by Jan Harvey
‘What? Yes, yes, I’m fine… Well, apart from the hip of course, still hurts, probably always will, but I have to admit Carrick this has weighed heavily on my mind in the past week. It’s all so very unexpected.’
‘She has merely asked if she might visit to see Lapston, am I correct?’ I was running over old ground; we had already discussed this and he didn’t reply. His eyebrows were knotted together deep in thought. ‘George, may I see the letter?’
‘What? Yes.’ He was very distracted and I watched as he moved stiffly across to the bureau and retrieved the envelope from one of the pigeonholes. He handed it to me and I could see it was a six and two registered envelope franked in Oxford. The letter itself was in French, short and to the point, the hand typical of the French style. When I had read it. I looked up at George and I noticed, for the first time, the touch of grey at his temples and the weathering of a face that only grief can bring upon a man.
‘It looks from this that she may not speak English; she has chosen to write in French,’ I observed. ‘Perhaps not educated to a sufficient level?’
‘The French have never made much of an effort in that quarter.’ His eyes narrowed as he drew on his cigarette. ‘No clues to be drawn from it, I fear.’
‘As you say, she simply wants to see the house where her beloved Henri lived.’ I concurred. ‘Hardly an onerous demand, I would suggest.’
‘Can’t help feeling a bit concerned about it, Carrick. This is the last person to see Henry alive, my only link to him in Paris.’ George fiddled with his ear, a familiar trait of his when nervous.
‘I’m sure there will be others shortly, comrades in arms and all that. They might seek you out and there’ll be some sort of recognition to come I’m certain of it and then all the associated rigmarole.’
‘I know, but this is a much deeper level than that old man, this is a woman who was very much… shall we say “attached.” Oh, and going back to what you said just a moment ago, she does speak English and quite well it seems. You forget I have spoken with her by telephone.’
I felt a little foolish. ‘Absolutely. For a moment it slipped my mind. I wouldn’t make a very good Holmes, would I?’ His smile, in response to my joke, was unconvincing. ‘Would you like something to help relax you a little, a brandy perhaps?’ I offered.
‘No, no, absolutely fine, just a bit on edge, that’s all.’
‘And what of Alice?’ I felt the familiar tug inside me when I spoke her name but I quieted it, told myself to put away foolish things, the time had passed.
‘She’s been away and returns from Scotland today. She knows about the letter of course but, like me, is about as surprised as one can be.’
Grant, the butler, appeared at the door a little after four.
‘Sir, Madame Roussell has arrived.’ I noted that George immediately straightened up and was nervously fiddling with his sleeve, something that was so unlike him.
‘Very well, Grant,’ he said. ‘See Madame Roussell into the lounge.’ He threw me a look that suggested he was about to ride into battle, so much so, I almost felt like wishing him luck. Poor George, he was never one for complications or affiliations. The war had turned all of our lives upside down, comrades, friends, servants everybody. I had lost my own flat in Mayfair in the bombing, and of course I will carry with me, probably for the rest of my life, the scars of battle, most of them unseen yet ever present.
George asked me to accompany him as he met Madame Roussell and that did surprise me, but I complied gladly because I felt I could offer him support if it were so needed.
As we walked through the great hall from the library, I could feel the chill of the English autumn evening closing in, but the days were long gone when George would order a fire to be lit in the hall. It felt too cold, but what was to be done about it?
In the lounge a golden shaft of light from the tallest window was falling on the rug, bringing out the crimson and deepest blue in the elaborate dragons woven into it. It highlighted the top of the tie back sofa and then fell upon the carved wood of the great oak fireplace. In the centre of this perfect tableau, with her delicate frame outlined in gold, was the most beautiful creature I had ever seen.
3
‘Martha, what are you doing?’ Steve was standing in the kitchen doorway, his hair a mess around a creased, sleepy face. I was sitting at the kitchen table with the contents of one of the ring files spread out in front of me.
