‘There’s a spare key hidden under the flowerpot,’ Jennie informed us, bending down to pick it up and displaying a rusty key.
This was the first place a burglar would look. No...he would first look at the property, and hurry away.
The door opened directly into the living-room. Immediately facing us was the lower end of an open stairway, which led up, through a hole in the ceiling, to dense shadows. On the far left was a black and rust coal range, with ovens each side of the fire. Otherwise the room was empty.
The smell of damp rot was very evident. Nobody commented. Joe, who was now with us again, was very silent.
‘Kitchen through here,’ Jennie told us, heading for a flimsy door facing us. This led into a narrow and cramped space dominated by an ancient wooden draining board, sullenly hanging its lip over a pottery sink. There was a single tap dripping into it, a rust stain where the drops fell. The rear door was beside it.
‘This is the back,’ said Jennie, reaching for the door in order to show us, and stretching up for the top bolt.
I leaned over the sink and peered through the smeared window. The immediate view was of a derelict patch of earth, stretching a matter of fifty yards to the low hedge beside the drive. Really, there was no point in Jennie opening the door, but she was a determined woman.
‘The security’s very good,’ she told us, peeping back over her shoulder as she struggled with the rusted bolt. I assumed that a touch of humour was intended, as it seemed to me that the bolts, top and bottom, were the only supports to the door. If it could be called a door. It consisted of vertical planks held together by a Z of other planks on the inside surface. Chinks of light peeped through the slits. There was an ancient lock screwed to the inner surface, but no sign of anything into which the tongue might have slipped, even if it hadn’t been rusted solid. Simple, tired hinges barely hung to the opposite jamb.
Joe could have walked through it without removing his hands from his pockets. Jennie submitted to defeat by the bolts, lowering her arms.
‘In any event,’ she assured us, ‘there’s only the two places along the back I wanted to show you.’
‘Places?’ murmured Joe.
‘One with the water tank in,’ said Jennie. ‘There’s an electric thing that switches the pump on. Real, genuine well water. But it’s not been used for years. We’re on the mains, now.’
She demonstrated by reaching over and turning on the tap. It accomplished no change. The tap continued to drip.
‘And the other?’ asked Joe, fascinated. ‘The other place out there?’
‘Oh...that’s the loo.’
‘Ah!’ He nodded thoughtfully.
So...no bathroom anywhere. Such a luxury would have been asking for too much. Sheer pampering. I shuddered at the thought of a wash-down at that sink, so close to the slatted door, in January.
‘Let’s go and look upstairs,’ suggested Jennie, bravely maintaining an enthusiastic tone.
‘The dogs!’ cried Amelia, who’d been very silent. The word ‘upstairs’ had reminded her. Dogs love to climb stairs, especially our dogs.
‘Oh Lord!’ I said, turning and dashing for the staircase.
It was narrow, intended for people slimmer than me. The opening at the top seemed no larger than a normal trapdoor to an attic. At the head of it was a corridor, sideways, right across the width of the cottage. There were no windows. You had to manage with what light filtered up from downstairs. But there was a slice of light to my left, a dog-sized slice of a door that had been nosed open.
‘The paintings!’ Jennie screamed from behind me.
I was not worried that the dogs could have done much harm, though they might have nudged over an easel. I’d heard no clatter. But dogs are nosy, and boxers have the nose for it, big and flat and wet. Paul, no doubt, worked in watercolour, judging by his enthusiasm for the Turner, the Cotman, and the two Cox’s. Watercolour wouldn’t react kindly to a wet nose exploring it. But past important discoveries have come about from random accidents. I was perhaps about to be introduced to a new watercolour effect: the boxer’s nose application.
There was no easel in the room; nothing to knock over. But paintings were leaning all round the skirtings. At these, Sheba and Jake were snuffling.
‘Heel!’ I said sharply.
Promptly they came to sit one each side of my legs, looking up at me with pride at their discovery.
‘Oh heavens!’ said Amelia from behind me.
I was surreptitiously looking for traces of colour on the dogs’ noses. There weren’t any. I took a deep, relieved breath.
