by Nita Round
“Well, when someone pays for the repairs, then I’ll get them done.”
“Very well. If there is anything more you need to ask, you have my card,” Peters said, and then they left.
“Who was that?” Emma called from the top of the stairs.
“The police.”
“And what did they want?”
“Nothing. They wanted to tell me they no longer think I’m a murderer.”
“Hey, Miss innocent,” Emma said as she stomped down the stairs. She was still in her dressing gown. Maggie quite liked to see Emma in her dressing gown, but this time she had pyjamas underneath.
“Have you made coffee yet?” Maggie chuckled.
“No. I thought it was too early for you to be up and I was about to leave for the farm.”
“And what did you have for breakfast?”
Maggie shrugged.
“You should eat something.”
Maggie took two strides closer and kissed Emma on the forehead. “You’re adorable when you worry.”
Emma huffed. “Am I not adorable at any other time, Maggie?”
“Yes of course you are. I’ll get a cup of tea at the farm,” she added.
“And something to eat as well?”
“I will. Don’t worry so.”
“I do. Maggie. I do.”
“I know you do.” She looked at her watch. “Look. I’d love to stay here, but I have to get to work.”
“I know.”
“And I think I should move back to the house. I don’t want to impose on your hospitality indefinitely.”
“You could stay if you wanted to. I like having you here.”
“I know, but it’ll be better if I go back.”
“Okay.”
“Besides, aren’t we supposed to have another date night now?”
“I wondered when you were going to say something.”
She almost made it to the door. “Have you decided whether to stay here, in Castlecoombe, or not?”
“Not yet. I haven’t thought about it much. But I’m finding more reasons to stay.”
“I don’t want you to leave.” Maggie looked at the floor, almost like a shy schoolgirl. “Emma, have dinner with me Saturday night. At the Hall.”
“I would love to go to dinner with you. Is this a date night?”
Maggie grinned, “7:30 pm then, and you can stay with me at the house if you don’t want to drive back afterward. I think we should have a glass of wine or two and I wouldn’t like you to drive back after.”
“Staying with you makes perfect sense. Now the eyes of the law see you as innocent then we should celebrate.”
Chapter Eighteen
OF THE VERITABLE hotchpotch of furniture the Tapper’s had accumulated over the generations, few pieces were worth keeping. The secretaire bureau was a different matter altogether. Tall, fashioned of beautiful dark wood, it glowed with age, and an inner lustre which could not be faked. Inlaid with woods of almost every hue and trimmed with brass, the different colours formed complex and intriguing shapes and designs. Emma loved it.
The top dropped down to reveal three sections. Two sets of triple drawers, all inset with a smaller and more intricate version of the designs on the outside. In the centre stood a vertical letter rack, with ornate uprights separating the three sections. Inside the rightmost drawers, Emma found copies, or originals, of all the papers she had in her own bag. In addition, in the leftmost drawers, she found a block of quality writing paper, a couple of cheap biros, a much older fountain pen, shaped like a fattened missile, and a bottle of black ink. Emma brushed her fingers against the warm softness of the wood, and revelled in its smoothness. The writing surface, all worn green leather roughened with age, was still useable, but it needed to be replaced, or restored.
“You’re a beautiful desk,” she said aloud and smiled.
Then the little torpedo jerked upright and jumped up and down, it’s hard lacquered shell, clacked as it bounced on the wood.
“Good God!” she cried and clutched at her chest. “What the hell?”
The pen bounced on its bottom twice, swung about like a conductor’s baton marking time, and then cracked an upright section between the drawers and the dividers. It repeated its movements, and then it lay down, still and unmoving.
Emma didn’t move at first. She shook her head and tried not to think about her encroaching insanity. “I think I need a drink.” She got to her feet and turned away. The sound of tapping on the desk grew determined and insistent. “What is going on?” she said and turned back.
She reached out, but the energetic writing implement bounced once, then cartwheeled out of her way, rapped the wood twice, and settled down. Weird. It crossed her mind, albeit briefly, she should be scared, at least a little, but she wasn’t. She was, she admitted, more than a little curious.
She lashed out, but her fingers grasped empty air, and when she tried again she got no closer than the first time. “You shouldn’t do that,” she admonished, but the stubby stylus leaned to one side and stood quivering. “It’s not right you know. You should lie still like a normal pen.”
The recalcitrant implement stood there, on end, as Emma fanned out her fingers and approached it with the care and attention reserved for a skittish animal. As she drew close, it stood on its end, the top trembling with defiance as she trapped it in the corner of bureau. With deft and nimble fingers, Emma snatched up the wayward pen and shoved it in a drawer. “Gotcha.” That she was talking to an inanimate object didn’t even warrant a second thought. It was already something she considered unexceptional, and she smirked with satisfaction. “I think I deserve a cup of tea.”
In the kitchen, she allowed herself to be distracted by a bottle of wine in the fridge. It looked far more interesting than a cup of plain tea and as she popped the cork the sound of tapping in the drawer increased.
“All right,” she yelled. “I’m coming.”
The drumming stopped.
“After I’ve had my wine.”
The drumming resumed, but harder, and faster.
