The Queen's Spy

by Clare Marchant

  The path spread out a little as it wound behind some ramshackle brick stables and then on to another patch of garden. This was even more overgrown, brambles and thistles jostling for place amongst fruit trees and plants Mathilde didn’t recognise.

  ‘That other part used to be the formal lawns,’ Rachel explained, ‘when my grandparents lived here. Dad wasn’t interested in anything other than his vegetables though and eventually he got too poorly to do much. Just here was the orchard and vegetable garden. A mess now, as you can see. Nothing a strong man with a petrol strimmer couldn’t sort out.’ She grinned at Mathilde, who nodded, thinking, whoever bought the place could have fun doing that, then.

  ‘But this is exciting, come and look,’ Rachel turned and led her through a small coppice of beech and silver birch trees until they reached a clearing. In the centre was a tiny stone chapel. Still intact, ivy grew up one wall, winding its way into the eaves and poking out from between the roof tiles.

  ‘Wow,’ Mathilde breathed, slowly and instinctively bringing her camera up to her face and firing off a volley of shots. Creeping to one side she continued to take photographs. ‘Incroyable,’ she whispered. Behind her a crashing of wings shattered the silence as a flock of pigeons unused to human interruption flew up out of the trees, calling to each other as they disappeared. The spell was broken.

  Standing in front of the doors, pale, gnarled and roughened by centuries of weather, Mathilde ran her hand down the wood, the grain sharp and uneven beneath her fingertips. All around her the air trembled, waiting for her to do something. An expectation, as if the world had gasped, holding its breath. She shuddered. It was the same feeling she had in the house but far stronger: anticipation and longing. Turning the heavy metal looped handle, she pushed, but the door didn’t move.

  ‘It’s locked,’ Rachel stated the obvious, ‘but I think I might know where the key is if you want to look inside? There’s a load of random keys in the cabinet in the hall; I’ll show you when we go back. I need to give you a tour of the house anyway.’

  ‘Yes, I’d like to,’ Mathilde confirmed. She was surprised her sister hadn’t wanted to look herself.

  Slowly they made their way along a path that looped back towards the house. Rachel pointed out a low, red brick thatched roofed farmhouse across the fields.

  ‘That’s part of the estate as well. It’s where our aunt and uncle, Alice and Jack, live. Dad allowed them to live there rent free but it’ll be up to you if you let them stay. It’s all part of what you’ve inherited. If the solicitor couldn’t find you after twelve months then she’d have got the lot.’

  As they’d circumnavigated the garden Mathilde felt a pull towards one corner, a tug on her consciousness. She didn’t mention it to Rachel, she was fully aware of how others saw her: strange and a little otherworldly. Mysterious, unexplained feelings were always best kept to herself. She strode through the foliage alone and as she approached the area she felt the feeling becoming stronger; an electric singing in the air and vibrations that threaded through the hairs along her arms as it drew her closer.

  The space looked no different to the rest of the garden, grasses competing for space with tall Jerusalem artichoke plants running amok and overgrown soft fruit bushes still managing to produce tiny sprays of green, underripe currants at the tips of their branches. And yet this was where she wanted to be, unmistakably it was pulling her in.

  Once back inside the house, Mathilde soon became disoriented as Rachel continued her tour. The sitting room just off the kitchen had old battered sofas sagging in the middle, together with a modern television which Fleur immediately switched on. A small pink pig with a squeaky voice seemed to be bossing various other animals around and the little girl was transfixed.

  Mathilde could understand why they were using the small living room as she surveyed the huge formal reception rooms. Tall ceilings with decorative, elaborate plasterwork soared above their heads. A large oriel window threw light into the drawing room which was part of the original medieval hall, and the dust covers thrown over furniture gave the effect of ghostly galleons sailing through.

  Upstairs on the floor they were sleeping on were a further four bedrooms.

