‘How old was your wife when she died?’ I asked cautiously, feeling I should broach the subject and try my best to atone for my behaviour last night.
‘Twenty-nine. We were very happy.’
‘My sister lost her fiancé in a sailing accident a couple of months ago, only just after our father died. As you say, life is cruel.’ I was forcing the words out, saying far more than I normally did, in penance.
‘I’m sorry for your sister. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone to lose their partner and their father in quick succession. It happened to me too,’ he sighed. ‘Harking back to the past again, have you any theories about how you could possibly be connected to this family?’
‘None.’
‘What? You mean you haven’t spent the past three days at High Weald searching through the drawers to find a connection?’
‘No, I . . .’
I felt a guilty heat rise to my cheeks. Mouse was so difficult to read, I had no idea whether he was teasing or rebuking.
‘I certainly would have done if I were you,’ he said. ‘Let’s face it, if you had found a connection, you could have stood to inherit what you may have thought was a significant amount of money. As it stands, we can include you in the bankruptcy petition.’
‘I haven’t searched the house, and I’m not poor,’ I added defiantly.
‘Well, lucky old you. And for the record, Star, I was teasing you.’
‘Oh.’ I hated that he’d read my mind.
‘Please, I know my sense of humour is confusing, but I promise I was joking. Defence mechanism, n’est-ce pas? To keep people at bay. We all have one. Look at you. You’re very hard to read . . . Occasionally I feel I know what you’re thinking from the expression in those blue eyes of yours . . . but most of the time, I haven’t got a clue.’
I immediately looked away from him, and he gave a chuckle before taking another sip of his beer. ‘Anyway, I was rather hoping that while you were here, you’d find something that I haven’t seen for a long, long time.’
‘What is that?’
‘As you’ve already gathered, Flora MacNichol was a prolific diarist for much of her life. Her journals – forty or fifty of them – sat on a bookshelf in the study at Home Farm for years. My father found them in a trunk in the attic when he was cleaning out the house after his parents died. That’s how he knew of the . . . anomaly he told me about when he was dying.’
‘What “anomaly”?’
‘It was to do with the inheritance when High Weald was divided in the forties. Putting it simply, he felt our line – i.e. the Forbes – had been cheated out of what was rightfully ours.’
‘I see.’
‘Naturally, when I came to research our family history, I pulled them down and started working through them. But I’ve come to a grinding halt – all her journals from 1910 onwards are missing. Star, I know that there were far more than there are now on that bookshelf. They used to take up two shelves and now it’s less than one.’ He shrugged. ‘The problem is, those missing years may contain the proof of my father’s theory. Not that I can do anything about it now, but I’d like to know for sure, one way or the other.’
‘I understand,’ I said.
‘By the way, have you found your figurine?’
‘I have.’ I decided there was little point in lying further.
‘Thought you would. Can I see it?’
I dug into my jean pocket, and drew out the box. ‘Here.’ I passed it across the table to him.
He opened the little box solemnly, then reached into the top pocket of his shirt for a pair of reading glasses, and studied the figurine carefully.
‘Well, well,’ he muttered, then drew the glasses off his nose. ‘Can I borrow this for a week or so?’
‘Why?’
‘I want to have it authenticated.’
‘I’m not sure . . .’
‘Don’t you trust me, Star?’
‘Yes, I mean . . .’
‘Either you do or you don’t,’ he said with a smile. ‘So, Asterope, Star . . . it seems we are playing a game of cat—’
‘And Mouse.’ With that, we both laughed and it broke the tension between us. ‘You can take the figurine, if you swear to return it. It’s very precious to me,’ I said.
‘I promise. Oh, and by the way, Marguerite called and said she won’t be back until late tomorrow evening.’
‘That’s okay. I’ll stay until Thursday morning and go straight to work in London.’
‘Thanks. Right,’ he said, as he took a gulp of his beer, ‘I’m afraid I must go. I have to get the accounts together tonight to show Orlando everything he doesn’t want to see tomorrow.’