Then Jennie was there. She stood still, and looked round quickly. The paintings against the wall were all worked on thick card, supporting themselves without bowing. I wasn’t looking at them as paintings, but for evidence of smears. Jennie detected my concern.
‘It’s all right,’ she told me. ‘No fuss. Those’re acrylic. It’s like oils, only you thin it with water. They dry pretty quickly, and you can paint over. Here’re the watercolours, on the bench.’
I hadn’t paid much attention to the bench. It ran right along the rear wall, a rough construction supported by four-inch square wooden legs, and slightly sloping.
Paul had probably constructed his own alterations; it looked, on closer inspection, to be a very amateurish job. He had also brought a Calor gas heater in here. It was tucked away beneath the bench. In the facing roof, there being no ceiling, Paul had inserted a wide window, almost absorbing the full width. This, therefore, had to be a north-facing prospect. The window seemed to be a more professional job than the bench, I noted.
‘These’re the watercolours,’ said Jennie.
They were on a heavyweight paper, and stacked at one end of the bench. Jennie reached for a dozen or so, and spread them out on the bench surface. We all gathered together and stared at them. The paper was about sixteen inches by twelve.
‘Isn’t he good?’ asked Jennie with pride.
I didn’t know. Nobody spoke. Four of them were sketches, colour run rapidly on to the surface, all much alike, as though he was trying for some special effect. The fifth was the same, but more finished. It was completely finished, as he’d painted right to the edges.
I don’t know much about art. I like pictures on the walls that I can look at with pleasure. These were...well...I stared at No.5. It was like Impressionism, but I got no impression from it, though unlike the modern art that I do not understand, and which seems to consist of random whirls of casual colour. Behind this painting of Paul’s, or beyond it, as I stared at it, I saw a picture emerging. A woman — I thought there was a skirt — was riding side-saddle on a grey pony down a leafy glade, with the sun behind her. I could have lived with it. I could have returned to it time after time, to confirm it hadn’t changed.
‘What do you see?’ I asked Amelia.
‘Isn’t it beautiful! I always fancied a holiday in Venice.’
‘Eh?’
‘It’s a man poling a gondola under a bridge.’
‘Ah.’
‘He paints at the bench,’ Jennie explained, ‘with his paper sloping. Or the colour doesn’t run correctly. He told me that. Showed me. That’s why the bench slopes.’
Mary was saying nothing. Quietly, she was looking through the pile of watercolour paper.
From behind us, Joe remarked, ‘Cosy in here. We could have the bed there, Jen.’ Pointing towards the bench. ‘Then we could look up, and be sleeping under the stars.’
It was a remarkably romantic observation from such a bulky and physical man. Jennie flicked him a smile.
‘Poor Paul,’ she said. ‘I know he loves it here.’
‘Yeah,’ said Joe. ‘Any more, are there?’
‘Any more what?’
‘Bedrooms, Jen.’
‘Two more, one tiny, one bigger.’
‘Well then.’ Joe shrugged. ‘Run the two cottages into one, then you’ll have your own proper kitchen, an’ six bedrooms. It’ll be a while before we can
fill six bedrooms, or five if one’s a bathroom.’
‘Now, Joe...’
He went on, regardless. ‘So Paul can go on usin’ this place. Pity to hoof him out. Yeah...go on workin’ here, he can, and see how he gets on with the nippers running round his legs.’ Then he made a loud sound, like a Dobermann barking. I assumed it had to be a laugh.
‘You’re a dear fool, Joe,’ said Jennie. ‘Isn’t he a fool, Nan?’
‘Oh, certainly.’ Mary compressed her lips into a thin, concentrated smile. It was the only way to contain her happiness for them.
Then we all went downstairs. There would have to be something done about those stairs, I thought. But Joe would know. He was already planning it all in his head. We went outside, and waited while Jennie locked the front door. Then we watched as Joe strolled round to find the boundaries to the property. These were only vaguely indicated by random stumps and ancient trails of barbed wire. Joe was already working it out. A long shed over there, a row of kennels here, lifted above the ground for dryness. Plenty of room for exercise. The full extent of three acres would include some of the woodland.
