by Tara Hyland
There was something that Cara had known she would have to do ever since deciding to come out to California, something she’d been dreading: visiting the spot where her mother had died. It was a tourist attraction now, featured in guidebooks as a stop-off point along the Pacific Coast Highway; there was even a plaque to mark the spot. Standing by the cliff edge, looking down at the location where her mother’s car had burst into a fireball, Cara had no idea what she was meant to feel. And if her cheeks were wet, it was from the harsh wind stinging her eyes, not because she was crying.
As she got further along Highway 1, the number of cars thinned out, until the road seemed empty. There were few properties in the area, so it was easy enough to find Stanhope Castle. From a distance, it could still impress. The sheer size of the place dominated the skyline. But as the car drew closer, Cara could see that the building had fallen into disrepair. During her pre-trip research, she had read that Max never allowed strangers onto the estate any more. After her mother’s death, there had been a lot of scandal, rumours about his involvement. Eventually, the gossip had driven him away from the social scene. He had turned into something of a Howard Hughes character – reclusive and eccentric.
Heading carefully down the gravel driveway, Cara parked by a large ornamental dolphin fountain – it no longer worked, and the mammal’s nose, which had been a spout for the water to gush out of, had broken off. The marble steps that led up to the entrance door were chipped, and there was a general feeling of neglect about the place.
The front door was opened by Max’s housekeeper, Hilda. Cara knew immediately that it was the same person whom Lily had spoken about. She must have been in her early sixties now, like Max, but she had the kind of looks that could have put her age anywhere between twenty years younger or older. While her skin was surprisingly clear and unlined, no doubt due to a life of clean-living, her sharp features and iron-grey hair aged her. Her demeanour was very proper, like that of a governess in some creepy Victorian gothic novel.
‘Mr Stanhope sends his apologies for not being able to meet you in person,’ she told Cara straight off, with formal politeness rather than a hint of welcome. ‘His illness is taking its toll. He asked that I show you up to your room and make sure you have everything you need.’
The interior was in the same state of disrepair as the exterior. Looking around the huge hallway, Cara could see traces of the magnificent place that this had once been, but now the carpets were threadbare, the wallpaper had faded in the sunlight, the skirting boards had holes in them, as though mice were about to scurry out. There was a sense that whoever owned the place had given up. The only work that appeared to have been recently undertaken was the installation of a lift. ‘Mr Stanhope had it put in after his last operation,’ Hilda explained. ‘He’s in a wheelchair now.’
The housekeeper led Cara up the central staircase, then along a corridor, through a door and up two more small, steep staircases, until they finally reached the room that she’d been allocated. The musty smell hit her as soon as the housekeeper opened the door. The space was cluttered, a bit like a junk room. Someone had obviously been told to tidy up, but it was a surface clean at best: Cara could see there was still dust under the bed where no one had thought to vacuum. The one winning point was the view: huge double French windows – thrown open in a belated effort to air the room – led out to a Juliet balcony that looked onto the dark ocean.
‘I hope this will be all right for you.’ Hilda cast a disparaging glance around. ‘Mr Stanhope employs so few staff for the size of the estate that it makes it difficult to maintain everything the way it should be.’
Under Max’s orders, Hilda was the only staff member allowed to live on the estate. There was a cook who did the shopping and came in every day to prepare meals, she explained. Other than that, there were also two maids, who spent one day a week at the house. The place was too big for them to keep clean, so most of the rooms were shut up.
‘And where do you live?’ Cara couldn’t help asking.
Hilda hesitated for a moment. ‘Not in the main house,’ she said carefully. Walking over to the window, she pointed down at a low-rise white building, one of four guesthouses. ‘Mr Stanhope agreed years ago to let me live out there. It gives me some privacy.’
‘And that’s where Mr Stanhope’s daughter, Olivia, stays, too?’
Cara had posed it as a question, but Hilda must have assumed it was a statement of fact, because she didn’t answer.
