iris Gower

  Miss Grist, the woman behind the counter, helped another librarian carry the huge book of newspapers without so much as a smile and placed it on the table for me.

  ‘Be careful with the papers, Miss Evans,’ she said. ‘You know how careless some folk are. They lick fingers and touch the old newspaper, and it doesn’t do it any good at all.’ She suddenly sat down beside me. She wasn’t the typical type of librarian you see on the stage in a theatre: no glasses, no bun, but heavy lidded eyes and a full, drooping mouth.

  True, her eyes had lines around them and the skin of her jaw was rather loose, but she would be a very good subject for a painting. I could see her in a Pre-Raphaelite gown of bright gold with her hair hanging loose against the silk. I realized I was staring and picked up my pencil.

  ‘You are the lady who bought the old house, Aberglasney, aren’t you?’

  ‘That’s right.’ I carefully opened a newspaper, aware of her watching eyes.

  ‘I hear there was quite a stir there last weekend. The ghost hunters actually found a ghost, I believe?’

  ‘It seems so.’ I tried to keep my voice steady and I took a deep breath. This was the sort of publicity I wanted, needed . . . so why did I feel such a cheat? ‘Of course, I didn’t see a ghost myself,’ I added, absolving myself of some responsibility.

  ‘And you living there. Isn’t that strange?’ She watched me with shrewd eyes. ‘But there are some eerie goings-on there, I know that.’

  My attention was caught; I turned to look at Miss Grist. ‘How do you know?’ I spoke gently, not wanting to frighten her away.

  ‘I did some collating of books for the owners some time ago,’ she volunteered. ‘The library was extensive in those days, so I was told. I don’t know what it’s like now, of course.’

  ‘Did you know Mr Mansel-Atherton?’

  ‘Not personally. I’m a little too young for that.’ Her tone was sharp, and I tried not to giggle. ‘It’s all very suspicious, if you ask me.’

  ‘You think the maids were murdered then?’

  ‘All I know is that they died in strange circumstances,’ Miss Grist said briskly, as if I was prying into the past when it was she who had brought it up.

  ‘Why are you so interested?’ I looked at her suspiciously. She had sensible black shoes and even black thick stockings, like a nurse, perhaps . . . or a policeman.

  ‘Just a feeling,’ she snapped. Evidently, talking about Mr Mansel-Atherton was touching a raw nerve for Miss Grist. ‘So, what have you found out about the strange things that happened before the girls died?’ Miss Grist said after a moment’s silence. She asked with more interest than a mere librarian would, I thought.

  ‘Accidents,’ I said. ‘I read there were strange accidents, but not since Mr Mansel-Atherton died.’ Just then someone came to hover at Miss Grist’s side, and with an apologetic look at me she departed to help the other librarian.

  I tried to concentrate on the papers and made notes about Aberglasney, the maids, and the accusations against poor Edwin. There were brief reports in most papers, and one lurid headline in a Sunday paper about ‘Murder at the Manor’. No new details, though – just the suggestion of sexual misdemeanours, written for sensationalism.

  I found nothing new or helpful in any of the reports. I would have to talk to the locals and read church records to try to find the background to it all. But I decided, as I hauled the book of papers back to the desk, that I would certainly talk to Miss Grist again when I had the opportunity.

  It came sooner than I expected. I was sitting in a small tea room just minutes after I had left the library, admiring the pristine white tablecloths and the aprons of the waitresses, when a shadow fell over me.

  ‘Could I join you, Miss Evans? I feel the need of a cup of tea.’ She had a hat squashed over her hair and a black sober coat, straight-hemmed and with huge buttons.

  ‘Please.’ I indicated the chair beside me. ‘I would love some company.’

  I waved to one of the waitresses, and she came and took our order for a new pot of tea and some scones with jam and cream – a real treat after the wartime shortages. The cream was synthetic, but the jam was home-made and tasty. Miss Grist looked doubtful when they arrived.

  ‘My treat,’ I said breezily. ‘Have you got the afternoon off, Miss Grist?’

  ‘No, this is just my lunch hour, but I had to talk to you.’ She leaned forward. ‘I have to advise you to vacate that house before harm comes to you.’

