‘I suppose it could be.’
An arched entrance that may once have been the main frontage of the building led to a flagged yard with a well at its centre. By the entrance to the porch I stopped to read the inscription above. ‘Grow old along with me, the best is yet to be.’
Alma sighed. ‘Robert Browning was such an optimist.’
‘It’s very romantic. Whoever built this house was in love.’
‘And we all know where that leads. Now, brace yourself, Kate. A cloud-burst on the moors flooded us last year. Four feet of water tore up the parquet. We’re back to stone flags, a permanent smell of damp and a piggy bank towards reinstalling electricity.’
I followed her through the porch into a large room with a wonderful fireplace of dark oak, intricately carved and with figurines on either side. A log fire burned low.
Alma paused, and stooped to add another log. ‘We keep a fire in here to ward off the damp.’
‘What an unusual fireplace.’
‘It was made from a Dutch pulpit. There are all sorts of connections with Holland. See the Delft tiles, they were used as ballast when ships came into Whitby. I’m glad we were able to save them. Lots of people came in to help us clear up, thank goodness. Dear old Cricklethorpe is very popular. He plays the dame in the annual pantomime and for that he’s heavily revered.’
‘I look forward to meeting him.’ I paused to read the inscriptions above the fireplace, DEX AIE and below that ‘Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples’. ‘The owners were fond of quotations.’
‘Yes. Apparently Dex Aie is old French for God aids us, and believe me as an occupant of this place one needs God’s aid. The flagons and apples quote is biblical.’
‘It’s the Song of Solomon.’
‘Love, all that endures, eh? In spite of everything.’
Here was my moment to ask the question, to try and find out how deeply Alma might be affected by the jeweller’s death. As we stood by the fire, I asked, ‘Have you fallen in love with the man you mentioned, the jeweller?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘I just wondered.’
‘No, not yet, but I could. I might. We’ll see.’ She nudged my arm. ‘Come on, let’s brave the kitchen, see if Felicity’s there.’
We turned into a corridor and through another room. A staircase led to what must be servants’ quarters. ‘The house is very grand.’
‘Felicity hates it. She blames me for bringing her to live in a haunted house.’
‘And is it haunted?’
‘We do have a room where you might catch a glimpse of an old lady nursing a baby.’
‘Don’t tell me, there’ll be some tragic story attached.’
‘Yes. The poor baby died.’
‘Any others?’
‘Felicity had a gallant who kissed her cheek and made his exit where there used to be a door. He was said to be kissing his wife goodbye.’
‘Did Felicity mind?’
‘Not at first. Would you mind if someone kissed your cheek? The poor child thought it was her father who’d come home. She was most upset the next morning.’
‘Does that ghost still visit?’
‘Yes, but we’ve changed rooms. He kisses Mr Cricklethorpe now. The story is that the poor man went off to war and never came back. There’s no malice in the Bagdale ghosts, honestly. You’d be most welcome to stay.’
‘You did say that and thank you, but I don’t want to impose and I’d already booked the Royal.’ Thank God, I mentally added. It would be difficult enough for me to sleep at all after what I had seen today. Ghostly company was the last thing I wanted.
I followed her through another room and along a forbiddingly dark hall. ‘It’s a characterful place.’
‘No need to rub it in, Kate. I know you like baths and mirrors, and who blames you? I wouldn’t mind a touch of that myself.’ She knocked on a door before throwing it open. ‘Felicity!’
I thought it odd that she knocked on the kitchen door but then she stamped and clapped and there was much scuttling. I followed her into a huge kitchen with its light odour of mice. The low-beamed room may have been unchanged for a century. A black kettle sat on the hob.
Alma added a few coals to the fire. ‘Well, she’s not here.’ She picked up the poker and dislodged ash. ‘It’s costing us a fortune in coal and logs, but Crickly and I agree we need to try and dry out before the weather strikes again.’
We left the kitchen to its former occupants and walked back along the hall.
‘Will Felicity be indoors on a day like this?’
