Nothing to Hide (New Series James Oswald Book 2)

by James Oswald

  I don’t know when the woods stopped being a playground. Probably about the same time I began to understand that my little brother was destined to get all the good things in life, and I’d have to put up with being somebody’s wife. I knew very early on that I didn’t want to be somebody’s anything, and maybe it was those games and those muddy knees that made me the woman I am.

  There’s still plenty of light left in the afternoon, the days beginning their slow lengthening towards summer now. The buds are starting to break on the trees too, pushing leaves out that soon will fill this place with dappled shade. For now it’s a land of shadows, silent save for the distant roar of the motorway and the occasional startle of deer. I follow a path slick with last autumn’s fallen leaves, winding a route towards the village and the hall that is my parents’ cold home.

  I thought I might feel something, pushing through the old iron gate and stepping from the wilds into the manicured perfection of the garden. There are memories everywhere, of course. I learned to swim, albeit accidentally at first, in the ornamental lake. Skirting round its southern edge, I can see the massive, slow bodies of the carp searching for food. They terrified me as a child, ancient dinosaurs that might strip the flesh from my bones. Or was that a horrific tale made up by my father in a vain attempt to keep me in line?

  The formal gardens are much the same as they would have been when Capability Brown designed the whole estate in the eighteenth century. It used to fascinate me that he might have overseen the planting of some of the trees still here. So much time has passed, and yet so little has changed. I took this all for granted growing up, thought everyone had gardens this size, filled with enormous and ancient trees. Didn’t everyone have a wild garden where bamboos and other exotic plants grew? A lot of the girls at St Humbert’s did, and while I didn’t necessarily get on with them, I found some solace in our shared experience. Edinburgh University was something of an eye-opener; the Met doubly so.

  It doesn’t take a genius with a psychology doctorate to know that I’m wasting time, doing anything I can to avoid the inevitable meeting. I don’t want to be here so much it’s like the hall is a negative pole on a magnet and I’m the same. We repel each other with a force that only grows as the distance between us shrinks. It weighs a lot more than me, has been here for centuries. And so I circle its golden sandstone walls and lifeless windows, searching for an excuse to flee.

  None comes, and finally I find myself at the front door. We never used this, except at Christmas when the entire village would come round after Midnight Mass, drink the cheap wine my father had bought in for the occasion and maybe sing a carol or two. Our entrance was at the back, through the boot room and into the pantry, then the kitchen. As children we were rarely allowed into the posh part of the house and as teenagers we didn’t want to. I don’t live here any more though, and I’m not expected. It seems only right I present myself correctly. Clearly someone else has had the same idea, as a shiny Mercedes with blacked out windows sits on the gravel, its engine pinking gently as it cools.

  I’ve heard the doorbell before, pulled the old brass lever many a time. It more than anything brings back memories of happier, more innocent times. The sound jangles away for a few moments somewhere deep within the house, and it’s as if the entire world holds its breath awaiting an answer. Or is it just me?

  Something shifts in the air, a change in the pressure, the slightest flicker of movement seen through the glass inner doors. And then the lock clacks, the ancient iron door handle drops and the door itself swings open.

  ‘Constance, what a surprise. We were about to have some tea. Do come in.’

  With hindsight the car should have been a giveaway. Nobody local would ever park out the front, so whoever it belongs to must be either visiting from afar or important. Or both. I can’t see anyone in the hallway, and have no great desire to meet whoever my mother is entertaining.

  ‘I can’t stay long. Just needed to have a quick word about the wedding.’

  ‘Nonsense. There’s always time for a cup of tea. Isn’t that what your aunt Felicity always says?’

  There’s a hint of chiding in my mother’s voice that takes me straight back to my childhood. But then she’s always had that effect on me. Reluctantly, I follow her inside.