  ‘Do you mean the malign spirits, Miss Grist?’ I hoped my scepticism didn’t show in my voice.

  ‘The threat is real enough,’ Miss Grist said. ‘I don’t know who or why, but you are in danger from something – or someone – if you go prying into the past.’

  ‘Were you in danger when you were collating the books at the house?’ I heard the scepticism in my voice – but Miss Grist, apparently, didn’t.

  ‘A few nasty accidents happened.’ She didn’t look at me. ‘A huge stone statue from the roof fell and nearly killed me.’

  ‘Was it a dragon?’ I asked suspiciously. She seemed to be echoing my own experiences, not her own.

  ‘And then there were other things,’ she said, as if I hadn’t spoken. ‘Someone came into my room in the night. I could hear footsteps, stealthy movements, but I never saw anything. Except, that is, an eccentric old lady.’

  ‘Ah, Beatrice.’

  ‘She was all right until Edwin had an illegitimate son,’ Miss Grist said, almost absently, ‘and then she became strange, almost – one would say – possessed.’

  I hid my surprise. Beatrice was the most sane, practical woman I’d ever met. I didn’t know anything about her having a child – only the grown-up son who was killed in the war.

  ‘What child?’

  ‘Edwin had a child, it wasn’t Beatrice’s. The child disappeared one night, never to be seen again. Apparently, he was the child of one of the five maids who died, you see.’

  The news was a shock to me. I’d not heard of another child – not even from Beatrice. She’d talked about her lost son, of course, but nothing about the other boy. She must have been cut to the quick at her husband’s infidelity. ‘The child, he would be a man – grown, by now, of course. I wonder what happened to him.’

  ‘Unless he was killed as well.’ Miss Grist’s tone was sombre.

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because there’s been no sign of the child for years.’

  ‘He couldn’t have just vanished. Wasn’t there talk at the time? A search, police enquiries, something?’

  Miss Grist looked at me thoughtfully. ‘Why are you probing into the past, if I might ask?’

  ‘You started all this, remember? Anyway, I’m curious because I own the mansion now. The house is mine, and I want to know all about it. Do you disapprove?’

  ‘I disapprove of a lot of things, Miss Evans, but mostly I feel it best to let sleeping dogs lie, as they say.’

  I took a deep breath to argue and then thought better of it. ‘Well, I’d better be getting back,’ I said instead. ‘I have to pick up some brown paper and string first though. I have paintings to pack up, ready for London.’

  Miss Grist brightened. ‘Going to London? How exciting! Will you go on the train?’

  ‘I can’t travel by train tomorrow, not really. I’ll have to take my old van to carry the paintings. I hate driving all that way, but I have no choice.’

  Miss Grist wiped her chin with a nice blue-edged handkerchief, and I thought again what a strange woman she was. She must have been a voluptuous beauty once – still was in a mature way – but her ways were those of a spinster lady with nothing but dry books to keep her occupied.

  I left her at the door of the little tea shop and walked along the High Street to the ironmongers. I made my way past zinc buckets and boxes of nails to the counter and bought my string and brown paper. Paper was still in short supply, but the owner of the shop knew me by now and sold me what he had in his cellar.

&nb
sp; A few minutes later, I climbed into an empty carriage on the train and sank back appreciatively, hearing the puff puff of the steam and the clank of the wheels against the rails. I was on my way home from Swansea to Aberglasney.

  TWELVE

  One night, several weeks later, Tom invited me to supper in his billet, and I cursed myself as a fool for being at his beck and call. I saw him when he wanted it not when I wanted to, and yet I found myself enjoying the atmosphere and the company.

  The food was plentiful; the Americans didn’t know what rationing was all about. There was a dance that evening in the village hall, and after we’d eaten Tom invited me to go with him as his guest. ‘My men will expect me to put in an appearance,’ he explained as we walked the short distance to the village hall. ‘And what lovelier lady could I have on my arm than my Miss Evans?’

  I took in the ‘my’ with a sense of belonging. I felt suddenly happy.

  It was a lovely evening, the last of the summer, with just a tinge of autumn about the air. Inside the hall it was hot, and the heavy scent of American cigarettes hung in the room like a haze.

