The Mysterious Affair at Castaway House

by Lam, Stephanie

  ‘Please don’t go.’ My hand crept out of its pocket and felt his sleeve.

  He smiled at me again, more warmly this time. ‘All right, Carver, if you really don’t want me to, I won’t.’

  As it turned out, Alec turned eighteen three months before they declared the Armistice. He was on the boat train to France when they held the entire battalion up at Dover for twenty-two hours before sending them to Gloucestershire, where he worked out his conscription stamping envelopes. Despite his gloomy protestations at that time, I had always considered him the luckiest of people, and even now, climbing up the steep slope of Gaunt’s Cliff, thinking of the house he had just inherited and the actress he had just married, I felt privileged once again to share a space in his sunshine.

  ‘Here we are,’ he said finally. ‘Welcome to our humble abode. It’s only half the size of the Lancaster Gate place, of course, but I hope you find it suits you well.’

  I breathed heavily, waiting for my lungs to come to rest. We were at the crest of the cliff. To my left, a railing separated us from the promenade far below, the waves breaking on the shore and the spindly finger of a pier glistening in the brisk sunshine. Ahead, the road ended abruptly and became a path leading along the cliff edge beside an ugly churned-over field. To my right, a long terrace of Regency houses spilled all the way back down the hill.

  The topmost one of these was larger than the others and painted a buttermilk yellow, reflecting a mellow light in the early summer sun. It was about six storeys high, with a crenellated roof and a pillared doorway. There was a stained-glass decoration over the door in an art nouveau style, with a text I could not quite make out from across the road. As I was peering at it, the door swung open and an auburn-haired manservant descended the steps and came down the path towards us.

  ‘Scone!’ Alec crossed the road and put my case on the pavement, where it was picked up by the servant, presumably the butler. ‘Take this up to the fifth floor, would you?’

  Scone nodded. ‘Shall I show Mr Carver the way also?’

  ‘Good idea.’ Alec ushered me on to the path. ‘What d’you say I give you an hour or so to rest, and then I can take you for a drink in the town, and head back in time for dinner at eight?’

  ‘That sounds …’ I thought of the myriad chores bestowed upon me back at home, even during my long illness. ‘Absolutely wonderful.’

  ‘Good stuff. I’ll knock on your door. Here, d’you like this?’ We were walking up the steps now; he waved overhead at the stained glass, which I could now see displayed the name of the building. ‘Mother put that in when she inherited Castaway. Loved the place, you know. Always hated London.’

  I crossed over the threshold and found myself standing on an oriental-style rug, beneath which peeped the black-and-white chequered flags of a large hallway. Sunlight beamed in coloured lozenges through the stained-glass window. There was a mahogany sideboard upon which stood a silver platter for post, and above it was a mirror, curled about with cupids and leaves. So swiftly I barely noticed him, Scone took the jacket from my arm and hung it on the row of pegs between the first and second front doors.

  ‘Dining room here,’ said Alec carelessly, indicating a half-open door to his left. ‘Scone’ll show you the rest. I’m going to take a turn in the garden.’

  He winked at me, and I watched him walk along the passageway and through a door further along. ‘This way, sir,’ said Scone, and I followed him past a gleaming brass gong at the foot of the stairs. The banisters were polished to a deep sheen and ended with a rather lovely snail-like flourish at the end. The stairs were carpeted a deep red, and the walls were hung with various paintings. I wondered if Alec had inherited the lot wholesale from his mother or if some of these were the new Mrs Bray’s touches. I wondered what her taste, as a former actress, was like.

  On the first floor there was a small landing, illuminated by a window behind the stairs, and a closed door ahead of us. ‘The drawing room, sir,’ said Scone, separating each word as if it were pickled in vinegar, and I frowned to wonder that a mere room could draw such disapproval. He pointed to the door to our side. ‘And here is the library. Mr Bray wishes you to make full use of it.’

  Up we went, Scone indicating Mr Bray’s bedroom and the bathroom, which he showed me with some pride. ‘Very modern, sir,’ he said, indicating the hot-water geyser to fill the bath. He insisted on showing me how to turn the taps on and off, both there and on the wash basin. ‘Right hand for the cold, left hand for the hot.’

