by Lulu Taylor
It’s burning! Burning! Charcombe is alight! I have to get help.
Just then, Gawain came running out, a coat thrown on over his pyjamas. ‘Xenia!’ he called, horror over his face.
‘The house is on fire!’ she cried. ‘We must call for help!’
He was with her in a moment, holding her steady as she stumbled on the icy lane, his eyes drawn to the ominous glow over the great house, the awful black smoke sitting above in the inky sky, puffing upwards as the fire grew.
Ingrid Redmain came out into the road in a dressing gown and wellington boots, her dark hair askew, panic all over her face. ‘Oh my God!’ she shouted. ‘The house! I’ve called for help. But Buttercup was in my spare room, and now she’s gone!’
‘What?’ Gawain’s gaze flew back to the big house and the inferno within it. ‘Could she be up there?’
‘She must be.’ Ingrid was pale and panicked.
Gawain started running toward the gates. ‘I’m going up there.’ He shouted to Ingrid, ‘What’s the code for the gates?’
‘1805 – the Battle of Trafalgar!’ Ingrid started running back to her house. ‘I’ll get my keys and drive us there, it’ll be quicker.’
Gawain hadn’t waited, he was already at the gates, tapping in the code. Xenia watched him sprint through them and disappear into the darkness. A moment later, Ingrid’s car roared out of the driveway and through the open gates towards the house.
The old woman stared shakily at the awful sight: an ancient house in flames, being consumed by fire as they watched. ‘The house, the house is burning.’
She felt filled by wildness, but it was hard to tell if it was elation or despair.
Chapter Forty-Nine
Buttercup groaned and blinked on the floor of the marble hall. She could hear the sound of crackling and roaring all around, the splintering of wood and the pop of exploding glass. And she could feel heat: intense and terrible heat, not far away.
But she was moving, being pulled across the floor, her bag thumping into her and then sliding away. Someone was dragging her towards the front of the hall. She looked behind her and saw vicious flames emerging from the cellar door, now a blazing rectangle. As she watched, they climbed higher, rolling out across the ceiling and into the hall.
Oh no, she thought in a daze. Her head was thudding with a crashing pain, her nose, mouth and throat were full of an acrid, bitter taste and the thick smell of smoke. The house was being eaten by the fire, devoured, releasing this foul odour as it was consumed. I didn’t get help, I didn’t phone.
She looked forward to the dark shape at her feet, holding her, dragging her along.
Who is it? Where are we going?
It was, at least, away from the fire. She closed her eyes, unutterably weak and tired, desiring only to be asleep. Then she felt a prickly roughness under her neck, unpleasant enough to jolt her back to wakefulness.
I’m lying on the doormat.
A huge stretch of rough matting, spiky as a field of small thorns, lay in front of the door and she was on it. She heard the great bolts being thrown back, the large key being turned, and slowly the door was opened.
Icy air gushed over her but at the same moment there was a mighty whoosh as the flames inside were drawn outwards to the open door. Buttercup opened her eyes and saw a wave of flame cruising rapidly outwards across the ornate plasterwork of the hall ceiling, engulfing the ceiling rose and the top of the lamp.
The house will be destroyed, she thought dimly. Perhaps it will take me with it.
She was alone, she knew that. Whoever had pulled her to the front door had gone, leaving her to make her own way out of the building.
Get up, she told herself. Get up and get out!
But she couldn’t move. There was no strength in her to allow the movement of her limbs. She felt as if every ounce of power had been drained out of her, leaving her body just a heavy object, of no use at all.
Perhaps the house doesn’t want me to leave, she thought, and almost laughed grimly to herself. It knew I was going forever. It pulled me back and decided to keep me here. She closed her eyes. There’s something poetic in that, I think.
A voice seemed to pierce her consciousness, distant but getting closer.
‘Buttercup! Buttercup – where are you?’
Was that Charles’s voice? It must be – who else could it be?
‘Buttercup? Buttercup!’
‘I’m here,’ she said but her voice came out croaky, barely audible. The mixture of cold air and acrid smoke had stifled it. ‘Help me. Charles! I’m here.’