‘Oh Steve, I didn’t want to wake you. Go back to bed, love.’ He walked over to the sink and filled a glass with water. I could tell just by the way he walked that he was irritated with me. ‘Did you know about the ship, the St. Scillian?’ I tried to appeal to his better nature.
He came across and looked sleepily over my shoulder where I had a grainy photograph of a sailing ship in front of me. The same image was also on the screen of my iPad.
‘It caught fire going around the Cape of Good Hope on the way to New Zealand. A whole family from this village were on board, twenty-nine of them, can you believe it? Grandparents, aunts, uncles, children, even a babe in arms.’ I swept the screen of my iPad with my finger. ‘Look here, it says two lifeboats were launched, but one was lost in a storm, the other was found by another vessel four days later. There were only five men left alive. They had been reduced to drinking the blood and eating the livers of their dead companions.’ A shiver ran up my spine.
‘Any other time, darling. I’d be glad to chat all night to you about historical doings, but it’s two in the morning.’ Steve chided. ‘I think you should come to bed. I thought this little project might keep you occupied, but not consumed.’ He was right and I stood up stiffly, realising suddenly just how cold my feet were. I clicked off the light, leaving my project behind me spread across the table.
When I awoke, Steve had left for work. I couldn’t remember the last time that had happened. I went down to the kitchen and noticed immediately that he had swept all of my research materials to one side so he could eat his cereal and read the paper. Both the bowl and paper were still there. I suspected he had been running late and I suddenly felt absurdly guilty. I cleared his things away and as I placed his bowl in the dishwasher, I found his note by the kettle.
“Morning night owl! I’ve resorted to a note to talk to you and I’m wondering if this might become our new way of communicating? That Scillian ship is quite a well-known event in the village, there’s a memorial on the green. Love, S x”
The memorial was a small stone obelisk, with tiny rosettes of rust all over an iron plaque: “In memory of those who perished seeking a new beginning, may God take them unto Him.” There was a long list of names with ages ranging from seventy years to three months. I touched the top of the monument, I felt somehow compelled to. Cars passed by on the road, but I stayed silent for a brief moment then stepped back.
I was standing in the corner of the village green under a copper beech and looking across to the church. The grass was newly mown, the scent pungent around me, it always reminded me of school. There was a large blue clock on the church and as the long hand ticked on to twelve, a single bell chimed the hour. Ten o’clock. I decided to walk down towards it pushing my hands deep into my pockets; it was a sharp, cold day.
The church path was quiet, a woman walking a fluffed up Pekinese nodded a hello to me as we passed each other. She was wrapped in a fur hat and scarf yet behind her the cemetery was bursting with daffodils and crocuses.
I carried on past the village hall and up the lane to the meadows. At times like this I did wish I had a dog because it felt strangely conspicuous to be walking alone. The blood was pumping through my veins as I strode along to where the footpath narrowed to a single track as it crossed the river via a wooden bridge.
The big house was in ruins behind tall Cotswold Stone walls. While I’d always known it was there, I’d never really taken a good look at it. I scaled a mound of grass on the
riverbank, but all I could see was the tops of boarded-up windows of the ground floor. It was a big, solid building with a skirting wall and large lawns dominated by two huge cedar trees. I found myself strangely drawn to it and walked across the narrow footbridge in an attempt to find a path to take me up to the main gates.
‘I’m afraid you’re wasting your time.’ It was a voice from behind me and, as I turned around, I saw it belonged to a tall man out walking with a large black dog. I headed back towards him along the thin footpath and over the bridge.
‘I was wondering where the gates are.’
‘Over the other side. You have to come at it from the northeast and it’s quite a long driveway. Here you’ll end up in a bog and may easily get stuck.’ He smiled kindly. ‘Unless of course someone like me comes along to rescue you.’
He had a friendly, open face with collar length dark hair that was greying slightly. I reckoned that he was somewhere near my age, perhaps younger. He was clean-shaven and had the healthy skin of a walker. As I approached, his dog charged towards me then leapt up, almost bending in two with excitement as I tried to push it away.