‘Treat him gently, won’t you?’ I begged as I handed him the figurine.
‘Orlando or this?’ he joked as he stowed the box in the pocket of his Barbour. ‘I’ll do my best.’ He stood up and walked to the back door. ‘But sometimes the truth hurts.’ He paused. ‘I’ve enjoyed tonight. Thank you.’
‘That’s okay.’
‘We’ll talk soon. Goodnight, Star.’
‘Goodnight.’
22
The following day, a woman arrived at the back door and announced she was there to collect Rory for his riding lesson. I grilled my charge on whether this was normal, but the warm hug and kiss he gave her proved she wasn’t here to kidnap him. He returned red-cheeked from cold and exhilaration, and as we sat together at the kitchen table I asked him to paint a picture of himself for me. He told me not to look while he painted, so I made him a couple of batches of brownies – one for the freezer, and one to eat now.
I watched his copper-coloured head studiously bent over the picture, and felt a wave of protective love for this little boy who had somehow managed to creep inside my heart. Who knew what the future held for him, given what Mouse had told me. Would High Weald still be his when he was old enough to preside over it? The good news was, he hardly seemed aware of adult troubles, and had an optimistic, open nature that people were drawn to.
He trusts in humanity . . .
‘For you, Star.’ Rory nudged me as he proudly handed me the painting.
I took it from him and studied it. And found a lump in my throat. Rory had painted a picture of the two of us together in the garden: him holding my hand as I bent over to study some flowers. He had managed to catch the way that I stood, how my hair fell across my cheeks, and even the long fingers that currently held the picture.
‘Rory, it’s wonderful. Thank you.’
‘Love you, Star. Come back soon.’
‘I will treasure it forever,’ I told him, as I did my best to pull myself together. ‘Now, how about a brownie and some Superman?’
He gave me an eager thumbs up, and we walked hand in hand towards the sitting room.
After the last bedtime story, I packed my holdall ready to leave early the following day, hoping that Marguerite wouldn’t mind giving me a lift to the station so I could be on time at the bookshop. I tried not to think of the conversation that had almost certainly ensued between the two brothers during the course of today. As I walked back downstairs, I touched the banister and tried to engrain its solid beauty in my memory to last me until next time I was here.
I saw the lights of a car flash up the drive at ten o’clock. The front door slammed a few seconds later and I went to greet the current chatelaine of High Weald.
‘Darling Star.’ Marguerite flung her arms around me. ‘Is Rory okay? Thank you so much for being here with him. Mouse tells me you’ve been wonderful. Is there anything to eat? I’m starving,’ she managed all in one breath.
‘Yes, Rory’s fine. Fast asleep but excited to see you. And yes, there’s something keeping warm in the range.’
‘Great. God, I need a glass of wine. You?’ Marguerite said as she headed for the fridge in the pantry.
‘No thank you.’
She proceeded to pour herself a hefty glass of wine and immediately slugged back a mouthful. ‘I feel as though I’ve be
en on the road all day. The chateau is in the middle of nowhere. And then, of course, the plane was delayed.’
Despite Marguerite’s protestations, she looked amazing. There was a light in her eyes and a flush to her skin that told me that wherever she had been and however long it had taken her to return, she was happy.
‘How is it going in France?’
‘Wonderful,’ Marguerite replied dreamily. ‘Oh, and the painting as well.’ She gave a soft laugh.
‘Rory’s talented too. He must get it from you.’
‘I doubt that.’ Marguerite raised her eyebrows. ‘His art is in a completely different league. His gift has come from someone else,’ she added as an afterthought. ‘You know Mouse went to see Orlando at the bookshop today?’ She dug in her voluminous leather handbag and pulled out a packet of Gitanes. ‘Smoke?’
‘Thanks.’ I took one from the packet and she lit it for me. It was a long time since I’d smoked a French cigarette. ‘Mouse said last night he was going to London.’
‘Orlando is distraught, of course.’ Marguerite took a deep drag of her cigarette and flicked ash into a hapless cactus pot that sat on the kitchen windowsill. ‘Apparently, he refused point-blank to even look at the accounts.’
