The Ugly Sister

by Winston Graham

  As I hesitated he rubbed his dark chin. ‘If I might make a suggestion, Miss Emma, you could be found a room with the Pardoes for the night. I could send Ted over to make sure, and then he could carry your bag across to save ye the trouble.’

  The Pardoes rented a farm from us just over the hill behind Place. I carefully swallowed my anger.

  ‘Is Miss Mary here?’

  ‘She went back to Tregolls yester eve.’

  ‘Then I will borrow her room for tonight.’

  Slade shifted his stance. Overtly he was more polite to me than when we last met but his eyes showed their enmity.

  ‘We’re short-staffed ’ere, miss. Not like it was when you used to live here. Maids was two a penny then. Miss Mary took her own maid back wi ’er. I don’t suppose the rooms have been cleaned since.’

  ‘Then I shall see to the room myself. I know the house. I know where the linen is kept.’

  Veins in his neck showed as I walked past him with my bag and made for the stairs.

  Whatever authority was exercised over him by Desmond and Tamsin, it no longer ran when they were away. He was ‘in charge’ of Place House, with a few perhaps of his toadies as servants, and an old madwoman ranting in her bedroom. My arrival had disturbed the even tenor of his command. Unimportant as I might be, I was still a Spry and could not quite be defied.

  Yet it was touch and go. As I went up the stairs my neck prickled as if fearful of being grasped from behind. In the big windowed landing there was just sufficient light to see the way. At least the candles were there as usual, but none lighted. Where were the servants?

  Scrape a light and go part way down the passage. Mary’s room had always been next but one to her mother’s. As I opened the door I heard a low moaning coming from the room at the end.

  Except for the cellars, Place had always been light and airy. I had never thought of it as sinister. It had become sinister.

  Mary’s room smelt of Mary. She never used perfume, except some sort of powdered talc, which lingered. Also at times Mary neglected her hygiene, and this too was noticeable in her room. The bed was made, the curtains hung as they should do, towels on the rail, pitcher and ewer clean and full. Someone had attended to it since she left, and in all likelihood Slade had well known this. He had been trying to put me off. Out of sheer malice one assumed.

  I dumped the bag, picked up the candle again and negotiated the rest of the passage with its single step, knocked on my aunt’s door and tried to go in. It was locked.

  I knocked again. After a while the key grated in the lock and the door opened a couple of inches.

  ‘Yes?’ A thin dark man with a heavy nose. Soiled white overall.

  ‘I am Miss Emma Spry. I have come to see my aunt.’

  The man hesitated, but again the name was too important in his job for him to refuse. Grudgingly he opened the door just wide enough to go in.

  My aunt was sitting up in her bed, hands to her ears. The wispy grey hair was white and so thin that the pink scalp showed through. The face was ashen and greatly lined, and her eyes, once so clear blue and benevolent, were bloodshot and full of despair.

  She said: ‘Who’s that? Who’s that coming in? Shut the door, Parker, the wind is terrible. And the noise those sailors are making …’

  I went up to the bed and tried to touch her arm. She shrank away as if she had been burned.

  ‘I’m Emma,’ I said. ‘You remember? Claudine’s daughter.’

  ‘Don’t touch me!’ she whispered. ‘You make all the noises worse. Where is Parish? He’d drive ’em away.’ She stared at me. ‘Are you Claudine?’

  ‘No, Aunt. I’m Claudine’s daughter, Emma.’

  ‘You’re not that chit of a girl who pretends to be married to that man who pretends to be my son? You’re an impostor, girl. Leave me alone! No one will ever leave me alone!’

  ‘Ye see, miss, it don’t do no good,’ said Parker, who had come up behind me. ‘You ask Mrs Tizard. She’ll tell ye the same.’

  ‘Who is Mrs Tizard?’

  ‘She’s in charge. I keep watch along of she. We got to watch the old lady or she’d be up and away. Ye might think she’s old and feeble, but give ’ er half a chance and she’d be out of this room afore you could blink twice.’

