A Good Heart is Hard to Find

by Trisha Ashley

  ‘Too late,’ she replied, looking surprised. ‘I did say we were full – which we are, until we get more bathrooms to go round, but he begged me to at least find him a bed for Saturday night because he had to get away. He didn’t say what from.’

  ‘Nothing, unless his son, Tom’s, home for Easter. He’s just being protective and interfering.’

  Rosetta looked vaguely puzzled, but I was not about to explain the ups and downs (or the ins and outs) of my relations with her brother.

  ‘Oh? Well, in the end I did say he could have the little box bedroom at the back, although it isn’t very comfortable and it’s miles from a bathroom.’

  ‘Oh blast,’ I said. ‘Does Dante know? Only I haven’t seen him about,’ I added mendaciously, because although he had been avoiding the pub I did see him when I was out walking one night, and he turned and strode off without a word.

  ‘I haven’t mentioned it, because he’s really left all the B&B stuff to me … and Eddie,’ she added, smiling adoringly at him. ‘Eddie’s been great, doing things in the house and garden.’

  ‘Someone’s dumped an old car in the lily pond,’ Eddie said cheerfully. ‘The ducks stand on it.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ I said, since he seemed to think this was a good idea.

  ‘Have you and Dante fallen out?’ Rosetta asked timidly. ‘Only I thought he quite liked you, but if I mention your name now he sort of grinds his teeth and leaves the room.’

  ‘We never fell in, in the first place, Rosetta. I don’t suppose you know what he wants me to do over Easter, for my slave duties? Perhaps it’s just to help you with the guests?’ I asked hopefully.

  ‘He said if you were going to haunt him you might as well make yourself useful and do it up at the Hall,’ Eddie offered, with that disconcerting knack he sometimes has of repeating an overheard sentence as if it was in a language he didn’t speak.

  ‘Dante does seem to think you’re going to be the resident ghost over Easter,’ Rosetta agreed doubtfully. ‘But I thought you didn’t want to do that?’

  ‘He knows very well I don’t want to, but since it would clearly provide him with pleasure to see me suffer, I’ll haunt with a smile on my face and a song on my lips instead,’ I said tartly.

  ‘You!’ Eddie said, laughing delightedly.

  ‘Yes, mournful old me!’ I agreed.

  Seeing the conversation was going nowhere fast I hastily excused myself and went home.

  Clearly Dante didn’t stride away gnashing his teeth at the mention of my name next time Rosetta brought it up, because I found a note shoved through my door the following day that said, in a familiar jagged black script:

  Cass,

  Glad to find my slave so biddable. Don’t bother bringing a costume for the haunting – I’ll provide one – and you don’t need one for Betsy’s appearance.

  I’ve now read the whole of your interesting manuscript, and I don’t think you ought to be allowed to breed.

  Got the dog yet?

  Dante

  I’d show the bastard biddable! And did he seriously think I was going to streak down the Long Gallery at midnight? Dream on, Dante Chase.

  Re the rest of the letter, which was obviously meant to provoke, I stoically managed to stop myself going out and ravishing Jason just to show him I didn’t care what he thought, but then realized that part of me would much rather seduce Dante himself again to show him, but I was not sure what I would be showing him. Or why.

  How was it that I understood the motivation of the characters in my books, yet did not have any inkling of my own? Why did the thought of Easter weekend make me feel aghast, panic-stricken, excited and stomach-churningly nervous all at the same time?

  Was I now so far round the bend even Laphroaig won’t get me back?

  I told Orla about Jason booking into the Hall for the Saturday night while I was helping her retrieve the money people had thrown down the Haunted Well.

  She stared at me, her hands full of slimily dripping coins. ‘But I thought Rosetta was full up? And I’ve got plans for Jason over the weekend!’ she protested.

  ‘I’m sorry, but it’s not my fault. I didn’t want him to do it.’

  ‘Oh well,’ she said, cheering up, ‘it might be a good thing after all now I think about it. My Barbarella costume’s come, and one of Rosetta’s guests got my number and booked me to go up and deliver a birthday telegram early Saturday evening to her husband. She chose Marilyn Monroe, but I’ll have a sudden attack of confusion and wear the new outfit.’