Emma sighed, took a good gulp of cool Viura, and then left it on the kitchen table.
The drumming stopped as she sat down. “Okay. What are you trying to tell me Mr. Pen?” She opened the drawer and released the implement on to the leather writing area. “I know I’m talking to an object, but hey, no one else is here so you will do.”
Emma stared at the desk. “Were you trying to show me something?”
The pen stood to attention and leaned in her direction.
“I’ll take that as a yes?”
A nod as it leaned forward again.
“The drawers?”
The pen fell over backwards.
“No?”
A nodded answer.
“There are easier ways than this,” she said and placed a piece of blank paper in the middle of the writing area.
The stylus fell over backward and Emma was sure she heard a distant groan. “It’s not the drawers and you can’t write. Super,” she muttered and added a few curses. “There is something hidden here,” she said as her fingers traced the inlay between the drawers, “I don’t know what any of this means.”
The pen bounced up and down. It oozed its excitement. “Here?” The pen bounced some more. “All right then.”
She started to trace the edges of the upright between the leftmost drawers and the central section. Nothing happened, but when she touched the rose shaped inlay, the heart of the flower moved, or at least it seemed to move. She pressed harder and she was rewarded with the sound of a muffled click. “There we go.”
The sound of tapping drew her attention to the other upright, and now she knew what she was looking for. Emma pressed the central part of the rose. A slight click. At first nothing seemed to have changed. She ran her fingers across the wood, and the upright seemed a little proud of the drawers. “Interesting,” she muttered and the pen nodded at her. It thought so too.
Emma removed the four drawers and examine
d each one, noting as she did the drawers were not as deep as she had anticipated. “Curious,” she said, and looked into the holes made by the drawers. The insides were dark and she couldn’t see much, so she grabbed the uprights and pulled. The entire drawer frame slid out, and several papers fell from their places of concealment. At the rear, folded into the gap between the end of the drawers and the back of the bureau, Emma found a substantial sheaf of papers and as she brought them from their confinement into the light, a long sigh filled the room. “I guess this is what you wanted me to find, huh?” Around her the house creaked and groaned until it settled with a set of sounds that sounded like a distant “yes.”
Emma gathered the papers. There were quite a few sheets of creamy coloured heavyweight paper and all of them except one, covered in dense script. The almost blank one, no more than a title sheet, read “The Family Tapper, 1620.”
EMMA DIDN'T KNOW how long she sat and stared at the papers, but it was long enough. She retrieved her not so cold glass of wine from the kitchen, and took a seat at the secretaire. “Secrets,” she muttered to the inert pen, “no wonder they call this a secretaire.”
She turned over the sheets of paper and started to read from the beginning. With dense italics and written in an older style of English, it took Emma many attempts to understand the opening text. Notes in variously coloured inks, added details and translations. Without them, Emma doubted she would have been able to understand much of what was written. She read, with the aid of all the additional notes, about the time a young girl, called Emily Tapper took up with the lord of the estate, the young and good lord Charles Durrant. She read of death and hate, and a suicide tree no one would ever chop down.
The notes didn’t stop there, and as Emma continued through one paper after another, she realised the notes were written by many different people. Different pens, different inks, some words faded more than others, italic, non-italic, left sloping letters, right sloping and upright scripts. This wasn’t just the history of Emily Tapper, this was the history of all the Tappers made immortal in their words and their observations. Not only the Tappers, it was a history of Maggie’s family too, even if the Tappers took to gloating about some ill-defined family curse.
Emma read the lot. She ignored the documents she had already seen, but read everything else. Now she was ready to see Maggie again.
Chapter Nineteen
RATHER THAN USE the kitchen door, Emma decided on a formal approach and rang the main front door of Magwood Hall. Behind the door she could hear the sound of the bell reverberate with a deep, booming ding dong, throughout the Hall beyond. It sounded nothing like the high pitched tinkle, or the buzzer effects she would associate with a normal sized house or apartment. Then again, this was a grand hall, a castle, and not some fifth floor apartment. All she had to do now was wait. She was glad it wasn’t raining, as she stood before the entry, because Magwood was a large place and she had no idea how long it would take for Maggie to answer.
Someone unlocked the door and opened it quicker than she’d anticipated, and she couldn’t help but smile. It wasn’t Maggie, and the grin on her face wavered. It was a man and he looked so like Maggie, and so different, all at the same time. His eyes, bright and blue as the heart of a glacier, were nothing like the sun-drenched blue of Maggie’s eyes. His cold gaze slid over her skin. “Yes?” he drawled.
“Hi.” Emma said. She tried to sound cheerful, but his cold gaze gave her the creeps. She tried not to be self-conscious, but it was hard when the resemblance between this man and Maggie was so strong. Both blond, yet his hair was bright and striking, hers was a shade softer, as though sun bleached rather than blanched by chemicals. Her smile could melt ice, and his would make it form all over again. Maggie was the girl next door, so long as it was okay if the girl next door was rich, lived in some huge Hall, and owned everything in sight. He was nothing like her. She gave a part of herself to whoever she spoke to, he would suck it all up and demand more.