‘I’m sure mother wouldn’t mind if you exercised them in the Park,’ called out Jennie. Then she frowned. Mary — at the moment called Nan — was now really mother. I would expect her to live out her life as Nan, but Tessa Searle would have to acquire another name. It was worrying Jennie.
The women remained behind, while I strolled around with Joe.
He glanced at me, but said nothing. I was casually filling my pipe. ‘I suppose you realise that you can’t start any work here until it’s all settled,’ I said quietly, keeping this to the two of us. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry. I’m just planning.’
‘There’ll be the proving of the will, and the conveyance of the property. It’ll take a while.’
‘I know.’
‘And the cottages will gobble up Jennie’s inheritance. Nothing to spare. You thought of that, have you?’
‘I’ve thought of it. What’s it to you, anyway?’ He turned to stare at me. There was no expression on his face. It was round and placid, but his eyes were steady and blandly cool.
‘We’re good friends of Mary,’ I told him. ‘It would only be natural for Jennie to ask her mother for financial help, if help is needed.’
‘No!’ He bit it off.
‘It would be natural, as your wife.’
‘I wouldn’t let it happen.’
I smiled at him. ‘I think she’s got a mind of her own, Joe.’
‘We’ll manage on our own.’
‘Easy to say. But...’ I pointed the pipe stem at him. ‘But if I hear Mary’s being pressured — you know what I mean — I’ll personally come all the way here and push your teeth down your throat. Understand? No worry for Mary.’
He was still staring at me blankly. Then he gave his peculiar bark of a laugh.
‘Big feller! Why’d I want to argue with you? I’ll just tell you this, matey. Mary does what pleases her best. She might want her own improvements, if she’s living with us. Then what?’
‘No!’ I burst out. ‘Mary lives with us.’
‘And if she changes her mind? I’ll tell you this, friend. If I hear she’s had any pressure from you, I’ll come to your place and push your teeth right down your throat. Okay?’
I stared at him. He stared at me.
‘Mary pleases herself,’ I said.
‘Mary decides.’
He grinned. I believe I grinned back.
‘I’m goin’ to breed the best damned Dobermanns in the country,’ he told me.
‘I hope you will.’
‘And we’ll have the neatest, bestest cottage in the county, if I have to rebuild the whole blasted place myself, from the ground up, with my own hands.’
I lit my pipe. ‘I’ll leave you my phone number,’ I said. ‘Ring me if you want any help. Okay?’
‘Fine. I’ll remember.’ He looked at the wire trailing in the grass.
‘Barbed wire! Disgusting. Thanks, I’ll remember,’ he repeated, just so that I wouldn’t forget.
5
The journey back to the house was naturally much easier than the climb from it had been, downhill now and rather more dry underfoot. I wasn’t too uncomfortable myself, but clearly Amelia was wet and miserable, and the hem of her skirt was soaked and muddy.
We led the way, eager to get out of these clothes, and the others lagged behind, delayed by a warm argument about what was to be done with the cottages, and how. There was no mention of when. I was sure that neither Mary nor Jennie was truly aware of the legal fences yet to be climbed.
Gladys Torrance was waiting in the hall with the door wide open.
‘Oh dear, you are wet. Do come in out of...oh, it’s stopped raining. You’ll find your own clothes all dry, up in your room. Then if you’ll let me have those...’ She stared at us, tutting to herself and shaking her head.
She stood aside. I tried to apologise. ‘We went to see the cottages...’
‘The lodge? Oh, I could have saved you the trouble. I was born in one of the cottages. Oh...so long ago, now. It was dreadful then, and if you ask me I’d burn them both down, and start again from the bare ground. Much the best thing. Oh yes.’
Then she stood, her head shaking and her lower lip protruding, and with her mind lost in the past.
‘We’ll just go and change, then,’ I said.
‘Oh yes...yes. And Mr...er...’
‘Patton. Amelia and Richard.’
‘Yes. Mr Patton, the mistress asked if you wouldn’t mind having a word with her. When you’re free, and dry.’ She flicked us a little smile.