  ‘Orla, you can’t do that!’

  ‘Yes I can, and if this get-up doesn’t knock Jason’s eye out I’ll give up and we can both buy dogs.’

  ‘What will you sing?’

  ‘Just “Happy Birthday”, I think. She’s ordered a cake shaped like a ghost from Clara – she phoned Rosetta and asked her for ideas, that’s how she found us. Rosetta’s put a large sitting room aside for the visitors, and they mean to have a little cake and wine celebration in there, everyone welcome.’

  ‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world, invited or not,’ I said, helping her to replace the grating over the mouth of the well, and the sign inviting people to toss their money down it for good luck. (Good luck for Orla, that is.) ‘After all, there has to be some perk to compensate me for being Dante’s slave for a whole weekend.’

  ‘I think being his slave is a perk,’ Orla said. ‘Are you mad?’

  ‘No, but something seems to have made him mad with me and now he’s read the whole of my manuscript he’s even angrier. I’m afraid he’s going to spend the whole weekend punishing me for implying he has an immortal vampire ancestor.’

  ‘I bet you can hardly wait!’ she said unfeelingly.

  When I got home Mrs Bridges gave me a bouquet of red roses that had been delivered in my absence, with the message ‘Forgive me! Love You Forever, Max.’

  When hell froze over, I would.

  The entire tape on my answerphone was also taken up with one long loving message. Max not only wasn’t taking no for an answer, but was afraid I’d been influenced by hearing some of the lying stories that were going around about him and Kyra. Kyra was a sad, unbalanced woman, and actually he and Rosemary were going to fire her for dishonesty … And so on and so on.

  When he was being persuasive and charming Max used his warm honey voice, the one that had trapped me like an insect in amber nectar for far too long.

  For a moment or two I might have felt a touch of the old enchantment, but the bit at the end where he said he’d now shaved his beard off especially for me, like my knight had just gone out and personally slain me a dragon, made me laugh out loud.

  Although I was dreading a weekend that might bring twofold retribution on my head (divine in the form of Pa, and infernal in the case of Dante), yet I managed to completely forget it for large stretches of time as I became more and more involved with the world inside my new book.

  The heroine, Dr Amulet Bone, firmly believed that genetically modified androids were the way to go, and if you couldn’t find the perfect man you might as well construct him.

  Somehow, I didn’t think her two-timing ex-fiancé was going to be in full agreement with that one.

  Thus it was that I’d so lost track of time that when Orla phoned me up one day and hissed conspiratorially: ‘Cass? Your family’s arrived!’ I was quite taken by surprise.

  ‘I thought they weren’t coming until Friday?’

  ‘It is Friday: Good Friday.’

  ‘Oh bugger, that’s all I need,’ I said ungraciously. ‘The Black Death has hit Westery and we might as well close the boundaries until it festers itself out.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s a nice way to talk about your family!’ she said reprovingly. ‘Francis is right here – he wants a word with you. Your dad’s good-looking, isn’t he? In a demented prophet sort of way, I mean.’

  ‘My father is a pustulating bubo on the face of the world, Orla, so spare me the murkier dredgings of your subconsciou
s and put Francis on.’

  ‘Hi, Sis,’ Francis said. ‘Got your note. Looks like we’ve come all this way for nothing, doesn’t it? Is Sweet Baby Jane really in London? Pa says he doesn’t believe it.’

  ‘Why on earth not?’

  ‘He says you’ve brainwashed her into your evil ways, and are hiding her away so she can see her lover, or some such, and he must snatch away the burning brand from the flames, and – oh, you know, the usual stuff.’

  ‘Well yes, but she really isn’t here, Francis, and she isn’t with a lover, she’s simply in London minding Phily while George is away. I’ve only just found out about the shoplifting. Sorry, the kleptomania.’

  ‘We don’t mention that to Ma and Pa,’ he warned. ‘It sets Pa off, even though she can’t help it, apparently. Orla says your fella’s a widower now, but you aren’t going to marry him anyway, he’s blotted his copybook.’

  ‘No, I’m going to stay single. And get a dog,’ I added for good measure.

