The Nine Bright Shiners

by Anthea Fraser

  THE NINE BRIGHT

  SHINERS

  Anthea Fraser

  CHIVERS

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data available

  This eBook published by AudioGO Ltd, Bath, 2012.

  Published by arrangement with the Author

  Epub ISBN 9781471310294

  Copyright © Antonia Fraser 1987

  The Author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

  All rights reserved

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental

  Jacket illustration © iStockphoto.com

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  CHAPTER 1

  It lay at the back of a cupboard, huddled grotesquely like a lifeless old tramp. But the shabby jacket, the roll-neck sweater and grey flannels were padded with crumpled newspaper, and the face, staring from under a battered hat, was painted on a football.

  In fact, the dummy resembled the guys which small boys throughout the country had prepared for Bonfire Night. But three things distinguished it, made it sinister. First, the cupboard where it was hidden did not belong to a small boy – and anyway Bonfire Night had passed. Second, nine green sequins had been incongruously sewn on a lapel. And third, in one of the frayed pockets was a pigskin wallet containing fifty pounds and a clutch of credit cards bearing the name of a highly respected citizen of the town.

  Jan Coverdale handed her coffee-cup to the stewardess over the head of her sleeping daughter.

  The girl gave her a friendly smile. ‘Going home for Christmas?’

  Easier just to say ‘Yes’, and in a way it was true. She’d be spending Christmas in the house where she was born, though her parents were no longer there and she scarcely knew her half-brother and his wife. Even so, Rylands would be more like home than the house in Sydney, without Roger. Her fingers clenched on the tray in front of her, and she registered the sidelong glance from her son. Consciously relaxing, she gave him a bright smile and pushed the tray up, securing it to the back of the seat in front.

  Edward’s letter had come as a surprise. He was almost a stranger to her, more familiar on television than in real life, and she’d not expected any comment on the disintegration of her world. He was a busy man and she was, after all, twelve thousand miles away. Yet on receipt of her birthday card, with its pseudo-brave message that Roger had left them, came the invitation that was to catapult them into danger.

  ‘We’re sorry your marriage has broken down,’ he wrote, ‘and imagine Christmas is a bleak prospect. How would you like to spend it with us? We can’t offer the weeks of sunshine you’d enjoy down there, but the children are at an age when a little old-world culture wouldn’t go amiss, and you yourself would see quite a few changes after fifteen years.’

  He’d gone on to offer them the house for the eight-week Christmas holidays, even though he and Rowena would be flying to Peru before the New Year. And – the point that clinched it – he’d ended casually, ‘Needless to say, we’d cover the return fare for the three of you.’

  She hadn’t hesitated. As he so accurately deduced, the approach of Christmas was her most immediate dread, and the inevitable ‘This time last year’ would have less poignancy in wintry Broadshire. Also, she knew Roger would want to see the children over Christmas, which was an emotional hurdle they weren’t ready for. And why should they be upset, simply to ease his conscience? she thought bitterly. He’d left them, as well as herself. Why should he come back when it suited him, smiling and bearing gifts as if nothing had happened?

  The children themselves had offered no objections when told of the plan. Stunned by the abrupt departure of their father, their world was suddenly unsure, and the materialization of relatives hitherto only names on a Christmas card offered a tenuous security.

  But once her grateful acceptance had been posted came the doubts which, during sleepless nights, intensified to panic. What am I thinking of? she’d repeatedly asked herself.

  I don’t know them at all. I don’t know anyone there any more! Why fly half way round the world to be with them?

  It wasn’t even as though she’d known Edward as a child. Ten years her senior, he’d been at boarding-school and university while she was growing up. And his wife, she felt, had never liked her. She’d always been there, on the fringe of Jan’s childhood, as had Miles Cody. They were, after all, the daughter and son of her father’s colleagues. Looking back, it was inevitable Rowena should have married either Edward or Miles.

