‘I suppose.’ I wasn’t convinced. Everybody told me Felicity had lived a life of a recluse.
‘Try the local library.’
The idea warmed over the rest of the weekend. The combination of a hot shower, a delicious lunch with Ruth and watching a movie with a bottle of wine had a magical effect on my motivation. Driving back to Heachley Hall on Sunday, the traffic was unusually heavy and the long journey provided me with the opportunity to plan my investigation and the robots, too.
·•●•·
There were no hushed tones in Hunstanton library.
Shaking the droplets of rain off my coat, the first sound to greet me was the shriek of a small child. In the middle of the children’s corner was a toddler dismembering the contents of a large box. Each picture book he extracted with his grasping hands landed on a tottering heap. The little boy’s mother sat on her bottom by the box, staring blankly at her mobile phone. Her eyelids drooped while her fingers fluttered over the screen. She jerked her head up and popped her eyes open wider. She dropped the phone into her lap and raked her fingers through her hair; the shiny nails glinted under the lights. Pressing her palms into her shadowy eyes, she shook her head.
‘No, Flynn.’ She scooped up the books and attempted to rearrange them in the box. Snotty nose Flynn screeched and proceeded to snatch books out of the box as fast as his mother could put them back. The tears added to the streams of mucus puddling on his chin and upper lip, and the viscous threads dripped into the box. I cringed, my sympathy stretching out to those books, which an author had spent hours lovingly constructing into a literary adventure, only to have them turned into a breeding ground for contagious bugs.
In the opposite corner sprawled on a beanbag armchair was an elderly man clutching a walking stick with marble knuckles. His head lolled to one side, slack jawed in his dream world. A spot of drool on the corner of his lip waited for release. His stuttering snores collided with the whoops of Flynn and the futile admonishments of his exasperated mother and blended into a peculiar orchestration. How quickly I’d become accustomed to a different kind of silence.
The librarian ignored the noise. Her nose was inches away from her computer monitor and the forefinger of her right hand occasionally stabbed at the keyboard.
I cleared my throat. ‘Excuse me—’
‘Oh, yes, hello.’ She rolled her chair back, her smile broadening. ‘How can I help?’
‘I’m not sure.’ What the hell was I looking for anyway? ‘I’m researching the history of a house and its occupants. It’s called Heachley Hall and I’m wondering if you have anything about the local history.’
She pursed her lips and clucked her tongue on her roof of her mouth. ‘Not heard of Heachley. There’s a small collection of publications covering Hunstanton and the local area.’
She directed me to a lower shelf in the Reference section. I crouched to inspect the contents of a box: a few thin books on King’s Lynn and the history of Norfolk, other pamphlets on county life, farming and a couple on Norwich. What did I expect, a treasure trove of information waiting to be unearthed?
I thumbed the corners of the booklets.
‘Sorry,’ the librarian said, ‘not much, I know. If you want more things, like family history, you’ll need to visit the county archives in Norwich. They’d have newspapers on microfilm, birth and death certificates, local businesses, so on.’
‘I naively hoped there would be something about Heachley. There was a big fire there once, a hundred or so years ago.’
‘I suggest you look for newspaper reports then. Sorry, I’ve only lived in the area for a couple of years. I don’t know much about local history.’ She backed away. ‘You can check what’s available on the computer, over there.’
The small bank of computers lined one wall. ‘Thanks.’
Left to my own devices, I placed the box on a table, and flicked through the small selection of publications, most of which had not made into a hardback format or even a decent binding.
I nearly missed it: an A5 sized booklet made from thin paper, almost like tissues except glossy. With a simple cover and title – Hunstanton’s War – and a picture of an observation post, it came to no more than fifty pages or so. There were several short articles written about the various experiences of people living in and around Hunstanton during the Second World War. The first was told by a farmer near Docking, who had a German fighter plane crash into one of his fields. Another described the impact of labour shortage on farming and the role of the Land Girls.
