Winter Solstice

by Pilcher, Rosamunde

  Spotlighted, drowned in snowflakes, wet and cold, Sam held up the big labelled key. He said, “Perhaps I have made a mistake.”

  She stared at the key. Then she stepped back, opening the door.

  “I think,” she said, “you had better come in.”

  CARRIE

  That morning, the doctor, as he had promised, had popped into the Estate House, his face red with cold and his thick Harris tweed overcoat damp with freshly fallen snow and smelling of peat. He brought the bird book for Lucy, delivered it to her, and then was upstairs, two at a time-a man with not a moment to waste-to check on the invalid. Carrie told him, from her pillows, that she was much better, had had a good night’s sleep and felt a different person. But, with native caution, he suggested that she stay in bed for another day. Carrie knew that if she refused it would mean an argument with Elfrida, so she gave, gracefully, in.

  When the doctor had gone, in as abrupt a manner as he had arrived, Elfrida came upstairs and put her head around the door.

  “What did he say?”

  “I’m all right, but I have to stay here for another day. I’m sorry.”

  “Why sorry?”

  “Such a nuisance.”

  “Don’t be so silly. Not a nuisance. Do you want a hot-water bottle?”

  “No. Warm as toast.”

  “Rather a shame, you’ll miss our little party tonight. With the Kennedy family. But you can meet them another time. I’m rather excited about it. Too stupid, but you know this is the first time Oscar and I have been out anywhere. We did have lunch in the pub one day, but that’s the sum of it.”

  “I shall stay here and oversee your supper.”

  “It doesn’t need much overseeing. I made a kedgeree which I shall put in the oven. And if we don’t eat it tonight we can eat it tomorrow for lunch. Kedgeree is an accommodating dish.”

  “Elfrida, you’ve been reading too many cookbooks.”

  Heaven forbid.”

  The day progressed, and through her window Carrie the weather and was glad she did not have to be out. Snow showers came and went; the sky was grey. From to time she heard the faint keening of wind, whining around the old house. It was all rather cosy. She remembered as a child being ill and in bed, and the awareness of others getting on with the business of day-to-day life without her, left having to participate in any sort of way. Telephones rang, and someone else hurried to answer the call. Footsteps came and went; from behind the closed door, voices called and answered. Doors opened and shut. She heard Oscar stumping upstairs and down again, and knew that he was filling fireside baskets with logs. Towards noon, there came smells of cooking. Onions frying, or perhaps a pot of soup on the boil. The luxuries of self-indulgence, idleness, and total irresponsibility were all things that Carrie had long forgotten. Lucy was a frequent visitor.

  “Carrie, do look. Isn’t Dr. Sinclair kind? He’s lent me his bird book, so that I’ll know the names next time I’m on the beach.”

  “How thoughtful of him.”

  “I wouldn’t mind having a doctor like him in London. Ours is dreadfully unfriendly, and we have to wait for ages.” She put the book aside.

  “Carrie, I don’t know what to wear tonight. For this dance thing.” At the moment she was obviously more preoccupied with what was going to happen this evening than with the names of seabirds.

  “What are the choices?”

  “Well, I’ve got my new jeans, but they might be a bit hot for dancing around. I’ve got my old ones and they’re clean and Elfrida ironed them for me. Or do you think I should wear my new miniskirt and the black tights?”

  “Did Rory say anything about what to wear?”

  “He said jeans and trainers.”

  “Then wear jeans and trainers. Your old clean ones and that red-and-white-striped cotton sweater. I love you in that. It’s so French. And it’s always better to be under dressed rather than overdressed. I’d keep your miniskirt fall Christmas.”

  “Christmas. It’s so queer. I haven’t thought much about Christmas and it’s only six days away, and nobody seems all the least bit worried, or preparing. By this stage, Gran usually gets a migraine, she says there’s so much to see to.”

  “Well, Oscar’s ordered a tree, and you’ve bought the decorations.”

