by Joan Aiken
Lucy was not pleased at being put in a different building from Aunt Fennel but saw there was no help for it. Guided by Mrs. Marsham she drove round to the rear of Wildfell Hall and on across the park for a couple of hundred yards to a cobbled stable-yard.
“That one is your cottage,” Mrs. Marsham said. “The next is the gardener’s; the third is empty at present. I’ve made up a bed for you in the top front room. Come over in the morning at seven, will you? Can you wake or would you like to be called? There’s an internal phone.”
“I can wake normally, but it’s been a long day; I guess you’d better call me, thanks.”
“Very well. You can keep your car in the yard here. Would you mind leaving your lights on just till I get back to the house? I forgot to bring a torch. Good night.”
While Mrs. Marsham walked swiftly back along the footpath Lucy went upstairs and investigated her new quarters. The cottage was small, two up and two down, similar in layout to High Beck; the furnishing was sketchy but adequate, and a tiny bathroom had been squeezed in at the head of the stairs. Looking out of its window into the yard below she saw a man walk into the headlight beam; he turned and looked towards the open door of Lucy’s cottage, then followed Mrs. Marsham towards the big house.
Lucy stared after him in blank astonishment.
Utterly unlikely though it seemed, and despite the fact that she had last seen him in Boston, three thousand miles away, and knew no reason why he should suddenly turn up in Yorkshire, she would have been almost ready to swear that the person following Mrs. Marsham was her Uncle Wilbie’s assistant, Russ McLartney.
She went downstairs, automatically switched off her car lights and locked up, bolted the door of the house, washed, and fell into bed. Outside on the moor she could hear owls calling.
Russ—it didn’t make sense. Then could Russ be Aunt Fennel’s Other One, her nightmare pursuer? No; ridiculous; besides, at the time when Miss Beatrice Howe had fallen to her doom, allegedly pushed by That Other One, Russ had been glumly escorting Aunt Rose and Corale on a trip through the Florida Everglades.
Russ, That Other One, Adnan with his warning: “Lucy, Lucy, you are too shrewd for your own good. While you are resident in this establishment—”
Too shrewd? Dear Max, I can’t make head or tail of it. Too complicated. Too many things to worry about. I’ll never get to sleep Lucy thought, burrowed her face into the pillow, and slept.
IX
“You are slurring that phrase,” Benovek said. “Take it once more from the top F.”
Lucy hit the top F, hit it again, and yet again. It continued shrilling in her ear. “Foot off pedal,” she thought, “we’re coming to a bend, better change down.”
The shrill note persisted and, surfacing reluctantly from her dream, she reached out an arm for the telephone which stood by her bed.
“. . . Taking her time about answering,” said Mrs. Marsham’s voice, “as you’re going that way, Harold, carry the thermometers round to the patients in those two rooms, would you? I’ll be along directly, tell them.”
“Hello?” said Lucy out of her fog.
“Oh, there you are, Miss Culpepper. Are you awake? When you come over to the house, could you bring a roll of rubber sheeting that you’ll find in the dairy next to the gardener’s cottage? It’s on a shelf wrapped in brown paper next to the—”
Mrs. Marsham’s words were interrupted by a man’s voice calling from farther off.
“Mother! Better come in here.”
“What’s the matter?” The matron evidently had her head turned from the receiver but still held it; Lucy could hear the tick of a clock and, somewhere nearby, a cat mewing.
“She’s gone.”
“Who?”
“The old one.”
“Oh—excuse me, Miss Culpepper,” Mrs. Marsham said hurriedly into the receiver. “Come over as quickly as possible, will you, with the sheeting. There’s a great deal to do.”
“Okay.” Lucy rolled out of bed and put on robe and slippers. Did gone mean dead or run off? And who was the old one?
She dressed at speed, tugged a hasty comb through her hair, washed in the tiny bathroom, ran downstairs, and let herself out into the stable-yard. The moorland air smelt cool, with a tang from the large trees, pines and monkey-puzzles, that separated the stable-quarters from the main house. Which was the dairy? There were several doors. One led to a shed full of plant-pots and garden tools, another to a garage containing a white Rover, very mud-splashed. A third outhouse had a wide slate shelf round three walls; this must be the dairy. Here Lucy found and identified the rubber sheeting.