Towards the back of the booklet I spotted the photograph. In black and white, as with all the pictures in the publication, the house was easily recognisable with its small turrets on top of the gables. The caption beneath read, Heachley Hall, Royal Observers Corp Station.
I grabbed a nearby chair, perched on it and poured over it. The brief article had been written by somebody who’d been stationed at the house. However, as I read, it was apparent much of his recollections were not about Heachley, although those who worked there had admired the tranquillity, rather the author described the camaraderie and role of the Corp.
Two names stood out in the text: Hubert Marsters – the landlord, who’d leased the house for the duration of the war and had lived in India before dying fighting the Japanese in 1943 in Burma – and his son John, who continued the leasing arrangement.
I stroked my finger across the two names: my grandfather and great-grandfather. There was nothing else revealed or hinted at in the article. The house had served a purpose and done its duty. Scanning through the start of the pamphlet I checked for the name of an editor and publication date. Apart from individual names in the articles, the overarching author was the Historical Society of Hunstanton and Docking. The publication date: 1957. Examining the photograph, I wondered if it had been taken in the 1950s at the time of the article or during the war. The branches of the trees were bare, the chimneys were devoid of puffing smoke and the gardens in a decent state.
I scanned the picture and article using the library’s computer and copied the file to a flash memory stick that I carried in my handbag.
‘Found anything?’ the librarian asked, coming to stand alongside my chair.
‘Yes, a photograph and an article.’ I showed her the booklet. ‘That’s my house.’
‘Yours?’ she exclaimed.
Explanations were too complicated and I brushed over them. ‘Yes, kind of,’ I stammered. I turned back to the monitor. ‘I’m trying to find out if this historical society still exists or if there are other publications by it.’
The librarian, her curiosity roused, which didn’t surprise me given her usual clientele were either asleep or dismantling her displays, helped me search, but we found nothing.
Glancing at my watch, I sighed. ‘I have to go soon. Perhaps I should go to Norwich.’
The librarian agreed and went to fetch me a leaflet about the library services there. While she hunted through her desk drawer, I perused the shelves, picking up novels – when did I have time to read? I selected a couple of lightweight romances, then spied a macabre cover: a raven on a clawed hand – a ghost story, according to the blurb on the back.
‘Here, you go.’ The librarian handed me the leaflet. ‘Taking those?’
‘These two, but I’m not sure about this one.’ I held up the ghost book.
‘It’s a good read, I gather. Full of suspense.’
I chuckled, ‘Probably not a wise choice for me. Some say the house I’m living in is haunted.’
Her eyes sprung wider and she leaned forward on the desk. ‘How exciting. Have you seen anything? People walking through walls, objects moving?’
I almost mentioned the missing cellar bolt, then I decided it was trivial. Nothing else had disappeared or moved, but there again, my house was somewhat devoid of objects. ‘No. I don’t believe in haunted houses. The previous occupant, my great-aunt, died elsewhere and before that, lots of people lived in the house.’
‘Is
that why you’re interested in the house?’
‘More because I want to know why my aunt stayed there and who lived there in the past.’
‘Perhaps she is bound to it,’ the librarian’s spoke softly, which was unnecessary; there was nobody within earshot. The mother and child had vacated the premises while I’d been busy scanning and the elderly man hadn’t moved from his seat. ‘Powers that keep her there, even after death.’ The librarian’s voice wobbled. She was twice my age, at least, with dark hair and a collection of rings on her fingers, which clattered on the keyboard. Mascara laden eyelashes ringed her blue eyes, and she blinked sharply, as if surprised by her own hissing pronouncement. Her words came across as melodramatic, somewhat over the top. I clutched the books tight to my belly and hid my shaking fingers. Did my trembling signify fear or annoyance?
‘What do you mean?’ I glanced over my shoulder at the sleeping gent and he snorted, jolting himself awake. For a few seconds, he scratched his head, disturbing the few wisps of grey hair sprouting from his balding scalp.
‘Well,’ she whispered, ‘your aunt might have died elsewhere, but her spirit could have been called back to haunt the house.’