  “I know, but I must go and get some presents. For him and Elfrida. I don’t know what to get. And there’s other things. Food. Do you think we’re even going to have a Christmas dinner?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine, but I think, yes. Probably. It’s just that Elfrida’s always been very laid-back. It’ll all be accomplished at the very last moment.”

  “What about stockings?”

  “I think we’ll probably give stockings a miss. Would you mind? It’s not as though you still believed in Father Christmas, and coming down the chimney, and all that.”

  “No, of course I don’t. And anyway, I think stockings are a bit silly. Except the tangerine and the bag of golden chocolate pennies.”

  “I’ll hang those on the tree for you.”

  “Will you, Carrie? You know, it’s rather nice, isn’t it, having a different Christmas. Not knowing what it’s going to be like.”

  “I hope it will be fun for you … with three old grownups.”

  “I shall be grown up, too. That’s what’s so special.”

  Oscar, Elfrida, and Lucy finally departed at a quarter to six, for the little party at the Manse. The snow showers had not stopped all day, and by now the roads were thick with the stuff and quite hazardous.

  As neither Oscar nor Elfrida relished the prospect of driving up to the Manse by way of the road, fearful of skids or drifts, they decided to walk up the hill by way of the lane. All hugely muffled, hatted, and booted, they came, one by, to say goodbye, and Carrie told them to have a wonderful time and she would hear all about it when they returned. “I don’t suppose we’ll have an awful lot to tell,” Elfrida “unless they’ve asked other guests, and one of them gets drunk.”

  “You can always hope.”

  Lucy was the last. Carrie thought she looked extremely pretty, with her bright eyes and her excited smile. She wore her new red padded jacket and her boots and her big woollen hat, and had her little haversack slung over her shoulder.

  “What’s in your haversack?”

  “My trainers and a comb. And a bar of chocolate.”

  “You’ll have such fun.”

  “I don’t know when I’ll be home.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. Rory will probably deliver you. If you want, you can ask him in. For a beer or something. Whatever you want. Someone will be around.”

  “Can I really? Well…” She debated this.

  “I’ll see.”

  “You do that. Now, off you go.”

  “Bye, Carrie.”

  “Goodbye, darling.” They hugged and Lucy kissed her.

  “Have a great time.”

  They went at last, and Carrie heard the back door slam behind them. She waited five minutes or so, just in case something had been forgotten and they all trooped back again, but this didn’t happen, so she got out of bed and ran a wonderful scalding bath, soaked for ages, then put on jeans and her thickest sweater, did her hair, splashed on some scent, and at once felt a great deal better. I am recovered, she told her reflection in the mirror.

  She went out of her room and downstairs to check on the kedgeree and Horace. Both seemed in good health, although Horace was very quiet, and suffering from his bruises. To make up for his injuries he was being fed like a prince, on lambs’ hearts and gravy, and was not required to venture forth farther than just outside the back door.

  Carrie stopped to fondle his head.

  “Do you want to come upstairs by the fire?” she asked him, but Horace did not. He closed his eyes and went back to sleep again, warm in his basket and with his tartan rug.

  She found a bottle of wine, poured herself a glass, and went back to the sitting-room. Here, the curtains were drawn, t
he fire blazing, and a single lamp left burning by one of the fireside chairs. She put another log on the pyre and settled down with Oscar’s morning newspaper.

  Outside, in the street, a few cars swished slowly to and fro, but the snow deadened all sound, and most people by now were safely at home. She was in the middle of a feature article about a well-known, if elderly actress who had done a television series in London; it had become enormously popular and she had found herself basking in global fame. Carrie had just got to the Hollywood bit when, causing her almost to jump out of her skin, the fearsome buzz of the doorbell drilled through the house.

  Under normal circumstances, this would have been followed up by Horace’s manic barking. But he had not forgotten yesterday’s salutary experience with the Rottweiler, and this did not happen.

  Carrie said, “Damn.” She lowered the paper and waited. Perhaps it was some person whose car had broken down and now wanted to borrow a telephone. Or a local tradesman delivering a bill or a Christmas card. Or three small children in a row, all set to sing “Away in a Manger.”