Odd, she thought, stowing the roll, which was too heavy to be carried far, into her own car and starting up, odd there was such a lot of mud on that Rover, we haven’t had any rain for over a week. Perhaps it was driven from some other part of the country? Or hasn’t been used since the last spell of bad weather—when was that?
Thinking back she recalled the thunderstorm on the day she had first come to Appleby; for a little while the rain had been so heavy she had been obliged to park. But since then it had been dry, unusually dry, the locals said, for the time of year. Today, however, the sky was overcast and threatening; good thing I got Aunt Fennel moved yesterday, Lucy thought. Even if she doesn’t want to go out, at least here when it’s wet there will be room to stroll around indoors.
Lucy had imagined that, once installed just outside Appleby, the old lady would wish to go on walks, to revisit old scenes or call on old neighbours, but Aunt Fennel had calmly refuted any such notion.
“I’ll stay indoors at present, thank you, dearie. It’s a lovely big house, I’ll be able to get plenty of exercise walking about the hallways and passages. And I’ll have the good air and be able to see the moors through the windows. And That Other One would never dare try to get into a big place like Wildfell Hall, with so many people about; I’ll be quite safe, so long as I stay inside.”
Well, it was to be hoped that Mrs. Marsham didn’t have any inflexible rules about outside exercise every day for the inmates, or there would be trouble, Lucy thought, parking by the back door and going in through the kitchen; in a contest of wills she had a notion that Mrs. Marsham and Aunt Fennel would be about equally matched.
In the kitchen she found Emma Chiddock, who boarded at reduced rates in return for some housework, briskly fumbling about, putting knives and spoons and napkins on a trolley.
“That you, Miss Culpepper?” she said, peering in Lucy’s direction. “Matron said to go upstairs as soon as you got here, and take the rubber sheet with you.”
She came closer to Lucy and hissed in a meaningful undertone,
“What did I tell you? Old Alice Crabtree passed away in the night. Didn’t I say she would? Poor soul—it’s a wicked shame, if you ask me—I reckon she would a lasted for a good while yet.”
Lucy was surprised, and rather remorseful, to see tears on Mrs. Chiddock’s wrinkled cheeks.
“I’m so sorry—I didn’t realise you were so fond of her,” she said diffidently.
“Alice Crabtree and me have been friends ever since we was at school. Oh, we used to have our little differences, but that didn’t mean I thought she ought to be put away—”
“Is that you, Miss Culpepper?” the matron called down the stairs. “Bring the big kettle of hot water up, will you, and put on another. Emma, can you get on with making the toasts for the breakfasts?”
A window halfway up the stairs looked out over the front portico. As Lucy passed this she saw a man walk round from the side of the house, raise the bonnet of an estate van that stood there, and peer inside. It was the same man she had seen last night. But in daylight his resemblance to Russ was less marked; he was taller, fairer, with features less fleshy; his hair rose in a quiff; he looked like some kind of bird, maybe a snipe? Even so, the likeness was considerable; an odd coincidence.
>
Dear Max, you would enjoy Wildfell Hall. Somewhere, quite soon, in a room containing a few instruments of torture, I am sure to find an old-fashioned cabinet of ebony and gold, which, being only secured by massy bars and a padlock, I shall, after a few efforts, succeed in opening, and discover a photograph of myself as a child, a whole pile of mysterious laundry lists, three executioners’ aprons, two winding-sheets, and a shroud.
The shroud brought Lucy back sharply to the thought of Mrs. Crabtree’s death; she went on upstairs in a more sober frame of mind. As she crossed the landing she heard the bonnet slam and the van start up and drive away.
“Was that my son leaving?” asked Mrs. Marsham, appearing and receiving the kettle. “What a nuisance; I was going to ask him to do a couple of errands in the village for me before he went. Oh well, perhaps you could later on, Miss Culpepper; it’s useful that you have a car.”
“When will your son be back?” Lucy inquired, as they made beds; she was still curious to get a closer glimpse of him.
