There was a moment’s silence.
David cleared his throat. ‘Mary mentioned that the house seemed to attract tragedy,’ he persisted.
Mr Phelps drained his cup in one fell swoop and set about demolishing the biscuits before Mrs Boscawen could reappear. ‘Mmm,’ he said. His eyes were sharp. Carys had a feeling he was playing for time. Almost as if he wanted to come to a decision. ‘Mary said you had some photographs you might like to show me.’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ said David, sounding deliberately hesitant, so that Carys had to turn away to hide her smile. ‘We wondered if there might be some link to Treverick Hall. Not that we want to put you to any trouble.’
The old man finished his second biscuit and placed another two on his saucer, as if the first ones had never moved. Mission apparently accomplished, he sat back in his chair. ‘So where are these photographs, then?’
John Phelps went through the photographs of the statues and Plas Eden without any particular interest. He paused for a fraction longer on the greening Venus poised in the midst of her fountain. A slight frown tugged at his brows. But then it was gone, and the photograph placed at the back of the selection in his hand. The postcard of Treverick Hall, on the other hand, remained on the table in front of him.
‘Magnificent,’ he muttered, shaking his head. ‘Travesty, that’s what it is. Requisitioned by the army during the war, you know. Then it was abandoned and pulled down in the 1950s, like so many of our great buildings.’
For a few minutes he sat deep in thought.
‘Mary told us about the last of the Trevericks,’ said David, at last.
The old man roused himself. ‘William Treverick, you mean?’
David nodded.
Jon Phelps shook his head. ‘Tragedy, that was. Old William was the very last of the Trevericks. The proper Trevericks. Laura and me, we were just second cousins.’ A wistful look came into the faded blue eyes. ‘He died there, you know. In Treverick Hall. Wouldn’t leave it, not until the last. There are letters from him. The Historical Society’s got them now, I suppose. You’d have to ask them. He hoped right until the end that someone would come and take it over. Look after the place. Restore it to its former glory. But of course they didn’t.’
‘Who were the letters to?’ prompted Carys, as he seemed to lapse back into thought once more.
‘Oh, he never sent them. Left in the house, they were. He had a younger sister. Judith Treverick. Pretty little thing. The family always said he got mightily confused before the end. He was continuously writing letters to poor Judith, quite forgetting that she was long gone.’ He clicked his tongue disapprovingly. ‘Long gone.’
‘I’m sorry,’ murmured Carys.
Jon Phelps sniffed. ‘You’d have thought the National Trust would have taken the Hall and the grounds over. Would have been a great thing for Treverick. Tourist attraction. That’s what it might have been. But now, of course, it’s far too late. Far, far too late.’
‘But if they restore the gardens…’ began Carys.
‘Oh, the gardens.’ The old man was dismissive. Carys glanced around the little garden below the balcony. Mostly green lawn, bordered by a regimented privet, with roses placed the same distance apart, and alternating red and white.
Okay. Point taken: not all Trevericks were heavily into gardening, then.
This was getting them nowhere, decided David, trying to hide his impatience. A total waste of time, in fact, despite Carys’ skilful attentiveness toward their host. He smiled to himself. Carys had never been fazed by Nainie, unlike so many of his other childhood friends. Her ears had attuned quickly to the old lady’s slightly slurred speech and she had not seemed to mind listening to an elderly woman reminisce about her childhood in Plas Eden. Along with how much of a struggle it had been for them all during the Second World War with the food shortages and the blackouts. And stories of the planes that came over – often lost bombers about to jettison their cargo in a desperate bid to get home, or heading for destruction on the mountains.
He would never have expected her to look after Nainie. David frowned, remembering that accusation of hers, all those years ago. Here he was, feeling guilty enough that Rhiannon had put so much of her life on hold and determined to make sure she had a stab at making a career for herself, however late in the day it might seem. He swallowed. But at least Rhiannon had spent years studying before she came to Eden, and still had managed to develop her skills in her brief free hours. With no time to develop a career and with children thrown into the mix…
He watched Carys smile at Jon Phelps, nodding understandingly at his complaints. Now Carys had her mam to look after. David remembered Gwenan and Nia well enough to have no illusions that either of them would ever come riding to the rescue. And Carys could no more have dumped her mam in an old people’s home than he could have ousted Nainie from Plas Eden as a drag and a nuisance. A youth spent caring for the elderly and infirm didn’t strike him as much of an existence. Especially not when you had dreams and ambitions and a zest for embracing life and all that it might bring.
