Walls of Silence: a stunning historical thriller you won't be able to put down

by Ruth Wade

  Arnold took back the notepad.

  Finished?

  ‘Far from it; if you think the earth will be fertile enough, I’d like to have some roses. I hope – in the nicest possible way – not to be still here once they are fully established but you’ll be able to enjoy them.’

  Not going anywhere!

  The note thrust under her nose made her chuckle. A soft breeze sprang up and the wilted stem of the newly planted snapdragon bent further as if already overshadowed by luxuriant foliage.

  Moss or damascene?

  ‘Do you know about roses? Yesterday I suddenly remembered that my father was quite a celebrated amateur grower.’

  So much wish I could forget.

  ‘Oh, Arnold, I’m sorry. I’ll tell you what, we can choose them together and you can write and tell me what they’re like in full bloom. And I’ll reply with the news of the ones in my garden in Fletching. Maybe you could come and see them for yourself one day.’

  For a moment, his face had screwed up so much he looked as though he was going to cry but then a muscle over his left cheekbone twitched and Edith realised he was attempting a smile. It was the most heart-warming thing she’d witnessed for a long time. She pulled at the blades of grass protruding over the edge of the dug bed so as not to embarrass him by staring.

  ‘My father and I went to the first National Rose Show in London when I was eighteen. The Reverend Hole Reynolds organised it and, after that, came down to spend an occasional weekend with us in Cambridge. Over six feet tall and with a commanding presence, he was very striking, if a little odd.’

  Fit in here then.

  Edith laughed. ‘Most certainly. He was the squire of Caunton in Nottinghamshire and I used to imagine him swirling around his manor house grounds in a sweeping black cloak issuing commands to the rose bushes to grow.’

  The gong sounded up at the Hall.

  ‘I mustn’t keep you from your tea, Arnold; you’ve earned every drop of it. We’re done here anyway.’

  Coming?

  ‘No, thank you. I think I’ll go for a walk; it’s a beautiful day and such a shame to spend any more of it indoors. I’ll see you later ... for a game of chess, perhaps?’

  He gathered up his dibber, hand-fork and watering can, before turning away with another tortured smile pulling his face even further askew. Edith watched him stroll away.

  *

  She leaned on the top rung of the fence surrounding the far hay meadow. Sheep were dotted like puffs of cotton wool on the horizon, and in the field to her right, the dairy cattle were chewing the cud. It was peaceful this far away from the Hall with no intrusions in the form of delivery vans arriving or leaving or the occasional – and more distressing – anguished screams from a resident in the grips of a nightmare. Her mind drifted back to another time and another world. The memories were fresh and surprising, creeping up on her whenever she stopped trying to force them ... Her cottage had been close to a pond, with ducks and geese – hadn’t the policeman said they belonged to her neighbour? She wondered if he kept them to fatten up for the Christmas table ... There’d been a common where Gypsies camped; she remembered the smell of the cooking fires and the spicy tang of their unkempt horses. The annual Taro Fair where children paid pennies to throw hoops and the adults tossed wooden balls at coconuts. Edith wrapped her arms across her chest as the wind kicked off the Downs bringing with it a chill from the sea five miles to the south. If she closed her eyes she could taste the salt in the air.

  When she opened them again the mood of gentle reverie vanished. She’d remembered much more unpleasant things. The children had tormented her by throwing stones at her windows; the villagers were dismissive and rude; her father had been attacked and murdered by an unknown assailant in that hovel of a cottage; her daily life was a grind of mediocrity. She recalled the grocer with his sinister deformity and sneering remarks, and the policeman – PC Billings – who’d been as sweet as pie to her in the teashop, had pretended to humour her whenever she’d been given cause to complain about one of the many injustices meted out to her. Those bloody geese had destroyed her garden and Wilf Drayton was anything but a kindly soul, probably only looking after the cottage for what he thought he could get. Robbing her blind at this very minute for all she knew. Fletching was a horrible place. She’d hated it. She didn’t want to go back. Besides, she liked it here. She felt safe. Here she had friends – Helen and Arnold, and the shell-shocked chess player if he’d allow her to get to know him a little more. Paying for her keep long-term wasn’t a problem because she could sell the cottage and hand the money over to the Hargreaves. Hadn’t Helen said that the authorities didn’t even know she was in residence? She could have a pleasant existence here, perhaps offer to become involved in the running of the place; she had her problems but she wasn’t stupid and could easily work on a plan to grow the furniture restoration business.

