by John Harwood
Iris, I was going to say, took a cottage at Okehampton so as to be near the girls, but Viola refused to leave London, even at the height of the Blitz. The Germans, she declared, were not going to drive her out of her house. Though I never met Viola, Anne took me to tea with Iris on two or three occasions. Auntie's very sweet,' I remember her saying, 'but she will talk about her spirits as if they're real people you ought to be able to see. I've never minded, but it gets on Filly's nerves.' All I can recall of Iris is that she was tall and slightly stooped; my memory for faces is usually very good, but hers won't come to me as anything more than a vague impression of kindness. I have a feeling she may have been very short-sighted. Anne told me later that Iris lost her fiancé in the Great War and never got over it-but I am wandering from the point again.
The reason I never met Phyllis was that she left St Margaret's a few months before I arrived, to study typing and shorthand, I'm afraid I don't know where. I do know that she was working for a firm of solicitors in Clerkenwell soon after the war. Viola, you see, believed that girls should be able to earn their living, regardless of expectations. Anne had hoped to go on to Oxford, but Viola's death changed everything. Iris went quite to pieces, and because she and Phyllis did not really get on, much of the burden necessarily fell upon Anne. Of course they had no idea, when Viola died, that Iris had only a few years left to live.
As I think I mentioned in my previous letter, I was obliged to remain with my family in Plymouth. My own father was ill-he had served as an engineer with the Eighth Army, and his lungs were badly affected by diesel fumes-and I was needed to help look after him. Perhaps that was part of the bond with Anne. Our circumstances then were surprisingly similar. Viola's estate had been much reduced by the war, and if she had lived much longer, they would have had to sell the house to pay the punitive death duties that came in with Mr Attlee. And of course we were all coping with the exigencies of rationing, the constant shortages and so forth. We went on writing, and Anne came down to Plymouth several times to stay with us. My father was very strict, and would not allow me to go up to London on my own, much as I would have loved to.
I still remember those visits as the happiest days of my life. Anne was (or so I have always thought) an exceptionally beautiful young woman, quite without vanity-she had a lightness about her, a natural freedom from self-consciousness, or perhaps I mean self-absorption-but I must get on.
In the spring of 1949, Anne met a young man called Hugh Montfort. She was uncharacteristically reticent about him-perhaps fearing that I would be hurt by this new attachment-but as the weeks went by his name began to appear more and more frequently in her letters. It was plain that he was spending a great deal of time at the house. On the 30th of July she wrote to tell me he had asked her to marry him. She wanted to bring him down to Plymouth to meet me as soon as he could get away for a few days. But she never did. By the 20th of September it was all off. 'I promise I'll tell you everything, Abbie,' she wrote, 'but not just yet.'
Then on the 1st of October I got a hurried scrawl. 'The most awful thing has happened,' she wrote. 'Auntie and Phyllis have had the most dreadful set-to, I can't say what about, but Filly has run away. She packed two suitcases and left in a taxi, we don't know where she's gone, and Auntie has sent for Pitt the Elder' (Mr Pitt, their solicitor, it was a family joke) 'and I'm afraid she means to change her will. We're all at sixes and sevens-I'll write as soon as ever I can, love always, Anne.'
On the 8th of October she wrote a brief note to tell me that her aunt had died suddenly, of heart failure. Iris was only sixty-two. Of course I pleaded with my father to let me go up to town, but he would not allow it. I telephoned the house several times (from a call box-we did not have the telephone at home) but there was no answer, and no reply to my letters.
At last I resolved to defy my father. I took the money from my post office savings, caught the train to Paddington, and made my way, with much trepidation, to Ferrier's Close in Hampstead. The house, I should have said, was built by a bachelor uncle of Viola's. She was his favourite, and he left it to her outright. It was right on the edge of the Heath, in the gloomiest corner of the Vale of Health-or so it seemed to me. Anne had described the house so often and so vividly I felt I had been there, but in her descriptions it was always sunlit. On that bleak, cheerless November day, it looked more like a prison. The brick wall at the front was topped with broken glass, and so high that I could only see the upstairs windows. The blinds were down, the curtains drawn. No smoke rose from the chimneys. The only entry was through a wooden door in the front wall. Anne had told me that this door was always kept unlocked during the daytime, if there was anyone home, but it would not open. I stood shivering in the lane for nearly an hour, until all I could think to do was leave a note in the letter-box and begin the long journey home.