  ‘Well, just as long as there are no strange males hanging around your cottage when the parents visit.’

  ‘Visit? What do you mean, visit?’ I exclaimed, aghast.

  ‘To search for Jane. They’re determined not to go home until they’ve seen her.’

  ‘Francis, all they have to do is phone Phily in London! I said in my letter.’

  ‘They tried right after they read it, and Phily said Jane was otherwise engaged and started giggling like a lunatic, so they didn’t believe her. I think Pa makes her nervous.’

  ‘That woman’s a half-wit, and that may be rating her intelligence too high. Jane and Gerald were probably just making up – he’s gone down there for the big reconciliation “forgive me for I know not what you did” scene.’

  ‘Oh? I’ll tell them,’ he said doubtfully, ‘but they probably won’t believe me, either. Here they come … I’ll be round later if I can head them off tonight.’

  ‘Tell them I’m out, Francis, and then try and meet me in the King’s Arms in the village around seven.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ he said, and put the phone down.

  I was packed and out of that house at the speed of light, even allowing for a quick call to Rosetta to ask if it was all right if I went up to the Hall early. I mean, I was far from wanting to appear keen, but any port in a storm.

  It wasn’t that I was frightened of Pa, either: I was petrified.

  I couldn’t do anything about Jane’s car still parked outside since I didn’t have the keys, but I loaded mine up with everything I thought I might need (including the whisky) and drove by a circuitous route up to the Hall, thus avoiding the middle of the village and any possible parental confrontation.

  20

  Single Cell

  A thoroughly purging read!

  Charlie Rhymer:

  Skint Old Northern Woman Magazine

  As I crunched up the freshly weeded drive and came to a halt, Dante sauntered out, looking ravishing in those leather trousers, or an identical pair, obviously his favoured working garb.

  Talk about forbidden fruit.

  ‘Couldn’t wait, eh?’ he said, and I gave him a cold look.

  ‘My parents are staying at Orla’s with my brother Francis, because they think I’ve got Jane hidden away somewhere, but actually she’s in London with my sister-in-law, Phily. So I’m only here because I need a bolt hole until they leave.’

  ‘You can have your bolt hole, but don’t think just because you’ve arrived early that I’m going to let you go early,’ he said, and gave me that particularly sharp-edged smile before helping me remove my belongings from the car.

  I mistrusted that smile: it was the kind that should have the Jaws theme tune playing in the background. De-dum … de-dum …

  ‘I’ve got you a sort of white ghost outfit,’ he said, dumping my bag on the doorstep. Just as well I’d padded the whisky with my cobweb. ‘More suitable than the vampire stuff, though that greenish make-up you’ve got should look good. I’ll tell you what I want you to do later.’

  ‘As long as it doesn’t involve running naked along corridors, I am resigned to my fate.’

  ‘Are you?’ He raised one straight dark brow. ‘I might hold you to that.’

  ‘And I’m quite happy to give Rosetta a hand with her first houseful of guests, too, if that’s what you want,’ I added, dampeningly. ‘Have any of them arrived yet?’

  ‘No, but I think one of them is about to,’ he said, looking over his shoulder at the scrunch of wheels on gravel. Then he went still, and something in the quality of his silence made me turn and look too.

  A large woman was levering herself out of a taxi, gauzy scarves and improbably scarlet tresses flying in all directions.

  ‘What the hell …?’ Dante exclaimed loudly.

  She straightened and, leaving the taxi driver to remove her suitcase, strode up to the foot of the steps. She had a Roman nose, black eyes, and the face of a middle-aged Bacchae. When she pointed a simian arm at Dante and boomed: ‘I am retribution! Cower before me, murderer and unbeliever!’ the effect was quite awesome.

  ‘Unbeliever!’ she repeated on a rising shriek.

  … holding his severed head aloft, the black silken hair dabbled in the still-spouting lifeblood, she—

  Somehow I found I was standing protectively in front of Dante, with my arms outstretched like a mother hen with one chick. ‘Who are you? What do you want?’ I demanded.

  His hands came down hard on my shoulders and gripped them, and there was a sort of grim amusement in the voice with which he said: ‘It’s all right, Cass: this is – or was – my mother-in-law, Mrs Dufferin.’