  Except there was one big fly in the ointment to making this daydream a reality. Dr Maynard. What if he really was as good a psychoanalyst as he thought and was able to cure her? With their lofty ideals, the Hargreaves would never let her stay, taking the place of someone they thought in genuine need. She had to find a way to stop him wanting to continue her treatment. Edith began to stride towards the Hall. There were two possibilities she could think of – three, in fact, but the last carried the danger of him committing her back to the asylum. So, the options were to appeal to Helen and get her to agree to make her a permanent resident in return for the intellectual rigour she could instil in the whole set-up, or engineer it so that Stephen Maynard would find he was persona non grata at Beddingham Hall and the doors firmly bolted against him. Of course in that eventuality her case might be passed over to some other doctor – Helen perhaps, which would be nice – but it would be a simple matter to ensure that she never quite achieved a full recovery under the care of someone less ego-driven to prove their worth.

  *

  Helen was in the upstairs office when Edith finally found her. She didn’t think she’d seen Helen looking so lovely with one hand tangled in her fiery hair as she studied a pile of paperwork on the desk.

  ‘Can’t you manage without me for even a minute?’ Helen glanced up. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I thought it was Peter interrupting me again over something he’s perfectly capable of dealing with.’

  From the irritation in her voice it was clear not everything in the marital garden was rosy. Edith felt a distinct shiver of pleasure: it would make her proposal all the more rewarding for them both. Helen was evidently in need of an equal she could confide her troubles to; how terribly isolated she must feel surrounded by the needy who wanted something from her all the time. Only someone who knew what it felt like to be pulled in all directions could truly appreciate that.

  ‘Has something happened?’ Helen replaced the sheet of paper she’d been holding with another. ‘You’re looking a tad flushed. Is everything all right?’

  ‘Perfectly. Only things have changed. Are changing for me. My memory is coming back.’

  ‘That’s a good sign and nothing to get agitated about. Edith, can you stand still for a moment? You’re making me dizzy.’

  She hadn’t realised she’d been pacing around in circles. She stopped and lowered herself into a chair. But her muscles were fizzing too much and she walked over to the other side of the desk. Helen didn’t seem to notice as she opened a buff file and began poring over the contents.

  ‘Stephen has a bit of a reputation as a miracle worker, but don’t you dare breathe a word I said that or he’ll become impossible.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t give him that much credit. It was seeing one of the villagers in the teashop in Lewes that did it; the policeman, I told you about him.’

  ‘Mmm ...’

  Edith returned to the chair and tried to focus on her mission. ‘Can I help you with some of that? I acted as my father’s unpaid secretary for years.’

  ‘It’s very kind of you to offer but much of the correspondence is confide
ntial.’

  ‘I can be trusted.’

  ‘That’s not the issue: it would be inappropriate.’

  ‘How would it be if I went over the accounts for the work we did at Firle Place then? When we were last there I had some ideas about how we could shave costs and plough the savings into getting some second-hand machinery that would make the work more efficient.’

  ‘Only that would sort of defeat the object of why we do it at all, wouldn’t it? The men need to loosen their rusty motor skills and to feel valued for the unique contribution each of them can make. I’m sorry, Edith, I really don’t mean to be rude but can we have this discussion another time? I’ve a mountain of this to get through.’