‘Scooter stop it, stay down!’ The man was shouting, but the dog was wilfully ignoring him. ‘I’m sorry. He’s a flat-coated retriever. They love people unconditionally, but they don’t understand that not all people love them back.’
‘It’s okay. I was brought up with dogs, retrievers actually flat-coats seem to be a very friendly breed.’ Scooter was licking my hand and then he was sort of sucking on my arm. I was glad I was wearing an old coat.
‘I’m Rory, I live up at Sarsten.’ We shook hands, though it seemed a very formal thing to do in the middle of the countryside, then I realised that he was some way from home.
‘Martha Nelson.’ When I told him my name I nearly said ‘editor’, an automatic throwback to my working life. As I checked myself, Rory must have noticed something in my expression.
‘If you’d ever like to go inside the house I can let you in, I have a key.’
That took me a little by surprise. ‘Oh, I wasn’t going to, that is I just wanted to, I …’
‘Don’t worry everyone wants to go and take a peek, the owner doesn’t mind. As long as you don’t sue him if a beam drops on your head.’ Rory stroked the top of Scooter’s head and the dog looked honoured to be sitting there beside his master. ‘The owner hopes that one day someone will see it, fall in love and buy it, but it’s a money pit if ever there was one.’
‘Who owns it?’ I asked.
‘A guy called Keith, or as we all know him, Kipper Pike, an old boy builder who lived in this area for a long while. Then his wife inherited a house in Hampshire and a fortune to boot. He tried to sell Lapston Manor, but with the slump and everything, no one’s been interested. The problem is over half the grounds are on a flood plain and the other half contains a quite substantial building, a big levelling job. No builder wants an investment of that kind, but it’ll soon be time: things are on the up again.’
‘And how do you know Kipper Pike?’
‘I’m a landscape gardener. I’ve worked on one or two of his projects.’
‘You’re a long way from home,’ I said. ‘Sarsten’s miles away.’
‘By road, yes, but on foot under three miles as the crow flies. There’s a bridleway that connects our manor house with this one, a carriage drive at one time. I would suggest. Are you local?’
‘Yes, I’ve lived here nearly three years now. My husband and I live on the rise of the hill, the last house on the Swinford Road, where all the accidents happen because people drive too fast round the blind bend.’
‘I know exactly where you mean. That bad, is it?’
‘One, two every six months, and lots of near misses, but the council won’t do anything about it. At the very least we need a slow sign.’
‘Council’s don’t have money for anything these days I’m afraid.’ He was right, the number of potholes everywhere was testament to that. ‘I haven’t seen you around these parts before. Are you enjoying a day off?’ He had the lovely easy manner of a man who liked to chat, not a bit like Steve.
‘No, no, I’m retired. I was a magazine editor in Oxford for over thirty years.’ I felt the familiar knot of pain as I used the word “retired.” ‘Talking of which, one of our titles was Land magazine, you might know it.’
‘I do, I was featured in it, July last year. Isn’t that funny? It’s a small world.’
Scooter had sneaked off, and the sudden loud splash of him diving off the bank into the river made us both start. Rory ran a few paces but came back, head shaking. ‘He’s fine. He loves swimming and this part’s safe. Just round the bend there’s a fast current, I won’t let him swim up there.’ Until that point, we hadn’t caught each other’s eye, we’d mostly been looking out towards the manor’s imposing walls and when we did I felt stupidly shy and looked away too soon.
‘Well, I must go,’ I told him. ‘I’ve got work to do, a project I’m just getting my teeth into.’
