by Marni Graff
“I had the story, bit by bit, from various people, and, as generally happens in such cases, each time it was a different story.”
— Edith Wharton, Ethan Frome
8 PM
Friday evenings were a popular night at the lodge, and the dining room was full. Nora was grateful their table stood in one corner, where she could watch people coming and going. She hoped Maeve was wrong, that people were not talking about her. It was an odd and uncomfortable feeling, and she wondered if Maeve had been telling the truth or just trying to wind her up, as Val would say.
She watched Maeve move about the room, seating a few diners. Was that a smirk of derision on the woman’s face when she caught Nora observing her? Nora speculated about Simon’s awareness of Maeve’s interest and wondered if he ever encouraged it. He’d been called over to a table to offer a wine recommendation, and as he stood talking to the guests, she saw Maeve undress him with her eyes. Bloody hell—she wished for a better mood.
When Simon returned, Kate took her seat, and the three of them lingered over dinner, a delectable prime rib of beef with Yorkshire pudding. Nora’s stomach seemed finally to be relaxing, and she ate more than she’d anticipated. If only she could indulge in a glass of wine.
From time to time, Kate jumped up to greet a patron. Nora had seen how Simon and his sister were the heart of Ramsey Lodge, gracious to the people they knew, welcoming to those passing through or staying the night. The fireplace glowed in the elegant room, reflecting off the polished wide-plank floors. White table linens were a crisp oasis; the clink of glass and china against silver provided backdrop noise, accompanied by soft, piped-in classical music.
“All done?” Simon asked, his smile lighting up his face.
In this light, his eyes were a clear blue, and Nora felt a surge of attraction to him immediately followed by a rush of annoyance for his ability to confuse her. Sod off, Mr. Perfect. She quickly chastised herself. Totally wrong, Nora. It’s not his fault you’re heavily pregnant, have roiling hormones and found a dead body this morning. “Stuffed,” she answered.
“It’s Kate’s turn to close down,” he said. “Let’s sit and talk.”
She followed him to his rooms, accompanied by Darby, the little dog trotting beside her. Simon shut the door to his studio and locked his kitchen door. He set about competently lighting a fire. Nora sank into one of the overstuffed swivel chairs in Simon’s sitting area and snuggled into the down cushion. She rotated the chair to watch as Simon rolled up his shirtsleeves. The blonde hair covering his forearms became visible in the light from the flames, and their lean muscles and tendons stood out. Nora’s annoyance with Simon faded as the wood caught and filled the room with its comforting scent.
Without asking, Simon put on a kettle and bustled about his kitchen making proper tea. Nora swiveled again to watch him pour a healthy shot of brandy into his mug. He brought both mugs over and set them to cool on the glass-topped trunk that doubled as a coffee table.
Leaning over her, he lightly rubbed his hand over her belly and gave her a smile. “All right in there after today?”
“I think so. He was very active this afternoon.” They sat together quietly as the flames grew, the colors deepening as yellow and orange gave way to streaks of blue.
“What were you working on today in your studio?” Nora asked. She was surprised when he hesitated. Did it have something to do with that phone call?
“A special project,” he answered vaguely.
Nora stole a glance at Simon. He studiously avoided meeting her eye. Whatever it was, he clearly didn’t want to talk about it. She chewed the inside of her cheek and decided it was in both of their interests to change the subject.
“You said you’d tell me about the Clarendons,” she reminded him. “Tell me their story.”
Simon slipped off his shoes and shoved aside a pile of art magazines to prop his long feet on the coffee table. Darby jumped up and settled on his lap, and he rubbed the dog’s ears.
Nora slipped her own loafers off and grabbed her mug of tea. Her feet didn’t reach the floor, so she curled them to one side and pushed a throw pillow under her baby bulge to support it. Comfortable, she settled back to hear the story.