  ‘And up here are the old servants’ rooms,’ Rachel opened a door in the corridor and pointed up a flight of dark stairs, ‘and the attics too. But also, lots of spiders, so I’ve avoided going up there. If you want to see them, you’re on your own.’ Having sneezed several times because of all the dust, Mathilde declined the offer to go and investigate; the estate agent could do that at a later date.

  ‘There are still lots of our father’s belongings to go through, so I’d appreciate your help,’ Rachel explained as they made their way back downstairs, ‘and maybe it’ll help you feel closer to him, to know him a little bit.’ Mathilde wasn’t sure she’d be around long enough for that but she kept her mouth shut. It was always safer to not divulge what was in her head.

  After showing her the drawer containing a selection of old keys, Rachel went to make some lunch before they left for Fakenham. She asked pointedly if there was anything that needed ironing before the appointment with Mr Murray but Mathilde just shrugged and said ‘no’. She was happy in her jeans and plaid shirt so he’d have to be as well.

  Rummaging through the keys of every size and description, she’d put money on most of them now not fitting any lock in the house. Some were huge and old, decorated with patches of rust and she decided one of those was most likely to be the one she needed. She’d just have time to try them out before lunch. Collecting them up she slipped quietly out of the front door. She needed to do this on her own.

  Now knowing where she was going, it only took five minutes to hurry along to the chapel. Two pigeons had reappeared, wandering around pecking at things and watching her in silence. She began trying the keys in the enormous metal keyhole until with the fourth there was a dry, grating sound of metal on metal and with a small wiggle it slowly rotated. Mathilde held her breath as she turned the handle on the door, giving it a hefty shove with her shoulder. It opened about twelve inches before the warped wood caught on the floor but it was enough and twisting sideways she crept inside.

  The interior was murky, the stained-glass windows mottled and dull, one of which was obscured by the ivy growing up the outside. She could see where it had made its way between broken panes of glass crawling down the wall inside as well, trying to take over. Beneath her feet the stone slabs were rough with dust and grit and she noticed the tiny skeleton of a bird on one of the wooden pews. The altar was nothing more than a plain oak table and around the walls were a couple of memorial slabs. It smelled musty, of ancient hymn books, the air still and heavy with dead prayers. Had her father sat in here and thought of her and her mother? Knowing that he’d been alive and living in this corner of England all these years made the hollow space in her chest that ached for a family echo with emptiness. It had been here all along, if only she’d known. So many years wasted that she couldn’t get back.

  The strange feeling she’d had when stood outside earlier had followed her in, as if there was someone stood in silence next to her. Who was it? she held her breath and closed her eyes but nothing happened. ‘Qu’est-ce?’ She whispered, her voice dissipating into the stagnant space.

  Back outside, she locked the door again; she would come back when she had more time. There was something here, someone trying to talk to her and her interest was piqued. Behind her the trees rustled, the leaves grazing against each other as she hurried back to the house.

  Chapter Eight

  June 2021

  ‘I’ll pick you up here in about an hour then,’ Rachel shouted through the open car window, adding: ‘don’t wander off please!’ Behind her, Fleur’s solemn face watched from the back window as they drove away and Mathilde turned around to face the smart double fronted Victorian villa. It looked to her as if it was simply someone’s house, but the discreet brass plaque beside the dark blue front door confirmed it to be Mur
ray and Browne, Solicitors.

  The receptionist made a big play of not being able to understand what she was saying as Mathilde explained who she was and that she had an appointment. She may not be dressed very smartly but she’d put on her cleaner canvas shoes, a pair which weren’t frayed around the edges, and plaited her long dark hair into a thick rope which hung down her back. She knew her accent wasn’t so strong that she couldn’t be understood but the woman’s abrasive attitude was nothing new; it slid off her shoulders like water. People took one look at her and made their own minds up; it had always been that way. Probably just as well she hadn’t pulled up to the car park in her van or she may not have been let in through the door. She kept her steady gaze on the woman and repeated who she’d come to see.

