‘Okay, thank you, both of you.’ Magnus, looking brighter, stood up and followed his son – who was looking very pleased – from the room.
‘Honestly, that girl,’ Florence said, going over to a jumble of books on the floor. ‘There’s something in her tone, when she gets going, that makes me want to run for the hills. It gets under my skin, do you know what I mean? It’s like someone running their fingernails down an old-fashioned blackboard; just unbearable.’
Sister Veronica suppressed a smile.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I do. I honestly thought I was being positive, trying to get her to feel good about her art.’ She bent down and started to pick up various loose sheets of paper, and a variety of envelopes and other odds and ends.
‘Oh, don’t pay any attention to Coco,’ Florence said. ‘I’ve tried all sorts of different approaches with her, but nothing seems to work. She’s a bloody nightmare, just like her mother. Wilfred was right about that. My only hope is that Coco will grow out of it eventually, now that she’s not living with Romilly.’
They worked diligently, clearing up the mess, stacking piles of paper back on the shelves, and tidily arranging the books. Neat footsteps got louder in the corridor outside the room and Mrs Hardman’s head appeared at the door.
‘Mrs Beresford?’ she said. ‘Lunch is ready.’
‘Oh, thank you, Mrs Hardman,’ Florence said, straightening up. She looked around. ‘V, do you mind finishing in here if I go and round everyone up? It always takes at least ten minutes for them all to arrive at the table after they’ve been told, for some reason. I always feel like I’m trying to herd cats with this family.’
Sister Veronica smiled at her cousin.
‘Yes, you go,’ she said. ‘We’re nearly done in here, there’s just that mess under the chair to go now.’
As Florence exited the room, following Mrs Hardman down the corridor, Sister Veronica slowly dropped to her knees and scooped out the papers from under the swivel chair, attempting to stack them into a neat pile. One in particular caught her attention. It wasn’t a loose sheet like the rest of them; someone had taken the time to fold whatever it was into the tiniest shape possible, as though trying to hide whatever was written on it. Curiosity got the better of her, and – berating herself for being so dashed nosy – she unfolded the paper and read its contents. Then she reread them again, just to make sure she’d got it right the first time, feeling her heart speed up inside her chest. Could the information here be true? Surely not. But then again, if it was, it made sense out of several things that had been troubling her over the last few days.
Her hands trembling, Sister Veronica quickly refolded the paper and stuffed it into the deep pocket of her skirt. All the Saints in Heaven, that had been a shock. She now had a very good idea about who it had been that murdered Giles, and possibly Digby too.
36
Everyone was already seated for once, Sister Veronica observed, as she entered the dining room, trying to create a normal expression on her face but with chills spreading out under her skin. The room abounded with delicious aromas of apple, fennel and chestnut, coming from Mrs Hardman’s carefully prepared lunch. The steaming plates were already on the table, and she sat down at the one plate left, Florence to her left, Magnus to her right, and Wilfred opposite her. Coco, she noticed, obviously having had one of her mercurial quick mood changes, was chatting happily away to Araminta – who was drinking water, a much more subdued expression on her face than usual. Rufus was absent, he must still be out, brooding over Araminta’s decision to be honest about their desperate scheme, she thought. Maud and Barnaby sat together, both surveying the goings-on before them, munching steadily. Cecily, seated very far away from her husband – Sister Veronica couldn’t help but wonder whose decision that was – was for once looking her age if not older. She was wearing sunglasses, her skin sallow, and she toyed with a piece of meat listlessly. Hungover, Sister Veronica thought. Serves her right. I hope she’s regretting her awful outburst yesterday, she should be ashamed of herself. A large red patch covered half of Cecily’s face, probably from where Florence’s scalding hot chocolate had landed. That looks painful, she thought. It’s a real shame her reckless actions had to come to physical injury. Things could have been handled so differently. Ophelia and Sam sat together, chatting quietly, both seeming much more relaxed than ever before. Lucie’s appearance surprised her the most. The girl seemed defeated somehow, as though she had the weight of the world on her shoulders. Her face was different, drawn. What on earth could have happened to cause that?