After that, the housekeeper left. Feeling hungry, Cara headed in the direction of the kitchen. It was in the bowels of the house, a huge space, immaculately clean, if shabby and old-fashioned. As the housekeeper had promised, there was food in the oven. Cara pulled the warm plate out, wrinkling her nose as she did so. It had once been coq au vin, but now looked dry and shrivelled. Throwing the meal in the bin, she went to the larder and found some slightly stale bread and a slab of cheese. The outside was hard, but she cut that off and managed to make a passable sandwich. The milk at least was fresh and cold, and she poured herself a glass. She ate in the silence of the kitchen, standing by the sink, a quick, informal meal, and then she headed back up to her bedroom.
The house was large and confusing, and it took her three attempts to get there. By then, Cara was finally beginning to feel tired. It was a warm evening and the room was still stuffy, so she went over to the French windows to cool down. As she stood breathing in the fresh air, listening to the distant sound of waves crashing over each other, a movement below in the grounds caught her eye. Looking down, she saw a man in a wheelchair, heading along a path through the overgrown gardens, away from the main house. It was Max. From the pale light of the full moon, she watched as he made his way towards the guest bungalow, where Hilda lived. The housekeeper must have been watching out for him, because the front door opened as he approached. He wheeled himself up the ramp, and disappeared inside.
Cara waited for ten minutes, but he didn’t come back out. Going over to sit on the bed, she took out her notepad and turned to a fresh page. She put Hilda’s name at the top, and then wrote down a brief account of what the housekeeper had told her earlier. At the very end, she jotted down a note to herself: could M & H have been lovers? She stared at the sentence for a long time, pondering the implications of her theory. Then she added, Before or after F’s death? Was she in their way? Did they need to get rid of her?
She looked down at the words and felt a chill run through her. Despite her tiredness, it took a long time for her to fall asleep that night.
Chapter Fifty-three
The next morning, Cara made her way down the corridor to the bathroom that Hilda had pointed out to her. The plumbing wasn’t too good, and it took a while to get the shower working, the water clanking its way through the ancient pipes.
Downstairs, the cook, Mrs Jameson, had arrived. This morning, the kitchen was clearly her domain. She asked Cara what she wanted for breakfast, and told her that she’d bring it through to her in the breakfast room. Cara would rather have just grazed through the fridge, maybe settled for some fruit and a yoghurt, but she got the feeling that would be frowned on.
Sitting in the breakfast room, eating her pancakes, Cara heard the incessant sound of creaking across the ceiling, as though something was being dragged across the floor above, like a child’s bicycle.
‘What’s that?’ Cara asked when Mrs Jameson came in to clear the dishes away.
‘It’s Mr Stanhope’s wheelchair,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘Rolling back and forth across the wooden floorboards.’
As Cara was finishing her second coffee, the double doors opened, and Hilda came into the room.
‘I’m sorry, but Mr Stanhope isn’t well enough to see you today.’
Cara’s heart sank. She wanted to get this out of the way now, not wait around to hear from him.
‘Do you know how serious this is? Is he likely to be better tomorrow?’
The housekeeper was tight-lipped. ‘I have no idea. But
when he’s ready, he’ll let you know.’
Hilda left then, but the way she’d made that last remark suggested to Cara that Max wasn’t actually ill, but just didn’t want to speak to her. She wondered why. After all, he was the one who’d asked her to come out here. It was so frustrating. She’d travelled all this way, on his invitation, only for him to block her now. But it seemed there was nothing she could do about it – apart from wait.
Cara spent the morning in her room, going through all the articles on her mother and Max again. Then, after lunch, she went for a walk through the overgrown grounds. As she headed back to the house, she saw a man in his early thirties standing on the patio. Dressed like a hippy, with long, dark hair and a beard, he looked out of place framed by the aged grandeur of Stanhope Castle, and Cara half-wondered if he’d wandered onto the property by mistake.