My parents, when they had got over their anger, took the view that it was none of our business. Of course Anne couldn't have stayed there alone, they said; she must have gone to relatives or friends. It was sheer selfishness on my part to expect her to write at a time of such grief. I could see the sense of this, but I was not convinced. Eventually I summoned the courage to look up Mr Pitt's address-I could think of no one else to approach-and write to him. He replied by return, to say that he had heard nothing from Anne for three months-it was now February-and would I please call at his office in Holborn as soon as convenient?
Mr Pitt's letter was alarming enough, but nothing could have prepared me for the shock that followed. On the 26th of October (a fortnight before my own fruitless visit to the Vale of Health), Anne had come to see him in his office. Aunt Iris had indeed changed her will a week before she died, cutting out Phyllis altogether and leaving everything she possessed to Anne. Now Anne insisted on making a will of her own-naming Mr Pitt as her executor, and leaving the entire estate to 'my dearest and most trusted friend Abigail Valerie Hamish'.
Of course (as he later admitted to me) Mr Pitt suspected undue influence, a designing young woman preying upon her grief-stricken friend, but when he saw how shaken I was by the news of the bequest-the recollection of it still makes me feel dizzy and short of breath-his manner softened perceptibly.
Surely, he had asked Anne several times, she did not mean to perpetuate her aunt's injustice toward Phyllis? To this Anne would only reply, very despondently, that she knew, for reasons she would not discuss, that her sister would never accept a penny from her. He told her that she was in no state to make decisions (she was looking very unwell, he thought, and her face had come out in a rash) but she would not listen. He brought out every argument he could summon, but in the end she declared, exactly as her aunt had done a few weeks earlier, that if he would not do as she asked, she would go to another solicitor. 'I can't stay in London,' he remembered her saying, 'I have to get away, and I want you to look after things for me.' Very reluctantly, he agreed. She signed the will, and promised to keep in touch with him.
By the time I came to see him, Mr Pitt was already anxious about her safety. Even more alarming than her silence was the fact that no money had been withdrawn from her account. He alerted the police, and advertised repeatedly, asking anyone who knew the whereabouts of Anne or Phyllis to contact him, all without result. Of course we did not know that your mother had emigrated to Australia, which explains her silence. So much grief, as I have often reflected, sprang from that one quarrel between your mother and her aunt. Such a pity-but I must get on.
As the years passed with no news of Anne, I remained closely in touch with Mr Pitt. He was in his sixties when I first met him, and when ill health forced him to retire, he prevailed upon me to assume the role of executor. (There was no Pitt the Younger, you see, that was part of the joke.) After he died, I took my business to a Mr Urquhart, who proved unsatisfactory, and thence to Lansdown and Grierstone, with whom, as you can see, I have remained ever since. I was advised by Mr Urquhart that, as nothing had been heard of Anne for more than seven years, I ought to commence proceedings to h
ave her declared legally dead, and take possession of the estate. This, of course, I refused ever to contemplate.
I should have mentioned that when the police came to search the house, they found nothing amiss, and concluded that Anne had simply packed her things, locked up the house and left. Mr Pitt, I know, was much troubled by the fear that she might have made away with herself; I have never allowed myself to believe that she would do such a thing, just as I have never ceased to hope that she is still alive. But I confess that not knowing has caused me much torment. I seem to have spent the greater part of my life waiting for news of Anne. And now, quite suddenly it seems, I am an old woman, and must think about my own will as well as fulfilling my duty to the estate.
