by Kitty French
Marina sits beside me scanning the list Isaac made of potential places to look.
‘The cellar alone is going to take the week,’ she muses, chewing a hangnail and frowning.
‘I vote we leave the cellar until last.’ I’m not being a scaredy cat, but the thought of going back down there again fills me with trepidation.
Marina nods, and murmurs a distracted ‘No arguments there’, as she folds the paper up and, on autopilot, slides it into her bra beside her phone.
‘Mum said she’ll ring me if she finds anything interesting about Charles,’ Artie chucks in from Marina’s other side. ‘Although she’s out this morning, she sings at the old people’s home around the corner on Tuesdays.’
I mull on this. Both Marina and I come from huge, eclectic families who are larger than life and always fighting for the limelight. In contrast, Artie’s family unit seem to be the exact opposite; quiet and unassuming, a tight, small circle of three who look after each other and other people without fanfare or the need to be acknowledged.
* * *
‘All quiet,’ Marina says, gazing intently through the windscreen at Scarborough House ten minutes later.
‘That’s something.’ I gather everything we need to take inside. Black bags for any mess we make, a hammer and chisel in case we need one, and some of our trusty latex gloves.
Artie watches me as I tool myself up. ‘You do realise that you’ve assembled the classic murderer’s kit there, right?’
‘I hope you’ve got twin-sized bin liners,’ Marina says darkly as we tip out onto the footpath and head around the back of the house to let ourselves in.
Chapter Twenty
Lloyd is sitting stiffly at the kitchen table when we go through, and he quickly drags a newspaper across to hide the fact that he’s been writing in the Polly Pocket diary. None of us comment on it; Marina and Artie were deep in conversation and didn’t notice the brief movement, and I can see the pissed-off expression on Lloyd’s face and it’s anything but welcoming.
‘Good morning, Lloyd,’ I say, as much for the others’ benefit as for Lloyd Scarborough.
‘Isaac tells me you found our mother’s diaries.’
I lay my makeshift murder’s kit out on the table and nod slowly. ‘We did.’
‘Well, I want them back. They weren’t yours to remove from this house.’
He’s right of course, but they aren’t his, either.
‘The diaries now officially belong to Donovan Scarborough, and as he’s the person who’s employed me, I don’t think he’ll mind.’
Lloyd huffs. ‘Without wishing to speak ill of the dead, our mother was quite, quite unhinged. Her word isn’t to be relied upon. I don’t expect anyone’s told you that she killed herself, have they?’
I admit I’m shocked. Agnes killed herself? God, that poor, blighted woman.
‘When?’ I whisper.
‘Christmas Day, 1922.’ He flicks his eyes towards the ceiling. ‘My wife had worked tirelessly to cook a four-course dinner, she might have had the decency to wait until afterwards. She always was given to drama.’
I could well ask him if that’s where he gets it from but I hold off. ‘I’ll return the diaries when I’m done with them.’
Lloyd stares at me, and I hold his gaze boldly. To be perfectly honest I’m not someone who enjoys arguing with a senior citizen, even if that senior citizen has been officially dead since 1971.
‘I’d like to see Isaac, please.’ I’m as polite as I know how to be. I can see that Lloyd is burning to tell me that’s not going to be possible, but what can he say, really? Isaac’s just nipped out to the shops? Isaac’s been taken unwell and is in hospital? Isaac landed a last-minute deal to Ibiza and has gone clubbing? No. Isaac Scarborough is right here, and the first thing I need to do is find him.
‘Everyone upstairs?’ I say, making an executive decision because it’s highly likely that Isaac is in the attic. ‘We’ll start searching from the top.’
‘Searching for what, exactly?’ Lloyd queries, drumming his fingers on the table so loudly and impatiently that I find it difficult to see how Marina and Artie can’t hear it.
‘The murder weapon,’ I say, and I watch him carefully for his reaction. For a second I glimpse a flash of raw anger in his eyes, and then he disappears in a sudden blaze. It’s the ghost equivalent of strutting off in a huff.
Isaac is waiting for us in his chair when we get up to the attic.
