It was a smallish and clearly much-used room. One could almost sense the impress of bodies against the stuffed armchairs. “Snuggery” here was rightly applied. With the fireplace alight, especially on days such as this one (rain-lashed, wind-lashed, he thought in melodramatic terms), snug is what he felt. Melrose walked around checking the many leather-bound or gaudily jacketed newer books; it was quite a library, one appealing to diverse tastes. One end of the refectory table held another half-dozen small silver-framed pictures.
“Are these the family?” he asked her, picking up first one and then another.
“I expect so. Would you look at that fireplace mantel! What carving!”
Melrose followed his own line of thought. “I don’t understand why people would go off and leave behind such personal things. One ordinarily tucks them safely away in a locked cupboard or trunk or some such place. One doesn’t leave them out.” He sounded quarrelsome, as if such behavior shouldn’t be condoned.
Mrs. Laburnum answered with no more than an uninterested “Um,” leaving Melrose to peruse this little hoard of pictures and pursue his little mystery. There were four or five people represented here, all informally caught on film. The core group appeared to consist of a fortyish couple, very handsome; an elderly man who looked like the one in the portrait-yes, there was a trace of that squinty look; a pretty little girl of perhaps six or seven; and a little boy, probably a year or so younger, shown with his father on a sailboat. Several other pictures were taken aboard this boat. Melrose wondered how well off they were; judging by this house and the size of the boat, very. One or the other of these four was in the other photos with relations and friends. The grand-parents seemed to be represented wholly by the old man.
Rarely did Melrose envy other people, for at home he was surrounded by friends more or less like him-unmarried, childless, unattached, really-and if anyone in his circle was to be envied it was he himself, with his manor house, his land, his money. What struck him about the family in these snapshots was that they seemed so hugely happy. Even the old man finally dropped the bad-humored look. Their smiles were not the camera’s but their own. Melrose envied them no end.
“Lovely little family, aren’t they?”
He had forgotten Esther Laburnum in his absorption in the pictures.
“So sad about the children. I believe they drowned.”
“Drowned?” Melrose took this awful news almost as he would a personal loss.
“It was all extremely sad. It happened-oh, five years ago. What must have made it worse for them-the parents-was that they were out when it happened. I wasn’t here then.” She had already told him this a couple of times. It was as if she were trying to dissociate herself from the house and its owners. “Would you like to see the upstairs now?”
He told her he would. Yet he hated leaving the father and mother to the hellish knowledge that they hadn’t been around to save their children. Obediently, Melrose followed Esther Laburnum (in whom he detected now an impatience to get the house “viewed” and out of here).
There were five bedrooms, none of which Melrose lingered in, but just glanced around standing at the door. He saw some more framed photographs in the master bedroom and would have liked to have a look at them, but with the agent at his heels like a terrier, he didn’t.
One room facing the sea intrigued him. It was entirely empty except for a grand piano. Sheet music sat on the piano stand and lay on the floor, as if a breeze had drifted it there. Yet he detected no drafts; indeed, the house was amazingly tight, given its age and size.
“I believe he was a musician; I believe he wrote music.”
Melrose heard the emphasis on “believe,” as if she didn’t want to take the responsibility for supplying incorrect data. He walked over to look at the music on the piano stand. He agreed with her. “This looks newly composed-was, I mean, before they left.” Melrose played no instrument, but he could read music and could pick out tunes with one finger. He sat down at the piano and did so, painstakingly. It ended right in the middle of a bar on the second page. It was as if the composer had been temporarily called away.
“I don’t want to hurry you, Mr. Plant. But I dare-say you do want to have a look outside at the grounds.”
What he really wanted was for her to go away and leave him here, trying to pick out this music and to hear a whole orchestra supplying the background in his head.
He rose and followed her.