The murderer, she knew, was present at the table. And she hoped to goodness she was acting as she normally would, despite the icy fear she felt at being in their presence. It was important she carried on as usual for now, she didn’t want to alert them to her new knowledge just yet, didn’t want to trigger them into any hasty, reckless actions, or to give them an opportunity to escape from justice. After lunch, she would explain what she knew to Florence privately, and the two of them would quietly call the police, ask them to come to the house and arrest the perpetrator, show them the evidence. Until then, she would have to go along with it all and try not to let on that she now knew the truth.
Magnus tapped the side of his glass – the noise making Sister Veronica jump – as Mrs Hardman came in, with a big jug of water. They all had soft drinks today, Sister Veronica noticed. For once.
‘I’d like to make a toast before we all get too stuck in,’ he said. ‘To Mrs Hardman, for the exceptional meals she continues to make us.’
Muted cheers of ‘hear hear’, and ‘absolutely top notch’ came from up and down the table. Sister Veronica tried not to look at the killer, didn’t want to give herself away, but it was hard. Her eyes kept naturally going in that direction. Mrs Hardman gave a small smile, bowed her head, and retreated from the room.
‘And,’ Magnus said, ‘I would like to thank my mother, Florence, for inviting so many of us to Chalfield Hall this year.’ He turned to her. ‘I know it’s been pretty shocking here recently, for so many unforeseen reasons, and you’ve had to cope with so much. I know you’re probably trying to grieve for Dad with all of us milling around and getting in the way, yet you are still going out of your way to make us feel welcome, and I want to say thank you for that. I’m glad you’ve had Sister Veronica here as a support for you.’ He turned and smiled at her, then took a deep breath. ‘As well as being appalling, events here have also triggered off a turning point, for me at least,’ he said, his voice beginning to choke up. ‘I’m sorry, Mum, for not coping and for letting you down over the past few years. But I’m really going to try to get life back on track now.’ He sat down, wiping his eyes, this time to a more elevated chorus of support. Florence reached over and patted his hand.
‘Thank you for saying that,’ she said, giving her son a warm smile.
‘Right, let’s dig in properly,’ Barnaby said, staring down at what was left of his food. ‘I’m afraid I can’t wait another moment.’
Conversation dropped as the feast disappeared from the plates. Mrs Hardman really did have a knack with flavours, Sister Veronica noticed – despite her near critical levels of anxiety – as a taste explosion occurred in her mouth. She’d lived through many tragedies in her life, but had never yet found anything that had put her off food. I’ll need the energy later, she decided, making good headway into the pile before her. This lot should keep me going for a while. Still, she wasn’t enjoying her Christmas Eve lunch, the evil near her was too potent for that. The food was much needed fuel, as far as she was concerned, and the fact that it was tasty: so much the better.
Florence coughed, putting down her knife and fork.
‘Are you okay, Flo?’ Sister Veronica turned to her cousin.
‘I think I’ve got something stuck in my throat.’ Florence grasped at her neck. ‘I can’t breathe, V. It feels like something is swelling down there. Help me, please.’
With a feeling of alarm washing through her, Sis
ter Veronica put down her cutlery, reaching over to pat Florence on the back.
‘There,’ she said. ‘Is that any better?’
‘No,’ Florence said, her voice sounding strangled. ‘It’s getting worse.’
37
Most of the party had stopped talking, and were now watching Sister Veronica rise quickly to her feet.
‘Have a drink of water, Mum,’ Magnus said, topping up her glass. But Florence wasn’t listening. She was slumping sideways, her eyes rolling back in her head, a thin dribble of white froth coming out of her mouth.
‘Someone help me,’ Sister Veronica shouted, and in seconds Lucie and Magnus were helping her half carry, half drag Florence onto the floor. She was making a strange growling sound.
‘Her lips are turning blue,’ Lucie said. She turned round. ‘For God’s sake, can one of you useless lumps call Auntie Florence an ambulance instead of just sitting there staring?’
‘I will,’ Wilfred said, retrieving his phone from his pocket, and punching in the numbers.
Sister Veronica, white, cold fear taking over her body and mind, started slapping her cousin’s back.
‘Try to be sick, Flo,’ she said loudly. ‘I think you’ve been poisoned. Try and throw the whole lot up.’
‘Poisoned?’ Magnus turned to her. ‘She can’t have been. If Mum had, surely the whole lot of us would be ill too?’