  ‘Excellent,’ I said, as if I were used to such conveniences and not the freezing wash of school or the tin bath in front of the fire at home.

  On the next landing, Scone merely murmured, ‘The third floor here,’ waving a hand at the closed doors, and I presumed this contained Mrs Bray’s bedroom and perhaps some other private abode. We continued up to the fourth floor, where Scone indicated the study and ‘Mr Edward Bray’s bedroom’.

  ‘How often does he visit?’ I asked, maintaining a fake smile, hoping his stays were as infrequent as possible. My uncle was one of those men who enjoyed the state of being in a permanently foul mood, and being widowed so young had done nothing to improve his temper.

  ‘He has not yet found the time,’ said Scone mildly. ‘We hope we will see him at some point during the summer.’

  ‘Yes, quite,’ I muttered, and thought with some relief that Uncle Edward would probably see it as an indignity of the highest order to have to stay on one of the upper floors of a house that had once been his own, never mind that he no doubt considered said mistress of that house to be several rungs lower than him, socially.

  The fifth floor was the highest in the house, although at the top of another short flight of stairs was a closed door that I presumed led up to the servants’ quarters in the attic. There were two doors on the fifth floor, one ahead and one to our right. Scone opened this one, and I found myself in a pleasantly furnished room, with a canopied double bed, a fireplace, a writing desk and a sash window that was slightly open, letting in a cool breeze. Scone placed my suitcase on the bed and said, ‘Would you like me to unpack, sir?’

  ‘No, no,’ I said hurriedly, uncomfortable with the attention. ‘I’m quite all right now, thank you.’

  ‘Very good. Shall I send up some tea?’

  I grinned. ‘That would be marvellous.’ I looked around. ‘You’re very kind.’

  Scone snorted slightly. I suspected I had gone too far, and I blushed. I stepped back out on to the dark wood of the hallway. ‘What’s this door here?’ I said to Scone as he came out to join me.

  He obliged by twisting the handle and opening it. ‘The nursery, sir.’

  I caught a glimpse of a cot in one corner and a bed in another, presumably for the nanny. There was also a single ink-stained desk and a much-abused rocking horse, almost bald and with pieces gouged out from his face. One of his staring eyes had been coloured yellow, the other green, by a destructive childish hand.

  I turned back to Scone. ‘I didn’t know they had children,’ I said, although I supposed there was not any particular reason for me to know.

  ‘They don’t, sir.’ Scone smiled, and I had the impression he thought I was rather slow. ‘This used to be Mr Bray’s nursery.’

  ‘Ah. Of course.’ As I retreated from the room and Scone silently closed the door, I wondered why it had been kept as it was; although of course, I realized, blushing once more as Scone descended the staircase with aplomb, there would be future inhabitants of this nursery. I thought they might want to replace the horse, though; its mad staring eyes had rather unnerved me.

  I went back to my room and investigated it thoroughly. Alec was right: his parents’ London house was twice the size of Castaway, but that one, with its myriad, cavernous rooms and echoing hallways, had always intimidated me. This place, with its elegantly twisting staircase, oblong sash windows and dark polished floorboards, fitted me to a T.

  I went to the window and looked out at the garden several storeys b
elow. It was agreeably long and broad, with paved walkways that led off into hedged arbours. At the back I could see an ornamental pond bordered with wooden recliners and, in one corner of the garden, a vine-covered stone summerhouse. Directly below me were a glass-roofed conservatory and a terrace containing several wrought-iron chairs and a table.

  As I watched, I noticed Alec appear on one of the paved walkways. He was trudging along, hands in pockets, and seemed to be lost in thought. I leaned against the window and watched him, mellow with affection. I felt I had never really got to know him properly; perhaps this summer, I would.

  Outside my door I heard a clatter and a muttered sigh. I pulled it open and saw a young girl with her head bowed, holding a tray upon which was slopping a quantity of tea.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ she said in a voice barely above a whisper. ‘I’ll get you some more right away.’

  ‘It’s quite all right.’ I took the tray from her, at which she flinched, and set it down on the dresser. A flannel had been laid out for me, and I used that to mop up the tea, lifting the little pot and the china cup and saucer. ‘There you go, no harm done.’