  Jan had found the wedding photo quite recently. It flattered none of them; Edward’s eyes were shut, Rowena held her bouquet as though it were a machete, and she herself, their sixteen-year-old bridesmaid, was squinting against the sun. Only her parents seemed happy and relaxed, and it was because of them that she’d kept the picture.

  She stirred, stretching her legs under the seat in front. The last time she’d seen them had been her own wedding-day, two days before she and Roger left for Australia. They’d been killed in a car crash five years later, while she was in hospital having her second baby. The house would be strange without them. They’d been such an integral part of it that she couldn’t imagine anyone else living there, even Edward and Rowena.

  ‘Why hasn’t Uncle Edward any children?’ Julie had inquired, as they were packing to come away.

  ‘Because he’s always out in the jungle, silly,’ Ben had retorted. Which saved Jan from giving what she felt was the true answer, that neither he nor Rowena cared for them.

  ‘You must behave yourselves while we’re there,’ she’d impressed on them, anxious that Edward shouldn’t regret his possibly impulsive invitation.

  ‘They’ll be going to Peru soon anyway,’ Ben had said comfortably. Now, still perhaps mindful of her clenched fingers, he slid a small, warm hand inside hers, and she shook herself free of memories to smile at him.

  Tell me about Peru,’ he said. It was a plea for reassurance, and her heart constricted. It had been with tales of

  Peru that, from their earliest days, she had read her children to sleep, soothed their anxieties, and generally comforted them. Peru was, as it had been hers, their Never-Never Land, their Narnia, their Wonderland. Robin Hood was ousted by Atahualpa, and their nursery baddies were not King John and the Sheriff of Nottingham but the Spanish conquerors. At the same time, it was intensely personal folklore in which her own father had played his part. One of her most treasured possessions was a copy of his book, The Hidden City, which he’d inscribed ‘To my Inca Princess’.

  ‘Which story would you like?’ she asked now, squeezing Ben’s hand.

  ‘The Third Expedition.’ But before she could begin, he twisted to face her. ‘Mum, why didn’t you ever go to Peru?’

  ‘By the time I was old enough, Grandpa’d stopped going.’

  ‘Why?’

  Jan started to say he’d been too old, but that couldn’t have been the reason. For neither her father nor Laurence Cody had returned to Peru after that third expedition in 1955. Of the three men who had taken part in it, only Reginald Peel, accompanied by his daughter Rowena and later by Edward, had continued to explore the country that had made them all famous.

  ‘I don’t know, Ben,’ she answered instead. As far as she
herself was concerned, she had married at twenty and emigrated to Australia. A more pertinent question was why Miles Cody hadn’t, like Edward and Rowena, followed in his father’s footsteps. But Miles had never professed any interest in Peru. For the first time in years, she wondered where he was now, and what he had done with his life. At one time, he’d been interested in art.

  ‘Go on, then,’ Ben prompted.

  Jan spoke slowly, trying to find within the familiar story an answer to what, suddenly, she found puzzling. ‘Well, the three men set out from Cuzco in July 1955. They’d been planning the expedition for months, and were really looking forward to it. After the outstanding success of their last trip, they were convinced they’d be just as lucky this time. Laurence Cody had discovered there were still some descendants of Manco Inca living in a remote village in the Andes, and the aim was to trace them. But unfortunately, things started to go wrong almost at once. Their supplies were held up, which meant delaying their departure for several days. Then one of the mules went lame, and they had to abandon some provisions; and finally, after only ten days’ walking, Grandpa developed a mysterious illness and had to be flown back to Lima.’

  ‘But the other two went on,’ Ben encouraged her, as she hesitated again.

  ‘Yes.’ Jan tried to concentrate on the story. ‘After all these setbacks, they were more determined than ever for the expedition to succeed.’

  ‘And after losing their way lots of times, they finally found the village,’ Ben interjected, tired of waiting for her.