‘I’ll explain later,’ Sister Veronica said, thumping away. ‘Call the police as well, Wilfred.’ I’m not going to lose Flo, she thought wildly. Not now, not after we’ve all been through so much. Come on, God, Universe, or whoever you are. Help me out here, please. Flo deserves to live. She has to survive, to thrive after this awful Christmas is over. Please, give her another chance at life.
Florence was now writhing on the carpet in a desperate, jerky way. Her convulsions became bigger, and it seemed as though she was straining from her stomach. Then in one painful movement, she vomited the contents of her lunch onto the carpet. Her body became still. Sister Veronica, kneeling next to her cousin, stroked her clammy forehead, watching her face intently for signs of change. Florence was no longer struggling, and her distressed expression was relaxing. After a moment or two her eyes came back into focus. She stared upwards.
‘Ah, you’re back with us,’ Sister Veronica said, relief washing out much of the intense anxiety in her. ‘How are you feeling, Flo?’
‘Bloody awful,’ Florence said, closing her eyes. ‘I think I must have eaten something bad. Just give me a minute and I’ll be okay.’
‘Now, you lie still, Flo,’ Sister Veronica said. ‘The ambulance is on its way.’ She can’t remember anything I said about poison, she thought. She must have gone unconscious for a few seconds.
‘Ambulance?’ Florence’s eyes opened again. ‘I don’t need one of those, I’ll be up and about soon. Just let me lie here for a bit.’
‘Well, they’ll be here soon,’ Wilfred called from his place at the table. ‘So will the police.’
‘Police?’ Florence said, angst in her voice. ‘Why on earth are they coming?’
‘I’m not sure, Mum,’ Magnus said, bringing a drink over to her. He looked at Sister Veronica, his eyebrows raised.
‘Don’t you worry about a thing for now, Flo,’ Sister Veronica said. ‘Just concentrate on feeling better.’
Now that the point of danger had clearly passed, she heaved herself back up onto her feet. All the original party were still present, except one person. Maud. Dash it all, she must have slipped out when Florence was at her worst, she thought. I don’t know what to do; do I stay with Flo and make sure she’s all right, or go and find Maud? She looked around. Cecily was still slumped at the table wearing her sunglasses. Barnaby was watching the proceedings, a much more engaged look on his face than usual. Coco was quiet for once. Perhaps seeing a real-life drama unfold in front of her had been a shock, made her lose the impetus for starting her own spectacle? She doubted the impact would last for long. Magnus was fussing over his mother, making sure she drank some water. It was nice, in a way, to see him taking care of Florence for once, Sister Veronica thought, instead of the other way around. Lucie – ever the practical one – still looking defeated, with a grim expression on her face, was carrying in an armful of blankets and cushions, and set about making her aunt as comfortable as possible. Araminta got up to help her. Wilfred, now tucking into his lunch with gusto, moved his chair a little so Ophelia and Sam could squeeze past.
‘I think I’ll take Sam out into the garden for a bit,’ Ophelia said. ‘Seeing Florence collapse has set him back a bit, and I want him to leave trauma behind from now on, in as much as that’s possible. Hopefully he’ll learn to trust that the world isn’t just a scary place to be one day.’
Sister Veronica nodded. She saw Sam’s fearful, pale face looking up at her, and smiled warmly at him. The poor boy.
‘Quite right,’ she said. ‘Go and have some fun together. You both deserve it.’ Until the police come back and want to talk to you, she added in her mind. But then, we’ll all explain how we witnessed Digby’s abuse, and hopefully they will be lenient.
‘Magnus?’ she said, turning towards him. ‘I just have to go and check on something important for a minute. I can see you’re looking after your mother very well, I’ll leave her in your capable hands for a little while.’
‘Yeah, yeah that’s fine,’ he said, distracted, not really listening.
Sister Veronica exited the dining room and walked down the corridor, her heartbeats ratcheting up to a continuous fast drumming. Where would she find Maud? Was it wise to approach the woman before the police got there? Probably not, a tiny part of her answered. But she was going to do it anyway, because she was too bloody-minded for her own good. And I’m angry now, she thought, feeling the folded-up paper in her skirt. She no longer felt fear; her drumming heart was down to adrenaline. The heat rising in her was caused by a furious realisation that she should have worked all this out much earlier on, so that poor Flo didn’t have to suffer like she just had. What gives anyone the right to take away someone’s life for their own gain? she thought as she thumped along. Even if there is a type of sick, twisted love behind it all. Let me find you, Maud, and ask you that question to your face. Then we’ll see what you have to say for yourself.