  Her chin was still stuck firmly to her chest. ‘Thank you, sir. You’re very kind, sir,’ she whispered again.

  I laughed. ‘Let’s not make a mountain out of a molehill, eh? What’s your name?’

  Her eyes darted left and right as if seeking some sort of escape. Her hair, tucked under its mob cap, appeared to be the colour of straw. ‘Agnes, sir. I’ve only just been made parlourmaid, what with I was under-housemaid before, and I ain’t that used to the trays, see …’ She trailed to a halt, as if realizing she had said several sentences too many.

  ‘Well, pleased to meet you, Agnes. My name’s Carver. I’m Mr Bray’s cousin; I’ll be staying here for the summer.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Infinitesimally, she edged backwards to the door.

  I felt thoroughly awkward now, as if I’d pinned her up against the wardrobe and attempted to ravish her. ‘Well … er … I thought perhaps you didn’t know.’

  ‘No, sir. Is that all, sir?’

  She barely waited for my nod before she vanished from the door. I sighed, and was about to dismiss her from my mind when, quite without warning, I found myself out in the corridor, calling, ‘Listen, Agnes.’

  She turned back in her hurry along the landing, looking rather like a sparrow trapped in a house. ‘Yes, sir?’

  I smiled. ‘I’m sure you’ll get used to everything in no time.’

  She breathed, waiting for my next command, and when none came she allowed a nod of her head. ‘Thank you, sir,’ she whispered, and disappeared out of sight. I shook my head and poured a cup of tea. I could never quite get the hang of the whole servant etiquette thing; they seemed to take it as a personal insult if you tried to be too civil to them. Then again, the girl Agnes looked as if she’d be scared of her own shadow.

  I drank my tea, unpacked and visited the bathroom. I washed my face in hot water, a little unnerved by the dreadful clanking noise this unleashed from the geyser. As I still had some time, I went back to the bedroom, pulled the chair up before the mirror and attempted a quick little self-portrait. I liked to think my skills were coming along somewhat, but all the same, when I had finished and compared the picture with the reflection before me, I wondered who it was I’d actually drawn. Determined not to let the failure of the sketch bring me down, I folded it away to look at later, and decided to walk down through the house to meet Alec.

  I was reaching the first-floor landing, thinking only of what dinner at eight might consist, when the drawing-room door opened and a woman stepped out; the woman, presumably, whose marriage to my cousin had caused such terrible excitement in the family, Mrs Alexander Bray.

  She breathed in sharply when she saw me. She was not as tall as I had expected, and had a pale, pinched face with an expression akin to a squeezed lemon. A pattern of spots dimpled her forehead. Her hair was shortish and dark, and hung in two lank folds either side of her scalp. She was wearing a jade-green gown in some floating material, with furred cuffs, and she wrapped it about herself now with nails painted the colour of blood.

  I held out my hand. ‘I’m so glad to meet you at last. Robert Carver, Alec’s cousin.’

  She looked down at my hand as if I were offering her a dead fish. ‘I know who you are, Mr Carver,’ she said in an ice pick of a voice.

  ‘Oh, good,’ I said, grinning foolishly. I let my hand drop. Behind her, I caught a glimpse of a beautiful blue-and-gold drawing room, a huge gilt mirror leaning at an angle above the fireplace.

  She pulled the door shut tightly against her back. ‘You’re the poor relation who’s come to sponge off my husband for the summer.’

  I stared at her. ‘I … I assure you that I’m not … that I wouldn’t …’

  She raised a palm. ‘Please. I really couldn’t care less what your motives are. However, if my dear, darling father-in-law has sent you to spy on this house, then you can tell him from me that if that’s the price of my husband’s allowance, he can fuck himself up the arse with it. Thank you.’

  And with that she glided past me and continued towards the stairs.

  I gaped at the space she had left, a steady heat rising from my chest to my neck. I gripped the edge of the banister to steady myself. Horribly, I felt tears prick the insides of my eyes and blinked them quickly away. I swallowed and then, from below me, I heard Alec’s voice and walked down the stairs, holding on to the rail as I went.

  ‘You’re here!’ He was in the hallway, grinning up at me. ‘Shall we … I say …’

  I walked straight past him. I pulled open the front door, headed down the steps and marched along the path, out through the gate and across the road to the railings that held the cliff back from the sea.