‘Buttercup.’ The voice was closer. A presence was beside her, panting and panicked. ‘I’m here.’
‘Charles?’ she said, confused.
‘No. Gawain. Come on, you have to stand up.’ Strong hands grabbed her arms and started to lift her up. ‘What’s this bloody bag you’re wearing? Let’s get it off you. Christ, it’s hot.’ He choked and coughed as he tried to pull her bag over her head.
‘No, no!’ she protested weakly, trying to push the hands away. ‘I have to keep it.’ She winced. ‘My head!’
‘You’re hurt. Come on, we have to get out of here, the fire . . .’ He didn’t need to say more, she could feel the intense heat around her, and the brightness as it took hold on the ceiling. The beams were creaking loudly. She knew that it would not be long before things began to collapse. ‘Come on,’ Gawain urged, fearful. He coughed again, his eyes streaming with the acrid smoke. ‘We have to get out of here.’
‘Hurry up!’ cried a terrified voice outside. ‘It’s going to cave!’
‘Stay there, Ingrid!’ yelled Gawain. ‘We’re coming!’
He was lifting her to her feet. Her weight shifted, she was upright. One strong arm was round her waist, the other holding the hand of the arm across his shoulders.
‘Let’s go,’ he said, his voice hoarse with the smoke. ‘Off we go, one, two, three. Hop along with me.’
They began to move away from the heat and light, out into the darkness through the front door. Never had cold seemed so welcoming.
Suddenly, a warm presence was beside her, nuzzling her hand, whining.
‘Tippi,’ she said. ‘Thank God you’re all right. Someone must have let you out.’
‘Let’s keep going,’ said Gawain in a coaxing tone. ‘I don’t think we’ve gone far enough yet.’
They went forward, Buttercup limping, Tippi beside them, her tail down as she stuck close.
The house was fully alight around them, turning the night sky around it to velvety blue tinged with orange, like an opal. There was a huge crash as something collapsed into the interior.
Ingrid came rushing up, relief all over her face. ‘Thank God you’re all right! What happened? What on earth were you doing up here?’
Buttercup looked back over her shoulder at the house. ‘It’s going,’ she said.
‘Where’s your husband?’ Gawain asked urgently. ‘Could he still be inside?’
‘Maybe. He dragged me to the front door, I think. Then he vanished.’
‘Listen!’ cried Ingrid. Sirens sounded distantly on the night air.
‘They’re coming,’ Gawain said, his voice full of relief.
Ingrid started to run across the gravel to her car, which stood haphazardly, the doors still open. ‘I’m going down to make sure the gates are open!’
Gawain tightened his grip on Buttercup. ‘We’ll tell them to look for your husband.’
‘Stop,’ Buttercup said, as he pulled her further away from the house. ‘I want to look.’
They both looked at the awful yet majestic sight of the old house in flames. It seemed that all that remained was a facade, the front silhouetted against the orange and gold glow within, the smoke billowing up and turned pink and yellow by the fire, like some kind of extraordinary sunset.
‘It’s all over,’ Buttercup said, almost awed.
‘Purged by the flames,’ Gawain said quietly.
The sirens grew louder a
nd a moment later two red fire appliances, lights flashing, came racing up the drive. Gawain pulled Buttercup off the drive and out of their way so that the huge vehicles could rush past. They came to a halt in front of the house and at once the fire crews were out, releasing hoses and setting the ladders to tower over the house.
‘Wait here,’ Gawain said, letting go of her. ‘Can you stand on your own?’
‘Yes.’ Buttercup put her weight on her uninjured foot. ‘I’m fine.’
‘I’m going to tell them that Charles may be inside. I’ll be back in a moment.’
Buttercup stood, Tippi nestling close alongside her, and watched as Gawain went back up the drive towards the house.
The firemen were already valiantly fighting the flames.
It’s no good, Buttercup thought. It’s all over. It’s gone.
Chapter Fifty
Buttercup sat shivering in Ingrid’s kitchen. The old lady was there too, and Ingrid was constantly on the move, pouring cups of tea or making phone calls, trying to see what was happening at the house. Everyone was pale and drawn, the mood one of disbelieving shock.