‘I hope so. I want to know what she’s up to.’ We climbed the wide oak staircase. She produced a torch to light our way. ‘All the windows are in the rooms so the landings are dark. We can’t see here, not since the flood destroyed the electrics.’ She shone the torch about so that I could make out the doors. ‘This is Crickly’s floor. We have the floor above. Do you know, I can’t believe Felicity was so mad as to leave Botham’s. I’m hoping it’s not too late to do something about it or she’ll really scupper her chances. Who else will employ her after this?’
I followed her up the next flight of stairs.
She shone the torch at the ceiling. ‘We have such lovely chandeliers. After all this time, I still forget and want to switch on the non-existent lights.’
Alma turned a doorknob. She led the way into a high-ceilinged room. ‘We’ve plenty of space, you see. This is my room. Hang on here, Kate. I’ll see if Felicity has gone to bed and hidden herself under the eiderdown. Her room’s at the end. I hope she isn’t moping. She’s done that a lot lately, the kind of moping best done in a gloomy room.’
I listened to her footsteps as she trod along the bare wood floor.
In Alma’s room, a spectacular bed with an ornately carved headboard and footboard took up a large proportion of the wall to my left. It was the kind of bed one sees in a great country house, where someone tips a wink and tells you that George III slept here. A wardrobe, dressing table and a sofa, all from different periods and in an eclectic mix of styles, were dotted about in a somewhat haphazard way. A desk by the window was piled with papers. Perhaps Alma was writing another book.
A wash stand held bowl and jug. The mantelpiece was lined with ornaments. But the most dominant piece of furniture in the room was a floor-to-ceiling glass-fronted cabinet that held every type of fossil imaginable. I was drawn to look, crossing the room in the gust of air that blew from the leaded casement window. In the slant of light, motes of dust danced.
Before I had time to take a close look at the shells and fossils, Alma came back into the room. ‘Something’s amiss. She’s not there and there’s… I don’t know… something’s wrong.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘There’s a sense of absence. Oh dear. I wish I had my full powers.’
‘What?’
‘My full powers. I’ll say this for Walter Turner, and give credit where it’s due, he cured me of fainting but to be brutally honest I suffered a diminishment in sensitivity. I didn’t mind because that can be a burden, but now there’s something that I can’t quite catch. Something in the room…’
Without another word she went back onto the landing. I followed. ‘Might she be with friends somewhere?’
Alma lit a lamp.
Felicity’s bedroom was a neat, square room with a four-poster bed only slightly attacked by woodworm. A table stood by the bed. ‘Her lucky pebble isn’t here. She keeps it in this dish, doesn’t take it to work with her.’
I glanced about the room. A mantelshelf ran above the fireplace. On it stood an envelope, a used envelope whose address had been crossed out and the word ‘Mam’ written.
‘Alma, could that be a note from Felicity?’
She spun round. ‘Ah! You’re right. I didn’t see that. I wasn’t looking at surfaces but sensing interiorities, the feelings under the skin.’
She picked up the note, read it and then walked slowly back to the four-poster bed where she sat down
heavily. She handed me the note, indicating that I should read it.
Mam, I have gone away for a short time. Don’t worry about me. There is something I must do. I will be all right and will send you a postcard saying when I will be back. I have some money saved but have borrowed 30/- on the watch-guard so as not to be short. Sorry. I will redeem it when I come back. Here is the pawn ticket to keep in a safe place for now.
Love, Felicity xxx
PS I will see Auntie Kate next time.
She took a second note from the envelope, read it and handed it to me.
Dear Auntie Kate
Sorry to miss you after I have wanted you to come for so long but I have to go somewhere and I think you once told me that you have to do a thing when the time is right. I will come and see you in the winter.
Love, Felicity xxx
I looked across at Alma who seemed to have difficulty catching her breath. It was a moment for brandy, or hot sweet tea. I had neither but took the slab of toffee from my bag. Keeping the packet in its brown paper I gave it a tap against the casement ledge to break a piece off, at the same time managing to chip a bit of plaster off the windowsill.
