Secrets of the Past

by Estella McQueen

  Already he could sense the surface of the rugs subsiding beneath the tread of a woman’s feet, the fibres and threads being swept by her skirts, her slender fingers pulling back the covers on the bed. He could feel the curtains and drapes gathering within their folds all the secrets, the intrigues, the hidden mysteries that had been lost to time. There were stories this room could tell, if only it had a sympathetic voice, a conduit.

  And now – there she was. Out of the corner of his eye, Charlie could see the bedroom’s onetime occupant. A young, dark haired woman wearing a deep red empire line dress moved towards the window and peered anxiously through the glass, as if looking out for someone below. Meanwhile in the corridor beyond, the servants went back and forth, continuing about their business. Slowly, carefully, Charlie turned for a better look, but as soon as he did so, the woman vanished.

  Goosebumps ran back and forth across his jaw line and neck. He waited, listening out for something else to suggest itself. Charlie didn’t call himself a medium, or a spiritualist. He couldn’t communicate with the ‘other side.’ In any case, whatever psychic ability he had, was so indefinable, so personal, it wasn’t like it was a profession, or a quantifiable occupation. There was no consistency to it, no order, and if he felt uncomfortable for any reason, there’d be no suggestion at all. Often it was preferable that way.

  Astrid was studying his reaction. ‘What is it? Imagination playing tricks?’

  He answered steadily. ‘Something like that.’

  ‘We could go on,’ she said, ‘but there’s not much left to see. Rooms on the top floor are used for storage these days - filled with furniture that’s either too far gone or waiting for sympathetic restoration. The day to day business is confined to a few featured rooms. You’ve been in stately homes before, of course, you’re aware that not everywhere is open to the public. But this one is particularly melancholic. Shabby, down at heel, over-looked. I’m trying to make it special,’ she said, regretfully, ‘but it needs a lot more doing to it. And visitor numbers have been falling, not growing. We get bookings for weddings and events, but we’re always on the lookout for new ways to increase revenue. The house has potential to generate a great deal of income, if only we can find the appropriate methods.’

  ‘Film crews?’

  ‘It’s not exactly Blickling Hall, is it? But we do the best with what we have.’

  ‘As long as you’re careful and don’t obliterate the voices.’

  She looked at him.

  ‘Remember who lived here,’ he asserted, ‘and what they did. Who did live here?’ he added.

  ‘The Tunneys,’ she said, ‘followed by the Vickers and the Oswalds. But you knew that, surely?’

  Her ulterior motive was becoming clearer by the second and it filled him with a queasy unease.

  Leaving the Taffeta Silk bedroom, they followed the wooden arrows on uprights, back down the Great Stair, and a further descent to a lower ground tour of the kitchens, cellar and the strong room. Here Astrid showed him a very small collection of military hardware – a ceremonial dagger, a replica samurai sword and a Mills bomb from the Second World War. ‘That’s it on the weaponry front, I’m afraid. Hardly the Wallace collection, or the Royal Armaments, is it? There’s an inventory from 1764 in the Library if you can be bothered to check it out.’

  ‘It’s a shame that beautiful houses have to age and decline,’ he said. ‘But you’re keeping its frayed apparel as neat and mended as you possibly can. You’re obviously doing your best.’

  She gave him a hint of a smile but didn’t reply.

  They left via the main entrance, strolling back across the courtyard and down the steps. She accompanied him as far as the railings. The Christmas visitor numbers had thinned out as the daylight faded. The mulled wine was finished, the mince pies were over.

  ‘So what did you think of my sales pitch?’ she asked. ‘Bored you, did I?’

  He buttoned his coat. ‘Far from it.’

  She rocked on her feet. ‘Okay, I’ve danced round long enough. The box underneath the floorboards… I haven’t been entirely truthful with you. I got a locksmith to open it. There are letters and a diary inside it.’

  ‘Ah.’

  They’d appealed everywhere for information, she said. No one had come forward with anything. Not yet anyway. ‘I realized I needed a different approach… I was wondering if you’d read them for me.’

  ‘Me? Isn’t that your curator’s job?’