“There are two brothers, the older Edmunde and the younger Sommer. Edmunde was a big man with a hearty laugh and what my mum delicately called ‘a roving eye.’ He could have had any woman he wanted, he was that charming, but the one he wanted was an actress he saw on stage in London. He was smitten and followed her all over Europe as the play toured, until he captured her heart. Julia was a beautiful woman who gave up her career to marry him and settle here. Everyone thought she would tire of Edmunde and miss her life in the theater, but she seemed to like being buried in these hills.”
Simon was a natural storyteller. Nora closed her eyes and pictured the events as they unfolded.
“They lived at Clarendon Hall with Sommer and Antonia, who had already been married a few years without children. Antonia wanted children desperately and became depressed about it. But she and Julia became great friends, and they finally got pregnant around the same time. The family owned huge amounts of property at the time and had their fingers in several industries, including agriculture. They rented land to farmers and herders, while other tenants lived in cottages on their land. When they were happy, the town prospered from their generosity. Rumor had it they might even build a new school.”
Simon paused to take a sip of his laced tea.
“Sommer was always interested in horticulture and was known for his gardens. Just before the babies were due, he took a trip north to a factory in Scotland, where prize seeds of his were being grown for hybrid perennials. On his way home, there was a terrible accident: A lorry pulled out of a rest stop and didn’t see his black car coming over the top of a hill. It was a miracle he survived, but there were severe injuries to his spinal cord. The shock and strain put Antonia into labor, and while she was delivering, Julia went into labor, too.”
Nora’s eyes popped opened. “What happened?”
“Antonia delivered Keith, but Julia developed complications. She delivered a little girl, but she died a few hours later.” Simon’s voice softened. “Her baby was sickly, and Edmunde refused to see or hold her. He blamed the poor thing for Julia’s death. I think the infant only lived a matter of hours and then she died, too.”
“What a heartache for them all,” Nora said. She placed a hand across her belly. A surge of affection for the child she carried rushed over her, and she closed her eyes. Please, she silently prayed, let my baby be born healthy.
“It was a bad time for the whole town. Everywhere, people mourned Julia and the baby, while they worried about Sommer and his accident. It took a long time for things to settle down. Baby Keith was a delight to everyone—but his uncle, Edmunde, became withdrawn. As the years passed, he took to drinking, and it spun out of control. He never got over Julia’s death and became reclusive except for drunken forays and bouts of womanizing. About two years ago, he had a terrible stroke. One entire side of him is paralyzed, the rest weakened, and he’s given up trying to speak.”
“My God,” Nora breathed. “It’s like some kind of Greek tragedy.”
“That it is, my girl.” Simon stared deeply into the fire. A knock at the door had Darby sitting up. Kate pulled the door open and walked in, empty glass in hand.
“I’ve come for my spot of brandy, but I see you’ve started without me.”
“I was just telling Nora the saga of the Clarendons.” Simon rose and retrieved the brandy bottle, then poured Kate a shot.
Kate spread out on the couch, propping her head on the arm. “Quite a story, isn’t it? I feel so badly for Antonia. She was devoted to Keith, and this will devastate her. I’ll go and see her—Mum would have.” She sipped her brandy. “By the wa
y, that charter for breakfast tomorrow cancelled—they’ve gone to Hawkshead instead—so it should be quiet.”
Simon nodded. “I’ll be around if you’d like the day off until dinner.”
Kate smiled at him with affection. “That would be lovely. Ian called, but I haven’t returned his call yet. I’m still miffed at how he treated Nora this morning.”
Nora rushed to reassure her, explaining how Ian’s attitude had changed at their second meeting that afternoon. The last thing she wanted was to be a source of friction in the life of the happy couple. “Ian said the pathologist didn’t find water in Keith’s lungs. He thinks he might have been under the influence of some kind of drug,” Nora said.
Kate sat up at the news. “Drugs? You mean suicide or murder? Either sounds so unlikely. Why would Keith kill himself—and who would want him dead?”