I felt Amelia’s fingers on my arm. ‘But Richard...’
Then I realised what she meant. Sheba and Jake, their leads in her other hand, were sitting quietly between us.
‘The dogs,’ I suggested, somewhat embarrassed. ‘I can’t...we don’t know what to do with them.’
She smiled, and made a dismissive gesture. ‘Give them to me. I’ll take them to the kitchen and dry them off. They’ll be thirsty, I reckon. And I’ll see if I can find them some scraps. What’re they called?’
‘Sheba and Jake,’ I told her, somewhat feebly. Amelia held out their leads.
‘Come along with me, my lovelies,’ Miss Torrance said, bending over them and making noises with her lips. They looked up at her with adoration.
I was a little disconcerted that strangers could handle them so easily. First Joe, and now Miss Torrance. She glanced back over her shoulder. ‘We used to have foxhounds in the pen round the back. I know about dogs.’
We watched her walk them away. They didn’t even glance back at us. I had the idea that she and Joe would be able to talk to each other in dog language.
‘Oh...Miss Torrance...’ I called after her.
She looked back.
‘I don’t know where to find Mrs Searle.’
‘It’s Lady Searle, really, but I don’t suppose she cares. She’s in her room, that’s the one right opposite to the one you’ve been using. You might as well go on using it, if you like.’
‘Thank you,’ I said.
‘I could have told you that,’ said Amelia, as we walked up the stairs, up the side of the stairs with a hand to the banister, the curved treads being just as confusing going up. We didn’t speak until we were in what, I now had to assume, was our room, the late Sir Rowland’s room. The visit seemed to be assuming a somewhat embarrassing permanency.
There, our clothes were laid out on the bed, dry now, my slacks sharply creased, and Amelia’s little jacket and her trousers pressed.
‘Lady Searle,’ she said. ‘Does that make her late husband a knight or a baronet, Richard?’
‘I’m not very well up on titles,’ I had to admit, as I climbed into my slacks, feeling more comfortable every second. ‘Either, I think. My professional life rotated around a different social level.’
‘Does that make Jeremy a sir, then?’
I g
ave that a little thought. ‘I think, only if it’s a baronetcy, and we don’t know about that. Anyway, I think it’s safer to stick to Christian names for now. D’you want to come with me, love?’
She eyed me with consideration. ‘There’s something in your voice, Richard.’ She tilted her head. ‘An eagerness, shall we say? No. You go alone. It was you she asked for. Now go along. Don’t keep the lady waiting.’
‘Lady Theresa Searle,’ I said, trying it on my tongue.
Then I crossed the corridor and tapped on the door opposite. ‘Come in.’
I did so, turning to close the door before I cast my eyes around.
It was a bedroom I had expected to see, but this was both bedroom and sitting-room. Perhaps she would call it her boudoir. I remembered something a friend had told me, a woman more educated than me, that boudoir was French for ‘sulking place’. Tessa didn’t seem to be sulking, didn’t seem to be in any specific mood. Indeed, that was what I recalled of her in the library, neutral and indefinite. She had not, now I came to consider it, made any comment, for or against, regarding the contents of her husband’s will.
This, boudoir or not, resembled a sitting-room, decorated in white and pink, and having a feminine decor as befitted a genteel lady, nothing asserted, everything placidly simple and tidy. The chair she was sitting in, though, was a practical, plumply upholstered easy chair, with wide arms and flared wings. She nested in it with her hair free of any restraint, and therefore wildly framing her face with rampant curls. I had the impression that if the curling process were discontinued it would eventually reach its natural state of a straight fall to her waist.
Again, as in the library, I had no hint of her mood from her expression. She gestured towards a similar, though less flamboyant chair, and nothing flickered on her face. It was a tired face, weary of the effort to remain young, discouraged from assuming any hint of vivacity, controlled from revealing the slightest sign that her whole life had been a disappointment. I couldn’t be certain what had led me to that conclusion, but certainly I felt she had not achieved any satisfaction from marriage and motherhood. And yet her eyes were bright, a deep blue, and in them there was still a stubborn hope.
Mask of Innocence Page 6