‘And Florence is so heartbroken.’ Lucie picked up a biscuit. She couldn’t take her eyes from Ophelia’s face; her bone structure was so perfect, her eyes so big, the lashes thick and long. She wondered why her cousin wore so much make-up, her foundation was literally plastered on today, she could see little clumps of it around her eyes. If she had Ophelia’s face, Lucie decided, she wouldn’t wear make-up at all. Not that she could be bothered with much at the best of times, just a bit of powder and mascara most days and lipstick if she was going out. Maybe Ophelia had low self-esteem or something, although God knows why. ‘She was absolutely distraught at breakfast. I love your suit by the way. Is it Chanel?’
‘Yes.’ Ophelia nodded. ‘Digby gave it to me. He chooses all my clothes.’
‘Oh?’ Lucie looked taken aback. She paused. ‘Don’t you buy any of your own things?’
‘Not anymore.’ Ophelia sighed. Lucie frowned.
The front door opened and a swirl of cold air filled the room. Footsteps could be heard in the hall.
‘Mummy.’ Sam rushed in and put his head on Ophelia’s knee.
‘Hello, darling,’ Ophelia said, stroking his hair. ‘Did you have a nice time with Daddy? You must have had a good walk, you were gone for a while.’
‘Mummy.’ Sam craned his head back and looked at her. ‘Why do you always do everything wrong?’
‘What?’ A sick feeling entered Ophelia’s chest. This sort of thing was happening more and more. ‘Why did you say that, Sam?’
‘Daddy says you do everything wrong,’ Sam said. ‘Why do you do that, Mummy?’
‘I don’t do everything wrong, Sam.’ Ophelia lowered her gaze. It was awkward that Lucie was listening to this. She liked to keep her family problems away from everyone else in case they started asking questions. Digby didn’t like people interfering. ‘You don’t have to believe Daddy when he says things like that.’
Lucie’s eyes narrowed as she watched this exchange.
‘Daddy says you are bad at driving.’ Sam smiled, unaware of the impact his words were having on his mother and Lucie. ‘And bad at spending money, bad at being my mummy, and a bad wife.’
‘That’s awful.’ Lucie’s voice was sharp. ‘Your daddy shouldn’t be saying things like that to you, Sam. You have a wonderful mummy, who loves you very much.’
Sam reached for a biscuit and turned away, apparently no longer in the mood for talking.
‘It’s fine, honestly,’ Ophelia said in a low voice over his head. ‘Digby’s feeling a bit stressed with work at the moment, and he can say things he doesn’t mean.’
‘If Neil ever spoke to the kids about me like that I’d bag up his belongings, throw them on to the street and have the locks changed.’ Lucie shifted position. ‘It’s just wrong, Ophelia, to make a child think badly of one of their parents. Unless that person is a terrible person, which you’re not.’
‘I know it sounds a bit strange but it’s fine, really.’ Ophelia glanced towards the door, nervousness in her eyes. She was wondering when Digby was going to come in, or whether he was outside listening to their conversation right now. ‘Ah look, you still have your wellies on, Sam. Let’s go into the hall and take them off. We don’t want to get any mud on the carpet, do we?’
She stood up and led the little boy out of the room.
Lucie stared after her. What on earth had all that been about?
7
‘Letters?’ Sister Veronica repeated, the full focus of her stare on her cousin. ‘What letters?’ She was feeling a bit calmer now, the wave of terror having settled back down into muted fear. It was so important that she tried to think clearly. She made a huge effort to pull herself into some semblance of normality and to listen properly to what Flo had to tell her.
‘Awful ones, V.’ Florence’s eyes filled up again. ‘Really terrible. They’ve been arriving for over a year now, always hand delivered, no stamp on them, just waiting for me on the doormat when I come back from the village.’
They were sitting in the summer house at the end of the lawn, after deeming the herb garden too close to Chalfield Hall for comfort. From where they sat, Sister Veronica reckoned, they would have a good view of anyone wanting to overhear their words. She’d already made a comprehensive search round the sides and back of the summer house and was satisfied that they would hear the rustling if anyone tried to creep behind it, there were so many old leaves and rusty gardening equipment stashed there.
