House of Shadows

by House of Shadows (UK) (retail) (epub)

  ‘Have you been left an inheritance, Miss Grist?’

  ‘You could say that.’ She didn’t enlarge. ‘Your ghosts?’ Her eyebrows were arched. ‘Do you really believe the old house is haunted then?’

  ‘I couldn’t say.’ My tone was cold. ‘All I know is there’s no trickery involved. Strange things happen of their own accord at Aberglasney.’

  ‘Oh, I know that, dear Miss Evans.’ Her tone was almost offensive. ‘I also know that your American disappeared and then got engaged to an heiress.’ She smiled a thin smile. ‘Of course, you didn’t know this, do you? Tom Maybury is engaged to me, Miss Evans. I am the heiress in question.’

  ‘You? Really?’ I spoke as calmly as I could, though I was seething inside. I left her as soon as I got off the train, and I waved at Mr Readings as he came to greet me, walking along the platform at a smart pace. I could see his car outside the station; it was old, pre-war, but it gleamed with the loving care he’d lavished upon it.

  ‘Riana, how lovely you look, but you are far too thin! We shall have to feed you up while you are in London.’

  Suddenly, Miss Grist was at my side again. ‘Well, I must say goodbye, dear Miss Evans,’ she said, as though we’d been having an amicable conversation on the train. She smiled at Mr Readings, and from sheer politeness he bowed and took her hand.

  ‘Charmed, dear lady. Charmed, I’m sure.’

  As we stood there, a huge Rolls Royce drew up. Miss Grist waved her gloved hand and, with a sweet smile at the chauffeur, stepped inside the magnificent car.

  ‘She must be a lady of good standing and landed gentry to boot. Where did you meet her, Riana?’

  ‘She works part-time at the local library,’ I said flatly.

  His eyebrows shot up. ‘She must be doing that as a hobby or something. By the look of her she’s extremely wealthy and has very good taste. You should have invited her to the exhibition.’

  ‘Don’t worry, she informs me she’s attending,’ I said acidly. ‘We must make sure she has the best champagne and we must sweet-talk her, though I warn you she’s not the sort to buy my work.’

  ‘Humph!’ Mr Readings chose to ignore my ire. ‘Talking about the exhibition, your work is as colourful and as excellent and individual as always – with just a touch of melancholy, if I might say so.’

  ‘I’m glad you’re pleased. I’ve worked really hard on the exhibition.’ I hadn’t actually. The work had come easily to me, the brush strokes quick and sure. When I stood at my easel in the studio and painted the house I loved it was as though it was wrapped around me, urging me on, inspiring me in a way I’d never felt before. ‘And of course you are entitled to say so! You are exhibiting the paintings for me, after all.’

  ‘And selling them, my dear Riana, and selling them. We shall have a triumphant day tomorrow, you’ll see; the opening will be a great event.’

  I wondered why I wasn’t feeling excited. I used to love the exhibitions; being the centre of attraction still felt like a new experience for me. Of course, I was still trying to swallow the shock of being taunted by Miss Grist. Was Tom really interested in her because she had come into money? And why had Tom asked me to put on this exhibition in the first place?

  I could feel my hands shaking. My nerves were strung taut; I felt I would snap into little pieces at any moment. Tom engaged to be married was pain enough, but Tom married to a grasping, duplicitous woman like Miss Grist was impossible to believe!

  And then I calmed down. It wasn’t true, of course it wasn’t true, none of it was true. Tom was lying low as he’d planned, so he couldn’t be planning to marry anyone. The way he’d kissed me and held me, the kindness he’d shown me, the love – yes, love… He was my man. Wasn’t he?

  I realised then Mr Readings was talking to me.

  ‘You feeling all right, Riana?’

  ‘I’m just tired. That’s all, I suppose. Working day and night on the paintings and then the journey up to London… It’s all been a bit wearing, to tell the truth.’ My physical tiredness was nothing compared to my emotional exhaustion, but I had to make some excuse to Mr Readings. ‘I’ll be all right after a rest on a cosy bed, so please don’t worry.’