‘No dog, today?’
‘We’ve left him behind with my gran.’
‘From what I recall of your grandmother, I expect he’ll have rather an entertaining afternoon,’ Isaac says. I think he’s probably right; Gran mentioned that she wanted to take Lestat upstairs to meet my grandpa, seeing as he was such a great canine fan.
‘I see you’ve come prepared for anything.’ Isaac gazes at the hammer and chisel Artie is clutching in his hands.
‘We’d like to get on with the search today,’ I smile, determined. ‘Is it okay with you if we start up here?’
Isaac nods. ‘I’ve tried to look myself, but many of the boxes are closed tightly and I can’t manage them.’ He holds his old, shaky hands up in front of him as if their weakness offends him.
‘Even when you’re in a book-throwing rage?’
He looks slightly sheepish. ‘I wouldn’t have thrown one at you.’
‘I don’t think it was all that wise throwing them at anyone,’ I say, recalling the horrified faces of the potential purchasers, not to mention the nasty gouge over Leo’s eye.
Marina steps forward and hands Artie and me a pair of latex gloves. ‘Glove-up, folks. We don’t want to contaminate a potential crime scene.’
‘Thanks, Mulder. Although seeing as the crime happened over a hundred years ago, I think we’re probably safe,’ I say, but I wiggle my fingers into the gloves anyway. If the Gods of good fortune smile on us and we do find the murder weapon, I want it to be of some use. Isaac told me previously that all of the family provided fingerprints for the original investigation as a matter of course; there’s a decent chance that modern police forensics could still identify prints from the knife if it’s been untouched since.
As Marina and Artie pick their way to the back of the room to start the sweep, I turn back to Isaac.
‘Do you think you could you give me a potted history of who has lived in the house since 1910?’
He frowns with concentration as he casts his mind back. ‘Well, obviously my parents were here at the time, and then my mother stayed on here alone after my father died in 1918. Lloyd married Maud and they lived locally with their son, and then when our mother died they moved in here.’ He breaks off to shake his head and huff. ‘I expect he loved becoming lord of the manor. God knows he was always the one in the family with ideas above his station.’ He looks down his nose in distaste.
I’m making notes so that I don’t forget anything. ‘Did they have any other children?’
Isaac shakes his head. ‘Just the one.’
‘And you?’ I say, probing softly. ‘Did you go on to have any other children after Charles?’
His expression turns bleak and he shakes his head. I’d expected as much, but needed to be sure.
I consider what he’s told me so far. ‘So presumably Lloyd and his wife lived out the rest of their lives here?’
* * *
‘He was a widower when I finally came back here like this in 1968.’ Isaac gestured at his ghostly self with his hands. ‘Douglas was already here of course, and we were both waiting for Lloyd when he died, in the sitting room in 1971.’
I remember the first conversation I had with the brothers about Lloyd’s death. It was barely three weeks ago, and yet it seems like we’ve been coming here for much, much longer.
‘After that, Lloyd’s boy lived here with his wife and their son, Donovan.’ We both take a second to think our own private thoughts about Donovan Scarborough. ‘You know the rest.’
I make my final notes
and close the pad. ‘Thank you, Isaac. I know that probably wasn’t easy, but it might just help.’
‘I hope so,’ he sighs, world-weary, and then he lays his head back and closes his eyes. ‘Because I’ve had enough. I’ve been too long on this earth, Melody. It’s time to go.’
Marina shoves her fringe out of her eyes a few hours later, wiping dust over her forehead in the process. We haven’t even made it out of the attic yet and so far our search has been fruitless and heavy work.
‘Nothing. Books, pictures, clothes, all kinds of hideous ornaments . . . no offence intended,’ she adds and looks towards Isaac’s chair, but he just remains there with his eyes closed. He seems to have suddenly given up the fight and opted out, which just goes to show that ghosts can reach the end of their tether just as much as the living.
‘I’ve looked for any loose floorboards and checked around the walls and skirting boards too,’ Artie says, appearing from behind one of the supporting struts with the chisel in his back pocket. ‘All clear.’