‘I don’t suppose you have any family photographs yourself, Mr Phelps?’ he asked abruptly, pushing the uncomfortable conclusions to one side.
‘Mmm.’ Jon rose stiffly and went back inside the house, returning in a moment with an ornate silver frame. ‘I got rid of the photographs when Laura went. Didn’t see much point in keeping them myself. All those dead people. But this…’ He held out the photograph with an air of pride. ‘William Treverick tried his best to keep the Hall going, you see. When he was a young man. That’s what caused it all. This is him.’
Inside the silver frame there was a faded sepia print of a slightly stiff-looking man in a long coat and waistcoat. One hand rested on a waking stick, the other was placed on an outsized Grecian urn as he gazed in what was intended to be a noble manner, across a landscape that was plainly some kind of painted backdrop. The original effect might have been impressive but to twenty-first-century eyes, it looked faintly ridiculous.
‘Very nice,’ said Carys, politely.
Jon eyed her over the half moon of his reading glasses, his gaze softening a little. ‘I’ve a daughter your age,’ he said. ‘Lives in France. I don’t see her often.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Carys murmured, not entirely sure what to say.
‘Yes, well,’ he grunted, looking out over the sweeping curve of the town.
‘It’s very beautiful here,’ said Carys, following his gaze. ‘I can see why St Ives is famous for attracting painters. It must be a very special place to live.’
‘Used to be real artists here, of course,’ said Jon, savouring the last of his chocolate biscuits with a melancholy air. ‘The kind who live off little and dedicate themselves to their art. It’s all changed now, of course. All designer shopping and galleries and those young people who spend their energies surfing instead of getting a proper job. You don’t get people like William Treverick any more.’
He began to get to his feet. This was definitely a dismissal. Carys glanced at David across the table. So they were none the wiser, after all. But the old man’s mouth was set in a stubborn line, while his eyes were suddenly ringed, his skin pasty with exhaustion.
‘Thank you for your time, it’s been very interesting,’ said David, taking the hint and rising to his feet, shaking the old man’s hand.
Carys stood up and pushed her chair neatly under the table. Maybe the postcard had just been a red herring. Maybe there really was no connection at all. As she looked up, a movement caught her eye. Mrs Boscawen had appeared silently in the doorway. Across the room, Carys met her eyes.
‘Um, excuse me, Mr Phelps,’ she said, quickly. ‘Do you mind if I use your…?’
‘Yes, yes of course,’ he muttered, embarrassed at the mere suggestion of such an activity, especially in a female. He turned helplessly towards the doorway, as if about to attempt directions. ‘Ah,’ he said, his eyes falling on Mrs Boscawen with relief. ‘My housekeeper w
ill show you the way.’
‘Of course.’ Mrs Boscawen deposited an empty tray on the table. ‘If you’d just like to come this way.’
Carys followed along a straight corridor as Mrs Boscawen strode rapidly towards the back of the bungalow. At the door of the neat white bathroom they paused. Carys eyed the housekeeper in silent enquiry.
Mrs Boscawen glanced back towards the balcony and the sound of voices as David chatted away to Mr Phelps while they made their way into the living room.
‘Proud man,’ said Mrs Boscawen. ‘And we all like to keep our little illusions, don’t we?’
‘Yes,’ replied Carys uncertainly.
Mrs Boscawen took a piece of paper from her pocket and thrust it into Carys’ hand. ‘Ketterford Museum,’ she said. ‘That’s where you need to go. I’ve written down the postcode for you. You’re using a SatNav, I take it?’ Carys nodded. ‘It’s a bit of a way inland and there aren’t many signs yet. That’ll take you there.’ Her eyes were sharp on Carys’ face. ‘Ask them about Ann Treverick.’
