Castle of Secrets

by Amanda Grange

  Maybe she did, indeed, have a sister, thought Helena, or perhaps, a half sister she had never mentioned. Maybe there was a reason for Aunt Hester not mentioning her. Perhaps they had been estranged.

  Perhaps Aunt Hester wrote to me, she thought, but perhaps the letter was lost in the post, or perhaps my aunt gave it to the footman to post, and he forgot about it.

  The more she thought about it, the more likely it seemed. There were very few servants in the castle, and with no one to keep them to their tasks, something like posting a letter could easily be overlooked.

  She saw a row of bells on the wall by the fireplace, and rang the one labelled: ‘Footman’. Soon afterwards the footman entered the room. He was wearing livery, but some of the braid was missing from his coat, and the buttons were dull. His person reflected the same carelessness. His hair had been combed, but a tuft stuck up at the back, and his nails were dirty.

  He stood in front of her with a strange expression. It was part insolence and part insinuation, and there was a cunning look on his face. He rubbed his hands together in an unpleasant manner and looked at her from the corner of his eye, as though he was sizing her up.

  She wondered if he had looked that way at her aunt, or if he was simply doing it to her because of her youth.

  ‘Your name?’ she asked him, injecting a note of authority into her voice: if he thought he could patronise her, he would soon learn his mistake. She had dealt with difficult footmen before, and would most probably have to do so again.

  ‘Dawkins, Missus,’ he said.

  ‘Dawkins. I have summoned you here to ask you how Mrs Carlisle went about sending her letters. I will have my own letters to send, and I need to know the routine at the castle. Do I leave them on my desk when they are ready to go?’

  ‘I don’t come in the housekeeper’s room, not unless I’m sent for,’ he said.

  There was something self consciously virtuous about his reply, and Helena found herself thinking that he probably did enter the housekeeper’s room uninvited, though what he could want there she could not imagine, unless it was to snoop through the desk, in order to see if there was anything of use to him.

  ‘What am I to do with my letters, then?’ she asked.

  ‘You have to leave them in the hall. There’s a pewter bowl on a table under the window at the far end, in between two suits of armour. His lordship franks them, then I takes them to the village.’

  ‘I see. And when do they go? Every week? Every day?’

  ‘Whenever his lordship sees fit,’ he said.

  ‘And what happens to the letters until then? Do they remain in the bowl?’

  ‘Nowhere else for them to go,’ he said with an insolent grin.

  Helena felt herself bridling.

  ‘Did that suit Mrs Carlisle?’ she asked.

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘I mean, did she ever ask you to take one of her letters, even if his lordship had no letters to send? Perhaps she had something that needed to go urgently, and could not wait.’

  ‘What kind of thing?’ he asked craftily.

  ‘I have no idea,’ said Helena quellingly. ‘Anything that might need to be sent in a hurry, and might perhaps require a speedy answer.’

  ‘No, missus, there were nothing like that.’

  ‘Did she send letters often, then?’

  A sly look crept into his eye, and Helena was sure he knew something she didn’t. It seemed he could say more if he wanted to.

  ‘No, missus. Once a week, as a general rule. She weren’t a great letter writer.’

  ‘I see.’ She paused, to give him a chance to say more, but he remained silent. ‘Very well, thank you, Dawkins.’

  ‘Thank you, Missus. Will that be all?’

  ‘No. Not quite. I need to find out a little more about the castle, to help me with my duties. Tell me, what other servants work here? There is a butler, I suppose? And his lordship must have a valet.’

  ‘There’s no butler. The last one died, and his lordship never replaced him. And his lordship’s valet left when . . . he don’t have a valet any more. He likes to see to himself. There’s not many as’ll work in the castle. Servants are hard to come by.’

  He puffed his chest out, and she realized that he was taunting her, daring her to interfere with him, and warning her that, if she did, he might decide not to work there either.

  ‘Then what other servants are there in the castle besides you, Mrs Beal, Effie and Miss Parkins?’

  ‘There ain’t no more.’

  ‘None? How did Mrs Carlisle keep the castle clean without any maids to help her?’

  ‘It weren’t always that way. There were two maids here when Mrs Carlisle worked here. Sally and Martha, they were. But they wouldn’t stay in the castle.’

  ‘Oh? Why not?’ asked Helena, wondering if he would tell her more than Mrs Beal had done.

  ‘It was the stories, Missus. About his lordship.’

  Helena felt her pulse quicken, but she gave no sign of it.