  Bright-eyed girls danced and laughed, and I caught sight of Mrs Ward’s daughter with her soldier: a very handsome man, his skin dark as night and shining almost blue in the dimmed lights. How Mrs Ward would disapprove!

  Tom had followed my gaze. ‘I do believe that young lady is asking for trouble. Airman Jenkins is married with three children.’ Tom didn’t seem to make anything troubling from the colour of his corporal’s skin. But then he wouldn’t; he had no prejudice. To him, the man was brave and clever and a good aircraft officer – and that was all Tom required of his men. But I knew Mrs Ward would treat the men as ‘foreigners’ out to exploit the untried young ladies of the village.

  ‘He’s married?’ I felt a pang of anxiety. ‘Do you think Rosie knows that?’

  ‘I doubt it. Most men are tight-lipped about marriage when they have a pretty girl in their arms.’

  I looked up at him as he took me in his arms and swept me on to the dance floor. ‘And you . . . are you being tight-lipped, Tom?’ I heard the anxiety in my voice, and Tom did too.

  ‘I have no wife, no child, no girlfriend – not at home, anyway,’ he said, his eyes twinkling. ‘I’ve been too busy fighting a war for any of that. Though I have plenty of time for flirting now, if I can find anyone to flirt with.’

  Was that what I was to Tom – a flirtation?

  ‘Excuse me.’ I left him on the floor and made my way out of the crowded hall and into the night air. What a fool I was thinking I was special to him. To Tom I was just a girl to eat with, dance with, fall into his arms and give him her all while he looked on her as just a flirtation. Well, I’d been warned now, and I knew my place.

  I left the dance and made my way back home alone. I saw the flickering lights on the top landing, the lights the locals insisted were carried by the ghosts of the dead maids, but I knew they were caused by just the clouds and the moonlight playing tricks against the glass. Besides, I was too wrapped up in my anger and humiliation to think too much about ghosts.

  I went to my studio and spent some time wrapping the painting ready for carrying to the gallery in London. I resolved just to carry on with my life and concentrate on my business, my paintings, my house, my ghost parties and to forget Tom Maybury and the few remaining Americans. Soon they would go home. They would leave my property, and I could have the huts taken down. I could extend the garden – perhaps have a rose arbour, some wooden benches, and a water fountain with a chained cup on it like in the parks. Somewhere my guests could sit and write and discuss the ghosts.

  The next day I went to London, and I was warmly welcomed at the gallery. Now I had enough paintings to make a proper exhibition! Mr Readings was delighted and made a fuss of each painting, admiring what he called the ‘misty excellence’ of each one. ‘Same talented hand, same brush strokes, but each painting standing alone. I do so like your work, dear Miss Evans.’

  For the first time, he led me into his small sitting room at the back of the gallery and poured me a glass of sherry. ‘We shall have an opening event! Champagne, some good cheese and biscuits, and publicity in the London art magazines. My dear girl, you are a precious find for me. We shall make each other very rich and famous.’

  I drank his excellent sherry and took his words with a pinch of salt. Still, it felt good to have such enthusiasm shown over my work. I didn’t think I was that talented, just inspired by my house to make some paintings Mr Readings thought ‘different’ enough to attract buyers.

  We arranged the opening for the next month – the first of September – and I wondered if Tom and the few men he had left would be gone back to America by then. The thought make me unhappy, and I pushed it out of my mind.

  I drove back to Aberglasney with a mixture of elation and disquiet, wondering if any of my paintings would sell. Would I let Mr Readings and the audience down? Would they be disappointed with my mythical type of pictures? On the other hand, it was an opportunity to advertise my ‘ghost-haunting’ nights at the mansion. I had two strings to my bow now, two means of making funds to restore the old house, so I might as well make full use of both of them.

  As I drew my rattling old van up at the back of the house I saw a figure lurking in the shadows. I felt a stark fear for a moment, and then I realized it was only the slight figure of a girl coming towards me, a handkerchief held to her streaming eyes. ‘Rosie what is it?’

  ‘Can I talk to you, miss?’