  Edith had never known Helen to be so dismissive; she wanted to do something childish to catch her attention but settled for a petulant sigh. Helen ignored her and ripped open an envelope before starting to read the contents. Perhaps if she said more about her memory coming back, implied there was something ugly in the woodshed on the cusp of returning, intrigue with the imitation of a secret: she’d never known anyone in the business of healing damaged minds who couldn’t resist the prick of professional curiosity.

  ‘I lied to you when I said everything was fine, the truth is I’m finding it hard to adjust to my new-found powers of recall. Because there are gaps …’

  ‘You must cultivate a little more patience, Edith.’

  The irritation was back in Helen’s voice, but at least she did stop reading and look up. It was a start.

  ‘You’ve been suffering from what is known as traumatic amnesia; we often find events of the past will come back of their own accord when triggered by something in the present.’

  Edith stood up and started pacing again. The excitement she’d experienced on the walk over had turned into something darker. She didn’t need a fully functioning memory to know she’d always hated being patronised. Hadn’t she typed that diagnosis dozens of times when writing up her father’s case notes? It came to her that in different circumstances – very different circumstances – she could be the one sitting there being the lofty doctor preoccupied with a host of pathetic cripples who were never going to get any better, and a rackety private life. She’d been a fool to think Helen regarded her as anything approaching an equal.

  ‘Honestly. I don’t believe it. I’ve never known anyone so convinced the whole world revolves around them.’

  Edith swivelled her neck to look over her shoulder. She’d thought the remark addressed to her, but Helen had gone back to reading the letter. Then Dr Hargreaves smiled. A tender smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes; and shut Edith out completely.

  ‘It’s from Dr Maynard. Feeling very sorry for himself, apparently. Has hardly been out of bed all week and hasn’t seen a soul. Been living off dried fruit and water – a likely story; I bet when we see him again he won’t be a shadow of his former self – but he does sound very dispirited. I think we’d better make a big fuss of him when he next comes to see us.’

  Edith got her delayed satisfaction when she slammed the office door behind her. But she now knew exactly what she needed to instigate to put her alternative plan into action.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Stephen felt as though he’d been absent from Beddingham Hall for more than a fortnight. And it wasn’t only because the season seemed to have turned irrevocably down here away from the insulating properties of a London smog. The fledgling garden made Edith’s cottage look completely different. More like a home. More as if she belonged. He hoped it was an external manifestation of her acceptance that she probably would be living here for some time to come.

  He knocked on the door. There was no answer. He stepped back to look up at the bedroom window; the curtains were open. A wind whipped up. He shivered and pulled at the collar of his coat. A figure stepped around from the side of the cottage and made Stephen jump. Not because the man had any gross deformity but for the simple reason that he hadn’t heard him approach. The stranger had rather a fine face, actually, marred only by a shilling-sized indentation on his right temple surrounded by a starburst scar.

  ‘I’m afraid you’ve had a wasted journey, squire. She’s not in. In fact she spends most of her time visiting at the Hall these days. I’d put in an appearance up there if I were you; she’ll be having tea and crumpets around now.’

  ‘Have you moved into one of the vacant cottages down this end? I’m glad Miss Potter has finally got a neighbour to act as a companion, particularly as once the cold weather really starts I doubt she’ll be wanting to traipse the slope quite so often.’

  ‘No, I’m not a resident. You’ll have seen my blue van parked up on the driveway. I come and help out as often as I can, put something back you know. Only I’d rather you didn’t mention that you’ve seen me today – I was supposed to be lending a hand mucking out the stables but I sort of bunked off. I’d hate the Hargreaves to think I’m not dedicated to the good work they do here; I’d just had too many noxious smells up my nose for one day and found myself in possession of a strategic prior appointment, that’s all.’

  His manner was so delightfully conspiratorial that it made Stephen smile.

  ‘Of course. Consider us bumping into each other like this never happened.’

  The man took Stephen’s hand, shook it with a surprisingly firm grip, and strolled off, whistling.