  Thankfully Mr Murray, who was old enough to be her grandfather, was far more accommodating and despatched the receptionist to bring coffee and biscuits. Mathilde warmed to him immediately. She rarely met another human she felt instantly comfortable with, someone who wasn’t judging and finding her wanting; he was as polite and welcoming to her as she was sure he would be to any of his clients. When the refreshments arrived, Mathilde pointedly took a handful of biscuits, her eyes never leaving the receptionist’s face.

  ‘Merci,’ she sang in a sing-song voice before taking a bite.

  Mr Murray explained he’d known her father for many years. He also knew how much time and effort her father had expended looking for her and she felt again the stab of raw pain that she’d missed out on that relationship, so many years lost. She explained in halting English how her mother thought he’d perished in the bomb blast, so it was a huge shock to find out he hadn’t died then and had in fact spent years searching for them.

  ‘Your father was adamant we carried on looking in order that you may inherit Lutton Hall,’ he assured her, ‘with you being the eldest child. It’s been in your family for centuries, but I’m afraid there’s no money for work to be done, all his liquid assets went to Rachel. There is however some rent from pasture let to local farmers; there’s over a hundred acres of estate. Your Aunt Alice and Uncle Jack live at Home Farm and although they don’t pay for the privilege there’s no reason why you shouldn’t start charging them. Your father was very soft with his sister, the whole family spoiled her really. And there are bound to be ways of diversifying to keep the place going. Now, I just need you to sign some documents and then it’s all yours. I’ll have the land registry send their paperwork straight to the hall.’ He began to shuffle through the file laid in front of him. Mathilde knew this was the perfect moment for her to explain she was going to sell up and ask him to take care of it but she couldn’t open her mouth and say the words. She decided to wait a couple of days and email him, rather than say it out loud, and taking the pen proffered, she signed on the various lines he’d pencilled with a cross.

  With a copy of the paperwork he’d given her in an A4 envelope, she was waiting on the side of the road when Rachel appeared thirty minutes later.

  ‘All done? You weren’t very long,’ Rachel said, waiting while Mathilde clicked her seatbelt into place, ‘what did he say?’

  ‘Not a lot,’ Mathilde replied, ‘he told me the hall has been in the family for hundreds of years and our papa wanted me to have it. One day I have no family and now I have a hundred …’ she paused as she tried to think of a word, ‘fantômes who are a part of me.’

  ‘Do you mean ghosts?’ Rachel suggested. ‘Well yes, it’s true that the hall has been our ancestral home for a long time, although there aren’t any ghosts; I wouldn’t have hung around if there were.’

  Mathilde slid her eyes sideways and watched her sister as she drove. She might not have encountered any but there was definitely something, or someone, hiding in the dark corners behind the shadows waiting there for her to appear, and she had a strong suspicion it wasn’t their father.

  As they carried the shopping from the car Rachel pointed to the pile of abandoned keys Mathilde had left on the top of the cabinet in the hall.

  ‘Did you find the one for the chapel earlier?’ she asked, dropping the bags of food onto the kitchen table. Mathilde was unloading a bag into the ancient fridge which was so iced up there was little room for any food. Rachel had already kicked it twice when it stopped working.

  ‘Yes. I went and looked quickly, before we went out.’

  ‘Oh, you should’ve said, I’d like to see inside too. Can we go together and investigate later? When I was a kid we were always told not to go in there as it was for “praying not playing”,’ she made quote marks with her fingers in the air, ‘although I’m sure Dad had been in when he was a youngster and I believe my grandfather used to use it for its proper purpose, although I don’t recall him saying they had services in it. I’ll organise for you to meet Aunt Alice and Uncle Jack as well; they’ve been asking about you but I told them to give you a day to settle in. She’ll probably know more about the chapel as she’s always lived here.’

  ‘Yes, we can go,’ Mathilde agreed reluctantly. Despite the plain disappointing interior there was something special, different about the chapel and she felt as though she didn’t want to share it. She was being stupid, she told herself. Rachel had spent years of her life in this house so she had as much right – maybe more so – to look around any part of the estate.