‘Here, something sweet. You’ve had a shock.’
Alma sat down heavily on the bed. ‘How could she, and without a word? What is she thinking of, giving up her job for some wild goose chase, and not saying where she’s gone?’ Alma clenched her fists. ‘I’m a patient woman, Kate. I’ve done everything for her. What more could I have done? This is how she says thank you. Three jobs in three months. I despair! And she knew you were coming.’ Alma closed her eyes. ‘I foresaw trouble, but I didn’t foresee this.’ She withdrew the pawn ticket from the envelope, as if to make sure it was real. ‘She has pawned our single valuable, my grandfather’s watch-guard, and our one resource in time of need, and who has she pawned it with?’
Alma is a little short-sighted and too vain to wear spectacles. I thought she could not make out the name but it was a rhetorical question. She handed me the ticket. The watch-guard had been pawned with J Philips, High Class Jeweller.
The next seconds were like being whooshed back in time. Alma’s face grew even more translucent. A flush crept across her cheeks. Her eyes seemed to grow out of their sockets and look heavenwards. And then she collapsed in a faint.
It was fortunate that she was sitting on the bed. I caught her. For someone who appeared so slender in her flowing robes, Alma’s weight threatened to break my arms.
In this absurd position, lowering her head towards her knees, I heard a tap on the open door and turned to look. Framed in the doorway was a man in britches, gaiters and a velvet frock coat – someone out of the last century. For a mad moment, I wondered was he one of the Bagdale Hall ghosts, but I don’t believe that ghosts have the good manners to knock on doors.
The man nodded furiously as if the sight of us was precisely the tableau he had expected. His mouth extended into a rictus grin across the big red face decorated with enormous salt and pepper eyebrows that poked into the room like an insect’s antennae.
He stroked a wispy grey beard the colour of his sparse, petrified hair. ‘Hello, ladies. Pardon the intrusion. I heard voices. Don’t let me interrupt your… your… swoon.’
By the time Mr Cricklethorpe, for that was the velvet-clad gentleman’s name, returned with a carafe of water and a crystal glass containing a liberal amount of whisky, Alma had revived a little, with the help of smelling salts and soothing words.
Alma took a gulp of whisky. She looked again at Felicity’s note. ‘What idea can she have got into her head?’
The pawn ticket fluttered onto the bed beside her.
I picked it up. It was dated yesterday.
Felicity may have been one of the last people to see the jeweller alive.
Cricklethorpe stood like a gentleman-in-waiting, looking anxiously at Alma. ‘Is there anything I can do?’
She glared at him. ‘Did you have any idea what Felicity was planning? Did she say anything at all to you?’
‘Good heavens, no!’ Cricklethorpe reddened slightly as he spoke. His neck above the cravat began to blotch. He was lying.
Eight
You couldn’t call the covered-in part of the boat a cabin. That would give too much glory to a planked-in space where they might rest or sleep.
Felicity needed to think. She struck a match and lit the lamp, filling the low space with a soft vanilla light.
She took off her oilskin frock and sat down cross-legged. She hadn’t intended to look closely at the five pound notes until daylight but curiosity got the better of her. She counted the notes. Ten. Fifty pounds. She had never seen so much money.
Since whoever left the money for her father had provided a money belt, she might as well use it and keep her own cash in a safe place. Six pounds three shillings and ninepence from her savings plus thirty bob from pawning the watch-guard and ten bob borrowed from the Rington’s tea jar made eight pounds three and ninepence.
She lifted the Aran cardigan and fastened the belt at her waist. There was a flask of cocoa in her knapsack. Should they have some now? No. Save it. She went back to sit beside Brendan as he steered the boat by the stars. When they passed a lighthouse she was happy because it meant they were well on their way.
It made her feel nervous to have such riches strapped around her middle. She reached for Brendan’s hand. ‘It’s money. There was a money belt in the packet with fifty quid.’
‘What?’ His voice rose in amazement. ‘Who put that there then? You must’ve told someone. Your mam.’