“Oh, he doesn’t live here; he just came over for a few days to give me a hand. He’s an osteopath; has a practice in Birmingham, so he can’t stay very long. It was handy having him here last night, though; several of the measles patients were quite restless, and we had one old lady pass away; Dr. Adnan thought she might.”
“That’s too bad.”
“Oh, you get accustomed to deaths in an old people’s home,” Mrs. Marsham said indifferently, whipping a mitred corner of sheet into place with professional skill, “after all, it’s what they come for, isn’t it? Run down now and fetch the other kettle, would you, Miss Culpepper? Oh, and could you put these specimens on the desk in my office as you pass? And then see to the breakfasts.”
Feeling slightly blank, Lucy took bottles and kettle. Mrs. Marsham’s outlook and her own appeared to be so dissimilar that there could be no contact; it was hardly worth making an effort to communicate. Anyway, she evidently doesn’t want me communicating with her, Lucy thought. Depositing the bottles on the office desk she noticed a framed newspaper clipping; it was from the Kirby Advertiser and showed an uncompromising picture of Wildfell Hall, arches, pillars, stone balls, portico, and all; inset in the column of print underneath was a photograph of Mrs. Marsham and the piece was headed “Ex-Air Hostess S.R.N. to run new old folk’s home at Appleby.” A memory clicked into place and Lucy realised why Mrs. Marsham’s features had seemed faintly familiar at their first encounter; of course she must have seen this article, without taking special note of it, while stacking piles of old newspapers in Uncle Wilbie’s attic. Perhaps there had also been a picture of Mrs. Marsham’s son, perhaps this had made Lucy imagine the resemblance to Russ? But no, the more she thought about it, the more she felt that the resemblance was real, just one of those inexplicable similarities.
By now the elderly inmates, such of them as could manage it, were up and hobbling downstairs in hopes of breakfast; querulous Emma Chiddock seemed to have set the tables and made toast fairly capably despite her poor vision; Lucy hastily brewed up a cauldron of instant porridge.
“Eggs, too, we always have,” Emma said fussily, “always an egg for breakfast here. Ah, she’s a hard woman, that Mrs. Marsham, but she do see we have a good breakfast, that I will say. Not but what I’d fancy a bit of bacon for a change instead of everlasting eggs, eggs, eggs.”
“Boiled or scrambled?”
“Scrambled, scrambled. Lots of ‘em with bad eyesight can’t manage a boiled egg, see; you serve the scrambled in those plastic bowls and they eat it with a spoon. And you beat up the scrambled egg with this—”
She reached up myopically and located the electric beater hanging on its hook; with the sureness of habit she plugged it in, broke eggs into a bowl, and began rapidly beating them while Lucy found an enormous skillet and set it on the Aga.
“Wonderful gadgets they have now,” said Emma, passing the bowl of yellow froth to Lucy and pressing the release knob of the beater; the corkscrew attachment shot out like a javelin and buried itself up to the hilt in a loaf of bread.
“Hey, you want to watch it with that thing!” Lucy exclaimed, somewhat startled. “You only just missed me! Hold it pointing down over the sink another time, or you’re liable to stick somebody in the gizzard.”
“Wonderful gadgets,” droned Emma, paying no heed to Lucy, lovingly washing and drying the beater attachment; she replaced it in the head section and hung it up on its hook again. “Is the egg ready then? That’s good; I’ll go and ring the breakfast bell.”
She hobbled off; it was plain, however, that she had after all taken notice of Lucy’s words for as she went she muttered, “Yes, and there’s some folks as would be all the better for sticking in the gizzard if you ask me.”
Next minute a brazen clangour worthy of the Abbot of Aberbrothock broke out in the hall; Emma was plainly putting all her vindictive feelings into the breakfast summons.
During the bed-making period Lucy had found time to slip into Aunt Fennel’s room and make sure the old lady was all right, peacefully propped on pillows, gazing out at the grey-purple stretch of moorland visible beyond the grounds.
“Yes, thank you, dearie, I slept beautifully; the air here certainly suits me much better than all that smoke and fog down in Kirby. Disturbances? No, I never heard any. But then I had my hearing aid out, of course! I’m feeling quite rested, so I’ll get myself up by and by, after breakfast; just you bring me a bowl of porridge and a cup of hot water; I’ll put some of my own camomile in.”
