by Iris Gower
I washed my brushes, stood them in an old jam jar to dry and took off my canvas apron. I would have liked an artist’s smock, but up until now I hadn’t been able to afford one – and anyway, my apron had deep pockets that proved very useful. Restless now, I wanted to run down to Tom and apologize for doubting him. Of course he wasn’t the father of Rosie’s baby. Perhaps she didn’t even know which man was. I stayed in the kitchen, however. I couldn’t walk through the gardens in case I embarrassed both Rosie and myself, so I made a cup of tea, thankful that Mrs Ward would have gone home hours ago.
It was a long day, and I was glad to go to bed early and sit up reading Rebecca yet again until my eyes grew heavy and I turned off the gas light and went to sleep.
I woke to hear Rosie’s baby crying from the next room, so I hastily made myself ready for the day and went to the kitchen to make some breakfast. From downstairs I couldn’t hear if Rosie was up and about or not. I didn’t know what I’d say to her when I saw her, because I wouldn’t have her carrying on, risking yet another unwanted pregnancy, not while she lived under my roof.
It was with a feeling of excitement that, some time later, I left the house and walked through the gardens towards the barracks near the boundaries of my land. I had to see Tom and put things right with him, if I could.
He was working at his desk, and the sight of him, his hair fair and silky and his brow creased into furrows as he concentrated, made my heart melt. It hit me then, really hit me: I was in love with Tom, an American pilot who would soon be going home, leaving the country for ever.
‘I’m sorry I doubted you,’ I said quickly before I could lose my nerve.
He looked up and carefully wiped the ink from the nib of his pen. ‘What?’
‘I said I’m sorry. I realize I was silly and judgemental accusing you of being the father of Rosie’s baby.’
‘Well, it showed what you really thought of me. How little faith you have in my character.’ His voice held no warmth.
I sat opposite him feeling as if I was applying for a job and feeling more than a little shocked at his coldly spoken words. ‘I can’t apologize enough,’ I said. ‘I really shouldn’t have listened to her in the first place.’
‘You should have had more trust in me.’ He didn’t give an inch. ‘In any case, it hardly matters now. I leave for home at the end of the week. We’ve finished here, but thank you for your hospitality, Miss Evans.’
I was suddenly ice cold, and yet I felt in a chaos of panic at the same time. He couldn’t go and leave me! Not now, when I’d just realized how much he meant to me! But I found myself getting to my feet and holding out my hand. ‘Well, thank you for all your help, Tom – clearing the cloisters, the work you and the men did, all that. I’ll miss you.’ I stumbled over the last few words.
‘Riana,’ he began, but a loud knocking on the door startled us both.
I withdrew my hand . . . or was Tom the first to move? ‘I’d better go and leave you to do your work,’ I said.
I left by the back door and returned to the fresh air of the garden. My cheeks felt hot and I knew in my heart that Tom had been about to say something important, but I hurried through the gardens into the house.
Mrs Ward had arrived, with her shopping bag of polish and dusters, and was filling the cupboard under the sink with cleaning materials. ‘Morning. You owe me three shillings and sixpence,’ she said. ‘Where’s Rosie and the baby?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘They may not be awake yet. I’ve been down to see Tom, to say goodbye. The last of the Americans are leaving next week.’
‘And good riddance to them,’ Mrs Ward said softly. ‘Master Tom was all right, kind enough and all that, but he’s still a foreigner.’ She glanced at me sheepishly. ‘Sorry, miss.’ Mrs Ward ran the tap and that was the end of the matter.
I didn’t feel like working so I went in to the empty sitting room and tried to read the morning paper. There was an article entitled ‘The Strange Happenings at Aberglasney’, and I read a highly exaggerated account of the drama at the ghost weekend, the ‘sighting’ of a Victorian lady, and the strange lights on the staircase. Nothing new there, then. It was the same old local gossip, and surely by now some of the villagers must recognize Beatrice – who was eccentric, but certainly very much alive.