‘No. She never speaks of Dad, and if she had fifty quid she wouldn’t send it to him. There’s a postcard with it.’
‘Where from?’
‘Not a picture postcard, just a plain card and a message, “Business as usual”.’
‘Oh.’
‘What do you mean, oh?’
‘Your mam sees the future, doesn’t she?’
‘She reckons to but she doesn’t. And if she’d seen this future coming she’d have throttled me. And you as well.’
‘I think we should turn back.’
‘No!’
‘If we’ve got someone’s money, they’ll be expecting summat for it.’
‘Such as?’
‘Some delivery.’
Felicity had a sudden inkling of what he might mean, yet it made no sense. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘They say your dad has done a lot for Whitby and Upgang folk over the years. You know the sort of thing.’
‘What, what has he done?’ She wondered if Brendan was right and her father had done something for Whitby and Upgang. Did he send a donation to the Mission? Why would he when he never came back?
‘You don’t know?’
‘If I knew I wouldn’t ask.’
‘They say your dad has dealings.’
‘What kind of dealings?’
‘And that’s why you live where you live.’
She knew only the vague explanations her mother gave. ‘Your father went abroad for his health’, or, ‘His work takes him to distant places’.
Until now, it had never occurred to Felicity that the vagueness might be deliberate holding back, keeping secrets. If it hadn’t been for the postcards and the atlas, Felicity would have had no idea where her father was. He was more elusive than the Scarlet Pimpernel.
She took off her wet socks, walked barefoot across the deck and looked up at the blackness of the night, as if the multiplying stars might give her an answer.
‘Are you saying my dad’s a smuggler?’
‘No! I don’t suppose he brings anything in himself.’
But he did. Felicity knew that he did. Sometimes. That would explain why in her dreams she had felt his kiss on her forehead and her cheek. Her mother said it was imagination. Mr Cricklethorpe, Crickly, had said it was the ghost of a long-ago soldier, kissing his wife goodbye.
She knew now who had put the packet there. Like the creatures living in rock pools,
they all knew what to do without being told. Cling to a rock. Clam up.
‘I know whose writing that is.’
Nine
Between us, Mr Cricklethorpe and I persuaded Alma to sit by the open window, in the hope that the air would prevent another faint. He placed a cushion at her back and a shawl over her knees, tucking it round her until she said, ‘Crickly, do stop fussing,’ but in an affectionate way. I wondered whether he was in love with her, and then thought not. They were friends. He was looking out for her – to the extent of lying about where Felicity had gone?
After she asked him to stop fussing, Cricklethorpe turned his attention to me.
‘I’m so glad you’re here, Mrs Shackleton. Felicity prepared a room in the hope that you might honour this humble house with your presence.’
‘And then she slung her hook,’ Alma chipped in. ‘Where on earth can she be?’
I thanked Mr Cricklethorpe. ‘That’s kind of you, but I have a room at the Royal.’
‘Ah, pity. Their gain and our loss.’ He hid his disappointment well, hooking his thumbs in his waistcoat and nodding vigorously, an activity that brought his broad shoulders into play. He was not a man given to small gestures or contained movement. ‘You will find the Royal satisfactory, I’m sure. The view across the West Cliff will make up for the lack of history.’
Alma rose unsteadily. She handed the whisky glass back to Cricklethorpe. ‘I am better, thank you.’
‘But are you fully recovered?’ He moved towards her as though expecting another faint.
‘This is a blow that I will never get over, Crickly. Not a word! Are you sure she didn’t give any hints to you?’
‘No indeed.’ Cricklethorpe shook his head several times. ‘In fact I am here because Felicity arranged to join me in the twalking this evening and I thought she may need a rehearsal.’
‘So much for that then.’ Alma looked at herself in the glass and patted her hair in place. ‘I’m going to make enquiries.’
‘I shall have to twalk alone.’ Mr Cricklethorpe adopted a crestfallen tone and sighed loudly. ‘I don’t suppose, Mrs Turner, you would be up to stepping in?’
Death at the Seaside Page 6