The day was uneven, uncertain. Intermittently, rain stopped and started, becoming more gauzy and misty as the afternoon wore on. Each time it stopped, weak sunlight tossed a veil of light across the gravel, barred by the density of the woodland. The light would have to be stronger to see through those branches.
Melrose was drawn by the rasp of the water and stood on the rocky promontory looking down at the sharp collapse of water spewing against stone. A stairway had been fashioned from the cliff and led down to the sea. Light glimmered on the wet stones. Melrose stood there looking and feeling he was getting down to the bedrock of existence. Unbidden, a few lines of poetry came to him about a woman looking out to sea: Ever stood she, prospect impressed. Who had written it, Hardy? Perhaps he’d find the poem in Seabourne’s library. He was pulled from this reflection by a voice fluting at his elbow.
“There are steps going down to the sea. Right down there, see?”
Melrose turned away from the stark display, which had suited his mood far more than the voice of Esther Laburnum. “Yes, I saw them.”
“You have to be careful on them. The rocks are slippery.”
“I hadn’t intended to go down there.” He picked up a thin stone and pitched it over, as people will do when they come upon water. He wondered why and picked up another.
“They must have slipped; that’s what I heard.”
His pitching arm froze and he looked at her. “Who slipped?”
“Didn’t I tell you? The children. They found them down there.” She sighed. “Isn’t it terrible? Can you imagine such a thing?”
“I cannot. No.” He stood on the edge of the cliff and tried to. He tried to fathom the grief of the mother and father. Having no children, he found it difficult; still, he could imagine himself receiving such news about a friend-say Vivian, say Richard Jury-and imagine trying to live in a world where they no longer were. Even though all of this was indeed his imagining, he was surprised that the sense of loss could cause him pain. But it did. “How old were they when this happened?”
“I’m not sure.”
Nor did she seem moved to guess. Esther Laburnum, who at the beginning of their voyage round this house had been talkative enough to be annoying, seemed to have decided to clam up completely. Melrose sighed. That was always the way of it: people holding forth until you could have swooned in boredom and then stitching their lips shut when it came to something so fascinating it could hold a deaf man in thrall. Well, perhaps she thought the tragic accidents would jeopardize a sale. Or perhaps her silence was owing to her growing desire to leave and show others round other properties.
“Was that why the owners left?”
“It might have been.”
Blood out of a stone. Melrose wanted to shake her. “How long has the house been empty?”
“Four years, about.” She had her day-planner open, consulting something. “No, I’m wrong. There was somebody rented the place about two years ago. Decorators, they called themselves.”
Esther Laburnum sniffed and Melrose smiled and turned his attention back to the sea. Standing there, looking down, he could have slipped into a fugue state. It was too much, wasn’t it? The house, the sea, the rocks, the stairs, the boy, the girl. Too much. He disliked the thought, but he couldn’t help it: The place was irresistible. Had he not been set on taking it, at least renting it, the story of the family would have hooked him for certain. He looked back at the house again, gray and windswept, and thought he’d been right before: It was like a film set. The girl in the white dress could come rushing
out across the grass straight to the cliff’s edge. Ah, it was all too movie perfect.
They stood, staring down at the rocks. Or at least he stared; a glance in the agent’s direction showed him she was looking at her watch. There was always a clock or a watch. Melrose wanted to see the inside again, the photographs, the portraits. He suggested they return to the house.
As if on cue, the sky darkened; the rain, which had stopped, now began to drizzle. Given the house, Melrose wondered if it should be seen in any weather but wind and rain.
“Melrose!”
If anyone could drag one from the haunts of memory and romance, it was that voice. He turned to see Agatha timorously making her way toward him. He had better get away from the cliff’s edge before she got any closer. But she had stopped; he, naturally, was to breech the gap; she would walk no farther; if he wanted to speak to her, he must take the lead. Well, of course, he didn’t want to speak to her, but he moved forward in spite of that, being a gentleman.
“Melrose!” she called again, as if they were on opposite ends of King’s Cross Station.