  After dinner, they walked back to the chapel. Fleur was kicking a new ball purchased earlier in the supermarket and she was happy to be left outside playing while the two women went in. Rachel hadn’t forgotten the warnings she’d had to stay out and she wasn’t going to allow her daughter inside until she’d looked herself.

  ‘So, after your meeting with Mr Murray, do you know what you’re going to do with the hall? Will you stay? I’d really like to get to know you properly, you’re the sister I thought I’d never meet.’

  ‘Stay? Non. No. Of course not. Why would I?’ Mathilde realised her answer had been harsh; she could see it immediately in the way her sister’s face creased with disappointment. ‘I have to travel for my work, I told you that.’ Inside her chest though, her heart was churning. She’d yearned for a family, a blood connection her whole life and yet now she had found it she was too frightened to remain. The look on Rachel’s face filled her with remorse; an uncomfortable emotion she was unfamiliar with.

  ‘Maybe I’ll stay for a week or two,’ she relented, ‘then I’ll decide what to do.’

  Rachel’s smile was shaky. ‘Thank you,’ she replied.

  Inside, it smelled the same as before, the stale air heavy and damp, a sharp contrast with the fresh summer evening outside. The strange feeling she’d had before of not being on her own wasn’t apparent this time. Now, it was just an old dilapidated building in need of some acrow props and urgent restoration.

  ‘Well, it’s a bit of a disappointment, isn’t it?’ Rachel stood in the middle and turned around slowly. ‘There’s nothing in here apart from the pews and a table which I’m guessing was an altar? And why has the wall on this side been covered with plaster but it’s bare stone opposite?’ She walked over to the wall on their left and banged it with the flat of her hand to show Mathilde what she meant. A shower of dust fell to the floor. ‘Actually,’ she raised her eyebrows, ‘that isn’t plaster, it’s boarded up, it sounds hollow. That’s a bit odd.’

  ‘Maybe the wall was starting to come down? Or bits fell off?’ Mathilde waved her hands as she tried to think of the word she needed.

  ‘Disintegrate?’ Rachel supplied. ‘I suppose it may have, that would explain all the warnings about not coming in here, but it was a bit of a botched job if all they did was stick some panels over it.’

  ‘What’s this?’ Mathilde rubbed her fingers over the board where the paint was flaking away, revealing a pale design in soft grey, travelling diagonally away from the corner towards the centre of the panel. ‘It looks like a snake,’ she added.

  ‘It does rather,’ Rachel peered at it, ‘I wonder why they’d have that in a church? Unless it’s somet
hing to do with Adam and Eve.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Look at the time, I’d better find Fleur and head back. I told Aunt Alice to come over for seven-thirty, we can ask her.’

  Locking the door, they fought their way through the brambles and nettles at the side of the chapel to look at the exterior wall where the panelling was, but it seemed exactly the same as the rest. The mortar was dry and crumbling as Mathilde pushed her finger in and watched it scatter on the leaves below.

  She paused for a moment letting the other two go on ahead; she wanted a few minutes to herself. She was used to living a solitary life and since she’d arrived the previous day she’d been required to be sociable non-stop; she needed a break, a chance to breathe more easily. Perhaps that was why she kept having this odd feeling she was being watched. As if someone had been waiting for her to walk onto the stage in a play she didn’t know she was starring in. She gave herself a shake. It was probably just everything that had happened recently making her feel this way. After all her years of wishing, yearning, suddenly she had a family, other people she was related to, and her mother wasn’t alive to see it. No wonder she was feeling crowded. So much so that she was imagining people who weren’t even there, when she had plenty of new relatives who were physically present.

  Following slowly behind the others she detoured across the garden, pushing through the undergrowth until she reached a fence, broken in places where the wood was rotten. Beyond her a field of ripening wheat was starting to turn from pale green to gold.