  Perhaps, if she did nothing, they would all go away.

  The bell shrilled again. No use, she’d have to go. In some exasperation she tossed the paper down, sprang to her feet, and ran downstairs, turning on switches as she went, so that the hall was a blaze of light. The big door was unlocked, and she flung it open to the snow and the cold and the solitary man who stood there, with the beam of the outside light streaming down upon him. He had dark, very short hair, and wore a thick navyblue overcoat, the collar turned up around his ears. His hair, his coat, his ears were all liberally sprinkled in snowflakes, as though somebody had dusted him with icing sugar, like a cake.

  She glanced over his shoulder and saw the large and prestigious vehicle parked in the road. So this was neither a man seeking help nor a tradesman nor a carol singer.

  She said, “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry. But is this the Estate House?”

  His voice was pleasant, his accent… more of an intonation than an accent… was familiar. American?

  “Yes.”

  “Hughie McLennan’s Estate House?”

  Carrie frowned. She had never heard of anyone called Hughie McLennan.

  “No. Oscar Blundell’s Estate House.”

  It was his rum to hesitate. And then he held up in his gloved hand a large key, with a label knotted to it with string. On the label was written, in large black capitals with a waterproof pen, estate house. As unsubtle as a clue in an old-fashioned mystery film. But how had he … ? He said, “Perhaps I have made a mistake.”

  There must be, of course, explanations, but it was too cold to stand there on the doorstep and listen to them. Carrie stepped back, opening wide the door.

  “I think,” she said, “you had better come in.”

  But he hesitated.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course. Come on.”

  He went past her, into the house, and she closed the door against the cold and turned to face him.

  He looked a bit embarrassed.

  “I’m really sorry. I hope I didn’t disturb you.”

  “Not at all. Hadn’t you better take your coat off? We’ll hang it here, there’s a radiator and it’ll dry.”

  He had put the key back into his pocket and now pulled off his leather gloves and unbuttoned his overcoat and shucked it off. She saw that he was conventionally, even formally, dressed, in a dark-grey flannel suit and a tie. She took the heavy coat from him and hung it on the old bentwood hat stand.

  “Perhaps,” he said, “I should introduce myself. Sam Howard.”

  “Carrie Sutton.” They did not shake hands.

  “Come up to the sitting-room. There’s a fire on there.”

  She led the way, and he followed behind her; up the stairs, across the landing, and into the huge sitting-room. Entering, he observed, as newcomers invariably did, “What an amazing room.”

  “It’s unexpected, isn’t it?” She went to pick up the abandoned newspaper.

  “And lovely during the daytime, because it’s always full of light.” She laid the paper on the table by her chair.

  “Would … would you like a drink or something?”

  “You’re more than kind. I’d love to, but I’m driving.”

  “Where are you driving to?”

  “Inverness.”

  “Inverness. In this weather?”

  “I’ll be okay.”

  Carrie doubted this, but gave a mental shrug. It was no business of hers. She said, “Then why don’t we both sit down, and you can tell me why you have the key to Oscar’s house.”

  His expression was rueful.

  “To be honest, I’m not quite sure.” But he came and settled himself in Oscar’s chair, and at once looked quite relaxed and at home, and not at all as though he had just walked in out of the snow, unexpected and unasked. She thought that he had an interesting face, neither handsome nor homely. Unremarkable, but interesting. His eyes, deeply set, were unusual. He leaned back on the chair, his long legs crossed at the ankles.

  “But I am sure we can clear up the confusion. Tell me, did Mr. Blundell once live in Hampshire?”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “And does he have an elderly uncle living in London?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  “And a cousin called Hughie McLennan?”

  “I’m afraid you’re asking the wrong person. I’m just a guest. I don’t really know anything about Oscar’s family. This is the first time I’ve met him, and I’ve had flu and I have been in bed, so there hasn’t been much opportunity for finding things out about each other.”