I am very tired-so much emotion revisited-and must make an end of this long letter. Writing it has stirred, once again, my passionate yearning to know, for certain, what became of my best and dearest friend, what really happened during those last troubled months before her disappearance: why she broke her engagement to Hugh Montfort, and what (if you will forgive my curiosity) precipitated the disastrous falling-out between your mother and Iris. My intuition has always hinted that the answers are to be found somewhere in the house by the Heath. In earlier years-after I had accepted the post of executor and could legitimately enter the house-I came up to town several times with the intention of making a thorough search. But the house is very large, not to say labyrinthine, and daunting, even by day, to a single woman who hears an intruder in every creaking board! It is many years-decades, indeed, since I last set foot in it. And of course I never liked to employ an outsider.
I wonder, therefore-since you will be in London very shortly-whether, before you come down to see me, as I very much hope you will, you would be kind enough to look over the house for me, just to see if anything turns up in the way of letters, notebooks, diaries and so forth. As a professional librarian, you will I am sure be interested in the Ferrier family library, which contains several thousand books. I am afraid the electricity was disconnected many years ago, and the garden is dreadfully overgrown, but it will be high summer when you arrive. Mr Grierstone will have the keys waiting for you at Bedford Row. And please feel free to follow your instinct wherever it may lead. Perhaps it is merely an old woman's fancy, but I feel there is a destiny at work here, and that if anyone is ever to uncover the answers, it will be you.
I am very much looking forward to meeting you.
Yours most sincerely,
Abigail Hamish
Lansdown and Grierstone
Commissioners for Oaths
14A Bedford Row
London WC1N 5AB
12 July 1999
Dear Mr Freeman,
We have received your letter addressed to our client Miss Abigail Hamish. I regret to inform you that Miss Hamish has suffered a slight stroke and is undergoing treatment in a private nursing home. It may be some weeks before she is well enough to reply to your letter, or to receive visitors.
In the meantime, however, we are instructed to make available to you the keys to the house at Ferrier's Close 34, Heath Villas, Hampstead. These may be collected at the above address at your convenience, on presentation of appropriate identification, such as your passport.
Yours faithfully,
Giles Grierstone
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Alice is fine and sends you all her love
Date: Tue, 20 Jul 1999 20:12:46 +0100 (BST)
Dear Gerard,
Alice asked me to email you as soon as I could (I'm the ward sister) to tell you that the operation was a complete success. Mr MacBride says she'll have to lie completely still for the next forty-eight hours to let the sutures settle down. She says she'll write to you as soon as she's allowed to sit up.
I hope you don't mind me saying, but I think it's so romantic, the two of you having waited so long. Alice is so beautiful, we all love her. I'm sure you'll be blissfully happy together.
Must dash,
Parvati
FROM THE LANEWAY OUTSIDE, ALL I COULD SEE OF FERrier's Close was a mass of rampant foliage, towering above a weathered brick wall. The wall itself was at least ten feet high, shrouded at the top by overspilling branches, holly and buddleia and rampant blackberries. A solid wooden door, reinforced with iron straps, was the only entrance, just as Miss Hamish had said. Further along to my right, the lane was cut off by the stone wall of another house, with a third wall, painted white, running back behind me. Though most of the houses in the Vale opened directly on to the narrow streets, the occupants of this corner (somewhere on the western side; I had lost my bearings among the twists and turns and narrow passageways that had brought me, circuitously, to this cul-de-sac) clearly cherished their privacy. Luxury cars, stained with sap and bird droppings and humped up on the pavement, were the only evidence of occupation.
Just on two o'clock. The walk up from Hampstead Heath station had been uncomfortably hot, but here beneath the overarching canopy, the air was cool and damp. I had been in London just three days, and already I felt more at home than I ever had in Mawson. The transformation was extraordinary. On Saturday afternoon, after settling into my new, clean, high-rise hotel near St Pancras, I had wandered for hours through leafy streets and squares, breathing deep lungfuls of warm, diesel-laden air as if I had just arrived at a mountain health resort. People no longer avoided eye contact with strangers. The mountains of garbage had shrunk to a few isolated middens. Even the dogs seemed to have cleaned up their act.
I STROLLED UP TO THE END OF THE LANE AND BACK, WEIGHing the heavy bunch of keys in my hand. No one would know there was a house hidden behind the massive trees, some of them sixty or seventy feet high. I wondered how high they had been when Abigail Hamish had stood shivering here, just a few months short of fifty years ago, at the end of autumn. Most of the branches would have been bare.