  ‘Yes, and only just in time. The man was dying when they got there – he’d been shot by bandits.’

  ‘So it was all right in the end, wasn’t it? They found what they were looking for, and Grandpa got better. Why didn’t he write a book about that, too?’

  ‘Because he’d no personal experience of it. He spent most of the time in hospital.’

  Was that why he’d never gone back to Peru? The bitter disappointment and frustration, after all the months of planning? But that was a risk in any expedition, and they’d had setbacks before. Why hadn’t she asked him, while she still had the chance? Perhaps Edward would know.

  ‘We could ask Uncle Edward,’ she said aloud, but Ben’s eyes were drooping again and he didn’t reply.

  They landed at Heathrow at nine o’clock on a cold, drizzly morning, shivering and dazed from lack of sleep. Edward stood head and shoulders above the crowd in the Arrivals Hall, and from that distance his resemblance to her father was almost uncanny. As they moved forward with their trolley, still surrounded by Australian voices, it struck her they’d probably be the last she’d hear for eight weeks, and she was swamped by homesickness. But, for the moment at least, England was home, as she’d told the stewardess.

  The years had not been kind to Rowena. As always, she wore no make-up and her skin was toughened and leathery from exposure to sub-arctic winds and tropical suns, a network of fine creases round eyes and mouth. Edward, on the other hand, looked no different from when she’d last seen him, with his crinkly red-gold hair and deepset eyes. He came forward and kissed her cheek.

  ‘Good to see you, Janis. It’s been a long time.’

  It was strange to hear her full name again. To Roger, and consequently to all their Australian friends, she was always ‘Jan’. As Edward bent to greet the children, she turned to Rowena, who was proffering a dry cheek. ‘It’s so good of you to invite us.’

  ‘Our pleasure,’ she replied. ‘I hope you’ve brought plenty of warm clothes; the forecast isn’t good.’

  ‘We’ll have to stock up here,’ Jan said apologetically. ‘In the middle of summer, there wasn’t much choice at home.’

  She had the unreal sensation of a sleepwalker. The stress of the weeks since Roger had gone, the rushed preparations for the visit and finally the long flight, had sapped the last of her resources. She wanted to close her eyes and let someone else take control. Fortunately, Edward seemed to be doing so. He had already commandeered the trolley and was leading the way to the car park. There, amid its bleak concrete, the dank coldness that had lurked outside closed in to envelop them. Julie shivered and pressed against her mother.

  ‘You’ll soon get warm in the car,’ Edward said heartily, opening the rear door for them. Naturally they were shy with each other, Jan told herself, climbing in after the children. Things would soon get better.

  Drizzling rain misted the windows and on either side of the motorway the countryside lay hidden behind a grey curtain. As they turned off at the Shillingham exit, Jan leant forward, eager for the first familiar landmarks. But to her disappointment, the changes Edward had warned her of were already in evidence. They did not, as in the past, drive through Shillingham itself, but bypassed it on a ring road, only joining the familiar route half way to Stonebridge. At least the imposing building of County Police Headquarters was unchanged, standing solid and four-square just short of the stone bridge that gave the district its name. She pointed it out to the children, who glanced at it as they sped by. They were very subdued, she realized, huddling against her like refugees, and Julie’s lip had a disturbing quiver. Oh God, she thought for the hundredth time, had she done right, whizzing them round the world like this? Was she running away from Roger, from the prospect of a miserable Christmas, or simply from loneliness? And how long could she keep running? She hadn’t stopped to wonder how the children would react to being snatched from the familiarity of warm, open-skied Australia to dank, winter-bound Britain.

  She reached out a hand to both, and was rewarded by a wan smile from Julie, a more determined one from Ben.

  The roar of the car’s movement made conversation difficult between front and back, and she had to lean forward to catch what Edward said. Rowena sat stiffly in her seat and hadn’t so much as turned her head the entire journey.