‘Me too, back to the shackles of the computer.’ He turned away and whistled for Scooter. There was a lot of splashing then I could see the long black body pulling itself up the steep, slippery bank behind a willow tree. ‘Here, Scooter! Come on, boy,’ Rory whistled between his teeth. ‘Come on, Goofy.’ Scooter was lolloping towards him, ears flapping and a huge stick, even possibly a bit of fencing, in his mouth. I waved and watched them walking away together along the edge of the field towards the Kings Stanley Lane. Rory turned and from about ten yards, shouted; ‘I’m the Mill House, Sarsten, if you ever want to look inside. Bye.’
I dug my hands into my pockets again and walked away. Deep inside me, my stomach did an unexpected somersault and my step had more spring in it as I headed home.
4
I did think that George might slip me a sidelong glance, but he was too much of a gentleman, I should have known that. He walked over to the lady and shook her by the hand with great warmth.
‘Madame Roussell, may I welcome you to Lapston. I am honoured you have decided to pay us a visit.’ He beckoned me over from where I was still standing, just inside the door, and introduced me. ‘This is my oldest friend, Maxwell Carrick.’ She was intoxicating, truly, as indeed many French women are. A tall svelte figure, she looked immaculate in a tailored blue two-piece suit with a fox fur wrapped around her shoulders. Her hair was rolled back à la mode and on her head, she wore a hat with a fine netting around the brim. As I moved forward. she offered her gloved hand.
‘Please, gentlemen,’ she said with only a mere hint of an accent. ‘Do call me Cécile, let us not stand on guard.’ I thought it delightful that her expression wasn’t quite right, it was endearing.
‘Cécile, we are both delighted to make your acquaintance and even more so given that you knew my brother Henry so well.’ George indicated that she should sit down and when she was seated, I saw the pained expression in her face.
She clasped her hands together.
‘Ah Henri,’ she said and I noticed, because she was using the French version of his name, her accent was more obvious to the ear. I could see that it flustered George a little and, as a diversion, he turned to Grant to order tea.
‘How long had you known my brother, Cécile?’ He asked taking a seat opposite her.
‘Barely eight months,’ she replied with a deep sigh. ‘He and I were not, it seems, meant to be.’
‘How terribly sad for you both.’ George looked completely lost for a moment and I almost stepped in, but he rallied and said, ‘Where did you meet each other?’
‘In a small café in the Latin Quarter, it is one of my hauntings.’ There was a rather strange moment whilst George and I simultaneously changed the word from hauntings to haunts in our minds, but it would have been impolite to correct her.
‘And did you know he was English? I mean, were you part of his work
over there?’ I asked. She turned to me, regarding me I think for the first time, and instinctively I straightened my back as if our headmaster had just walked in.
‘No, of course not, he was how you say, under cover. I did not realise until the very end.’
‘Really?’ George cut in before I could speak. ‘How impressive. His French must have been faultless, but there again he was always extremely fond of languages and particularly French, such a musical sound to the ear.’
‘He spoke it beautifully, very well indeed.’ She sighed. ‘I am not sure I can return the pleasure with how I speak English.’ Cécile was peeling off her gloves, her hands delicate and long fingered, nails done in the French Manicure that I knew Alice so admired. She glanced up at me through her long lashes; her eyes large and hazel were absolutely distracting.
‘Well, whatever else, I am so very glad that you were able to bring him such happiness in his final days. Tell me, if you would, what was the date he died? I fear no one has been able to tell me, and for some reason, I feel it is very important that I know.’
‘It was the twelfth of August.’ She spoke in a low voice and looked down at the gloves that were lying across her lap.
The irony was not lost on us; it was Sir Reginald’s birthday. He had always referred to it as The Glorious Twelfth because it was the first day of the grouse too. The Glorious Twelfth. We would never be able to forget the date of Henry’s death.
George was looking for a distraction, had we pondered on that date for long we might both have been overcome and made to look foolish, but thankfully, there is something bewitching about a French woman that her English counterpart has never matched, and we were both rather in awe. Our focus returned soon enough to our lovely guest. George leaned over the coffee table and picked up a decorated chinoiserie box, opening its fine enamelled lid.
‘Would you care for a cigarette, Madame?’