38
Rufus drained the bitter dregs of his pint of Dragons Best, and slapped the glass back down on the table. The oh-so familiar feeling of intoxication was washing through him, and it had never been more welcome, never so urgently needed to obliterate his intense emotions.
‘Same again?’ Steven, Romilly’s brother said, his vowels and consonants all slurring together.
‘I’ll have a double gin and tonic this time,’ Romilly said, almost falling off her bar stool in her eagerness to put her order in. She was looking more dishevelled than usual; there were strands coming loose from her ponytail and there was a big mascara smudge under one of her eyes.
Rufus nodded. It was a bit of luck, he reflected, that he’d run into Romilly and her brother in Little Ashby’s only pub, The Grey Horse. He’d hotfooted it straight down there after his argument with Minty; desperate for sustenance and the elimination of unmanageable feelings. It was a small, cosy place, with an open fire burning in the grate. Romilly and her brother had already been stuck in when he’d arrived – dizzy with fury at his wife’s stupidity – with empty glasses and crisp packets scattered all over their table. Of course, they’d invited him to join them, cleared their coats from the spare chair, and motioned for him to sit down.
What good would come from being honest with the family about the notes they’d been leaving? Rufus thought for the fiftieth time that day as he watched Steven stagger over to the bar. For God’s sake, Minty was ridiculous if she actually thought Florence would roll over and forgive them for what they’d done. They’d be cut out of any inheritance for ever now, and they bloody deserved to get some more than most people in that godforsaken house, considering how bad
ly Giles had treated them. Rufus had lost nearly half a million, his entire pension plan because of that stupid man. And now Araminta has an attack of conscience and plans to reveal all? It was the most foolish, crazy, irrational thing she’d ever said. After Araminta and alcohol, the one thing Rufus loved best was money. And at least two of those three were evading him at the moment, so, true to habit, he was drowning his misery in the third. And right now it felt brilliant.
‘Giles was a bastard,’ Romilly was saying to him. ‘Through and through. He treated us all badly, and Florence should right his wrongs.’ It was funny to see her so drunk, Rufus thought. It took a lot to get him even slightly tipsy nowadays, as he drank so frequently his alcohol tolerance was very high, but the double shots he’d consumed shortly after entering The Grey Horse had got him off to a good start. He did enjoy watching other people get squiffy though, never tired of the amusement, of belly-laughing at them as they embarrassed themselves. It was great sport. And interestingly, right now Romilly was letting her usual barriers down, becoming more honest and lucid than ever before about Giles.
‘You should drink more often, Rom, it suits you.’ He winked at her.
‘I drink with Steven now, most evenings,’ she said. ‘He’s turned to whisky as a comfort ever since Giles fired him. He’s never been able to get another job, I think his self-esteem is too damaged now. All because of that thieving bastard.’
They’d already all established, shortly after Rufus’ arrival, that the three of them had found out in various ways about Giles embezzling money from his failing business. Steven confided that he’d been fired after threatening to expose Giles to the rest of the factory’s workforce, but Giles – being in Rufus’ opinion the arrogant heartless sod he was – had said if Steven did so he’d cut Coco and Wilfred out of his will entirely, and that Steven would have only himself to blame for their demise. Knowing Giles still had Chalfield Hall under his belt to leave to the family after he’d gone, Steven had explained to Rufus that he’d had no other choice but to capitulate to Giles’ demands in order to save his niece and nephew’s chance of inheritance. Rufus reckoned, by the look of the man, that the bile and resentment of the whole situation had chewed away at him ever since. He was a wreck, skinny, hollow-faced and miserable, without a good word to say for anyone. Not the kind of man Rufus usually liked to associate with, but an adequate drinking partner for the day. Besides, he thought, watching Steven wobble back over with a full tray of drinks, a plan of retribution was now forming in his mind, and Steven and Romilly would be necessary appendages to its success, if he won them over favourably enough. A new round of drinks was a good place to start.
The Tormented Page 16