I loosened my grip on the books, slid them across the desk towards her, while wishing I hadn’t mentioned anything about the house. ‘Except, the house is quite innocuous.’ Another lie. Heachley Hall spoke to me every day, chatting away with its creaks and groans, the odd door slamming, the layer of dust that drifted from room to room. I went into denial whenever anyone implied I lived in a haunted house.
She held the bar scanner to the back of the ghost book.
‘Not that one, please.’ I snatched it back, putting it to one side. ‘Don’t have time to read three,’ I added lamely.
After I’d gathered up my things, my handbag and books, I stepped out into the rain. I could eat lunch in town or head back to Heachley Hall. The choice was easy – a small cafe would suffice. One thing Charles never bothered with was lunchtime and if he wasn’t there to share his lunch with me, then I’d enjoy a meal out.
·•●•·
‘So, the house was let to the Observer Corps during the war,’ I informed Charles when I returned home later in the day. He was applying putty to the edges of a drawing room windowpane. The air reeked of linseed oil. My assaulted nose spontaneously wrinkled and I stifled a sneeze with the back of my hand. He carried out the task with remarkable ease and skill; pushing his thumb into the putty, while leaving even amounts spread along the edge of the wooden frame. Until I came to Heachley, I’d never lived in a house that didn’t have sealed metal units.
‘And you read this in a booklet in the library?’ Charles asked. He rolled a small amount of putty between his fingertips to warm it. In the background the radio played softly, floating a voiceless melody across the room. He’d plugged it in on the far wall.
‘Yes.’ His lack of interest in my discovery surprised me, but there again, perhaps Felicity had told him about how the hall was used during the war. Maybe, she’d had a copy of the pamphlet on her bookshelves and he’d read it himself.
Before I could ask, he shot a glance over his shoulder. ‘What else did you find out?’
I sighed, heavily with puffed cheeks. ‘Not a lot. I should go to Norwich and visit the library there, they might have more information.’
‘What are you hoping to find?’
His reflection in the windowpane showed his eyes narrowing to form letterbox slits. I moved closer to the window and inhaled the potent aroma of linseed. Opening up to Charles had become easier over time; he seemed genuinely interested in my situation and often encouraged me with ideas for improving the house, especially when my mood darkened and I lost sight of the end-point: selling the place.
‘Since I can’t find Felicity’s secrets here, I thought I might find out more about the house and its previous occupants. The librarian recommended the archives in Norwich, but when do I have the time? I’ve deadlines to meet.’ I couldn’t afford the charges either and would have to do the research myself.
Bending over the windowsill, he hunched his shoulders and bowed his head, hiding his face away from the reflective properties of the window. ‘Secrets?’
‘The contents of her box. Frankly, I think it was chucked away and nobody has it in them to admit to it. By nobody, I mean Eva Kendal.’
‘It’s becoming an obsession, that box.’
‘You reckon.’ I scoffed. It had, but then so had Heachley and the need to earn my fortune. ‘It fills my time between drawing pictures of tin can robots.’
‘No more two-headed monsters?’ He picked up the knife and began to smooth the putty, focusing in on his task.
‘I’m taking a break—’
The rapping of a distant knock interrupted.
‘Hell-oo,’ the woman’s voice sang through the hallway. Charles’ shoulders stiffened again and the knife skidded across the putty, scoring a line into it.
Liz Pyke appeared in the doorway. ‘I’m sorry, the back door was open. I tried to ring but you couldn’t have heard the bell.’
The Wellington boots were spotless. Green with an adjustable strap, they probably were the most expensive boots available. The tweed coat, the silk scarf draped around her neck and fedora hat, which had a fur velour finish – unlike my woollen knitted style – added to the country woman profile. The attire shouted money, which I didn’t associate with agricultural living. What little news I read about rural life showed farmers struggling to make money, but here was Liz looking the part of the squire’s wife.
Detecting the pervasive smell of putty, she scrunched her nose up and halted by the door. ‘I’m intruding. Clearly you two are busy talking, so sorry.’ Her apology grated, because her voice had an insincere flavour to it.