Miss Hamish, as I had learned from Mr Grierstone's secretary a few hours ago, was now resting comfortably and would be in touch with me as soon as she felt well enough. She wasn't up to visitors, but I could certainly send her some flowers; they would be happy to arrange that on my behalf.
And for the first time in my life, I knew exactly where Alice was. In the National Hospital for Neurology and Microsurgery in East Finchley, less than an hour's walk across the Heath from Ferrier's Close. I had promised not to visit, or ring the hospital: Alice thought it would bring bad luck. She wanted to come to me, with no warning-'it'll be too awkward and formal otherwise'. Like a bride and groom keeping apart on their wedding day, not seeing each other until the ceremony. 'I want to save everything from now until we meet,' she'd said in her last message. She was spending long hours in physiotherapy, gaining strength every day. 'My feet haven't forgotten how to walk. I'm aching all over, and it feels wonderful. Nothing can go wrong now. Enjoy your house'-Alice was convinced that Miss Hamish meant to leave the whole estate to me-'and its mysteries, and soon-maybe sooner than you think-you'll hear a tap on the door.'
Secretly I agreed with her about the estate, but I didn't want to tempt fate by saying so: Miss Hamish might have another stroke and die before she'd met me. In which case the estate would presumably go to charity, or some distant Hamish relative; she sounded quite alone in the world. Tempting fate or not, I couldn't help imagining us arriving at Miss Hamish's place in the country-which had grown, in my fantasy, into a tall, rambling house with sweeping lawns and ancestral oaks-into Staplefield, in fact.
THOUGH MISS HAMISH HADN'T REPLIED TO ANY OF MY questions about Staplefield, that might well have been out of delicacy-for the same reason she hadn't yet given me her address. The destruction of Staplefield would have been a huge and traumatic event; Anne would have talked about it. Whereas if the house had survived, it was quite possible that Miss Hamish, once she'd been appointed executor, had decided to rent Staplefield from the estate. Or simply to live there: as the sole beneficiary of Anne's will, her only legal duty had bee
n to herself. She just didn't want to tell me, until the time came for us to meet, that my mother had lied about the fire.
Back in Mawson, reading and re-reading Miss Hamish's letter in the chilly hallway, a ghastly suspicion had leapt off the page. It had obviously never occurred to Miss Hamish-she could never have written so openly if it had-that Phyllis Hatherley might have murdered her sister. Everything fitted perfectly: Phyllis and her aunt quarrel violently; Phyllis is disinherited and leaves home in a rage; her aunt dies suddenly (and very conveniently) within weeks, leaving everything to sweet-natured Anne, who immediately makes a will leaving everything to her best friend Abigail. Why would a girl of twenty-one make such a will, unless she was afraid of her sister? But Anne doesn't know where Phyllis is, so she can't tell her about the will. Until, perhaps, it's too late. Phyllis discovers she's killed her sister for nothing, and that's the last we see of her until she turns up in Mawson a decade later.
It had seemed horribly plausible, until I realised that the same thing must have occurred to the police and the lawyer. It would have been their first line of inquiry. And they would have questioned Abigail Hamish about Phyllis: they would have wanted to see Anne's letters. So the police, and the lawyer-and therefore Miss Hamish-must have been satisfied that Phyllis was innocent. Otherwise Miss Hamish would never have trusted me with the keys to Ferrier's Close.
Or so I had persuaded myself. There were at least a dozen keys on the ring: three pitted gunmetal Banhams; two for spring locks, and several household keys, very worn and tarnished, for barrel-locks of various sizes. The door itself was curved at the top and recessed into the brickwork. It had weathered to a pale greenish grey, mottled with lichen; lines of moss sprouted between the vertical planks. A discoloured nameplate, a brass mailslot, locked or corroded shut, a latch and a keyhole. No bellpush or speaker grille; no way of making your presence known except to pound with your bare knuckles on the swollen timbers of the door.