‘And what on earth’s in those letters?’ Sister Veronica said.
‘Well.’ Florence wiped her eyes. ‘The first one said, “THE LONGER YOU LEAVE IT, THE BIGGER THE PUNISHMENT”. All written in capitals, so I didn’t recognise the handwriting. I just thought it was a horrid joke when I first saw it, maybe one of the village teenagers playing a prank. I didn’t take it seriously, and besides, I had no idea what the person was referring to. I still don’t.’
‘But then there were more letters?’ Sister Veronica said.
‘Yes, a lot more.’ Florence shook her head. ‘The second said something like, “YOU ARE IGNORING ME, NOTHING HAS CHANGED. STOP IT NOW, OR BAD THINGS WILL HAPPEN. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED”. Then after that, the letters became more frequent, two or three a week. They all contain threats, all telling us to stop doing something or terrible things will happen. Some are just insulting, calling us names, or saying we are incompetent liars, or things of that nature.’
‘Oh, Flo,’ Sister Veronica said. ‘I’m so sorry, that sounds very stressful. What a bullying thing for someone to do. I hope you took the letters straight to the police?’
‘I did at first.’ Florence looked at her. ‘A few weeks after they started arriving, I took them all to the police station in Northampton. They looked at them, and made a note of it, but they didn’t take it that seriously. They said the majority of poison pen letters are purely malicious, with no proper criminal intent behind them, so they told us to ignore them and just carry on with our lives. The police kept the letters I’d brought and said to hand any more to them in case the sender became sloppy and accidentally identified themselves, which I did for a few months, but nothing came of it so in the end I started keeping them in a locked box in my room.’
‘Not very helpful.’ Sister Veronica grimaced. ‘I’d like to take a look at the ones you have, if you don’t mind?’ The sender must have unwittingly left a clue in them, she thought. People who think they’re that clever often slip up, in one way or another.
Florence nodded.
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I’d be so grateful for any help you can give, V. I’ve read them and reread them so many times, I can barely bring myself to look at the horrible things now.’
‘Did you get any sense from them about who might be behind the letters?’ Sister Veronica said. ‘Any hints from what was written?’
‘Well, strangely, the letters also included details about us that no one else should know,’ Florence said. ‘Private things, silly little facts that I didn’t think anyone except Giles and I knew. Like when his blood pressure pills changed, and when I tripped over next door’s cat and hurt my wrist. It must be someone who is very close to us, to know that kind of thing. And that’s very upsetting. Oh, V, I know the family is generally a bunch of egomaniacs who don’t have a social grace between them, but I never thought any of them would stoop to this, you know?’
Sister Veronica nodded. She felt the same. The notion that a member of one’s own family was prepared to kill was stomach-churning, almost too disturbing to bear.
‘And now you’re worried that Giles’ death has something to do with the person who wrote the letters?’ she said.
‘Yes.’ Florence sniffed. ‘Well, it makes sense, doesn’t it? We get all these threats telling us to stop doing something or else, then suddenly my husband drops dead from abrin poisoning, whatever that is. That’s why I invited everyone here for Christmas, V. I wanted everyone around me so I could feel safe. Protected. I just wanted to relax for once. And that’s why I inv
ited you; I thought if anyone could help me, it would be you. You’ve always been so sensible and clear-headed, even when we were children. I’m so sorry, I never thought anything like this would happen. It’s all my fault Giles is dead, if I hadn’t brought everyone together like this, he would probably still be alive.’ Huge sobs overtook her, and for a few minutes, Sister Veronica held her cousin in her arms, letting the grief wash through her.
‘Now listen to me, Flo,’ she said, when Florence’s breathing was slowing down again. ‘It’s not your fault at all, the only person responsible for Giles’ death is whoever gave him abrin. I know this will be hard, but for now we are going to carry on as normal in front of the family, grieving, obviously, but normal other than that. We can’t let people know we are suspicious, it might cause them to do something drastic. That includes Mrs Hardman, as she is also in and out of the house.’