‘So you’re the journalist, right?’ he called out as she approached, disproving her theory. ‘Cara, isn’t it? I heard you were meant to be coming, but I thought I’d confirm it with my own eyes.’
‘That’s right. And you are—?’
‘Gabriel Stanhope,’ he announced. ‘Errant son, and general layabout.’
Cara was shocked to hear that. She had seen photos of Gabriel Stanhope as a young man of eighteen, and had been struck by how handsome and charismatic he’d seemed – a dark-haired version of his sister: they both had the same exquisite bone structure, high and sharp, and the same eyes, unnaturally dark blue, wolf eyes. But looking at him now, with his long hair, straggly beard and waif-like build, he was indistinguishable from any other traveller.
He sat down at the wrought-iron table, took out a packet of Rizlas and began to roll a cigarette. Cara drew up a chair, assuming that’s what he wanted her to do. Even if it wasn’t, this was far too good an opportunity to turn down. If Max wouldn’t see her, then maybe his son would have something revealing to say.
‘So have you spoken to Dad yet?’ he asked, not bothering to look up at her.
‘He’s been too ill to see me.’
Gabriel snorted a laugh. ‘Is that right?’
A little smile played around his mouth, as though he was privy to a joke that she hadn’t been let in on. She wondered how much he knew about her and suspected it was more than he would reveal.
‘So what brings you back here?’ Cara asked. ‘Are you visiting your sister?’
A cloud passed over Gabriel’s face, all the jokiness leaving him.
‘No,’ he said shortly.
‘Then why . . . ?’ She let the question hang.
‘I’m here to see my father. I heard the end was near and decided to make the trip back for these last few months. Then, once it’s all over, I’m out of here, back to Morocco.’
If the callousness of his words surprised Cara, she tried not to show it.
‘You made up?’ she asked instead, thinking she hadn’t read anything about a reconciliation between father and son.
The smile was back. ‘We never fell out.’
‘But I thought you hadn’t spoken for years.’
‘So?’ Gabriel said, and he seemed to be enjoying himself. ‘That doesn’t mean we argued. There are far better reasons for not wanting to speak to someone.’
Cara had no idea what he was on about. It seemed as if she couldn’t get a straight answer out of him, and his riddles were beginning to make her head hurt.
The sound of someone tapping on glass made them both turn. An elderly man was sitting by one of the downstairs windows, glaring out at them. He was thin, with a full head of white hair, and wearing clothes that swamped him. It took Cara a moment to realise that it must be Max Stanhope. He looked at least a decade older than his sixty years.
Now he had Gabriel’s attention, he pointed at his son and beckoned him inside.
‘Ooops,’ Gabriel said. ‘Looks like we’ve been caught.’
Cara seized on his words. ‘Does your father not want you talking to me?’
‘Don’t be flattered. My father doesn’t like me talking to anyone.’
Cara nodded towards the room that Max was in. ‘Where is that?’
‘It’s his study. He spends most of his time in there.’
Gabriel was on his feet now. Cara could see this was her last chance to get something out of him before he disappeared. ‘Do you think I could get Olivia to speak to me?’
Gabriel’s mouth twisted into a wry smile. ‘I’d like to see you try.’
Cara watched as Gabriel disappeared inside the house. She could make out the sound of voices, but couldn’t catch the exact words. However, after hearing what Gabriel had to say, an idea had begun to form in her head. If Max wouldn’t speak with her, then she would have to do some investigation of her own. And she knew just where to start.
The key to everything seemed to be Franny’s stillbirth. That was allegedly what had sparked the downward spiral in the last months of her life, so that’s what Cara would concentrate on.
It wasn’t hard to find out the name of the doctor who had attended the birth of Franny’s child: Dr Robertson, the Stanhope family’s personal physician. His name was all over the newspaper articles. He seemed to have acted as the family’s spokesperson, and was quoted several times, explaining what had gone wrong. Franny had wanted a home birth. Unfortunately, there were unforeseen complications during the labour and the baby had been born breech. Without being near hospital facilities, it had been impossible to do the necessary surgery to free the child.