We’ve all spent the entire morning combing the attic on our hands and knees and have come up with a big fat nothing for our trouble.
‘I think we can safely cross the attic off the list,’ I say, nodding towards Marina.
She looks nonplussed. ‘I don’t have the list.’
‘You put it with your phone,’ Artie says quickly and nods towards her chest. We both give him a look.
‘What?’ he shrugs. ‘I thought you wanted me to notice everything.’
Marina extracts the list and opens it, then looks at him again. ‘Pen? Or did you not notice?’
‘On the table by Isaac’s chair,’ he shoots back, and then passes it to her with a little bow to show he’s not needled.
She puts a bold line through attic and then re-stashes the list while Artie tactfully averts his gaze.
* * *
We head down from the attic onto the wide first-floor landing at the top of the grand staircase and glance down towards the master bedroom.
‘Five bedrooms,’ I say, counting the doors leading from it. ‘Let’s just start with the nearest one and work our way along.’
‘We’re like a SWAT team, working through in a sweep,’ Artie says. ‘No stone unturned.’
I pull the notebook from my pocket and share the family timeline with them. ‘Here’s the problem. The house has seen three generations of the family come and go since Douglas died. The whole place must have altered five times over since the weapon was hidden, if it was hidden here at all. That means it must have been put somewhere so secretive that no one has uncovered it.’
‘Or someone found it and got rid of it,’ Marina says, leaning against the wall beside one of the bedroom doors as she unwraps the silver paper from a stick of gum.
‘Or someone moved it,’ Artie suggests.
‘It’s a whole lot of ifs, buts and maybes, isn’t it?’ It’s frustrating to know that we might be on a wild goose chase, but something tells me to press on. My gut instinct is one of my cast-iron basic skills, I know better than to ignore it. Every now and then I try to, and that’s when unexpected things happen – like Lestat.
Growing up as a Bittersweet, I’ve come to rely on a different set of life skills to most girls. I don’t live my life according to Facebook or Heat Magazine, and I’ve worked out my own style with scant regard for what’s in fashion. I was never one of the popular girls or the sparkly girls and that never bothered me once, because all I needed to get through was black nail polish, Marina, and my gut instincts. As I’ve got older I’ve added sugar, superheroes and Converse trainers to that must-have list too, but my gut instinct has been a part of my Bittersweet genetic makeup for far longer than my one decent red lipstick. It’s an integral part of my survival kit, and it’s telling me that this house still keeps its secrets within its walls.
I’m about to suggest we decamp to Babs and break for lunch when Artie’s phone rings in his pocket.
‘The Indiana Jones theme tune?’ I say, recognising his ring tone instantly.
‘I changed it yesterday,’ he says, distracted as he looks at his screen. It pleases me that he chose that particular theme, I hope it reflects the fact that he’s finding life more of an adventure now he’s part of the agency.
‘It’s my mum,’ he beams, clicking her onto speakerphone so we can all hear her news.
‘Little Art,’ she trills. ‘Can you hear me, sausage?’
‘Yes, Mum,’ he says and laughs goofily because her voice is echoing off the high ceilings of the upstairs landing. ‘You’re on speakerphone so we can all listen.’
‘Ooh, I say!’ She sounds suddenly coy. ‘I’ve never been on speakerphone before. I feel like breaking into song!’
‘Maybe not right now, Mum,’ he says quickly before she can fill her lungs. ‘Did you find anything out?’
‘Artie, you know me. I’m a burrower, a ferret, a seeker, if you will.’ He’s nodding. Her theatrics must be all part of her charm, he’s clearly used to her by the way he waits patiently for her to go on. ‘You give me the scent of a bone, and I’m like a terrier, I’ll dig and dig until I find that pesky bone.’
Endearing as his mother is, I wish she’d cut to the chase now, we’re on a tight schedule and I’m starving.
‘Did she find the bone?’ Marina hisses.
‘Did you find the bone, Mum?’