‘Oh, it wouldn’t be her.’ Florence managed a watery smile. ‘Mrs Hardman has been with us for years. She’s so reliable, so down to earth, if she wanted to do anything to the family she’s had ample enough opportunity before. I trust her more than the rest of them put together, V.’
‘No.’ Sister Veronica shook her head. ‘Unfortunately it could be any of them, Flo. Please believe me, it’s really important that we don’t talk about any of this to another soul. We don’t know what else this person is planning to do, and any sign from us that we are looking for them could startle them into a reckless course of action.’
‘All right.’ Florence nodded, her smile replaced by anxiety. ‘You’re right, V. Gosh, this is going to be difficult.’
Sister Veronica gave her cousin a tight smile, wondering whether or not to share the awful feeling she’d had as soon as she’d arrived at Chalfield Hall. Rather than going away after Giles’ demise, it had become stronger, more potent, as though the universe was trying to warn her about something else, a further catastrophe, encouraging her to be on high alert at all times. It was hard to describe the whole body–mind feeling, but it was one that made the hairs stand up on her arms, and an icy chill flood her brain. Sometimes it was weaker, sometimes stronger, but it was always there.
Just as she opened her mouth to say something, the sound of screeching tyres on the gravel to the front of the house made them both look around. A car door slammed.
‘Oh no, that’s all we need.’ Florence sighed. ‘Romilly’s here. Magnus’ ex-wife. She drives like a rally racer. Goes through several new tyres a year.’
Sister Veronica sat up. Now this could be interesting, she thought. A new ingredient thrown into the already turbulent mix. Of course, Romilly is under suspicion as much as everyone else, it sounds like she’s here enough. But the question is, will anyone slip up and provide us with a clue as to what in Great Saints is actually going on in this house? She’d chosen not to share with Florence the overheard conversation between Giles and Rufus, or Cecily’s words about Florence and Giles being house-hoggers. She hadn’t mentioned the bruise she’d detected around Ophelia’s eye either. She wanted a bit more time to think on her own before she heightened her cousin’s already sky-rocketing levels of anxiety. To accuse the wrong person would be awful, and may very well produce more problems than answers. And the awful fact was that she needed to include Florence in her mental list of possible suspects. Yes, she needed time to mull things over, decide the best way forward. She stood up.
‘Let’s go back to the house,’ she said. ‘I’m rather looking forward to meeting this woman.’
8
Digby watched as Ophelia rinsed the soles of Sam’s wellies under the tap in the outhouse. Sam was outside somewhere, playing on the lawn.
‘You’re wasting water,’ he said, reaching over to turn the tap off.
‘I haven’t finished yet, Digby.’ Ophelia turned the tap on. ‘Don’t turn it off yet, there’s still a lot of mud on them.’
Digby reached over and turned the tap off again.
‘You’re not cleaning them in the most efficient way, Ophelia,’ he said, his mouth a sneer. ‘You never learn, do you? If I was doing it the boots would be clean by now.’
An anger so long suppressed welled up with ferocity inside Ophelia. She turned the tap back on and continued scrubbing the soul of the wellington boot, saying nothing.
Digby stepped closer to her, she could feel his acid breath on her neck. He reached forward and turned the tap off again.
‘Just leave me alone.’ Ophelia turned, her voice louder than she usually dared. ‘I’m trying to help Sam, Digby, by cleaning his boots. It might help you, too, because then they will be ready if you want to take him out again tomorrow. Leave me to get on with it, please.’
Digby picked up the heavy iron bucket that stood on the sink’s counter and brought it crashing down on to the back of Ophelia’s right hand that was still in the sink next to the wellie, putting all his force into the action. She screamed, sharp pain shooting through the bones in her hand and up her arm.
‘Shut up,’ he hissed. ‘It was your fault I did that. You shouldn’t have answered me back, should you? Don’t cry, it’s pathetic. You know how it annoys me when you cry.’
‘My hand.’ Ophelia held it in front of her, tears streaming down her face. ‘It really hurts, Digby.’