  ‘What kind of stories?’ she asked.

  ‘People likes to talk in a village,’ he said. ‘There’s always been things said about the Stormcrows.’

  ‘A lot of nonsense, I expect,’ said Helena encouragingly.

  He gave another sly smile.

  ‘You, at least, do not seem to believe them, or you would not still be working here,’ she said, hoping to coax him into saying something further.

  ‘Oh, I’m safe enough. Nothing’ll happen to me. There’s never anything happened to a man,’ he said.

  He was toying with her, trying to unsettle her.

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. But surely there hasn’t been anything happening to women, either?’ she asked.

  He said nothing.

  ‘Why did the maids leave?’ she prompted him.

  ‘It were on account of Mrs Carlisle,’ he said, his desire to talk overcoming his desire to have her in his power. ‘Disappeared in the dead of night, she did, and Sally said she heard crying from the east wing, up in the attic, and the following day, Martha said she heard it, too. “It’s a cat,” I said to them, but they wouldn’t listen. Gave in their notice and went home.’

  Helena felt a shiver run up her spine.

  ‘Did you find it?’ she asked. ‘The cat?’

  ‘Didn’t need to. The crying stopped, so it must have got out. But it’s better not to go near the attics, all the same.’

  ‘Oh? Why?’

  ‘Rotting floorboards, Missus. Dangerous, they are. Could give way at any minute. Anyone who goes up there could go crashing right through and break their necks.’

  He gave her a devious look, and the thought flashed through her mind that she would not like to be alone with Dawkins in the attic.

  She questioned him further about his fellow servants, but he had nothing to say, other than that Mrs Beal was a good cook and that Effie was a clumsy thing.

  ‘And Miss Parkins?’ asked Helena.

  He hesitated, and she thought: He is afraid of Miss Parkins, too.

  When he had told her all he could, she dismissed him.

  Once he had left the room, she took her letter out of her pocket. She had not been going to send it, thinking that she would see Caroline soon, but she changed her mind. She wanted to see if a letter sent from the castle would arrive. If it never reached its destination, then it was possible that Aunt Hester had written to her, but that Aunt Hester’s letter had never reached its destination, either.

  Finding sealing wax in the drawer, she was about to apply it to her letter when she paused. If Dawkins read it – and having met him, she would not put it past him – she did not want him to discover that she was not Mrs Reynolds. She found paper and a quill, and she rewrote the letter. As she began to write, she was pleased with the pen’s smoothness, and was reminded of Aunt Hester, who had prided herself on her quills. She had told Helena on more than one occasion that she could not hope to write a neat hand with an ill-mended pen, advice that had gone
home, for Helena had always admired her aunt’s handwriting.

  She thought for a few minutes, composing the letter carefully in her head, and then began to write.

  My dearest Caroline,

  I have arrived at the castle, and his lordship has given me the position as his new housekeeper. I have not found what I was looking for, but I have not despaired of finding it either, and mean to persevere. I am sure you will be pleased to know that I am well. You will not have time to write me more than a line or two, I don’t suppose, but let me know if you are well, and if you hear anything of H, please let me know. You may send your reply to me here at the castle. Address it to:

  Mrs Reynolds

  Torkrow Castle

  Seremoor

  Yorkshire

  Fondest regards,

  Your dear friend

  She scrawled an illegible signature at the bottom of the letter, then sanded it, and, when it had dried, she folded it and fastened it with sealing wax. Then she went out into the hall, and looked about her for the table.

  Seen in full daylight, the hall was even larger than she had imagined, and just as austere. The light glinted on the silver armour and lit the stone with a cold light.

  Her eye fell on the oak table, and she crossed to it and put her letter in the bowl. There were no further letters there, and she wondered how long it would be before it was sent.

  She heard a clanking sound and started, but, turning round, she saw that it was only Effie, carrying a bucket of coal towards the housekeeper’s room. As she watched her, Helena thought that, although the girl was young and nervous, if she was capable of going through the housekeeper’s desk, she might also be capable of tampering with the mail. Perhaps she had interfered with it innocently, dropping the bowl as she dusted beneath it, and seeing that a letter was damaged, perhaps she had taken it in order to escape a scolding. It was possible.

  She questioned the girl gently, but Effie maintained that she never touched the mail, so she let her go about her business.