  ‘You’ll be all right for the exhibition I’m sure, my dear Riana. Put on your best glad rags and rouge your pretty cheeks and you’ll be just fine.’

  * * *

  That evening at the exhibition I did feel fine. My weariness vanished as I coaxed myself into believing that Miss Grist was somehow behind the story about Tom and her sudden wealth. What was she up to now? She’d cheated me once over my list of guests, so why should she be telling me the truth now about her engagement? Come to think about it, I hadn’t seen a diamond ring on her finger – just some huge stones that could have been bought from any traveller’s basket of cheap trinkets.

  The exhibition was a great success, and in the end I began to enjoy myself – although mainly because Miss Grist didn’t show up. I was fawned over and praised and received so many compliments and smiles that it was a wonder my head wasn’t turned. But I knew something the eager buyers didn’t: it was the influence of Aberglasney that helped me create such emotive paintings, with the feel of age and ghostliness and mystery. But still. Seeing the pictures framed and hanging on the wall of the well-lit opulent gallery I was impressed myself – and surprised at what I had achieved.

  I sipped at the gin and tonic Mr Readings handed me and suppressed a grimace at the taste. Alcohol was a luxury I appreciated, but I would have preferred a nice hot cup of tea. As it was I slipped my rather utilitarian shoes off when no one was looking and stood in my stockinged feet, feeling the softness of the carpet under my toes with a sigh of pleasure.

  ‘You look very lovely tonight, Riana.’ Mr Readings suddenly stood beside me. ‘I didn’t realise how tiny you are, and all that luxuriant red hair! You should have your portrait painted, young lady. Why not do a self-portrait?’

  ‘I couldn’t,’ I said quickly. ‘I can paint other people, but not myself. I’m afraid I’d find too many faults.’ Or see through my own image, I thought, and see the flawed unsure being I really was.

  ‘All right, I’ll get young Justin to paint you. A new talent, Riana. Not as original as you or as talented, but worth watching all the same. Come, I’ll introduce you.’

  Still shoeless, I trailed along reluctantly behind Mr Readings. I didn’t want my portrait painted, and I was tired. All I wanted was to go to the privacy of my room in the guest house and go to sleep and dream of Tom.

  Justin was pleasant and very handsome, in a film star sort of way. His hair was brilliantined to his head, and his features were in perfect proportion. He was dressed in a fine suit and a black bow tie, very proper for the occasion, but for me Tom’s rugged good looks were far more attractive than this picture of male perfection standing before me. I held out my hand and murmured a greeting.

  ‘Charmed to meet you, Miss Evans.’ Justin bent towards me and kissed both my cheeks in what I thought was a very French way and somewhat affected for an English man. ‘I do love your work,’ he enthused, and although I knew as an artist himself he probably meant what he said, I made the appropriate modest replies, and after a few minutes of stilted conversation I tried to move away.

  Mr Readings wasn’t having it. ‘Justin, I would like to make a suggestion. How would you like to paint Riana’s portrait?’

  Justin stood back a little and regarded me from head to toe in an embarrassingly detached way. ‘Yes, I can see a field. Poppies, perhaps, to compliment that lovely red hair.’ He rubbed his fingers through my hair until it was wild and curling on my shoulders. ‘And a peasant dress,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll leave the details with you, Justin.’ Mr Readings spoke as if I wasn’t there.

  ‘Where on earth am I going to get a peasant dress?’ I asked, a little piqued.

  ‘Oh, a detail, my dear Riana. Ask that woman, that Mrs Ward, she seems able to pick up just about anything.’ Mr Reading smiled. ‘I would lik
e to make it a commission. One painting to hang in my gallery permanently.’

  ‘All right,’ I said dubiously. ‘I’ll try, but I’m not promising anything.’ Inwardly I groaned. It seemed I would have my portrait painted whether I liked it or not.

  The door flew open just then. Some men came into the gallery, and one of them flashed a badge at Mr Readings. ‘We have to ask you to come with us, miss,’ he said to me. He spoke with such authority that I stepped back, stunned.

  ‘Hang on. I want you to prove you are really policemen before I go anywhere,’ I said, remembering the ‘policemen’ who had taken Tom away.