  My aunt began to groan again. She would mutter a few indistinct words and follow them with a moan. I stayed for ten minutes more, for twice she went quiet and I had hopes that she was going to become lucid. Once, distinctly, she said ‘Emma’, but though I waited nothing more came.

  Before supper I met Mrs Tizard, a tall woman with a thin grey moustache and the smell of an apothecary. I did not take to her and wondered where the kind and attentive Elsie Whattle had got to. Presumably after my aunt’s years in hospital she had become unavailable. I asked Mrs Tizard about my cousin Mary and she said she had been feeling unwell and had gone back to Truro for a few days. Did she know, I asked, how long my sister intended to be away, and she said she thought a week.

  There were at least two of the old servants left, and I asked them if they had heard of Sally Fetch. They said not for sure but they thought she was married and living in Penryn. I also spoke to Slade once, to ask him what had happened to Parish.

  He replied with satisfaction: ‘He got a furuncle deep in his ear, so he had to be put down.’

  I ate alone in the big dining room, waited on by a man called Williams whom I had not seen before. I wondered if he had been engaged by Tamsin or if he was a Slade recruit.

  It was a sparse meal, but I did not mind. I had never allowed myself to be a big eater since the loss of weight in my teens. I felt very much alone in the house and unwelcome. Perhaps it was just Slade’s influence and the rest of the staff took their attitude from him. And I was a little afraid.

  How could one fail to feel unwelcome with one’s sister and cousin gone, and almost everyone new, except for a mad old woman and the ominous Slade?

  Although I had permission to be away a week I had no real reason or excuse to stay here beyond tomorrow. To return at once to Blisland would be self-defeating. I could follow Desmond and Tamsin to Tregrehan, if that was where they had gone. I had never been to Tregrehan but I knew it was somewhere near St Austell, so it could hardly be more than twenty-five miles. Or I could call and see Mary at Tregolls which was half the distance.

  But had I taken the week off to see Mary, nice though she was? As a human being probably much to be preferred to Tamsin. But it was my sister I wanted to see, and if any sympathy could be established between us, there were questions I wanted to ask her. Perhaps some of the questions would themselves create more ill-feeling. If so, so be it.

  After the solitary meal I took up the little lantern in the hall and went to explore the wing of the house that had once been our home.

  It was dilapidated; on that Slade had been speaking only the truth. The rest of the house seemed well cared for; the back wing smelt only of damp and decay. I was rooting among some old familiar bits and pieces of furniture and opening a drawer or two when I heard a movement in the dark of the door. The lantern shook in my hand as I turned towards a shadow in a white apron.

  ‘Oh, beg pardon, miss, you reely give me a fright! I was comin’ up the stairs and I ’eard movements. I thought ’twas rats, and then I knew ’twas more’n that!’

  A girl of eighteen or nineteen, eyes narrowed staring into the wavering yellow light, and then at my face.

  ‘I am Miss Emma Spry,’ I said. ‘ What is your name?’

  ‘Lucy, miss. Lucy Ball. Beg pardon. I was just goin’ to bed when I heard this noise. I don’t belong to come in here, but the footsteps … I’m a kitchen maid, miss. I was just going to mount the stairs when—’

  ‘This was my old room when I lived here,’ I said.

  ‘I sleep upstairs, miss. The upper floor, over the kitchen. I share with Annie Arthur, who’s the other kitchen maid.’

  The sudden encounter, in the hollow silence of the house …

  ‘How
long have you been here, Lucy?’

  ‘Oh, nigh on two years. I mind when you come before with your mother, miss. But you won’t remember me.’

  ‘Was Miss Celestine born when you came?’

  ‘No, miss. I come just before that.’

  ‘Where d’you come from? I mean, where is your home?’

  ‘Falmouth, miss.’

  ‘Do you happen to know a girl called Sally Fetch?’

  ‘No, miss.’

  I put the lantern down on the table where I had done most of my childish sums. Could I ask her if she had heard of Mr Abraham Fox? Of course I could not.

  ‘Does a Mr Fox ever call here? A Mr Abraham Fox?’

  The lantern showed her eyebrows come together. ‘I’m not sure, miss. I think mebbe he did. But there was lots of folk here for a – well for two winters and one summer, like; it was all entertaining, entertaining. Dances and tennis parties and the like.’