  But they were almost home. Soon, Edward was driving down dear old Broad Street, with its tree-lined pavements and the towers and turrets of St Benedict’s School. Directly opposite it was the turning to Cavendish Road, and Jan leant forward eagerly. How many times she’d walked along this pavement, coming home from school, from shopping trips, from dates with Roger. And here, on the left, stood Rylands, the house about which she still dreamed so often. Yet, from the distance of fifteen years, it differed from her remembrance. She’d pictured it large and remote, standing alone with no near neighbours. In fact, it was a substantial Victorian house in a road of similar houses, neither larger nor smaller than its companions.

  The front garden contained little other than a semi-circular drive between the two gates. For an unfocused moment, as Edward drew up, Jan expected her parents to come down the steps. Then he got out of the car, and with the draught of wet air reality returned, and with it a renewed sense of loss.

  ‘Well, here we are. I hope Lily has coffee waiting.’

  Jan gave the children a nudge and they stumbled out on to the gravel. As Edward took their luggage from the boot, Rowena was already pushing open the front door. They followed her inside, into the welcoming warmth of the hall. At the far end, the gracious stairway rose towards the stained-glass window on the half-landing. The last time she’d come down those stairs, she’d been in her wedding dress. Now, Roger’s loss was added to that of her parents. Her throat ached with unshed tears.

  A small, neatly dressed woman had appeared at the back of the hall. ‘Oh, you’re back, Mrs Langley,’ she exclaimed unnecessarily. ‘There’s a nice fire in the drawing-room.’

  ‘Thank you, Lily. This is my sister-in-law, Mrs Coverdale, and Ben and Julie.’

  The woman smilingly shook hands all round. ‘I’ll bring the coffee straight through, shall I?’

  ‘Yes, please.’ Rowena was taking off her coat and hanging it in the large oak wardrobe. Jan had once hidden there, to escape a hated rice pudding. ‘Give me your coats,’ Rowena instructed, holding out her hand. ‘Now, I suggest we have coffee and get properly warmed through, then I’ll show you your rooms and you can unpack.’

/>   Although the drawing-room had been redecorated, the furniture was still that of Jan’s childhood, the deep, high-backed chesterfield and matching armchairs, the desk which had been her father’s, the grand piano with the silver-framed photograph on top. Only as she moved towards it did she notice with a jolt that the portrait had been changed. It was no longer her mother’s smiling face that looked out at her, but that of a younger woman, whose make-up and hairstyle was that of the ’forties. Lydia Langley, her father’s first wife and Edward’s mother. Jan wondered what had become of her own mother’s picture. She would like to have it.

  ‘Is that Granny?’ asked Julie, who had come up behind her.

  ‘No,’ Jan said quietly, embarrassed to be caught studying the substitution. ‘That’s Uncle Edward’s mother.’

  ‘Why didn’t you have the same mother, like me and Ben?’

  ‘Because,’ Rowena said lightly from the fireplace, ‘your uncle’s mother died. She’d been ill for a long time, and had a nurse living in the house to look after her. And after a decent interval, your grandfather married the nurse.’

  Though an accurate enough summary, it lacked sensitivity, implying both that the second marriage was one of convenience, and that William Langley had married beneath him. As Jan knew, both implications were untrue. To disguise her discomfort, she walked to the french windows at the end of the room and stood staring down the long, rain-soaked garden. It must have looked as bleak in other winters, but her memory was obstinately of colour, flowers and sunshine. Without thinking, she rested her hand on the handle and Edward, who had just come into the room, remarked, ‘It won’t open. We have a comprehensive alarm system, and that door’s sealed for the winter.’

  Jan turned with a smile, glad of the change of subject. ‘I wasn’t trying to open it – I’ve had enough of the cold for now. But why a burglar alarm? It sounds very sinister.’

  ‘A result of one of the less admirable changes since you left. The crime rate has shot up, and burglaries are on the increase. Before we leave, we must instruct you in the intricacies of the system.’