  ‘Duval! Madame Duval!’ interjected the woman.

  Behind her a small man had also emerged from the taxi, which drove away leaving him standing among a pile of luggage.

  ‘I’m not interested in what name you’re going under: what I don’t understand is why you are here on my property?’

  Rosetta came out, looking harried: ‘Did I hear voices? Oh! Why didn’t you call me to say some of our visitors have arrived, Dante, and—’

  She broke off and stared, wide-eyed. ‘Mrs Dufferin! What on earth are you doing here?’

  ‘Duval, Rosetta,’ she snapped. ‘Madame Duval! And I’m booked in for the weekend.’

  ‘But … well yes, I do have a booking for a Monsieur and Madame Duval, but I didn’t realize it was you! And why on earth you want to keep hounding my poor brother like this, I don’t know!’ she added more fiercely. She turned and said, helplessly: ‘Sorry, Dante: I didn’t realize.’

  ‘It’s not your fault. I should have looked over the visitor list instead of leaving it all to you. Duval is the name she’s been working under recently.’

  ‘Working under?’ I said, realizing that Dante’s hands were still gripping my shoulders somewhat painfully.

  ‘As a medium – seances, readings, that sort of hocus-pocus. But I’m not having any of that in my home. In fact, I’m not even having you under my roof, whatever you want to call yourself, so you can just turn around and go back where you came from.’

  Monsieur Duval trotted up the steps carrying two bags like a very small packhorse.

  ‘Where do you want these, luv?’ he said to his wife, in accents more Liverpudlian than French.

  ‘Inside,’ she snapped.

  ‘No,’ Dante said flatly. ‘I won’t have you in my house, I’ve just said. Rosetta will ring for a taxi.’

  ‘I’m booked for three nights, and three nights I will stay,’ she declared vehemently. ‘If you deny me entrance, I will merely camp here on the terrace. I will not be denied! There must be one last chance to call back the spirit of my poor child … my one reason for living, my little … my little … Emma!’

  Under our horrified gaze she began to turn an interesting if deathly shade of mauve and put one hand to her huge and palpitating bosom.

  Dante thrust me aside and grabbed her as she began to crumple. She tried weakly to fend him off: ‘Leave me
– don’t you dare to lay hands on me! Killer! Murderer!’

  Her husband dropped the bags and, wresting a small bottle from one pocket, unscrewed the lid and waved it under her nose.

  ‘Not that – the pill, for underneath her tongue!’ Dante snapped, and the little man, looking panic-stricken, opened her capacious handbag, rummaged about and came up with a small bottle.

  Dante grabbed it, glanced at the label, then shook out a tiny pill and shoved it into Madame’s mouth like someone worming a particularly recalcitrant cat.

  It was ruthlessly efficient, and it worked. After only a few minutes she had straightened and her colour was normal enough for Rosetta to lead her inside, with one apologetic look at Dante, who stared after them looking particularly dark and inscrutable, like Mr Rochester with a bad attitude (and a bad hair day).

  I sincerely hoped there wasn’t a madwoman in his attic, for although Pa confidently expected me to burn, I hoped to delay the experience for as long as possible.

  ‘Sorry about that, lad,’ Mr Duval said apologetically. ‘We’ve only been married a couple of months – a whirlwind romance, it was – so I’m not too nippy when poor Louie gets these funny turns. You must be Dante Chase?’

  ‘Yes, and without wishing to appear rude, I would like you and your wife out of my house as soon as she’s sufficiently recovered.’

  ‘Yes, but it takes it out of her, this sort of thing, poor luv,’ he said. ‘You can’t send her off like that or maybe her death will be on your head too … though the way she explains about poor Emma, it doesn’t seem to me you could help the poor girl dying!’

  ‘No, but the aneurysm might not have killed her if she hadn’t been pregnant, and she was only pregnant because she thought it would bring us back together – and I don’t know why I’m standing on my own doorstep discussing my personal history with a complete stranger!’

  ‘Almost your dad-in-law,’ he said, with a natural cheeriness that was bound to become very, very irritating exceedingly quickly.