As Nora sipped her tea, she wondered the same thing. Her shock over finding Keith’s body was wearing off, and her usual grit and determination were returning. Her reporter’s instincts kicked in. Here was an opportunity for her to snoop and to get to the bottom of things, and while she was at it, she could try to identify the research that Keith had mentioned he would share with her. If she found the reason for Keith’s death, it would clear the air between Kate and Ian, too. “Kate, when you visit Keith’s mother, might I tag along? I feel like I should offer my condolences, especially since I knew him in Oxford, and I’m the one who found him. And maybe I can get a look at those books he offered me.” She ignored Simon’s throat clearing. It would be just like him to tell her not to get involved. There was more than a hint of mystery surrounding Keith’s death, and she had perfectly good reasons to visit his home.
“I’d love the company, Nora. Let’s go later in the morning, shall we?” Kate stretched out luxuriously. “I, for once, am sleeping in.”
Chapter Thirteen
“Every thing, saith Epictetus, hath two handles, the one to be held by, the other not.”
— Robert Burton, The Anatomy of Melancholy
9:15 PM
Daniel Rowley had almost finished in the lodge kitchen when Agnes sighed.
“These long days at the end of the week aren’t good for my arthritis, but then staying home drives me crazy and doesn’t pay the bills,” she said, drying her hands on a towel.
Daniel grunted in acknowledgment as he tied the last garbage bag shut in preparation for taking it out to the commercial bins. He watched Agnes take one last look around.
“I like coming in mornings to a clean workspace, no doubt about it,” she told him, wiping a rag across the stainless steel countertop and using it to dry out the clean sinks. She threw the wet rag into a laundry hamper, then paused and sniffed hard. “What’s this, then?” She lifted the lid off a small bucket kept in the corner by the sinks.
He waited for her yell.
“Daniel! You’ve forgotten the compost bucket.” She was on a tear now. “Jings! You can’t remember anything. And I’ll not tell you again, if you don’t wash that greasy hair and beard, I’ll not be having you in my kitchen tomorrow night.”
He finally found his tongue. “Relax, it’s on my list for tonight,” he told her, scooping up the bucket.
“I know what’s on your list on a Friday night, and a good washing won’t be found at the pub. I mean what I’m saying, you minger.” With that firm pronouncement, Agnes tied a red kerchief around her grey curls. She pulled on a bulky cardigan and headed out the kitchen door. “Mind you lock the door behind you.”
“Bloody bitch,” he muttered when he was certain Agnes was out of earshot. Dullard he might be, but he was lucky to have this scullery job and didn’t intend to lose it. He emptied the bucket into the outside compost pile, then rinsed it with the garden hose and left it drying on the end of the counter.
Daniel stood at the head of the hall while counting slowly to a hundred on his fingers. Tiptoeing through the door and down the hallway to Simon’s door, he paused outside, one ear pressed against it.
From inside came the murmur of voices. Daniel stole back across the hallway and entered the dining room. The tables were bare, the chairs placed upside-down on them, the floor swept clean. He crossed the darkened room by the light coming in from the main hall, and paused in the doorway. No movement came from either of the front rooms the guests used. The public had gone home, and the few lodgers were all upstairs in their rooms.
Avoiding a floorboard he knew from past experience contained a persistent creak, Daniel approached the registration desk and opened the third drawer on the left. Lifting out a metal box, he picked the lock and rummaged under the credit card slips. Avoiding the large bills, he stuffed a few pound notes and a handful of coins in his pocket, then relocked the box and replaced it, sliding the drawer closed.
When he returned to the kitchen, he turned out the lights and left the way the kitchen help should, by the back door, which he remembered to lock as he exited. He turned left, toward Jack Halsey and his other buddies waiting for him at The Scarlet Wench, where he was now prepared to enjoy himself on his employers.
*
9:25 PM
Nora basked in the warmth of the fire, listening to Kate and Simon talk about changing the Sunday lunch to a buffet in the future.