Charles, his nostrils twitching, remained by my side with rigid limbs. Gripping the putty knife, his knuckles turned white. He detested Liz Pyke – his body language shouted it. I stood between them and almost expected him to shout abuse at her. He’d refused to explain the reason for the acrimony and if I were to insist and demand an answer, would he stay or quit?
‘Would you like a tea or a coffee?’ I asked Liz.
‘Oh, neither. I stopped by to see if you needed anything. We’ve plenty of eggs. Always eggs.’ She rolled her eyes up into the brim of her hat.
‘A dozen would be fine.’ I didn’t need that many, but it felt rude to decline her gift.
‘I’ll go get them out of the car.’
Before leaving the room, I dispatched a swift smile to Charles, but he’d already turned away to face the window. Eggs clearly didn’t interest him. I followed her to the front and she opened the boot of her RAV-4. On the back shelf were rows of egg boxes.
‘Don’t you sell them?’ I asked, accepting the egg box.
‘These are too small. All they want is large ones.’
Who ‘they’ were, she didn’t reveal. She slammed the car door shut and hovered, glancing about the grounds. ‘Grass has grown very long,’ she remarked.
‘Around the back is horrendous. I’ve no idea how I’m going to cut it.’ The back lawn was officially a wilderness and a breeding ground for mice and rats. The problem was escalating up my to-do list and would only deteriorate further once the spring arrived.
‘Cut it?’ She set off at a pace, around the side of the house and into the back garden. She knew where she was going and I traipsed behind, clutching the egg box to my chest. With her hands on her hips and legs astride, she stood by the dwarf wall that marked the boundary of the top terrace. She reminded me of a general surveying an army. I smothered a grin; she’d make a great caricature and I mentally painted those exaggerated expressions, then filed away the image for future projects.
‘I wondered about a scythe—’
‘Good grief, Miriam, you’ll be here for years using that. I’ll speak to Tony.’
‘Tony?’
‘He has a contract with the local authority for trimming hedgerows and v
erges. He’s got all the equipment. He could get the tractor around the back if he went around this side.’ She pointed towards the spacious area where the demolished wing had stood. ‘The woods impede on other side.’ She spun around and grimaced at the encroaching trees. ‘These ought to be chopped down.’
‘There’s a preservation order on the woods.’
‘Not this close to the house,’ she declared. ‘The boundary for the preservation order covers the acreage of Heachley Woods, but not the gardens. Felicity let the new saplings grow and did nothing to curtail the existing trees. They practically overhang the house. She never wanted anything done to this place. So much potential wasted.’
I wanted to put the eggs down. My hands were shaking, both from the cold and the raw energy that burst along my nerves. ‘Potential?’ How did Liz know all this stuff about Heachley?
‘Oh yes. Can’t you picture it?’ Her face lit up and she stretched out her arms, as if to embrace the gardens. ‘The soil is excellent quality for farming. The far end is hardly visible from the house and to the side, where the wood has overgrown, it could be cleared and made into decent fields. Then you would be left with a copse for game. Specialist butchers would buy up wood pigeon and pheasant, not forgetting muntjac.’
I gawped, unable to stop her enthusiastic description.
‘Then, the house. Turn it into a lucrative bed and breakfast. Think of all those tourists in the summer who visit the beaches, they’d love this place.’ Her arms dropped to her sides and she stuck her chin out from under her hat. Her eyes remained hidden from view under the brim. ‘When exactly will this place go up for sale?’
I snapped my jaw shut. Such a mercenary attitude and it jarred badly. My lips trembled and I couldn’t speak. For those few seconds, she reminded me of Mr Bridge, who’d eyed up the abandoned mansion with pounds signs imprinted on his eyeballs – at least that would have been the way I’d drawn him in a cartoon. Liz showed the same eagerness to see Heachley transformed into something intolerable: a boutique hotel or a grotesque shooting range for the local wildlife, or an extension of a farm – what else?
The Women of Heachley Hall Page 18