  I’ve never much liked Harston Magna Hall. It’s too big, too draughty. Too damp and cold, especially at this time of year. When Ben and I were growing up, before both of us were parcelled off to boarding school like so much inconvenient baggage, we’d spend most of our time in the attic, where the servants’ quarters used to be. No servants any more, unless you count those nannies, and Mrs Grundy the housekeeper. The attic rooms were damp and cold too, but at least they were drawn to a human scale. The grand entrance hall here is so big you could fit a sizeable London terrace house in it and still have room to park the car. Mother walks over to the oak sideboard that sits along one wall. In a normal house it’s where you might drop your wallet and keys on stepping inside. Here it’s a repository for ancient duelling pistols, a collection of antique silver bowls that should really be in a museum, and a slightly battered spectacle case. It’s this that she picks up, popping it open to reveal frames that are almost cool in a retro way. Thin lenses with no prescription; I’d quite forgotten her mentioning them.

  ‘Here. Not as if I need them any more. There was a fashion for them once, but now I need the real thing, these aren’t much use to me.’

  ‘I . . . Thank you.’ I take them, unable to stop myself from sliding them on. They’re heavy, but not uncomfortable.

  ‘Come through. There’s someone I’d like you to meet, since you’re here.’

  The car. I’d almost forgotten. I slip off the spectacles and shove them back in their case. Mother is almost halfway to the drawing-room door, so I have to speak more loudly than I’d like.

  ‘There’s something I need to say first. I’ve decided it will be better if I don’t come to the wedding.’

  She stops, turns to face me. She looks almost sad more than angry. This isn’t what I was expecting.

  ‘I’ll be leaving tomorrow morning. First thing.’

  ‘Leaving? But you just got here, girl.’ Ah, that’s the Mother I remember.

  ‘I know, and the press will find me here quicker than you can say “Daily Mail”. I’ve no intention of upstaging my brother at his wedding, or of bringing the wrong kind of attention to it.’

  Another long, narrow stare, and this time I can almost hear the thoughts tumbling through her mind.

  ‘Where will you go?’

  ‘Best if I don’t say.’

  She holds her hands together across her stomach in the way she did the last time I saw her. It’s a defensive posture, but it’s something else too. A way of hiding the slight tremor that shakes her entire body. It’s cold in the hall, always is, and she insists on wearing the thinnest of clothes regardless. Even so I wonder whether there’s not more to it than that.

  ‘Very well. It’s your decision, even if it will break poor Benevolence’s heart. You always were one to think about yourself first. Come now.’ She shakes her head once in the direction of the smaller drawing-room door, and I finally have to concede to follow. As these things go, it could have been a lot worse. We’ve not actually shouted at each other yet.

  The temperature inside the room is considerably warmer than the grand hall, thanks to a roaring fire in the grate. I scarcely notice it, distracted by the figure who hauls himself from the depths of one of the sofas as I enter. He is enormous, bulging out of his ill-fitting black suit as if he put it on whilst still a much smaller man. The hand he extends towards me is the size of a toy dog, and just as unfriendly. I can hear my mother making introductions in her horribly formal manner, but I don’t need them. I know who he is. I read all about him on the train here this morning. He’s the founder and leader of the Church of the Coming Light.

 
The Reverend Doctor Edward Masters.

  ‘Lady Constance, what a pleasure it is to meet you. I have read much about your exploits in the papers. It would seem you are quite the resourceful young woman.’

  Larger than life already, Masters swells as he speaks. He’s a great bear of a man, everything about him bulges: his neck squeezing from a collar that must be uncomfortably tight; his hands big enough to crush my head; his eyes popping from a face like a balloon filled with water. Standing to one side, my mother looks tiny in comparison. And frail. Now that I’ve noticed the slight tremor that shakes her frame from time to time, I can’t ignore it. How long has she been ill? Aunt Flick never mentioned anything, and neither did Charlotte. Then again, it would be just like my mother to suffer in silence.

  ‘We do what we can.’ I extract my hand from his massive grip, wondering how easily I can escape this room, this house.