“We can save money yet offer locals a more varied menu by serving a buffet,” Kate said. “If Keith’s plans go ahead, and Clarendon Hall eventually opens as an art center, people wanting a change from their menu would get served at a buffet much faster. If we have more guests dropping in to eat, we need to keep them moving along.”
Simon pushed for keeping their current waitress service. “I can see updating the menu, but we do that seasonally anyway. I don’t want to encourage busloads of tourists to stream in here every Sunday, no matter what happens at the Hall. Besides, with Keith dead, who knows what will happen to those plans now?”
With her eyes closed, Nora thought Simon sounded petulant, a new note for him, and came off as not the best business owner. Did his artistic side chafe at having to run the lodge? Their chat seemed amiable enough, but what would happen when Kate married, eventually had children and was less available to share their chores? Nora shook herself out of her state. It wasn’t her worry right now. She should go to bed or risk falling asleep in the comfortable chair by the fire.
Nora said goodnight and left, crossing to her door. She stopped abruptly when she heard a noise. For a moment, she had the eerie feeling she was not alone. A door latch clicked into place somewhere down the hall; then there was silence.
Nora swallowed and opened her door to the welcoming light next to her bed. She shut the door and calmed herself. Chiding herself for her foolishness, she felt her son waving. Could he be an Evan or a Rory? She put a hand on her belly to feel the movement, pushing back against him, and was rewarded with the responsive kick that never failed to thrill her. Then she thought of meeting Antonia Clarendon tomorrow and wondered if her pregnancy would upset the mother who’d just lost her son.
Still feeling uneasy, she walked over to look out the French doors to the front of the lodge property. She saw a large figure cross the road beyond the garden and hurry away, and a feeling of menace ran through her.
Chapter Fourteen
“Whoever is spared personal pain must feel himself called upon to help in diminishing the pain of others.”
— Albert Schweitzer, Memoirs of Childhood and Youth
Saturday, 23rd October
8:20 AM
Nora woke with the sense she’d been dreaming, but it faded as she sat up. Surprisingly, she’d had no nightmares of Keith that she remembered, and she resolved not to let the experience of finding Keith haunt her.
She recalled the firelight etching shadows last night in the planes of the Ramseys’ faces before she’d left them in Simon’
s sitting room. Nora envied them even their sparring, friendly as it was, a warm playfulness between a brother and a sister who respected and loved each other. She wondered if they ever had knock-down, drag-out fights. She also wondered how different her life would have been if she’d had a sibling to share it. Certainly, her guilt over her father’s death would have been assuaged sooner if she’d had a sister or brother to turn to. Despite her mother’s efforts to encourage Nora’s self-forgiveness, it had taken her years to feel she wasn’t the cause of her father’s death. He’d drowned while sailing alone after she’d turned down his invitation to accompany him in favor of a date whose name she’d long forgotten. She got out of bed, cradling her belly. The fact that he’d not know this child was one of her deepest regrets.
Nora turned on the shower and heard a rumble as chairs were put into position in the dining room. Agnes knocked, then came in and left Nora’s tea; Nora called out her thanks. Should she mention the noises she heard or the person she saw last night? No, Ramsey Lodge was more than a hundred years old, a haven for creaks and noises. What she thought was a door click could have been the roof settling. And the figure could have been anyone—and not necessarily connected with the lodge. In the daylight, last night’s fears seemed more a reaction to the events of that day, reasonable as that was, and not anything concrete or reportable.
Nora took her time in the shower, remembering that Kate had said she wanted to sleep in. As she dressed, Nora caught the smell of frying bacon and realized she was hungry. She added a scarf to the same old denim skirt and tunic blouse she’d been wearing far too long. It had taken a while to find a maternity skirt with pockets, and she didn’t want to spend money on a temporary wardrobe. Only a few weeks more, and she might contemplate getting back into her soft, washed-out jeans again.