‘It’s so awful,’ Ingrid was saying. ‘That beautiful house, it’s a historic building! It’s just dreadful. Think what will be lost! It’s irreplaceable – and your things, Buttercup!’
‘That doesn’t matter,’ Buttercup said, her voice flat. ‘Clothes and things – they don’t matter. I got my treasures.’ She extended a shaking hand towards her bag and pulled the zip open. Reaching inside, she grasped the albums and put them onto the kitchen table. ‘And I got these too.’
Ingrid gasped and turned startled eyes on her. ‘My photo albums! You found them!’
Buttercup nodded. ‘In Charles’s study. I got them before the fire started.’
Ingrid’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Just as I was thinking that they were gone forever – here they are. Safe.’ She came over, put a hand on them and closed her eyes. ‘I thought I’d never see them again,’ she murmured. Then she bent down and flung her arms around Buttercup. ‘Thank you so much. I can’t believe you did that for me.’
Buttercup smiled weakly. ‘There are some things you can’t replace.’
Ingrid sobbed, but when she pulled away, she was smiling. ‘I don’t know how I can ever thank you.’
‘Well . . .’ Buttercup shrugged. ‘I might have to occupy your spare room for a while longer, if that’s all right.’
‘It’s yours as long as you need it.’
Buttercup looked down at the table and bit her lip. ‘I just need to find out where Charles is.’
Ingrid said, ‘We all do. I’m not sure what to tell the children yet. I don’t want to worry them unnecessarily.’
‘Let them sleep till morning before you phone them,’ Xenia agreed. ‘There’s nothing they can do.’
Ingrid turned back to Buttercup. ‘Did you see Charles there, at the house?’
Buttercup shook her head. ‘I didn’t see him, but I think he was there. I can only think he set the fire deliberately. In the cellar, there were saucers of paraffin or petrol or something.’
‘Arson,’ Ingrid said, her voice despairing. ‘I can’t believe he would do this, not after everything he went through with the house. He’s put so much into it, not just money but his life. It’s his pride and joy, I can’t imagine him destroying it. And yet, it’s also exactly what he would do, in a broken state of mind.’
‘The Redmain room was completely destroyed,’ Buttercup told her. ‘It was done with so much hatred and anger – he must have had enough in him to destroy the house as well.’ She sighed. ‘At least he decided to save me and to let Tippi out. Someone pulled me to safety; it must have been him.’
Ingrid frowned. ‘Are you sure? If you leaving him sparked this rage, why wouldn’t he want you to burn inside the house? And he has never been bothered about animals before.’
‘It’s a big leap from arson to murder. I don’t think he’s capable of that, no matter how ruthless he might have seemed at times,’ Buttercup said.
‘Is there anyone else who could have done it?’ Xenia asked.
There was a pause and then Buttercup said softly, ‘When you stop to think, there are plenty of people who had a motive to destroy Charles’s most treasured possessions.’
There was a ring at the doorbell and Ingrid disappeared to answer it, returning with Gawain, still in his pyjamas and coat, his face smoke-stained and his coppery hair wild. Next to him was a policeman.
‘I’m afraid it’s not looking good for the house,’ Gawain said, his face solemn. ‘They’ve been battling it for over an hour, but the fire is as strong as ever. There’s so much to feed it and not enough water to fight it. It’s going to be completely destroyed.’
They looked at each other in quiet solemnity. All of it gone – the history, the art, and craftsmanship, the possessions, the furniture – reduced to ash in a few hours and vanished forever.
Buttercup looked over at Xenia, sudden sorrow on her face. ‘I’m so sorry. Your mother’s portrait. It will have burned with all the rest.’
Xenia shrugged. ‘What can we do? So much has gone. It will live on in the film and photographs, and in my mind.’
The policeman said, ‘I’m sorry to disturb you all but, Mrs Redmain, I’ll need to take a statement from you about what you witnessed at the house this evening. In fact’ – he looked around – ‘we’ll need statements from all of you. I’ve got reinforcements on the way, so I hope it won’t take too long, I realise it’s late.’ He looked at Buttercup. ‘Mrs Redmain, if we could start with you? Let’s go somewhere private.’