  “I see.”

  “And Oscar and Elfrida… she’s a sort of cousin of mine, and Oscar’s friend… they’re out. They’ve gone out for drinks. They won’t be back till about eight o’clock.” She glanced at the little clock in the middle of the mantelpiece.

  “It’s nearly seven now. If you wanted to wait-”

  “No, I can’t wait. I must be on my way.”

  “But I still don’t know why you have a key to this house.”

  “I was given it by Hughie. He wants to put the property on the market. Put it up for sale.”

  Carrie stared at him.

  “For sale!” She could feel her jaw drop. “But it’s Oscar’s house.”

  “I think they are joint owners.”

  “I know they’re joint owners. Oscar told me. But even so, Hughie McLennan, whoever he is, has no right to put a house up for sale when he doesn’t even own it.”

  “Yes.” He agreed with her. “It does seem a bit suspect.”

  “And why would you want to come and look at it anyway? Do you want to buy it?”

  He said cautiously, “I thought I might.”

  “What for?”

  “To live in. I have a new job, in Buddy. Getting McTaggarts, the woollen mill, back on its feet again. I shall be based here, and I’ll need somewhere to live.”

  “Where’s Buckly?”

  “About twelve miles south. I’ve just come from there. Spent the afternoon having a meeting with the workforce.”

  “Wouldn’t it be better to live in Buckly?”

  “The mill accommodation has all been sold off. It probably would be more convenient, but I was told about this place, given the key, and thought I’d come and, just quickly, drive around, have a look at the town. To be truthful, I thought the house would be empty. But then I saw the lights on, and decided to ring the bell and solve the mystery.”

  “But we haven’t solved it.”

  “No. Not really. And we won’t until I speak to Mr. Blundell. And I’m afraid there’s not time for that. Maybe, another day…. Right now, I think I should make tracks.”

  “And I think it’s important that you see Oscar. It’s only fair on him that he should know what has happened … what is happening.”

  “I really must….” He was on his feet. Carrie stood too and went to the big bay window and d
rew back the heavy curtain. Outside lay a wintry scene. Snow fell heavily, steadily, and his Discovery, parked at the pavement’s edge, was already blanketed. No cars moved, and no person trod the streets. She thought of the road to Inverness, the long miles, the hill that climbed the Black Isle from the bridge over the Cromarty firth.

  She, unlike Elfrida and Oscar, was not nervous of driving in snow. She had spent three winters in the mountains of Austria, and after that, nothing much fazed her. But this, obscurely, was different. There was a relentlessness to this weather. This snow was not going to stop, nor be blown away. The storm was here for the night.

  She turned. He had stayed by the fireside. She said, “I don’t think you should go.”

  “You don’t?”

  “Come and look.”

  He joined her, and together they gazed out at the clearly deteriorating conditions. First he didn’t say anything, and Carrie felt a bit sorry for him.

  “It really is bad.”

  “Yeah. Fergus Skinner, the manager at the mill, said I should phone the AA and get a report. I didn’t think it was necessary at the time, but perhaps I was mistaken.”

  “I would say that would be a good idea.”

  “I have my mobile, but no number.”

  “I’ll find it for you.”

  She went out onto the landing and came back with the phone book and looked up the emergency number.

  “Here it is. Do you want to write it down?”

  He produced a pen, she read it out, and he wrote it on the margin of the phone book, and then took his mobile from his pocket.

  She left him sitting by the window, with the opened curtain and a backdrop like a stage setting. She put another log on the fire and stood, watching the fresh flames.

  He got through almost at once. Inquired about road conditions, the A9 to Inverness. Then, a long silence as he listened. Then, “How about tomorrow?” Another pause, ay. I get the picture. Thank you. Goodbye.”

  Across the room, they looked at each other. She didn’t I ny anything, but knew that the news was the worst. He con-finned this.

  “You were quite right. The road is impassable. To be honest, I had no idea it would be so bad.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I…” He was stowing away his mobile.