The car she had come in was Cornwall Cabs, driven-much to his surprise-by the same lad who had served them in the tearoom. Melrose wondered how many times the boy changed hats in a day. Right now the one he wore was a cap pushed back slightly at a jaunty angle. He was leaning against the car, and when he looked at Melrose, he smiled ruefully and gave a dramatic shrug. What could I do, mate?
Agatha demanded, “Melrose, what on earth do you think you’re doing?”
He didn’t bother asking how she knew he was here. All roads led to Rome except for hers, which led to Melrose. Maybe she’d planted some sort of electronic bug on him so she could track his movements. Melrose introduced Agatha to Esther Laburnum, who was put to the task of answering Agatha’s questions. The agent told Melrose she had an appointment in Bletchley and had to leave. She handed over one of her cards. Then the two women, of nearly the same age, moved down the gravel, talking all the while.
It surprised Melrose that she’d leave without securing his signature on a lease or other document, given his clear interest in the place.
Agatha turned and started back to where Melrose stood with her driver. The lad stood up straight and pulled his cap down, snapped it down, really, in the manner of a chauffeur presenting himself to his employer.
“You pop up everywhere.” Melrose smiled at the boy. “Your finding me was, I take it, part of your act?”
The lad opened his mouth to answer, but Agatha did it for him. “What are you talking about? I told him you’d driven off with someone in a car belonging to an estate agency-who else would be driving people around in a Jaguar but an estate agent? I stopped in at the agency and asked where their agent-Esther there-was headed.”
“I see,” said Melrose. “It was part of your act. Richard Jury could use a good profiler.”
“What is this place? Why are you here?”
He let her question rest on bated breath as he manufactured an answer. He said, “It’s a family seat, Agatha. Haven’t I ever mentioned it? Pure chance led me to it.”
“Fate, like.”
Melrose looked at the driver in surprise.
Agatha said, “Family seat? What family? Whose family?”
“Mine, obviously. It’s a branch Uncle Robert probably declined to mention, given we were never proud of the Ushers.” Melrose dug his hands into his trouser pockets and gazed back, over his shoulder, at the great gray pile of stone. “Imagine my surprise to see the place was up for sale.”
Agatha twitched her light coat farther up on her shoulders. “You’re making it up. Well, you can stay for all I care. Esther has offered to drive me back to Bletchley.”
A first-name basis already. That was quick, even for Agatha.
Forgetting the lad who’d driven her here (probably assuming Melrose would pay for her ride), she turned and walked toward the agent’s car.
“Apparently,” said Melrose, “we’re exchanging rides.”
The boy smiled broadly. “Okay with me.”
“I don’t know your name. Mine’s Melrose Plant.”
The boy put out his hand. “Johnny Wells. Are you ready to leave?”
As the Jaguar shot down the drive, Esther Laburnum put her arm out of the driver’s side window and waved to Melrose, who waved back. Agatha, naturally, made no sign.
“I’d like to have another quick look round, unaccompanied.”
Johnny smiled. “Can’t say as I blame you. Take your time.”
“And I’ll certainly pay you for yours.”
“It’s okay. I’ll sit in the car and read. Never seem to get enough reading time.”
Melrose walked back up the steps prepared to savor the house. He had not seen the kitchen, so he walked to the rear, through a butler’s pantry, with wine racks still stocked with Madeira and port. The kitchen was very large, very gloomy, and yet very habitable. Like the rest of the house, it bore signs of recent habitation. Cooking utensils lay on the island in the center of the room and a large pot sat on the stove.
He had seen the snug but not the library proper. He felt the place was really getting to him, seeping into his bones. If he were to turn a corner now he wouldn’t be surprised to come face-to-face with a portrait of a hauntingly beautiful woman who had either died or disappeared, the face in the misty light. Laura. He was close to holding his breath as he entered the library. There he came face-to-face with a painting of chickens.