Carys blinked. Something strange was prickling at the back of her scalp. ‘Ann Treverick?’
‘Yes.’ Mrs Boscawen hesitated, then began to say something. But at that moment Jon and David appeared at the far end of the hallway. Carys shot into the bathroom.
‘Ask them about Ann Treverick,’ she heard Mrs Boscawen repeat, as the door closed behind her. ‘That’ll lead you to what you want to know.’
‘This is ridiculous,’ grumbled David, as their electronic guide took them down yet another network of country lanes, lined on by tall hedgerows bursting with pink campion and fading stalks of frothy cow parsley, intertwined with the first unripe blackberries. ‘That was a sign to St Michael’s Mount back there, we’ll be halfway to the Lizard before you know it.’
‘Only a little longer.’ Carys peered at the more conventional variety of map, trying in vain to locate anywhere by the name of Ketterford. ‘It looks like we’ll be there soon, from that flag thing on the SatNav. Aren’t you curious?’
‘Wild goose chase, if you ask me,’ he muttered. ‘I can’t see what this has got to do with the Trevericks. Or what the Trevericks have to do with us, come to that. No one seems to have heard of the Merediths or Plas Eden here at all.’
‘Well, that postcard was in my attic, so it’s got something to do with me too,’ said Carys, stubbornly. ‘And now we are here I want to know.’
At that moment the road opened out into scrubby moorland, high and windswept, with a distant view of the sea.
‘Who on earth would want to live up here?’ said David, turning the car out of the latest lane and into a wider highway. ‘It must be bleak in winter.’
‘There, that must be it!’ Carys pointed excitedly at a tall, sparse building of pale-coloured stone up ahead.
Sure enough, the SatNav guided them up to a turnoff, with a sign declaring ‘Ketterford Museum’. David eased the car along a rough lane, until it opened out into a car park.
‘That’s even worse than Treverick Hall,’ he said, pausing at the entrance and peering up at the small, regimented windows. ‘I thought Cornwall was supposed to be full of pretty places?’
‘It looks almost industrial,’ agreed Carys. ‘Weren’t there lots of tin mines here? Remember Poldark?’ David looked blank. But then he’d never been glued to repeats of Ross Poldark as he rode dashingly along the Cornish cliffs, dark hair blowing in the wind. So Carys forgave him. ‘Come on then,’ she said. ‘Let’s go in.’
David didn’t appear to hear. He had turned, and was gazing intently through the open window at a sign just inside the entrance.
‘What is it?’ demanded Carys.
‘It’s not industrial,’ he replied, his voice strangely hollow. ‘Ketterford was a lunatic asylum.’
Chapter Eighteen
Inside, Ketterford turned out to be dark, gloomy place, with few windows and large, empty rooms.
Much of the building had been turned into a museum of local history, from Stone Age megaliths and stone circles to Iron Age hill forts and more recent copper mines and tin smelting. Just the small entrance hall had been left to explain the origins of the building, and that gave very little information, apart from the bare facts of Ketterford House having originated in the nineteenth century as a private female lunatic asylum. A few dingy pictures of women who looked more downtrodden than raving accompanied a small amount of text.
‘There aren’t any records kept here,’ explained the elderly volunteer behind a table next to the front door, whose badge read ‘Margaret Tyack’. ‘We don’t get many people asking about the asylum,’ she added. ‘Researching asylums, are you?’
‘Not really.’ Carys gave a quick glance at David’s face. ‘We’re doing a bit of family research, and someone suggested we come here.’
‘Oh?’ said Margaret Tyack, green eyes alert with irrepressible curiosity. ‘And who might that be, if I may ask?’
‘Mrs Boscawen. She’s, um, she works for Jon Phelps from St Ives? I think his sister left something about the Trevericks to the Treverick Historical Society,’ ventured Carys.
‘Oh, yes. Ursula,’ said the guide, nodding wisely. It was not only Pont-ar-Eden where everybody knew everybody else. ‘And she suggested you come to Ketterford?’