  ‘This was after Miss Celestine was born?’

  ‘Oh, yes, right up till, well, till about last Easter. This last Easter. It all stopped when Mr Spry brought his mother home. Then they sacked four servants – I feared for my place – and they brought in that Mr Parker and Mrs Tizard to look after the old lady. It’s been a big change.’

  ‘D’you mean much quieter?’

  ‘Oh … oh yes, miss. All sorts of things.’

  ‘What sort of things?’

  She looked sidelong again at my face. ‘Tedn my place to say, miss.’

  ‘It – affected the servants. The sudden change must have affected the servants.’

  ‘Oh, for sure. You know Cook left?’

  ‘I hadn’t seen her. She was discharged?’

  ‘Well, she never got along with Mr Slade, y’know, all these years.’

  ‘And he discharged her?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. I expect that was left to Mr Spry.’

  ‘Are the other older servants happy here?’

  Lucy glanced over her shoulder. ‘ Not the old ones, no, miss. The new ones, mebbe. Mebbe they’re friends of Mr Slade’s.’

  ‘The man I’m referring to,’ I said, ‘ is known as Mr Bram Fox. About thirty-five, tall and good-looking. Very jolly …’ I stopped, aware that I should never have spoken like this to a servant.

  ‘Wi’ a terrible temper?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Beg pardon. There was a Mr Bram once at a Christmas party, miss. ’Tis no business of mine …’

  ‘Was that last Christmas?’

  ‘I don’t rightly recall … I – I think I’ve said enough, miss. ’ Tis not for me to tell tales about my betters. Or next thing I know I shall be sent ’ome without a reference.’

  My mind groped for ways of inducing her to go on. But I knew I could not.

  ‘Thank you, Lucy,’ I said. ‘I shall be seeing my sister later in the week, so no doubt she will tell me all the news then. But be assured, nothing you have said will be repeated. I understand your position and will respect it.’

  ‘Thank you, miss.’

  After returning to the main house I considered a walk in the dark, using the stray lights of St Mawes as a guidance, but it had been a long day and a tiring one. I was also depressed, and found the silence of the house morbidly heavy and menacing. So I went to bed.

  Chapter Three

  I

  ALMOST INSTANTLY to sleep, and then perversely, after about an hour woke and could not settle again. Once or twice I fancied there were little cries from my aunt’s room.

  There was so much to think of, so much to ponder in what Lucy Ball had told me – much to be inferred, though perhaps wrongly. Perhaps I should see Mary before Tamsin. Mary must know a great deal about what had been going on, though if she had only returned to Place after her mother was brought home her knowledge would be partial.

  Tamsin had always had an appetite for parties and entertaining. We had talked about it as girls. Her marriage to Desmond had put her in a position to indulge herself. Here was the house, empty except for them and a small baby, with an adequacy of servants, a notable name, and acquaintanceship – laboriously fostered by my mother – with most of the landed gentry in this part of Cornwall. So it seemed probable that soon after our visit she had persuaded Desmond to give her her head. Extra servants engaged. The house lightly refurbished.

  Then, a horrible transformation! Desmond had gone to see his mother and concluded she was not being well looked after and must come home. A transformation of Place from a scene of youthful gaiety to a gloomy nursing home. A shedding of the extra servants who no doubt were young and smart, and the engaging of two grim middle-aged nurses in their place. Had Tamsin acquiesced in this change of lifestyle? That did not match the vivid and intimate memories I had of her. So had there been trouble between husband and wife? Perhaps my mother had hinted at that in her letter, and I had not read between the lines. And did Bram come into this at all?

  I turned over and glanced out of the windows, the curtains not being drawn. The sky was not completely black, as it had been when I went to sleep. A vague yellowish flickering; there for an instant or two and then fading. It couldn’t surely be a ship on fire: it might be one signalling to another. Yet it seemed too close.

  I pulled the curtain of the bed further back, but could see no more. Perversely I was now feeling sleepy. Let it go. Whatever it was was none of my business.