  ‘Robert! Robert, what’s the matter?’

  I heard Alec behind me. My breath was very hot and very fast. My knuckles were white on the rail. He landed beside me, his face half-amused, half-concerned. ‘You marched out of there as if you had a hand grenade up your backside.’

  Unwittingly, this brought forth the image Mrs Bray had evoked with her foul mouth, and I grimaced. ‘I can’t stay. I’m sorry, but I shall have to get the first train back tomorrow.’

  ‘Why on earth … ?’ His open face crumpled into a frown. ‘Oh, no. Tell me she didn’t. Tell me my wife hasn’t said anything to you.’

  ‘She … er …’ I coughed with the force of the emotion. My lungs were stuck fast: the old problem, always recurring when I was under extreme stress. I felt the cool metal of the railing and used that to calm my breaths, in and out, in and out. Finally, I said, ‘She accused me firstly of being a … well, a sponger, and secondly of spying on behalf of your father.’

  ‘Oh, Lord.’ Alec put his elbows on the railings and his hands over his eyes. Eventually he said, ‘I’m so sorry, Robert.’

  I shook my head, wanting to say it was quite all right but unable to find the words. ‘If it had even occurred to me you might think I was … well, I would never …’

  ‘Don’t pay her any attention. She was only saying it to upset you. I mean, talk about hypocrisy. The woman’s the biggest parasite I’ve ever met.’ He looked up at me. ‘I’m sorry to say this, Robert, but the cliché holds true. Marry in haste, et cetera, et cetera.’

  I remembered once, long ago, going out with Grandfather to shoot rabbits and coming across one, its eyes stitched wide into its face as it looked down the barrel of my rifle. I felt like that rabbit now. ‘I’m afraid I don’t quite understand.’

  ‘Don’t you?’ He fiddled inside his jacket pocket, took out a tin of cigarettes and offered me one. I shook my head. He fitted it inside his lips, lit it and said, ‘I thought I’d show the whole stuffy lot of them – you know, Father, Mother, all the rest. If one loves the girl, I thought, who cares if she’s an actress or a road sweeper or a bloody farmhand? She saw me coming, Robert, and now she’s yoked to me and she hates me and hates anyone asso
ciated with me, and unfortunately you received the brunt of that and I’m sorry.’

  I looked down over the rail at the dots of people on the promenade below and breathed a lungful of precious air. ‘She seemed to think your allowance might be in jeopardy,’ I said.

  ‘Father’s been threatening it ever since I married her.’ Alec sniffed. ‘She must be scared stiff about the chance of being poor again.’

  ‘Well, anyway,’ I said. ‘You do understand that I couldn’t possibly stay now?’

  Alec put his hand over mine on the rail. ‘You must,’ he said. ‘I’ve been feeling absolutely mad, shut up in that place with just the two of us and the servants chewing over every little detail. And look, she’s either out of the house or gone on some mysterious errand she doesn’t care to tell me about. You won’t even see her.’

  ‘I can’t,’ I said. ‘I didn’t realize … that is, I wouldn’t want to …’

  My inarticulacy was saved by Alec muttering under his breath, ‘Oh, damn it,’ and looking past me, down the hill.

  ‘What is it?’ I turned and saw a bearded, middle-aged man wearing a crumpled hat and round-rimmed spectacles striding across the street towards us. He waved exaggeratedly, although we stood only a few yards from him. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Bray!’

  Alec nodded dispiritedly. ‘Dr Feathers.’

  The man turned to me and beamed broadly. ‘Don’t tell me, this is the famous cousin. How d’you do? Awfully pleased to meet you.’

  He pumped my hand vigorously. Alec sighed and said, ‘Robert, this is our neighbour Dr Feathers. My cousin, Robert Carver.’

  ‘Here for the summer, are you, Mr Carver?’

  ‘Er …’ I hesitated. Alec leaped in.

  ‘Yes, he is, and we’re both terribly glad to have him here.’

  ‘Marvellous.’ The doctor beamed. ‘If you have any health problems, you know where to come. Surgery’s directly next door.’

  He turned and indicated the house attached to Castaway, a smaller mirror image of its neighbour.