In the sitting room, Buttercup told the policeman everything she could remember about the events of the evening, from arriving at the house to being hoisted up and out by Gawain.
‘My husband,’ she said anxiously. ‘Do you know where he is? Has he been found? I’ve called his mobile phone but it’s going straight to voicemail.’
The policeman shook his head. ‘There’s no news. Everyone knows he has to be located so we’re working on it. But can I just check again, Mrs Redmain – there was definitely someone in the house with you, but you can’t be absolutely certain it was your husband?’
Buttercup shook her head. ‘I never saw whoever it was. Just a back. It could have been anyone. I just assumed it was Charles.’
‘You knew that the couple who worked for you . . .’
‘Carol and Steve Croft.’
‘Yes, the Crofts. You knew they’d gone?’
‘No.’ Buttercup was surprised. ‘I knew they were going to hand in their notice, but not that they’d actually left.’
‘Had they fallen out with your husband?’
Buttercup stared at him, not sure what to say. She didn’t know where to begin. Suddenly she understood that the fire was not simply about the burning up of the house, but about everything that had gone before, right back to the miscarriage.
No, even before that.
It was about all of them, and their various links to the same place, a beautiful house where they had all, in their different ways, belonged at one time or another.
‘No,’ she said slowly. ‘They hadn’t exactly fallen out with him. But I knew that they’d had enough and intended to go.’
‘But you were staying here last night, with Mr Redmain’s ex-wife.’
‘Yes, that’s true. I was. My husband and I had had a row, during our party.’ She looked at the policeman. ‘I’m afraid it very much looks as if my husband set the fire. I still find it very hard to believe he’d destroy the house he loved so much, but what other explanation is there?’
He looked at her meaningfully. ‘There was plenty of time for anyone to have set it up.’
‘I don’t know who else would have wanted to do such a thing.’
‘We’re keeping our minds open at this point,’ the policeman said portentously.
She was filled with terrible frustration that the police might waste their time looking for other susp
ects. ‘Just find my husband!’ she said with a trembling voice. ‘I’m worried to death about him – he might have been trapped in that awful inferno! We have to know where he is and what’s happened to him. Then we can worry about the blessed house.’
They all gave statements and at last, as dawn was breaking, the police left. The smell of smoke was thick in the air, but the flames were dying down with the arrival of the morning and the efforts of the fire service. The village was waking up to the news; the shock was almost palpable.
Gawain had taken Xenia home, helping her gently out across the icy road to her own house. ‘I’ll come back later,’ he said to Buttercup before he went. ‘Get some rest if you can.’
Ingrid urged Buttercup to go to bed but she refused. ‘I can’t,’ she said flatly. She didn’t even want to shower: the smoke in her clothes and hair somehow kept her connected to the house. It wasn’t over yet and she didn’t it want it to be, because that might mean she had to accept something awful and final that she didn’t want to think about.
At 6 a.m., sitting in Ingrid’s kitchen, she called Elaine from the landline.
‘Mrs R?’ Elaine sounded wary, obviously recalling the recent spikiness between them. ‘Is everything okay?’
‘Elaine, I’ve got bad news.’ She explained briefly. ‘Do you have any idea where Charles is?’ Ideas and theories had been whirling round her head all night, and she’d come up with various scenarios for where Charles might be, which included him fleeing to London or abroad.
‘Sorry, what?’ Elaine sounded dazed, disbelieving.
‘I know it’s a lot to take in, but the important thing right now is finding Charles. No one has seen him since about one thirty this morning. Has he arrived in London or made any travel arrangements? I didn’t see his car last night, but it might have been in the garage.’
Elaine’s voice was croaky. ‘I have no idea where he is. I thought he was at the house, what with the party and everything. I wasn’t expecting to hear any different. He hasn’t been in touch at all. He might be at the flat – I’ll check, but he’d usually let me know, and he hasn’t asked me to make any travel arrangements. He always has his passport on him, though.’ She sounded fearful. ‘Do they think he didn’t get out?’