‘I’m looking forward to tomorrow then,’ I muttered under my breath as I loaded some coq au vin onto a plate.
‘To be honest, I’m very glad you’re going to be with him. And so is Mouse. He swung me up from Gatwick on his way back from London. Even though it’s unlikely that Orlando will do anything stupid, one just never knows. Dear me, money really is the root of all evil, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ I agreed, as I put the plate in front of her, then made myself some chamomile tea and sat down.
‘Star, you are a hero, really. This looks scrumptious. What a delight to arrive home and have a cooked meal put in front of me.’ She forked up some chicken and gave me an amused look across the table. ‘When the bookshop is eventually sold, you’ll be out of a job. You wouldn’t consider coming here and helping me out domestically and with Rory?’
I could see she was half joking, but I shrugged. ‘Maybe.’
‘Of course, you’re overqualified completely – please don’t be insulted by the suggestion. It’s just that it’s so difficult to find someone I trust to take care of Rory, and Mouse eulogised over how well the two of you got on. And Hélène, who owns the chateau, has offered me another room to paint. I’d love to take the offer. It’s an amazing place, and I just adore it there.’
I sat in silence, knowing Marguerite had no idea that she was offering me my dream. To live here at High Weald, taking care of Rory, the house and the gardens, and being able to cook every day for this unusual and fascinating household. I knew I had to seize the moment before Marguerite’s brain flitted on to something, or someone, else.
‘Seriously, I’d be happy to help you any time. I love it here,’ I said. ‘And Rory.’
‘Really?’ Marguerite cocked an eyebrow. ‘Goodness, do you mean it? I couldn’t pay you very much, as I’m sure you already realise, but you’d get bed and board . . . I’d have to ask Orlando, but perhaps we could even share you between us? If he agrees, it would mean I could accept that commission. Hélène is eager for me to start as soon as possible . . .’ Her voice trailed off and I could see the excitement of possibility in her eyes.
‘I wouldn’t want to let Orlando down, of course, or have him feel I’m deserting him. Especially now. But he doesn’t really need me all the time.’
‘Orlando will want what’s best for Rory, I’m sure. And besides’ – Marguerite’s eyes twinkled – ‘he mentioned that you might be related to us.’
‘I can’t see how. Not yet, anyway,’ I qualified.
‘Well, you’ve certainly managed to find a way into all of our hearts since you arrived, Star. I can’t wait to find out how you fit in. Mouse must have told you how messy the Vaughan/Forbes family tree was. And still is.’ She stopped suddenly and gave a huge yawn, her sensual, full lips opening and then closing. There was nothing delicate about her, but her attractiveness lay in her over-large features and the strength they implied.
‘Time for bed,’ she said, standing up.
‘I’ll lock up,’ I offered.
‘Would you really? Wonderful.’
‘Would it be all right for you to drop me at the station in the morning? I have to catch the eight o’clock to London.’
‘Mouse said he’d take you. I think he wants to brief you about Orlando. Goodnight, Star, and thank you again.’
I was up early the next morning so I could prepare breakfast for Marguerite and Rory before I left.
I wrote a note to tell Marguerite that the sausages, bacon and pancakes were keeping warm in the range, and directed her to the four pies that sat at the bottom of the freezer. Mouse tapped on the back door and I picked up my holdall and followed him to the car.
‘Did you see Marguerite last night when she got in?’ he asked me as we set off along the drive.
‘Yes.’
‘So she must have told you that Orlando didn’t take the news well.’
‘She did.’
‘Listen, Star, if there’s any way you can make him see sense, I’d be very grateful. I tried to explain that the bank would step in anyway if we didn’t sell the bookshop ourselves, but he literally put his hands over his ears and stormed upstairs. And then locked himself in his bedroom.’
‘Like a child having a tantrum.’
‘Exactly. Orlando may come across as sweet and gentle, but I don’t know anyone more stubborn when it comes to hard decisions he doesn’t want to make. The bottom line is, we have no choice. He must realise that.’