  Mr Readings telephoned the station on my behalf, and then nodded at me. ‘They confirmed that these are real policemen.’

  ‘What have I done?’ I asked as my arm was caught and I was hustled to the door.

  Mr Readings tried to intervene but he was pushed away. ‘I shall get you the best lawyer in town, Riana,’ Mr Readings said. ‘Don’t worry! I’ll have you free by the morning, and all this nonsense can be explained.’

  The pavement was hard and cold beneath my feet; I hadn’t had time to find my shoes. I was taken to a big black car and helped – or rather pushed – inside, and five minutes after we’d driven away from the bright lights of the gallery I sat stunned and silent in the back of the car, knowing in my heart that these were not real policemen and wondering if Tom had betrayed me.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  I was taken to a small house, and although it was dark and I couldn’t see much, I could smell the sea, feel the breeze and so I knew I was probably near the coast.

  ‘Just keep quiet.’ One of the so-called policemen grinned down at me, and I felt stupid in my evening dress and bare feet, and shivery in the coldness of the bare, utilitarian house.

  ‘What’s the charge?’ I asked in reply. There was no response, but eventually one of the men asked if I wanted a cup of tea. I nodded helplessly. At least some hot tea would warm me and perhaps comfort me a little.

  I was led into a small cell with a single bed and a rickety table as the only furniture. There was a high window – too high to see out of – but at least the sea wasn’t coming in, so these men, whoever they were, did not intend to drown me.

  The man came back a few minutes later with tea that had been kept in a flask. It tasted metallic, but it was hot and refreshing, and I sat on the bed and drank it gratefully.

  He left me then, and I heard the key turning in the lock and guessed there was nothing I could do right now; it was dark and cold and I had no shoes. Better try to sleep and then find a way to escape tomorrow.

  I finished my tea and clambered under the bedclothes. They felt a little damp – or maybe it was just the cold – but slowly I began to feel warm and drowsy, and as my eyelids began to droop I realised the lethargy I was feeling was due to some sleeping draught or drug dropped into my tea. I didn’t care though. All I wanted to do was let blessed darkness claim me.

  I woke to a sharp, chilly but sunny morning, and I had no hangover from the drugged tea. Instead I felt refreshed and calm and ready for some breakfast. Eventually, the policeman who had given me the tea, now in civvies, brought me some: a tray with tea and toast and scrambled eggs that looked as though they were meant to be poached eggs and had gone wrong. All the same, I ate the breakfast with enthusiasm, feeling inexplicably better than I’d done for some time.

  It was, I supposed, the sense of having no responsibility for myself or my actions, and of having some time to be alone when I could refresh my mind and face my feelings. I had no sense of danger. If the men had meant to hurt me they would have done so by now… or so I hoped and reasoned. Was it some ransom plan? I decided it must be – otherwise what would anyone want with me?

  Later in the morning, however, things took a sinister turn. My hands were tied behind my back and I was blindfolded; that meant I knew the person who wanted to question me. ‘Why are you keeping me here?’ I was led to a chair and sat down gingerly, afraid of falling. ‘If it’s money, I haven’t got any.’

  ‘It’s for your own safety, ma’am, and I’ll ask the questions.’ The voice was American, deep Southern American with warm, deep overtones. Like Tom’s, but not like Tom’s. And I wondered again if Tom had set me up.

  I waited silently, trying to absorb the sounds and smells around me. I could smell salt and fish and the wash of the waves, and I thought again that we were very near the sea. In the background I could hear feminine tones; obviously, there was a woman in the next room. Her voice was subdued, but again faintly familiar.

  ‘I want information about Tom Maybury. Where is he?’

  That surprised me. ‘Last I heard he’d got engaged and was being lavished with gifts from his new, rich lady love.’ I could hear a touch of bitterness and not a little anger in my voice.

  ‘We all know that’s a cover, so what’s the truth?’

  ‘I wish I knew,’ I said on a sigh. ‘How dare you!’ My voice was clear and firm. ‘I don’t know anything about Tom Maybury, and I don’t wish to. He was stationed at Aberglasney during the war and we became friends for a while, but then he went away. I have no idea where, and why should I?’