I don’t know if Mrs Elliott has taken acting classes or if she’s just a born dramatist, but she pauses in the style of Dermot O’Leary when he’s about to announce the winner of The X-Factor. I can almost hear a drumroll as we all stare at Artie’s phone, rapt.
‘Did I find that bone?’ she breathes. ‘Did I ever!’ Her voice reverberates with triumph. ‘Charles Frederick Scarborough Henson, born at Hull Maternity hospital to Priscilla Elizabeth Henson on June 22nd, 1920. Father unknown.’
‘Father unknown?’ I say. I knew the rest, but that came as a surprise.
‘Oh she’d have to have put that down, love, if she wasn’t married and he wasn’t there,’ Mrs Elliott informs me. ‘But she did give the baby Scarborough as one of his middle names, which indicates strongly that she wished to include the father in some way.’
‘Right.’ I speak loudly to make sure she can hear me. ‘That’s brilliant, thank you Mrs Elliott.’
‘Oh, I’ve not finished yet, love,’ she laughs. ‘There’s more for you, if you’ve time?’
I’d hoped she might say that. ‘Go on,’ I urge, and Marina and I step closer to Artie so we don’t miss a thing.
‘Well, Charles grew up and married his sweetheart, Evangeline just before the outbreak of the Second World War. She was pregnant when he left, and sadly he never came home again. He died whilst serving in the British Army, leaving Evangeline to raise their son Richard Charles Scarborough Henson alone.’
Marina’s eyes are brimming with tears already, and to be honest I feel incredibly moved too. This family’s history is fascinating and complicated, and I feel that I know Isaac well enough now to know that this information will come as a blow. He left Priscilla and Charles to save them from the stigma of being thought of as a murderer’s family, yet Charles had gone on to live such a short, interrupted life and Priscilla had borne the loss of her only child alone.
‘Still there, folks?’ Mrs Elliott calls out, and Artie asks if there is anything else she needs to tell us.
‘Well, there is, actually,’ she says. ‘Richard Scarborough Henson is still alive and lives in Hull with his daughter, Jojo.’
I work through the information overload in my head. ‘So Isaac has a grandson called Richard, and he’s still alive and living in Hull?’
‘That’s it, lovey, you’ve got it!’ I like Mrs Elliott. She’s thorough and she sounds like she spends her life wearing an apron and baking cakes, even though I know from Artie that she spends her time feeding rats to Pandora the Python and singing music-hall hits to the local OAPs.
‘Oh my God,’ I say, as Artie hangs up the phon
e. ‘I need to go up and tell Isaac what we know, because if Isaac didn’t murder Douglas . . .’
‘And let’s say that Lloyd did . . .’ Marina adds, right there with my train of thought.
‘Then Lloyd would never have inherited this house,’ I say. ‘In fact, if he’d been found guilty, he’d most probably have been hung for it.’
‘Which would obviously mean that his son wouldn’t have been born, nor his grandson, nor . . .’
‘Donovan Scarborough wouldn’t even exist,’ Artie gasps finishing the theory for us.
We all go quiet and digest what this means.
‘What a terrible injustice,’ I say. ‘Not only did Isaac lose his family and his home, but his children and grandchildren lost out on inheriting this place too.’
It feels as if the jigsaw is slowly slotting itself into place in my head. I can understand now why Isaac’s distress is powerful enough to hold not only his own ghost here, but Lloyd’s too. So many unresolved questions, and really only one way to find a definitive answer.
‘We have to find the knife used to murder Douglas,’ I say, seized by new determination. ‘If we can prove who murdered Douglas, then maybe there’s a chance that all of this can still be put right.’
‘How?’ Marina asks, confused.
Artie turns the facts over in his head. ‘You think the house might be in the wrong hands?’
I shrug, unsure. ‘I don’t know the ins and outs of the law, but I do know that the only way the Scarborough brothers are going to find peace is by sorting this mess out once and for all. That’s really why we’re here, so let’s concentrate on that.’ I chew my index fingernail, damaging the oxblood polish as I think. ‘And who knows? Maybe it will also mean that Isaac’s grandson is the rightful owner of the house, or he might at least be entitled to half.’