‘Like I said, it was your fault that happened.’ A vein was bulging at the side of Digby’s forehead. ‘I wouldn’t have done it if you hadn’t spoken to me so rudely.’
Ophelia turned away from him. Her thoughts were splintering, fragmenting amid the shattering pain. She couldn’t go on like this for much longer, she knew. But then she had to, for Sam. Digby had made it quite clear that if she ever left he would take Sam with him and she’d never see the boy again.
Neither of them saw the eyes staring at them through the crack in the door.
9
Lucie stared at her husband. She was sitting on their bed in the brown room, as Florence called it. She was finding the heavy old furniture packed in to the space as oppressing as the current conversation.
‘No, we can’t just “go back home”,’ she said, sighing. ‘I want to, too, Neil. I hate being here, it’s a bloody nightmare. Araminta’s an arch bitch, Rufus is as drunk as she is most of the time, Coco’s a psycho and Wilfred’s just weird. Mummy’s as cold as ever and Daddy seems to have emotionally cut himself off from everyone. Sister Veronica seems all right but she keeps looking at me in a funny way, and Magnus is just a lost cause. Maud’s just boring. I barely know Digby and Ophelia, haven’t seen them for ages. But Uncle Giles has just died and poor Aunt Florence is in bits. We can’t just leave now, I have to make sure she’s okay. And besides…’ Lucie played with the duvet she was sitting on. ‘We came here to discuss something with her, didn’t we?’
Neil’s expression had shifted from hopeful back to resigned while she was talking.
‘I hate it here,’ he said in a low voice. ‘It’s uncomfortable. I never feel welcome, and your mother blatantly dislikes me. And the boys don’t enjoy it either. They’re away from everything they love, their computer games and their friends.’
‘I know that.’ Lucie’s voice was rising. ‘But what do you want me to do, Neil? We can’t even pay our bills at the moment, and I had to take out a loan to buy the boys some Christmas presents. Just wait a bit, and when the time’s right I’ll have a chat with Aunt Florence.’
‘If you weren’t doing that PhD…’ Neil muttered, turning away.
‘If I wasn’t studying for this doctorate, yes, I’d still have my job at the council,’ Lucie said, half-shouting now. ‘But I’m not just doing this for me, Neil. I’m doing it for us, and the boys. I want to do something meaningful with my life, not just push paper around and enter meaningless data forever. In just over a year I’ll have finished, and I’ll be qualified to get a much better job then. We just have to hang on for a bit longer. Can’t you see that?’
‘It’s just taking so long.’ Neil turned back, a muscle throbbing in his jaw. ‘I’m doing all the
extra shifts I can at the warehouse, Luce. I’m exhausted, I can’t keep that amount of overtime up much longer. And most of all, I – I don’t want this to affect our marriage. But we’ve been financially fucked for ages now, since you left your job in fact. Can’t you see how it’s affecting our relationship? All the stress? All the trying to make ends meet?’
Hot tears welled up in Lucie’s eyes. She blinked fast.
‘Yes. I know,’ she said. ‘You’re right, Neil, and I’m so sorry it’s put such a burden on you. I just need your support for a bit longer. This means so much to me. Please?’
She stared at her husband, his face tight with stress. He’d lost weight over the last few months, his clothes were getting baggier on him. And all because of the anxiety he felt trying to earn enough so that she could finish her studies into domestic abuse. It was an issue she’d felt passionately about, ever since her friend Melody had been mercilessly beaten up by her partner. Lucie had supported Melody as much as she could, found the domestic abuse helpline details for her, helped her move house to a safe place her violent partner didn’t know about, seen the effect the whole thing had had on Melody’s two young children. Lucie had always felt huge compassion for the underdogs in life, the vulnerable and oppressed, she couldn’t help it. She sometimes thought she’d been born with too many emotions to cope with. ‘Too sensitive’, her sister Araminta always called her. Well, now she wanted to use her empathy to help vulnerable women and men. She felt so strongly about finishing her PhD that she was prepared to stand up to her husband about it. But the last thing she wanted was for it to affect their relationship, to make their lives unbearable.
The Tormented Page 5