  ‘We don’t believe all that rubbish! We know he fell in love with you and the big house you live in.’

  ‘You know more than I do then,’ I said doggedly. ‘I only wish that was true – the bit about him loving me I mean.’ I was babbling now. ‘He’s engaged to some other woman, remember? Anyway, what’s he done?’

  I felt the brush of a skirt as someone knelt beside me. So there was a woman present!

  ‘We might as well leave you here to die.’ The words were whispered more to disguise the voice than anything else, I suspected. The whispering continued eerily in my ear: ‘You will be trapped here to starve to death…’

  * * *

  After the whispering woman had finished talking, my captors had gagged me – and left me. For a while I made a keening noise, hoping to call Tom to me, until I realised it was impossible to talk coherently, so even if Tom did come to save me there was no way I could warn him of the danger. I tried to struggle, but the cords had become twisted and I was only making things worse, so I kept still and rested my head against the thick stone wall. Above me I could hear the beating of rain on the roof, and I had a sense of being here before – and, of course, I had been… in a way… with Tom. We’d been shut into that derelict church building to drown. But this time I was alone. No one would ever know where I was, and even if by some miracle Tom found out where I’d been taken, he would be caught and captured – perhaps even killed. I struggled again, but it was useless, and so I rested my head once more and tried to think.

  I was beginning to despair – for I could hardly breathe with the tightness of the tape over my mouth – when my captors came back for me. I watched in amazement and relief as one of the men silently untied me, and then I was out of the building, gasping in the fresh salty air. I was thrust into a van and lay on the metal floor in the pitch dark, bouncing around for what seemed hours. Anything was better than starving to death alone, I told myself as my elbows hurt more and more and my head felt as if it had been constantly hit with a rock. I must have blacked out, because when I was let out of the van I fell to the ground on my own arched driveway, too numb to stand.

  A light fell on me, and Mrs Ward came rushing out of the house. She wrapped a blanket around me and helped me indoors and through to the kitchen, where the welcome sound of the kettle boiling filled my heart with cheer.

  ‘Some men came here, miss,’ Mrs Ward said huskily. ‘Searched the whole house, they did. Didn’t ask permission – just went through, room by room.’

  ‘What were they looking for?’ My hands closed around the cup Mrs Ward put in front of me.

  ‘Don’t know, Miss Riana, and when I asked they pushed me into the kitchen and shut me in. I kept my mouth shut after that, didn’t like the look of those villains at all. Rough men, they were, with glinting evil eyes.’


  ‘Could you give the police a description of them, Mrs Ward?’ I asked.

  She shook her head, and her mouth twisted in a grimace of regret. ‘They had scarves covering their faces, but they had foreign voices and glittering eyes – oh, and dark thick hair, I can tell the police that much.’

  ‘Were they tall men? Fat? Thin? What colour clothes did they wear? What sort of voices did they have… were they Americans?’

  ‘American- or Canadian-like, I’d say. Gruff and rough they were. Both big men – broad with big, calloused hands. You know, working men’s hands.’

  ‘That’s very observant of you, Mrs Ward. Have you called the police?’

  ‘Can’t,’ she said baldly. ‘They cut the wires… and,’ she added, ‘I was too frightened.’

  ‘All right.’ I looked round, but everything in the kitchen was as neat and tidy as it had always been.

  ‘They didn’t mess things up, I’ll say that for them. I did hear a bit of noise from the blue room, mind, as if they were moving furniture, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Good thing Beatrice isn’t there, though goodness knows where she is now.’

  Mrs Ward shook her head. ‘Who can say? Heaven or hell, one of the two.’

  ‘What a funny thing to say, Mrs Ward.’

  She frowned back, but before she could make any comment there was the sound of hammering on the front door. ‘Oh my Lord, they’ve come back.’ Mrs Ward looked as if she might dive under the table.

  I stood up shakily.

  ‘Police!’ The voice rang out, and I tensed and put my hand to my lips, beckoning Mrs Ward to be quiet. I wasn’t going to be caught like that again.

  I crept across the dark hall and peered through the little window. There was a real police car outside and a plain-clothes officer and a uniformed constable standing on the drive.