  Stephen decided not to go and seek out Edith; he didn’t want her to feel as if she was a child playing truant. Presumably she knew it was Sunday and would come down when she was ready. If not, it could mean she didn’t want to see him – maybe was irritated by him not turning up last week – that, in itself, would be a good sign; show she was allowing her emotions full rein. In any event, the fact that Edith had stopped condemning herself to solitary confinement was a turning point. A light, but penetrating, drizzle began to fall. Stephen wondered if it was sensible to subject himself to getting wet so soon after his recent touch of influenza. Maybe he should take refuge in her cottage. If he watched for her out of the window then he could nip outside again and she need never know he’d invaded her privacy. He certainly wasn’t going to volunteer the information and give her a valid reason to accuse him of not recognising boundaries.

  The front room was as clean and tidy as ever. But, as with the establishment of a garden, it was showing signs that she was beginning to inhabit the place rather than merely existing in it. A bowl of apples sat in the centre of the table, an open book beside it. He went over and read the spine. It was a volume of John Donne’s poetry he’d included in the selection he’d brought from her cottage. Peter must’ve given them to her at long last; Stephen slapped his forehead when he remembered that was something he’d promised to arrange. Perhaps Edith was punishing him for not doing so with her absence. An apology for his oversight wouldn’t go amiss.

  Something on the seat of the high-backed chair caught his attention. A small pile of paper, the sort found in cheap foolscap journals bound together with metal fasteners. After a brief stint of toying with his conscience – that privacy thing again – he picked them up and squinted at the faint pencil writing covering the top sheet. It appeared to be a dry, but lucid, account of Dr Potter’s early work in the field of neurasthenia. She’d bracketed some names and dates – presumably as markers to insert the case history details at a later date – the rest being an observation of his approach and theories. It was interesting, but nothing he hadn’t read in the academic papers the man had produced before he’d become a recluse. What was illuminating though was why she had chosen to document his life and not her own. Did she feel hers not worthy? Or was this her attempt to exorcise his ghost so that she could finally see herself as someone in her own right and not merely the daughter of Dr Potter. Stephen shuddered. The daughter Dr Potter hadn’t been able to forgive for the tragic death of his wife.

  He turned it over to reveal the sheet underneath. More of her neat handwriting except this time it was partially obliterated by a phrase printed i
n large block capitals with such force the pencil lines were thick and black: Where vice is, vengeance follows. The next page was the same, the words stretching diagonally from corner to corner reading: How all occasions do inform against me; And spur my dull revenge! He thought that came from Hamlet, he’d played the part once in a medical school production; had he pulled a copy of Shakespeare off Edith’s shelves along with the poetry? Two unadulterated sheets summarising her father’s work followed. Then: Vengeance is mine; I will repay. The final page was blank except for: Blood is thicker than water, and more satisfying to spill written with the deliberation of the other messages.

  The door latch clicked behind him.

  ‘Edith, I’m sorry ... it began to rain.’

  ‘Dr Maynard. I was hoping I hadn’t missed you. I’m afraid I got a little carried away talking to Helen. She’s a fascinating woman, isn’t she? But of course you know that better than I. You’ve shaved your beard off. A great improvement. I didn’t like to say anything but it gave you the air of a confidence trickster. Have you recovered from your cold? Speaking of which, I’d better get these wet things off or I’ll catch a death. I’d tell you to make yourself at home but you’ve already done so. I won’t be a minute.’

  Stephen was astonished to see that she’d already removed her cardigan and that underneath she was wearing a light blue short-sleeved blouse; she’d never willingly showed him the scars on her arms before. And her talkativeness; it wasn’t the garrulous spouting of nonsense associated with over-stimulation or hysteria but honest to goodness communication. She was coming downstairs again already. It seemed as if now she’d taken the plunge into other people’s company she couldn’t get enough of it. He found he was still clutching the pages; he placed them on the table and turned away so that he wouldn’t be tempted to open with an interrogation. The last thing he needed was her to close up on him again.

  ‘So, have you been seeing a lot of the Hargreaves lately?’