  Who else crossed the hall in the course of the day? she wondered, as she glanced at her letter, which lay defenceless in the bowl. Mrs Beal might venture into the hall occasionally, but Helena did not believe Mrs Beal would interfere with the post. And then there was Miss Parkins. Helena shivered as she thought of the waxen face and the long, cold hands. Miss Parkins would be capable of taking one of Aunt Hester’s letters, but why?

  There was no one else . . . except Martha and Sally. They had both been at the castle when her aunt had been there, and perhaps one of them had seen it, or taken it.

  There was a sound of footsteps behind her, and his lordship came into view, followed by Dawkins, who was hurrying to keep up.

  ‘Go to the stables. Tell them to ready my horse. I want it brought round to the front of the castle.’

  ‘Yes, my lord, very good, my lord,’ said Dawkins, bowing, before heading towards the door.

  Summoning her courage, Helena spoke to the earl as he passed.

  ‘Might I speak to you, my lord?’ she asked.

  He turned towards her, and she wondered what he was thinking. Nothing very pleasant, if his expression was any guide. His mouth was grim, and his deep-set eyes looked haggard.

  ‘Well?’ he demanded.

  ‘It is about the maids, my lord. I understand there used to be some working here. I do not believe I can keep the castle clean without help. There is a great deal of dusting and polishing to be done, to say nothing of the floors to be washed. Mrs Carlisle had some housemaids to help her, I understand.’

  He looked at her as though weighing his words and then said: ‘And so you would like me to appoint some?’

  ‘I could take care of that, my lord, if I had permission to employ, perhaps, two girls.’

  ‘Very well. You may walk in to the village on Friday. See to it, Mrs Reynolds, but don’t disturb me with this matter again.’

  ‘Very good, my lord.’

  He strode past her, and went into the library.

  Perhaps Martha and Sally could shed new light on her aunt’s sudden departure, she thought . . . and perhaps they could tell her more about the crying in the attic.

  For some reason the tale had disturbed her. It had only been the sound of a cat. And even if it had, by any chance, been a human being, it would not have been Aunt Hester. Helena could not remember Aunt Hester ever crying.

  But a small voice asked her: what if it had been Aunt Hester? What if Aunt Hester had had some bad news, and had left the castle accordingly?

  She found that she was walking towards the stairs, almost without her own volition, and she knew she would have no peace until she had been to the attic, to see if, perhaps, there might be any evidence that her aunt had been there. Now was a good time, for there was no chance of encountering Dawkins, who was on an errand for Lord Torkrow.

  Lifting the hem of her skirt, she mounted the stairs, going up to the second floor and then looking for the steps that led to the attic. She found them at last, tucked away in a corner. They formed a narrow spiral staircase, lit by arrow slits in the walls.

  She went up as fast as she safely could, and finally reached the top. To her left was a row of windows, and from them she could see the moors stretching out before her, their undulating hills and hummocks a dull green against the grey sky. Set in their midst, the castle was isolated and cut off, and she was forcefully reminded of the fact that it was a long back to town, and civilization. Anything could happen in the castle, and no one would ever know . . .

  She turned her attention back to the task in hand. She saw a long corridor on either side of her, from which various doors opened off. At the end of each corridor was a heavy oak door, the doors to the east and west wings, she supposed.

  Dawkins had said the crying came from the east wing, and, glancing at the dim sun that shone weakly through a rent in the clouds to get her bearings, she chose the east door. She tried to open it, but it was locked.

  She began to try the keys. One by one, she tried them all, but none of them fitted. She listened at the door, but could hear nothing, so she knocked on the door, and called out, but there was no reply.

  There is no one there, she thought. The attic is disused. The crying was nothing more than a cat, and the animal escaped weeks ago.

  But a need to get into the east wing and see for herself had taken hold of her, and she went into the large attic room that was nearest to the east wing, hoping that there might be a way through. It was a vast space, and draughts swirled around her. It was full of old pieces of furniture, a selection of childhood toys and assorted broken chairs, tables and household objects. The floorboards were bare. She went into the corners, but there was no sign of a door, or a way into the east wing, and reluctantly she had to admit defeat.

  She went out onto the landing and a movement below caught her eye. Through the window she saw a solitary figure in the courtyard below: Lord Torkrow. Where was he going? she wondered.

  As he headed towards his horse, he stopped suddenly, and she felt an unaccountable sense of alarm. She shrank back as he looked up, and his eyes raked the window. Had he seen her? She felt her palms grow damp. As her heart began to race, she wondered why she was so afraid. She had every right to be in the attic. But even so, she felt a sense of relief when she heard the horse’s hooves on the gravel and knew he was on his way.