  She took a deep breath. ‘Just now - you saw something in the Taffeta silk bedroom, didn’t you? I was watching your face.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said warily, ‘I saw a woman.’

  ‘What did she look like?’

  ‘Young, sad… Not sure, I didn’t see her for very long.’

  She went on, ‘Your brother tells me you have an – aptitude – if that’s the right word, for connecting with the past?’

  ‘It’s as good a word as any.’

  ‘Images suggest themselves? People appear?’

  ‘It depends.’

  She edged forwards. ‘In that case I’d like to offer you some work, if you’re available?’

  If he was free? If he was available? Despite his best efforts, job interviews weren’t exactly piling up. He was biding his time, waiting for something that he couldn’t quite put his finger on; something that would make perfect sense when it happened. Was this it now?

  ‘I’m between jobs…,’

  ‘I know,’ she said gently, ‘Your brother told me.’

  He frowned at her. ‘When did you speak to Andy?’

  ‘A couple of days ago. He said you’d probably be home for Christmas.’

  ‘I’m always home for Christmas.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what Andy said. Come on,’ she said, ‘it’s not far.’

  ‘What isn’t?’

  ‘The box.’

  Chapter Three

  Astrid’s home, the gatekeeper’s cottage, had come with the job. With its diamond leaded windows, stone window boxes and bright blue front door, the exterior was picture book perfect.

  Inside was a different matter.

  ‘Mind your head,’ she warned as she unlocked the front door and ushered him inside the heavily decorated ‘bijou’ living room. Negotiating the narrow doorways, insidious staircase and low wooden beams was a delicate business. Like an overgrown Alice in the white rabbit’s house.

  She switched on a toadstool shaped lamp, and a dim orange light illuminated the William Morris pattern wall paper and the blue and jade fireplace tiles. Charlie glanced around the book shelves, efficiently identifying a number of framed photos: a picture of some kids astride bikes; a Cornwall beach scene at sunset; and a snap of Addleston in the snow.

  The tiny room seemed oppressive, claustrophobic. The mantelpiece was stuffed with crap, the Christmas cards were falling off the shelves, and a mobile phone charger lay unravelled on the sofa. Charlie was conscious of a slight mustiness in the air, and as if she noticed it too, Astrid lit a scented candle next to the clock. ‘I don’t usually bother with these things, only Megs says they’re relaxing.’

  She swept the newspapers and magazines from the low coffee table. ‘Excuse the clutter. It’s so tight for space in here I can barely pass the TV screen without statically charging my trousers. You haven’t eaten, have you?’

  ‘Not since lunch.’

  ‘Right. Um, let’s think. There’s a pizza in the freezer. Or some microwavable tagliatelli. I’m a complete Neanderthal, I can’t cook, or anything. Why don’t we have a beer, look at the box, and then get something to eat in the pub?’

  ‘Suits me.’

  ‘Good, good, well, make yourself comfortable, I won’t be a tic.’

  She retreated to the kitchen. He could hear everything she did, from the ‘fftz’ of the lid from the beer bottle and the tinkle of metal as it fell in the sink, to the heavy bang of the fridge door as it sent shock waves into the roof.

  ‘How do you manage to make the switch from tha
t enormous house to this tiny place, every day?’ he asked when she returned. ‘How do you adapt?’

  ‘One pill makes you tall, one pill makes you small. Like you said, I adapt. Doesn’t everyone?’ She handed him a beer. ‘Do you want a glass?’

  ‘No thanks, it’s fine as it is.’

  He swigged from the bottle. His father would have been horrified. He also would have said it was rude to stare, but Charlie was doing just that. As a student Astrid had been employed at Addleston to clear undergrowth, repair paths and transform vistas, along with Charlie’s brother, Andy. Management of habitats it was called. When they weren’t toiling in the meadows and pastures, the volunteers had spent most of the time propping up the bar in the Addleston Arms. After a summer of blistered fingers, sun frazzled hair and peeling noses, the civilians went back to their real jobs, and the students resumed their courses. ‘After Uni I did a course in conservation followed by one in estate management,’ she said, ‘which is how I ended up working here full time. Hence the cottage.’

  He put his beer on the table.