  The boards of the bedroom floor were cold to my feet: I groped among the furniture towards the window.

  There was a lantern immediately in front of the house. It was shaded, but with eyes accustomed to the dark I could pick out the figures of men, and presently several horses or mules.

  Six men and two animals. What time was it? Certainly no time for anyone to be lawfully abroad.

  I was wearing only the thin shift I had brought with me but, apart from my own underwear and jacket and skirt of dark broadcloth in which I had come and which lay folded on the chair beside the bed, the wardrobe nearby was full of Mary’s clothes, and I had seen a purple cloak which would be easier to slip on. Beside it was one of the newly fashionable long cashmere shawls, which if wrapped round my neck over the top of the cloak would be warm and protective.

  First thought was to rouse Slade, for if something wrong was afoot his size and authority would be invaluable; but I did not fancy going upstairs and into his bedroom to wake him. Though he had kept his distance all through, his dislike of me didn’t altogether disguise other thoughts he might have.

  When I opened the door there was still a light under the door of my aunt’s room but the least sensible thing would be to burst in there and raise an alarm.

  Go to the head of the main stairs. There was no lamp lit in the hall as there always used to be, but a flicker of light from outside could be seen through one of the windows.

  As a child I had hardly ever had to open the front door: it had seemed enormous. I put my hand to the latch and then realized it was bolted and I could not pull back the bolts without making a noise. But I could go through the drawing room into the church and thence to the garden. It was probably not the best of ideas, but somehow I negotiated the furniture and came to the two ancient granite steps which led to the church door. The church struck chill; cold air moved in its high chancel; despite repairs it smelt musty and dank. Just make out the lines of the pews; grope along the slate floor to the door. This was not locked, but as I opened it about three inches the latch clicked.

  A man in the dark, silhouetted against the gleam from the lantern. Not more than four yards away. In this silence came the crunch of wheels, the clop of a mule’s foot.

  ‘Who’s there?’

  Slade’s voice.

  A crisis of nerves. Gently allow the church door to close, the latch to click again, move back on tiptoe among the pews. Some childish wish not to be discovered. Run and hide, you silly fool, you. As I reached the door into the drawing room the church door opened again.

  Two doors led out of the big drawing room: one int
o the smaller drawing room, one into the servants’ passage. I chose this one, almost immediately stumbled over a serving trolley which should not have been there. Turn and make for the main hall. I knew the slight collision had given my choice away and that he would be following.

  Shoes made a squeak as he moved. Then the breathing. Instead of carrying on down the passage which ran to the servants’ quarters I turned into the dining room, stood behind the door perfectly still. The squeak went past, the breathing faded, then silence.

  Heart thumped away. What is there to be afraid of? A servant, a butler, an old man, up to some mischief at part of which you could begin to guess. I was Miss Spry, wasn’t I? Twenty-one. A member of this landowning, seafaring family. Confronted by a mere servant.

  But tell that to a woman who has grown up disliking and always fearing him, tell it to her in pitch blackness in the middle of the night, with other men, strangers, outside, and no one of your own family within distant call. What if I disappeared? Who was to know what had happened?

  It had not been too clever a move to dodge him in this way, because by doubling back I had put him between myself and the staircase and thence the safety of my bedroom. Of course he would no doubt suddenly appear in this room and find me; or, time pressing, he might give up the search and go back to the waiting men outside.

  Knees weak, and cold in spite of the cloak and shawl. When a child in some sort of discomfort or pain I would count, hoping this would help time to pass. I began to count now. Then I groped for a chair and sat down.

  The light had not quite gone, but there were no footsteps to be heard outside. If it was a sort of procession, it had moved on either towards the gate of the property or the quay.

  One advantage of counting is that it gives you some sense of the passing of time. When I got to 500 it was reasonable to suppose about five minutes had passed. My teeth were trying to chatter, not with cold but with nerves. Take a chance.

  I slid out of the dining room door into the servants’ passage and, careful of any more pitfalls, reached the main hall. It was quite dark. The staircase was in the middle of the hall, and I could just see its white painted pediments. As I moved towards it a hand like an animal’s bite grasped my upper arm.