The story of the murder was dragged out again at the conclusion of the article and, bored with it all, I threw down the paper. I realized the publicity would do my ghost-haunting weekends a lot of good, but couldn’t anyone think of something original to say? I felt a little niggle of resentment: why didn’t my paintings get a mention, for instance? They were of the house and its supposed ghosts, and my work had sold well in a London gallery. What’s more, the London newspapers had published small pieces about the new artist Mr Readings had discovered, but I supposed that was more to do with the standing of Mr Readings and his gallery than with me.
I closed my eyes and tried to think of other ideas for my weekends. What more could I do but provide good food and accommodation, and the occasional flurry of lights and activity that the guests took to be ghostly visitations?
I think I was drifting into a comfortable haze – half asleep, half awake – when a blood-curdling scream brought me to my feet.
‘Help! Get a doctor, an ambulance, Miss Riana. Something dreadful has happened to my Rosie!’
I ran up the stairs, my heart pounding hard in my chest. In my old bedroom, the curtains were still closed and there was a strange smell in the room. I couldn’t identify it. Cigarette smoke, perhaps?
Mrs Ward was staring at the empty bed, transfixed with horror. ‘She’s gone, my Rosie is gone! And the baby too! They’ve been abducted, or the ghosts have got them, just like those poor maids.’ She looked up at me, her face stained with tears. ‘They must have meant to take you, Miss Riana. This was your room, and my girl was wearing your dressing gown, the one with all the colours and fancy patterns. I saw her wearing it when I brought her a cup of cocoa last night before I went home.’
I suddenly felt cold. Mrs Ward was right. Rosie must have been mistaken for me. ‘But the baby, where is he?’ The cot was empty.
‘My dear, ’elp!’ Mrs Ward was incoherent. ‘The child has been stolen away! What in the name of heaven and all the angels has happened here in the night?’
I shivered. ‘Someone wanted me out of the way.’ I mumbled the words through dry lips.
Mrs Ward stared at me with cold accusing eyes. ‘My Rosie will be another ghost for you to paint.’ Her voice was cold, her hysterics pushed into the recesses of her reserve. ‘We’d better get the police and report my daughter and my grandchild missing.’ She left the room.
Once the police came, everything degenerated into a scene of noise and chaos. I was ordered out of the room and told not to pollute the crime scene any further.
At the door, a policeman clutched my arm. ‘We might need to take your fingerprints, miss.’
‘Look on the door handle.’ My voice was crisp. ‘You’ll find my fingerprints on everything, officer. This is my house, and this used to be my room.’
‘I see.’ He eyed me up and down. ‘You are Miss Evans then?’
‘That’s right.’
‘You hold ghost weekends and you sell daubs?’ The scornful way he said it implied I would sell my body if I had to.
‘If it’s any help, Rosie was last seen wearing my dressing gown. She could have been mistaken for me.’
‘We’ll do the detective work, Miss Evans, and draw our own conclusions. I would advise you to go and make a cup of tea or do something feminine and appropriate.’
‘And I would advise you not to patronize me, sir.’ I straightened, made myself as tall as possible and stared him down. ‘Have you brought a senior officer with you?’
‘Well, no, Miss Evans. This girl might have left here willingly.’ He wasn’t quite so sure of himself now.
‘Wearing my dressing gown? I doubt that.’ I lifted my chin. ‘And when a senior offi
cer does arrive I will talk to him not to you.’
‘Very well, Miss Evans.’ He still had an arrogant twist to his lips.
‘And my paintings sell for more than you make in a year, so I will not have them called daubs. Aberglasney was on your doorstep, decaying under your stuck-up nose, and yet you didn’t have the wit or the drive to restore the old place. Well, I have saved it from ruin, and so long as the way I do it is legal I hope you will respect that.’ In that moment I didn’t respect myself at all, however. Here I was, bragging about my achievements to a mere constable. What on earth had got into me?
I saw Beatrice on the landing and told her what had happened to Rosie.
She wasn’t in the least surprised. ‘At least they can’t blame her disappearance on poor Eddie. It’s this house, you see. It’s always been this house.’ And with those cryptic words she went into her room and closed her door with a snap of finality.