  ‘I’m not sure how this works,’ she said. ‘You go through material and see if anything suggests itself. Is that it?’

  He didn’t disagree, but neither did he embark on a detailed explanation. Was there really no-one else who could shed light on the mysterious box and its contents?

  A tentative commitment was all he offered for the time being. ‘I’d be happy to try, if that’s what you want… Where is it?’

  ‘Hang on while I get it. It’s in the room I laughingly call the study.’

  She returned clutching a wooden box which she placed on the coffee table in front of her. It looked like a tea caddy. ‘It’s extraordinarily well preserved considering it’s been underneath the floorboards for two hundred years.’ She nudged it towards him. ‘You can do the honours.’

  He shuffled forwards for a better look. The rosewood container was decorated around the edges with an alternating checkerboard pattern of black and white rectangles. Neat and compact with only negligible surface damage; a few tiny scuffs and scratches here and there, its smooth lacquered lid bore an inlaid illustration of traders and sailing ships.

  With a soft click, followed by a gentle spring as the box lid separated itself from the base, the interior was revealed. The original box had been lined with brown silk, now slightly dulled in colour where small deposits of dust had accumulated in each corner, and it contained two bundles of letters, a worn leather-bound notebook, and a handful of broken pen nibs and an inky rag.

  He drew the box gingerly onto his lap. There was a slight crackle from the varnished inlay as he handled it. Two sets of pale pink ribbons lay on top of the letters, their unravelled ends, twisted and frayed.

  ‘Took me ages to undo those,’ Astrid said. ‘The knots played havoc with my nails.’

  He removed each item one by one and laid them out on the coffee table. ‘What’s this?’ He held the inky rag between thumb and finger. ‘A pen wipe?’ He stroked the brown silk where it adhered to the base of the box.

  ‘After it was emptied of tea somebody kept it for re-use like I used to do with Mum’s old shoe boxes. I kept my birthday cards in them.’

  He’d collected snail shells in his.

  Astrid reached across for the notebook. The leather spine creaked as she revealed the yellowed, liver spotted paper within. ‘There’s a name in the end papers.’ She showed it to him.

  He inspected the faded blue signature. ‘Mary Ellen?’

  ‘I think so. At first sight, it appears to be a record of household expenditure or domestic account. But by the time we get to page four, it’s become a journal. Look.’ Neat columns of figures and tallies at the beginning of the book were followed by pages covered in very dense, even handwriting.

  He took it from her, smoothing his fingers across its cover, turning it all ways in his palms. ‘Have you read it?’

  ‘I gave it a go, but to be honest that sort of twiddly handwriting gives me a headache.’

  ‘And you think I’ll do a better job?’

  ‘We both appreciate the powerful allure of ancient artefacts, don’t we?’

  ‘Couldn’t agree more. They act like a window opening up in your mind.’

  She moved the bottles away from the letters and placed them on the shelf behind him. ‘Mustn’t spill beer on the letters. Louis would kill me. Our curator. He’s on paternity leave, I think I mentioned it? We ‘share’ him with several other properties. Not enough work for one person. No justification for keeping him all to ourselves. Mrs Toon’s our wise repository when Louis is away. Senior Rooms Guide,’ she added.

  ‘Does Mrs Toon know you’ve brought the box here?’

  Astrid sighed, betraying her irritation. ‘She has enough to keep her occupied without worrying what I’m doing. She lives for Addleston House. She’d move in if she could. She’d run it single handed if I let her. She thinks she’s descended from some obscure branch of the Tunney family herself. Megs says it’s because she’s read ‘Brideshead Revisited’ one too many times.’

  He turned back to the diary. ‘Maybe the writer had no choice but to use the same book for two tasks, or maybe those first few pages were dummy pages - decoy pages - to fool the casual inquisitor into thinking it was only a harmless ledger?’ He widened his eyes dramatically.

  ‘Now you’re talking.’ Astrid picked up one of the letter piles and weighed it in her hands. ‘There’s a reason these things have been kept together like this, and I want to know what it is.’

  ‘And that’s why I’m here, is it?’ He smiled wryly. ‘Unpaid work, I take it? On a voluntary basis?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  They were interrupted by a sharp knock at the door.