  ‘Each of us has our calling, do we not? God has charged me with bringing His word to the masses, showing them the light.’ Masters looms over me, and the look on his face changes in an instant. I’ve had that look before, usually from men sitting on the wrong side of the table in a police interview room, their lawyer by their side. It’s a look that women get every day on buses, in the street, at work. An assessment of your worth as an object. In the space of a heartbeat I’ve gone from person to thing, and I can’t understand why.

  ‘It all sounds very worthy.’ The words are out, liberally coated in sarcasm, before I can stop them. I hurry to cover my mistake as my mother draws in a sharp breath. ‘Actually, I met a group of your . . . what would you call them, acolytes? Followers?’ I manage to stop myself from saying ‘cult members’. ‘Just the other day. They were tending to some drug addicts, taking them off to a shelter for the night.’

  ‘See. This is exactly the kind of good work the reverend doctor does.’ My mother clasps her hands together like a little girl as she steps in between us. ‘Come, Constance. Sit down. Have some tea.’

  I can’t think of any good reason why my mother would be hospitable, so there must be some ulterior motive to her show of kindness. She wants something, and it has to do with Masters. Well, if she wants me as an ally to persuade Ben to change his mind, that’s not happening.

  ‘I’m really sorry, but I have to go. It was nice to meet you.’ I tilt my head a fraction in the direction of the reverend doctor. He mimics the action, perhaps unintentionally, and all the while I have that feeling of being sized up like a piece of meat. Then almost as quickly as it came on, the look is gone, and he is all smiles again.

  ‘That is a shame. I should have liked the opportunity to get to know you better, Lady Constance.’ Masters bows slightly. ‘I feel sure that we will meet again, and soon.’

  I would like to think that he’s just being polite, but there’s something about the way he says it that feels all too prophetic. I’ve had run-ins with unpleasant people before, and Masters gives me that same skin-crawling sensation. Or maybe it’s just the setting, this house to which I’d hoped never to return. My mother with her slight tremor and judgmental glower. Whatever it is, I don’t want to be around it any more.

  ‘I’ll be in touch,’ I say to them both, and before either can respond I turn and flee.

  19

  It’s been too long since I was last in Edinburgh. I’ve hurried by on my way further north a couple of times, sure, but never taken the time to stop. I could tell myself that I’m simply taking the opportunity of being on suspension with full pay to go back to some of my old haunts; I studied at the university here for four years, after all. That’s what I’ll tell the press if they catch up with me, but I’m not fooling anyone, least of all myself.

  The city’s changed a lot in the past ten years, and yet it’s scarcely changed at all. They’ve finally finished digging up the roads for the trams, but now they seem to be busy demolishing the big shopping centre at the end of Princes Street, no doubt to replace it with an even bigger one. The sky is almost as full of cranes as London.

  Scotland is cold, but drier than drizzly London and the Home Counties I’ve left behind. It’s not cold enough to stop my trusty old Volvo’s overheating problem whenever it goes slower than forty miles an hour, though, so inching through slow-moving traffic on North Bridge is a strain on my nerves. If the satnav on my phone is right, then I’ve not far to go, but it’s a test to see which will give out first, the engine or my nerves.

  I had a boyfriend who shared a tenement flat just off Leith Walk, all those years ago. The area wasn’t the best even then, but cheap rent can help you put up with a lot of things. Money seems to be seeping into this part of the city now though, if the expensive cars in the resident permit-holder-only parking bays are anything to go by. It used to be rusty old bangers back when Den lived here, some without all of their wheels. My Volvo would have felt quite at home.

  My first thought when I finally arrive at my destination is one of relief that the car is still running, even if the noisy whir of fans working overtime carries on even when I’ve turned off the ignition. My second thought is that I never realised such big old terraced houses existed in Leith, sandwiched between the tenements and hidden down back streets. My third thought is that I must have got the address wrong. It’s true that my aunt’s old Edinburgh friend was very strange, although friendly enough on the one occasion I met her before. But surely she can’t live in such a grand place as this?