‘I’ll do my best, but I doubt he’ll listen to me.’
‘It’s worth a shot at least. He likes you and trusts you. Have a go, anyway.’
‘I’ll try,’ I said, as we approached the station.
‘Could you give me a call to let me know how he is? He wasn’t answering either his mobile or the landline last night.’
‘I will,’ I promised, as I got out of the Land Rover. ‘Thanks for the lift.’
‘It’s the least I could do. And when you’re at High Weald again, I’ll tell you about the next instalment of Flora’s journals,’ he called through the window. ‘Get ready to be amazed. Bye, Star.’ And then a wide smile hit his lips and spread slowly up to his eyes, lighting up his handsome face. ‘Take care.’
I gave him a small wave and headed into the station.
Arriving at Kensington Church Street, I was filled with trepidation as I unlocked the door to the bookshop. Not only because I had no idea what I’d find inside, but also due to the endless texts and voicemails from CeCe I’d received as my mobile had found a signal on the train. I’d been so wrapped up in High Weald, I’d completely forgotten to call and let her know I was staying on a further night. Her last message had read:
Star, if I dont here from you by morning, I’m calling the police to regester you as missing. Were are you?!
I felt dreadful, and had left her equal amounts of apologetic texts and voicemails, telling her that I was fine and I’d see her at the apartment later this evening.
I was comforted to see that nothing in the bookshop had changed and, as Orlando was never normally there when I arrived, I busied myself with my usual routine. However, when he still hadn’t appeared by eleven o’clock, I began to worry. I looked to the door at the back of the shop that led to the staircase and the space above, which I’d never entered but could only presume was where Orlando lived. Of course he might be up there conducting one of his auctions . . . But as he hadn’t appeared through the door yet with his three o’clock cake, dismay ran through me. I knew Orlando’s routine was sacrosanct.
I spent the next half hour pacing up and down, oscillating between looking through the window onto the street and hesitating to listen for the door at the back of the shop.
By noon, I was beside myself, and decided I had no choice b
ut to see if he was upstairs. Opening the door, it creaked at my touch, betraying my movements. I crept up the steep staircase and arrived on a small landing to find three doors in front of me. I knocked tentatively on the door to my right.
‘Orlando? It’s Star. Are you there?’
There was no reply, so I grasped the handle and pushed it open to find myself in a tiny kitchen containing an ancient sink, a Baby Belling oven and a fridge whose shape was now back in vogue from fifty years ago – this was almost certainly the original version. Retreating, I performed the same routine at the next door and found an equally antique bathroom with a hideous linoleum floor, reminding me of the apartment CeCe and I had lived in before we’d moved. How Orlando managed to look so fastidiously well groomed given the facilities he had at his disposal was a mystery to me.
I turned to the last door and knocked again. ‘Orlando,’ I said, louder this time. ‘It’s me, Star. Please, if you’re in there, let me know. I’m worried about you. Everyone is,’ I added plaintively.
Still nothing. I tried the handle, but this time it resisted my pressure. It was obviously locked. There was a sudden thump from inside, as if a heavy book had fallen onto the floor. A bolt of fear went through me. What if he hasn’t taken his medication?
I went at the door with more urgency. ‘Please, I know you’re in there, Orlando. Are you okay?’
‘Go away,’ came a muffled voice.
I felt a rush of relief. If he was well enough to be rude, I didn’t need to worry.
‘Okay, I will,’ I called through the door. ‘But I’m in the shop if you want to talk.’ I went back down the stairs, restoked the fire and walked outside to text Mouse and let him know that, at the very least, Orlando was alive, if still refusing to come out.
At one o’clock, the time I hoped he would appear to fill his permanently demanding stomach, there was no trip of footsteps down the stairs. Grabbing my purse and keys, I left the bookshop, locking the door behind me, and headed for the shops along the road. If there was one thing that might smoke Orlando out, it was the smell of food.
The Shadow Sister Page 24