Mrs Ward was sitting in the kitchen. Her eyes were dry as she pushed a cup of tea towards me. ‘Perhaps this is all for the best.’ Her voice was low. ‘Poor Rosie had no future here, not with the baby and no Americans willing to take the child away. She’s run away. That’s the answer, it must be! Nothing else makes sense.’ Her eyes didn’t meet mine. ‘And me, well, if I keep my head down and my tongue still, I might survive all the nastiness.’
‘Haven’t you got a soul, Mrs Ward?’ I asked in disbelief at her attitude to losing her daughter and her grandchild.
‘Lordy, Miss Riana, I lost that many years ago when I was betrayed by a fine man.’ She held her cup in both hands and I saw that she was crying, after all.
‘You don’t wear a wedding ring, Mrs Ward,’ I said suddenly.
‘I’m not married.’ Her statement was bald, brittle and her eyes filled with tears. ‘At least Rosie’s been spared the shame, the menial work, the humbleness of being always lowly, a servant, unable even to attend the Lord’s house because of the “good people” who don’t deign to notice you.’
‘You always speak correctly, Mrs Ward. You were well educated, I think.’
‘Ah, I was. I was sent to private school by my guilty father. He was married – but not to my mother. History has a strange way of repeating itself, Miss Riana.’
As Mrs Ward put the kettle on again, almost unaware of what she was doing, I saw her in a new light and felt a new closeness to her.
NINETEEN
The police interviewed everyone connected to the ghost weekends and then told me to cancel my booking for the next one, which had been due to take place at the end of November. I wrote letters to my guests and received replies from all of them, rebooking for the Big Christmas weekend. It seemed the disappearance of Rosie and her child had only served to whet the appetite of ghost hunters everywhere. There was even an article in the London papers about the tragedy at the ‘house of Riana’, now described as a ‘famous artist’, and one headline reported: ‘Another ghost to haunt Aberglasney.’
I was still upset and worried. I missed Rosie, and I found it impossible to hire anyone from the village to come and work for me. Everyone was afraid and suspicious of me and the house, and no one favoured the coming and goings of my guests, even though they brought trade to the village.
Worst of all, Tom had kept out of my way. I knew he was destined to go back to America in a few days, and at the very least I wanted to say goodbye to him. The thought of him leaving filled me with dread; my heart ached at the thought of being without him. I was in love, but an unrequited love that left me hurt and shamed. But, in spite of my pride, I knew I would have to say goodbye to him.
It was a cold, damp day when I made my way down the garden, through the yew-tree tunnel and towards the gates where the barracks stood. To my surprise, some of the buildings had been razed to the ground already. Men were busy laying rolls of grass over the area, almost as though the huts had never been. One of the men looked up and nodded. He was wearing a cherry-red scarf that somehow brightened the day. I wondered who had sent them. Perhaps they were council workers, or maybe Tom had organized the restoring of the ground. Anyway, what did it matter so long as Tom hadn’t gone already?
When I saw his familiar figure sitting at the desk, his hair curling into a quiff above his forehead, the strong broad set of his shoulders visible beneath his crisp shirt, I wanted to throw myself into his arms and hug him in relief that he was still there.
He got up when he saw me. ‘Riana,’ he said and my name fell softly into the cold air of the room. He seemed to straighten his back then, almost as if he was going to salute me. I could see at once he was keeping his distance. Gone was the Tom who had sat with me under the cloisters in the thin balmy air of a summer’s night.
‘I was very sorry to hear about Rosie,’ he said in his best official voice, ‘and the child. Does anyone know what’s happened to them?’
‘The police are investigating,’ I replied, and the formality in my own voice placed a huge barrier between us.
There was a long silence, and I searched Tom’s face for some sign of softening. I knew I’d been cold to him, stayed away from him without a word, and he was stiff with pride. Even so, if he came and kissed me and told me he loved me, I’d go to the ends of the world with him.
‘I just came down to say goodbye,’ I found myself saying ‘I know you’ll be going home soon.’