‘Yes,’ said Carys, quickly. David, she could feel, was itching to get out of there. ‘We’re trying to find out more about Treverick Hall, but we don’t seem to be getting very far. Mrs Boscawen suggested we ask here about someone called Ann Treverick.’
‘Ah, Ann Treverick.’ Margaret looked at them intently: first Carys, then David and then back to Carys once more. ‘Now that’s an interesting request.’ She shuffled some leaflets on the desk. ‘Family tree, is it?’
‘We’re not sure,’ replied David. ‘We seem to have found a link somewhere between my family and Treverick Hall, we’re just not sure what it is.’
‘Ah, that’s the beauty of tracing your own history.’ Margaret Tyack was clearly an addict. ‘It can lead you down all sorts of roads you never expected to take.’
‘I’m not sure about this one,’ said David, gloomily.
‘Mmm,’ said Margaret, who also appeared to have a taste for the dramatic moment and left the subject hanging in the air with no signs of taking it any further.
‘So there is an Ann Treverick,’ Carys prompted her at last.
‘Oh, yes,’ Margaret’s tight white curls bounced as she nodded. ‘Well, at least there was. Unless you’ve found one now, that is?’
‘No.’ Carys, tried to hide her impatience at this verbal mystery tour. ‘So who is – I mean was – she?’
‘Just one moment.’ Margaret – who was definitely enjoying herself – disappeared into a room behind the desk, returning in a few moments with a battered case of soft leather, complete with rusted zip. ‘Laura Phelps gave some things to the trustees, when they were raising money to turn Ketterford into a museum. They are quite fascinating. She asked that none of them be returned to her brother.’ Margaret’s eyes were gleaming with intrigue. ‘I suspect he doesn’t even know we have them.’ She carefully undid the zip. ‘There’s been so much to do, getting the displays up, and volunteers are so hard to come by these days, we are only just getting round to cataloguing them. I take it Jon told you about the last Treverick?’
David looked blank, and even more eager to go. Carys nodded vigorously enough for both of them.
‘Yes, I thought he might. What he might not have told you is that the Hall and the gardens had drained the family finances by the time William Treverick inherited, in the mid 1880s, and all the Treverick land had been sold off. He married the daughter of a local businessman. No connections, but very wealthy. Very beautiful. Very accomplished. She must have seemed the answer to his prayers. Ah, here we are.’ With a flourish, Margaret brought out a sepia print, curling at the edges, and laid it on the table. ‘There she is. This is Ann Treverick.’
Carys peered at the faded photograph. ‘She look
s very young.’
‘Eighteen when they married, I believe.’
‘She was very beautiful,’ said David politely.
Even with her stiff clothes and even stiffer pose, the young woman standing in full Victorian regalia of wide skirts and a tightly fitted bodice, before the painted backdrop of a ruined Roman temple, was unmistakeably stunning. A neat figure with an impossibly tiny waist. Curling fair hair caught up behind her head. Large eyes and regular features. A classic kind of youthful beauty.
‘And doesn’t she know it,’ said Carys, before she could help herself. The eyes looked boldly into the camera, while a complacent smile curved the wide lips.
‘Yes, quite,’ said Margaret drily.
Carys met David’s eyes. It was not Blodeuwedd. At least, not the Blodeuwedd of the statues in Eden’s gardens, with her eager glance and her passionate desire to experience the world. This young woman could not possibly be further from the photograph of the sculptress Hermione Meredith, with her bold, direct gaze and her hand placed so protectively on the shoulder of a child. Carys was sure this was a young miss who had reached the highest pinnacle of her ambition: bagged the local lord of the manor and was set up for life.
Carys handed the photograph back to Margaret. She was glad it wasn’t Blodeuwedd. There was something about that self-satisfied smile that it was very hard to like.
‘So Treverick Hall was saved,’ she prompted.
‘Oh, yes. At least so it must have seemed. For a while. There’s just one photograph of the family. The rest were apparently destroyed. I think that’s why Laura Phelps wanted these ones safely out of the way here. That’s what she told the trustees anyway.’ Margaret pulled out a second photograph.
‘They had children,’ said David, showing signs of interest. He frowned down at the family portrait, posed as stiffly as the rest.
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