  I start to get my bearings as I lock up the car, cross the road and enter the small courtyard. This building must back on to Leith Walk itself, at the bottom end closest to the old docks and warehouses. Chances are it was a merchant’s house a couple of hundred years ago, and I expect to find some kind of multiple button entry system at the front door, access to the many flats this place must have been split into. There’s only an old brass plate with a single polished button recessed in the middle. No name to suggest who it is that lives here.

  The door opens before I even have a chance to hear what kind of bell might announce my arrival, and I’m confronted with the person I’ve come to visit. I knew deep down who she was, what she was. I’ve met her before, and that first meeting was a shock too. Even so, I had somehow managed to forget the most obvious thing about Rose, that for all she might be a woman, she had been born in the body of a man.

  ‘Lady Constance, how delightful to see you again. Please, do come in.’

  Rose’s Edinburgh home is undeniably impressive. It rises over three floors, centred around a wide hall that is twice the size of my entire London flat, lit by an overhead skylight. Stone staircases lead to broad landings, and as I follow her up to an enormous living room on the first floor, I lose count of the number of doors. Big though it is, every available space seems to be taken up with what I can only describe as ‘stuff’. Old oil paintings on the walls show a few men but mostly women who must be ancestors of the current inhabitant, given the remarkable facial similarities down the generations. Antique side tables are covered in things: lacquered Japanese puzzle boxes; leather-bound books piled haphazardly as if whoever was reading them put them down and forgot where they were; vases that are probably hundreds of years old and certainly priceless; and cats.

  I’ve been to houses where little old ladies live with legions of moggies. One memorable call-out when I was still in uniform was to a north London ground-floor apartment where the single pensioner had died unnoticed. Some months earlier, judging by the condition in which her army of cats had left her. In my experience, houses where the cats outnumber the humans tend to take on a distinctive and not entirely pleasant aroma. Maybe it’s the size of this place, or Rose has found a way of controlling her feline army. The scent is there, but it’s not overwhelming, competing as it does with dust, woodsmoke and a touch of damp.

  ‘Felicity told me you were coming. I’m so pleased you did. I get so few visitors these days.’

  The sitting room, like the rest of the hou
se I’ve seen so far, is cluttered almost to the point of being claustrophobic, despite its high ceilings with their traditionally Scottish ornate cornicework. It’s getting dark outside, but I wouldn’t be able to tell if I’d not just come in, as heavy velvet curtains hang over the huge bay window. Along with the cats and the general air of living somewhere that hasn’t changed in over a hundred years, it hardly surprises me that she gets few visitors.

  ‘I was going to check into a B & B, but Aunt Flick wouldn’t have anything of it. I don’t want to be an imposition.’

  ‘Nonsense, Lady Constance. It’s no trouble at all. But I must confess I am intrigued as to why you have chosen to come back to Edinburgh now. Is it really just the scurrilous lies the press are printing about you and your family?’

  ‘That’s one reason. Quite a good one, I think.’

  ‘Of course. And I’m sure the heat will die down in time, my dear. Tea?’

  I’m trained as a detective. Noticing things is second nature. But even so I could have sworn that the tray with elegant china teapot and cups, sugar bowl and jug of milk had not been sitting on the low table in front of Rose’s chair until she mentioned it. And yet, there it is.

  ‘Thank you. And please, call me Con. “Lady Constance” is what those horrible tabloid hacks call me.’

  ‘Of course, Con.’ Rose smiles as she pours tea and then offers a slice of cake. I left very early this morning, and drove all the way north without stopping. It’s been a hectic few days with minimal sleep and I struggle to hide my yawn.

  ‘Do you have any plans while you’re here? Other than hiding away from the press, that is?’ Rose asks after she’s watched me drink some tea and eat some cake. I consider keeping my real reason for being in Edinburgh to myself, but then it occurs to me that she probably already knows exactly what I’m up to. Either Aunt Felicity has told her, or she’s divined it through talking to the spirits or seen it in her crystal ball or something.