That was one of the strangest things – the idea that Franny would have opted for a home birth. Back in her poverty-stricken East End days, Franny had obviously had no choice but to give birth in Annie’s house. But why, when she was wealthy enough to afford the comforts of the best medical care, would she have opted to put herself through that again?
Cara guessed that if Max knew what she was up to, he would make sure that she didn’t get within a mile of Dr Robertson. So she had no choice but to use a ruse in order to access her mother’s records. She called up the doctor’s office, pretending to be the wife of Harvey Covington, a famous English producer who had recently moved to the area. Cara had read about him and his wife in one of the local papers, and knew that while their names were well-known enough for the clinic to have heard of them, their faces wouldn’t be. In real life Emma Covington was fifty and matronly, but when Cara called up, she was twenty-something and a newly-wed. The receptionist accepted her cover at face value, and was happy to squeeze her in the following day.
Like most of the exclusive doctors, Dr Robertson’s surgery was attached to an elegant house, in the heart of San Francisco. Cara hadn’t turned up with much of a plan, deciding it best to play the appointment by ear. She was aware that if she wanted to go through the doctor’s records, she would have to get him out of the room at some point. She had a vague plan to pretend to faint partway through, hoping that he might go out for a glass of water. But in the event, that wasn’t necessary. Instead, he was called outside to speak to a patient who had turned up on spec with a question about her medication.
‘Do excuse me for a few minutes, will you, Mrs Covington?’
After he’d gone, Cara acted quickly. Opening the door a little so that she could hear the voices outside, and would know if he was about to return, she went over to the filing cabinets. They were locked. But there was a set of keys on the desk, so she grabbed them and, looking at the lock, tried the smallest. It worked. As quietly as possible, she slid open the middle cabinet drawer. It was for surnames M-P. She quietly closed it, and then opened the next one down. That went from Q-T. Quickly flicking through, she found the Stanhope file.
Cara’s ears pricked up. Outside, the conversation between Dr Robertson and his patient was winding up.
‘Well, I’ll see you next Wednesday afternoon, and if the antibiotics haven’t worked by then, I can prescribe something else.’
With no time to read the file, Cara quickly folded it in half and slipped it into her bag. Then she quietly
closed and locked the cabinet. She was back in her seat, as though she hadn’t moved from there, by the time the doctor walked in a moment later.
‘Sorry about that,’ he said, as he came back in.
But Cara was already on her feet. ‘Actually, I’ve just remembered that I’m supposed to be somewhere else.’ She brushed past him and opened the door. ‘I’ll call to make another appointment.’
She was outside before he could say anything. Her heart was beating hard as she hurried to the car, half-expecting someone to chase after her and demand she return their file. But why would they? she thought, putting the car into reverse. She bet no one even looked at them any more.
Once she judged that she was a sufficient distance from the clinic, Cara pulled over into a lay-by, and took her mother’s file out. She flicked through the records, scanning the words as quickly as possible, stumped by the poor handwriting and strange shorthand of a medical professional. There were notes about several visits: an initial consultation, and then for pregnancy tests. All were negative. The last test was in April 1958. That had been negative too, and then after that she hadn’t gone back for another visit.
That was odd. In July 1958, Franny had announced that she was already four months pregnant.
The last entry was on the birth itself, meaning Franny hadn’t consulted the doctor’s advice during her pregnancy. Again, that seemed curious and against her mother’s character. She read on.
Called out at two in the morning to the Stanhope residence to deal with home birth. Mother already in labour for sixteen hours by time arrived. She was delirious with pain. Sixteen-year-old girl not sufficiently developed to cope with the trauma of childbirth.
Cara frowned over that last sentence, not quite understanding what she was reading at first. Did these notes belong to someone else?
And then it dawned on her. There had been a sixteen-year-old girl living in the Stanhope household back then, one who could have been pregnant, and whose father and stepmother would have covered for her indiscretion rather than risk a scandal.