  I led her to the bench in the vegetable garden, where we would be hidden by trees from the kitchen window. ‘What is it, Rosie? You’re not . . .?’ I gestured to her tummy, not knowing how to frame the words for the disaster I thought was about to happen.

  Her drooping head and renewed sobs told me my guess was correct.

  ‘Oh, Rosie!’ I put my arm around her. How could she give herself to an American serviceman who would fly away out of her life? But then hadn’t I almost given myself to Tom, so how could I judge her?

  ‘I love him, miss. He promised to take me to America, give me a new life away from my mother, but now he’s finished with me, he doesn’t want me, he says he’s leaving at the end of the month. How can I bear the shame of having a child with no father?’

  ‘You’ll have to tell your mother,’ I said at once. I didn’t know how to deal with this situation. I was only a young woman myself.

  Rosie sobbed louder.

  ‘Look,’ I said. ‘You and the baby can stay at the house. The talk will die down after a while, and we can all help you bring the little one up.’

  ‘I can’t have it.’ She looked up at me in alarm. ‘You’ll have to find me a doctor, or a midwife. Somebody to get me out of this mess.’

  I was startled. ‘What do you mean to do? Kill your baby?’

  ‘I know, I know, but what if its skin is dark like its father? I’d never live down the shame! No, I can’t let it ruin my life.’

  I felt like telling her she should have thought of that before, but that wouldn’t have been very kind or helpful. ‘Look, I’ll talk to Tom. He’s the boss, he’ll know what can be done.’

  For the first time, Rosie looked hopeful. ‘Perhaps he’ll insist that Carl takes me back to America with him and at least settles me there, even if he doesn’t want to marry me.’

  Some hope when he had a wife and children, I thought, but then it wasn’t for me to break the bad news of her boyfriend’s treachery to Rosie.

  ‘Go to bed now, Rosie,’ I said soothingly. ‘It can all be sorted out in the morning, I’m sure.’ I wasn’t sure at all, but what else could I say? Selfishly, I was cheerful as I undressed, for I had an excuse to go and see Tom in the morning.

  I was to be disappointed and so was Rosie – for when I tried, the next morning, the men had gone out on a training exercise and no one knew where. The only man left on duty was the cook, and he told me in no uncertain terms that officers did not consult him when they were on manoeuvres
.

  Rosie burst into tears when I told her, and again I had the job of comforting her.

  I didn’t have a chance to see Tom over the weekend because I had my ghost guests there again, and the house was full of excited, chattering ‘hunters’ with lighting equipment and cameras and all sort of items I couldn’t even begin to understand.

  I hoped something would happen to please my guests and take my mind off Rosie’s troubles, and it did in a most spectacular way. As Mrs Ward and Rosie served the soup, the dining room door opened and a chill wind blew through the room. The sound of moaning and crying could be heard clearly from upstairs!

  Dinner forgotten, everyone rushed up the elegant staircase and along the landing to where the mysterious lights were flickering. Beatrice appeared briefly in her doorway, but retreated as soon as she saw the hoards of wild-eyed guests with cameras running towards her.

  ‘Did you see that, the Victorian lady? Anyone catch a picture of her?’ The old colonel was back, and he boasted this was the second time he’d seen the ghost. ‘She’s called Beatrice,’ he explained all-knowingly.

  I kept quiet as the guests moved more cautiously now along the landing. Lights still flickered. Even I could see them, and as there was no moon I was at a loss to explain them. I felt I had to say something dramatic, though, and give the guests something for their money. ‘Here, on this landing, the five murdered maids are alleged to seek release from their chains of death.’ I spoke in a sepulchral voice that suddenly silenced all the talking.

  One lady, obviously of a nervous disposition, screamed and ran back down the stairs – but at the same time everything abruptly became silent and the eerie lights vanished.

  ‘It’s a hoax,’ one of the men declared bravely. ‘I shall search the rooms for trickery.’

  ‘Please,’ I said. ‘Mr Bravage, all of you, search, and if you find anything rigged or to be a hoax I will refund your money.’ I couldn’t explain any more than they could what had taken place. I felt a little unnerved myself, but I led the way along the landing and into the rooms. When we walked back towards the stairs I hesitated outside Beatrice’s room.