This Lucy did, when taking breakfasts to such of the bed patients as were capable of eating.
“Delicious,” sighed Aunt Fennel, dropping a handful of yellow dust into the water, from which a bitter reek instantly arose. “It’s months since I was able to enjoy a real cup of camomile.”
Darting away to her other duties, Lucy hoped that Mrs. Marsham would prove accommodating about Aunt Fennel’s fondness for herbal concoctions. Dear Max, it’s no use, I’m not certain in my mind about Mrs. Marsham. Efficient she undoubtedly is, eggs for breakfast, warm bed-clothes, all very good, but kind? Old Emma’s mutterings about her love-hate mate we can discount—or can we? Measles plus pneumonia would be quite enough to finish off most old ladies—but on the other hand it would be extremely simple to hasten somebody’s end in such circumstances. Adnan did say Mrs. Crabtree was tough, though. Well, Adnan will have to come and sign the death certificate, won’t he, he’d speak up soon enough if there was anything phoney? Or would he?
She ran downstairs to cast an eye over the scrambled-egg eaters, who were chomping away contentedly enough, seated at their red-topped tables, napkins tucked under chins, eyes fixed on vacancy as they applied themselves seriously to what was one of the most interesting activities of their day. Outside the large windows a steady rain streamed down from the slate-coloured sky, and the mixed conifers heaved and thrashed raggedly; inside Wildfell Hall seemed peaceful and cosy, but with a threatening whiff of insecurity about it, like the hopeful warmth of the sun about to be engulfed by a thundercloud.
Having dealt out second cups of tea and dollops of marmalade, Lucy bolted down a saucerful of scrambled egg herself, and then went up to ask what she should do next.
“Help me with bed-baths; Mrs. Thwaite’s Ann said she’d come in at ten and wash dishes.”
Mrs. Marsham yawned; for the first time in Lucy’s short acquaintance with her she looked tired; her face was greyish-pale, her eyes red-rimmed.
“It was a wearing night; I’ll just take my contact lenses out,” she said. “Eyes are sore; had the lenses in for about twenty-four hours.”
With a finger she stretched out the corner of each eye in turn, blinking over the palm of the other hand, then carefully tucked the resulting two shirt-button-size lenses in a small gilt box, and put on a pair of horn-rimmed glasses which made her look all at once older and more intelligent. Lucy suddenly wondered if s
he had been under-estimating Mrs. Marsham.
“Don’t the lenses ever fall out by accident?” she asked.
“Only if you get dust in your eye and rub it. I don’t wear mine in dusty, sandy places; but they’re good for this sort of work because they don’t get steamed up.”
Mrs. Marsham seemed, perhaps because of her fatigue, more talkative than usual, and Lucy was glad of it; she would have been embarrassed to give the elderly patients their bed-baths in a dour and uncommunicative silence. When asked by Mrs. Marsham how long she had been in England, where she had lived before, she politely answered the trivial questions with a brief sketch of her life-history and connections.
“Boston? How interesting. I’ve never been to America. But you say that your uncle came from somewhere round here originally?”
“Well, no, from Liverpool, actually, but his family had come from here, and of course my great-aunt lived in Appleby; Uncle Wilbie used to come back here visiting as a boy.”
“And his name is Culpepper, the same as yours? Does he remember Appleby quite clearly? What sort of age would he be?”
“Oh—late fifties, early sixties, maybe. He had always kept in touch with Aunt Fennel; she sent him some of her embroidered pictures. He wants me to try and get hold of some more,” Lucy said, thinking Mrs. Marsham in this more approachable mood might be a source of information, “but Aunt Fennel seems to have given them all away when she quit her cottage. Would you happen to know anyone in the village who might have one and be inclined to part?”
They were washing aged Mr. Cordwainer at the time; as Lucy gently scoured into his thin old armpit with a soapy sponge, he unexpectedly remarked,
“Nay, you’ll be lucky if you get anybody in the village to part with old Miss Culpepper’s Bible pictures.”
“Why is that?” Lucy carefully dabbed dry the bit she had washed and proceeded to his ribs, which were covered with an impressive measles rash.