  ‘Probably Megs,’ she said, ‘checking that we’ll be at the pub later.’

  It wasn’t Megs. It was the Senior Rooms Guide, Mrs Toon.

  ‘Hello, Miss Buchanan, how are you this evening?’ Without waiting for either answer or invitation, the determined woman crossed the threshold into the lobby. ‘Company, is it?’ Craning her neck around the living room door, her eyes fell upon the open casket on the table. She gasped in reproach. ‘Astrid! What are you doing with those?’

  With her iron grey bob and porridge-coloured skirt-suit, Mrs Toon wouldn’t have looked out of place in a Breughel painting. She was as sturdy and robust as a Toby jug, and ought, Charlie felt, to be placed on a very high shelf.

  ‘I thought they were going on display,’ said Mrs Toon, ‘in the library.’

  ‘They are. They will. Eventually,’ said Astrid.

  ‘Then why are they here?’

  ‘I wasn’t aware I was required to inform you of their every movement, Mrs Toon,’ said Astrid. ‘I didn’t realize you required a ringside seat.’

  ‘Well, of course not.’ She stepped further into the room. ‘But a little courtesy wouldn’t go amiss! After all, I am senior staff. I would have thought you’d be only too eager to capitalize on my knowledge and experience. In the absence of our curator, naturally I assumed I would study the letters with you.’

  ‘That’s assuming they’re of value,’ said Astrid. ‘The box might not be as vital an object as you seem to think.’

  ‘Hm,’ she replied, ‘and I’m sure we none of us believe that.’ She squared her shoulders. ‘And who is your friend?’

  ‘This is Charlie Gilchrist.’

  ‘Oh yes? Putting him at an early advantage over the rest of us, are you? Giving him preferential treatment?’ She looked Charlie up and down quite unselfconsciously. ‘And you’re having a private reconnoitre of the contents of the box, I see? In the company of our own dear manager?’

  ‘An introduction,’ Charlie clarified.

  ‘Fancy yourself as a bit of a James Lees Milne, do you?’

  The sarcasm was obvious, the implication clear.

  ‘Well, maybe Charlie doesn’t aspire to those dizzying heights,’ Astrid replied smoothly, ‘but as regards country house preserva
tion, we all do our bit.’

  Despite Astrid’s well-aimed retaliatory strike, Mrs Toon surrendered no ground. Picking up the diary she reverently held it to her nose. ‘I love the smell of old leather. I think it must be kid, it’s so soft, wouldn’t you agree?’ She untangled her reading glasses which had snagged themselves on her oversized garnet brooch, and opened it up.

  ‘Mrs Toon, if you don’t mind, this is a preliminary examination.’ Astrid held her hand out for the return of the book. ‘And we’d be grateful if you’d let us get on with it.’

  She ignored the request and began rifling through the pages. ‘It’s a woman’s handwriting, I’m sure. And the date here is 1820. The year George IV became King. Exquisite,’ she breathed. ‘Absolutely exquisite. We shall have to put it in the display cabinets in the library once we have established its provenance!’ She studied the pale blue ink of the frontispiece. ‘No daughters of the house were named Mary Ellen, or wives either. Not in the 1820’s at any rate. In the early Twentieth century, there was a Mary Oswald, but I recall no other individuals of that name.’ She caressed the letter bundles and covetously fondled the leather. Holding the pen nibs between poised finger and thumb she sniffed at the ink like a wine connoisseur.

  Astrid intervened. ‘All right, Mrs Toon, was there something in particular you needed me for? Only, it’s getting late.’

  ‘It is, isn’t it?’ she said, scrutinizing Charlie. ‘You’ll be staying the night at the B and B, I suppose? Or do you have a bed here, perhaps?’

  Astrid flashed crimson. ‘Good night, Mrs Toon,’ she said firmly. ‘We can talk again tomorrow.’

  ‘But this is a task that should be undertaken with care. By an expert.’

  ‘Oh, it will be, Mrs Toon, don’t you worry.’

  She was scarcely mollified. ‘As senior rooms guide, I really ought to be kept apprised of all developments and discoveries. How else am I to do my job? How else can I keep on top of things?’