He looked round distractedly. ‘This seems like my home now,’ he said, and then he took a deep breath. ‘But you are right. I leave tomorrow.’
‘And you were going without talking to me?’ I was aghast.
‘What was there to say?’ Tom didn’t look at me.
I managed to speak after a while. ‘Well, I want to say thanks for everything again. The gardening, the support, your faith in my painting. Everything.’
‘My pleasure.’ He half bowed.
There seemed nothing left for me to do but go. I went towards the door, just as it was pushed open and two burly policemen came into the office. Before my terrified eyes, they arrested Tom, put him in handcuffs and – without looking at me – took him outside. I followed, trying to protest, but the men took no notice of me. They pushed Tom into a car and slammed the door shut. The car was an unmarked one, and as it drove away I saw something bright sticking out of the boot: a red scarf by the look of it. Suspicions aroused, I memorized the registration number – or at least some of it – and ran back through the garden to the house and the phone.
The local police, I learned, had no knowledge of anyone picking up an American Wing Commander.
I sat abruptly on the chair near the phone table and tried to sort out my thoughts. Who could have taken Tom . . . and why?
I went back to Tom’s office later that day, thinking perhaps I would find a clue to what was happening there. The office was no longer standing, however. It had been taken apart, prefabricated piece by prefabricated piece, like a jigsaw puzzle. Someone had been searching the place with complete thoroughness; not even a pin would have escaped notice.
I looked suspiciously at the workmen, but none of them was wearing a cherry-red scarf. ‘What happened to the Wing Commander’s possessions?’ I asked.
The workman shrugged, uncaring. ‘Boxed up and sent on to his home, I suppose,’ he said.
I managed a smile. ‘Has anyone got a forwarding address?’
‘Don’t know nothing about that, miss.’ He turned away, finished with the conversation, and in despair I returned to the house.
What’s the police doing here, Miss Riana? Is it about Rosie?’ Mrs Ward was pale with dark shadows under her eyes. She was evidently more worried about her daughter than she had let on.
I shook my head. ‘We’ve had four visits from the police about Rosie and the baby,’ I said quietly. ‘They’ll find her, don’t worry, but this visit by unknown men is something to do with the Americans.’ Though what, I didn’t know, because I would have bet everything I had – even Aberglasney – that those men had not been real policemen.
‘Wel
l, it’s those Americans who started the troubles here.’ Mrs Ward spoke emphatically. ‘We were all right before the war. Then the village was quiet and peaceable enough.’
‘And what about the five young maids who were murdered?’ I asked. ‘That wasn’t very peaceable, was it?’
‘Well, I don’t know much about all that.’ Mrs Ward turned her face away from me, and I wondered how much she did know. She played her cards very close to her chest, I’d found.
TWENTY
I met Miss Grist again when I went to Swansea the next day. I’d been to the police station to report Tom as missing, and although my comments had been written down by the officer on duty, I felt the sheet of paper would be put in the bin the minute I left. I wandered into the library, and Miss Grist followed me into the reference room. She was wearing a smart white blouse and a dark skirt that appeared almost a uniform. Even her shoes and stockings were black.
She was obviously intrigued by the latest stories about Aberglasney and wanted to know all the details of Rosie’s disappearance. She was very friendly, talkative even, and coaxed me to go with her to the staffroom for a cup of coffee during her break and sat uncomfortably close to me.
‘How was the room left? Any signs of an intruder?’ Her eyes were bright with curiosity. ‘Perhaps it was one of those American airmen who abducted her.’
I reined in my sudden burst of irritation. ‘We don’t know anything more than you do, Miss Grist,’ I said. ‘One thing I am sure about – it wasn’t anything to do with the Americans.’
‘But this girl had several “assignations” with these men. They say the baby was fathered by one of them.’
‘Well, “they” might well be right, but her disappearance was during the night when the house was locked up, and there was no sign of a break-in.’ I told myself it was only natural for people to be curious about events at Aberglasney; no doubt Miss Grist was only saying what everyone was thinking.
Her eyes narrowed. ‘Are you saying it was the ghosts then, or have you yourself taken the girl somewhere?’