Chickens? It hung above the fireplace, a large watercolor of a farmyard and chicken coops and a rooster striding amongst them. Whoever had hung that was in no danger from the face in a misty light. He sighed, not knowing whether he was sad or glad.
The room that really fascinated him was the one on the floor above, the empty one with the piano. He wondered if the house had been used as a movie set for that film. He walked over to the long bank of windows, looked down at the water smoothing over the rocks, foaming up, receding, and moving in again. He mouthed a line or two of poetry. He would have liked to speak of its “melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,” only Andrew Marvell beat him to it.
He pictured himself here alone, reeling off cascades of notes up and down the keyboard, swaying to the music. He couldn’t play the piano. But he could take lessons. That sounded a worthwhile project. How long would it take to learn? It would be worth it to drown out Agatha. He left the room and walked back downstairs and into the living room, the first room Esther Laburnum had shown him. Passing the portrait of the old man, he wondered if he was the patriarch of this family but couldn’t quite match him up with them. The others were so smilingly beautiful. He picked up the silver-framed photograph, saddened again by the terrible fate of the children.
The double door opened suddenly. He reeled.
The Uninvited!
No, merely his cabby, saying, “I’m really sorry to interrupt you. It’s just that Shirley-she’s the dispatcher-is on about needing the cab to go to Mousehole.” Apologetically, he held out his arms and shrugged.
“Oh, quite all right. I’m finished. Let’s go.”
As they drove away, Melrose turned for one last glimpse of the house. “It’s quite a place. I’m thinking of renting it. Tell me, who’s the old man in the portrait? He doesn’t seem to go with the rest of it.”
“That’s Morris Bletchley.”
Melrose was surprised. “Bletchley? His family is related to the village somehow?”
“I guess there have been Bletchleys here forever. Funny, as he’s American himself. He’s the chicken king.”
“The what?”
“Haven’t you ever eaten in Chick’nKing? They’re all over. It’s a chain.”
Melrose thought for a moment. “I guess I’ve seen them along some of the A-roads. You mean, Seabourne belongs to him? Mr. Chick’nKing himself?” Melrose was a trifle disappointed. Chickens. How unromantic. “Now I see the reason for that chicken painting.”
“Never saw that, but it sounds
about right.” Johnny negotiated a blind turn on the hedge-enclosed and narrow road.
Melrose sighed. “Well, I suppose it’ll keep me from getting soppy. Chickens. Good lord!”
“You don’t strike me as the soppy type at all.”
Melrose felt obscurely flattered. He started to take out his cigarette case, but stopped. “Mind if I smoke?”
“Not me. Long as you give me one. I know it’s hell for my lungs, but…”
Melrose passed the case and Johnny took one, still with his eyes on the road. Melrose lit both cigarettes and sat back, comfortably watching the dense woods pass by. “Tell me, how many jobs do you have?”
“Oh, three, I guess. Four, if you count the magic.” Puzzled, Melrose said, “I’d be glad to count it. What do you mean?”
“I’m an amateur magician, that’s all. I really love it. My Uncle Charlie used to be a professional. Now he has a magic shop in Penzance. Every once in a while I do an act up at the Hall. That’s a kind of hospice-nursing-home place. I’m not bad.”
“I believe it.”
“The other jobs, they’re only part-time. We’re winding down now from the tourist season.”
“Well, how else could you handle them except part-time? And what do you do in the jobless off-season months? Tutor at Oxford?”
Johnny laughed. “Not likely. Next term I’m hoping for a grant. Scholarship. It’s why I work so much. To pay for whatever the scholarship doesn’t cover.”
“What about your family?”
“There’s only my Aunt Chris. Chris Wells. She owns that tearoom, you know, the Woodbine. Oh, and there’s Charlie, my uncle, but I don’t see him much. Chris is partners with Brenda.”
“Brenda?”
The Lamorna Wink Page 2