“I’m Emma,” she said with all of the confidence she could muster. “Maggie is expecting me.”
“Well, well.” His eyes looked her up and down, and not only undressed her, but suggested something sordid as well. “You’re the Tapper, the one who’s got her knickers in such a twizzle.”
Emma bristled. She couldn’t help it. He made everything seem dirty, and there was nothing dirty or nasty about Maggie, nor their relationship. “Yes, I suppose I am.” He lifted one eyebrow as though almost surprised at her reply.
Even such a small gesture annoyed her. “I’m the Tapper, last of my line. But I have not seen Maggie’s knickers so I have no idea whether they are in a twizzle or not. Yet,” she smirked, “it does sound a pleasant challenge, maybe I’ll find out later, after a bottle of wine or two.” She was surprised she didn’t blush, but she was so angry she didn’t care what anyone thought.
His leer broadened. “You plan to sleep with her then,” he whispered as she passed.
Emma thought about saying something witty and sharp, but all she could manage was a bitter, “You’re too late to worry about such things.” Then she saw Maggie stride across the hall in her direction. She looked angry enough for two.
“Hi Emma,” Maggie spluttered, but she glared at the man. “Charles, you were raised with better manners than this.”
“Hello Maggie,” Emma said as she interposed herself between the two Durrants. “It’s all right.”
“Emma, this is Charles, my brother.”
Emma stuck out her hand. “Charles. Pleased to meet you.”
He took her hand in his, and Emma was surprised his handshake was so weak.
“OK Charles, now you’ve met. You can run along now,” Maggie said. “I’m fine here,” he said, the smirk pulling one side of his mouth upward.
“Charles, are you going out this evening?” Maggie asked.
“What’s it to do with you?” His voice softened. “Not sure I’ll bother going out now. I think I will stay with you two. I’d like to see what happens after a couple of bottles of wine.”
“No, go.” Maggie commanded him, but he leered back.
“Maggie, it’s fine,” Emma said, “we need a waiter to serve the food and clear up after us don’t we? I don’t mind if Charles fills in as one. I’m sure he’ll manage. What do you think?”
“I’m no waiter,” Charles snarled.
Maggie kept her face blank. “But Charles, Emma is right. Your presence as a waiter would make it so much easier. What a great idea.”
“I’m going out,” he growled. “Back when I feel like it.” He stormed off through the house and the two women looked at each other and snickered.
“Maggie, I know he’s your brother, but I’m glad he’s gone. I don’t think he likes me.”
“It’s not you. He’s going through something I don’t understand and he’s in a bad mood. It can take a while to get used to him.”
Emma was not so sure.
“I heard what he said.”
“You did?”
“Yes,” she smiled. “I heard what you said too.”
“I see.” Emma blushed.
“Come, let’s eat. I did think about setting up the formal dining hall, but I resisted the temptation to show off. Besides, I’d be happier eating in the kitchen. The table and chairs are very comfortable there. So long as you are happy?”
“Sure. I like the kitchen. It’s informal and cosy. I think I’d be a little off put with some fancy hall.”
“Good, then we dine in the kitchen.”
“Besides,” Emma added, “isn’t the kitchen where the wine will be kept?”
Maggie laughed. “I like a woman who has the right priorities in life.”
EMMA WATCHED AS Maggie filled two bowls with soup and served them with thick wedges of homemade bread. “I hope you don’t mind simple home cooked food,” Maggie said.
“Of course not.” she said and ate with obvious haste. Unlike other evenings, Emma didn’t speak much and Maggie didn’t s
eem to have much to say either.
“Anything wrong Emma? You’ve gone all quiet this evening.”
“Hungry,” she said and finished her glass of wine.
Small talk, and not much of it, filled the time until Maggie finished and served the main course. “You do seem a little distant. Thoughtful,” Maggie said as she tucked into the game pie.
Emma looked up, and stared into Maggie’s eyes. “I have to admit, I am a little preoccupied.”
“Is something wrong?”
“I don’t know.”
“If something was wrong, then you would tell me, wouldn’t you? Unless Charles upset you more than you let on and you don’t want to say anything?”
“You know me so well already, but it’s not Charles at all. He’s irrelevant.” Emma put down her knife and fork. “Actually, the fact you know me so well is one of the things that keeps my mind churning.”
“How so?”
“I feel as though I have known you for years.”
“Yes, and is it a problem?” Maggie asked.
“I don’t know. Should it be?”
“Answering a question with a question isn’t helping me.” She put her hand on Emma’s. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Emma took a long sip of her wine, and topped up her glass. “After dinner,” she answered.
“Very well. Now I am intrigued.”
They exchanged few words and busied themselves with eating. Except Emma noticed Maggie wasn’t eating much. “Are you not hungry Maggie? You’re picking at the food as though you’re looking for something unpleasant in every bite.”
“I think I’m not as hungry as I thought I was.”
“Something on your mind?”
Maggie didn’t answer. “As soon as we finish we should go to the main hall. There is a nice fire going there and we can sit down and chat if you like.”
IN FRONT OF the fire, Emma helped herself to another glass of wine.
“Are you okay?” Maggie asked.
“Yes. Why?”
