by Iris Gower
‘Were they tall men? Fat? Thin? What colour clothes did they wear? What sort of voices did they have . . . were they Americans?’
‘American- or Canadian-like, I’d say. Gruff and rough they were. Both big men – broad with big, calloused hands. You know, working men’s hands.’
‘That’s very observant of you, Mrs Ward. Have you called the police?’
‘Can’t,’ she said baldly. ‘They cut the wires . . . and,’ she added, ‘I was too frightened.’
‘All right.’ I looked round, but everything in the kitchen was as neat and tidy as it had always been.
‘They didn’t mess things up, I’ll say that for them. I did hear a bit of noise from the blue room, mind, as if they were moving furniture, that sort of thing.’
‘Good thing Beatrice isn’t there, though goodness knows where she is now.’
Mrs Ward shook her head. ‘Who can say? Heaven or hell, one of the two.’
‘What a funny thing to say, Mrs Ward.’
She frowned back, but before she could make any comment there was the sound of hammering on the front door. ‘Oh my Lord, they’ve come back.’ Mrs Ward looked as if she might dive under the table.
I stood up shakily.
‘Police!’ The voice rang out, and I tensed and put my hand to my lips, beckoning Mrs Ward to be quiet. I wasn’t going to be caught like that again.
I crept across the dark hall and peered through the little window. There was a real police car outside and a plain-clothes officer and a uniformed constable standing on the drive.
‘I want to see some identification please,’ I shouted and obligingly the constable held up a card near the window. I knew anything could be a forgery, but I decided I might as well trust them. Reluctantly, I opened the door, expecting any minute to be thrown back against the wall. But the men walked calmly into the house and stood politely as I examined the card more thoroughly.
‘We’re from Carmarthen Police Station, miss,’ the constable explained. ‘We had a call stating there was some sort of disturbance at Aberglasney House.’
‘Well –’ I was a bit on edge – ‘come in, but the “disturbance” is well and truly over. You’re too late to apprehend the perpetrators.’ I was speaking like a policeman’s notebook, but I was still in shock – my clothes still wet from the rain and my skirt sticking to my legs. ‘In any case, who reported the matter?’
‘Didn’t leave a name, miss. They usually don’t. But it was a woman; someone with a sore throat, by the sound of it,’ he added helpfully.
‘We’ll search the house, miss.’ The detective spoke at last. ‘And I suggest you change your clothes before you catch your death.’
I could see he was longing to ask what had happened to me, but didn’t quite dare to in case I reported something unpleasant that he didn’t wish to deal with right now. He glanced at his watch, confirming my suspicions that he was reluctant to do this job. Had he heard about the ghosts? I wondered.
‘Please carry out your search,’ I said. ‘The criminals have been through the whole house, though they didn’t do any damage. Please look carefully for clues. A few more people searching my house won’t do any harm.’
‘I hear you have parties here, miss?’ The constable’s face was eager – almost as though he’d heard there were orgies taking place under the elegant roof of my house.
‘Not parties,’ I said, ‘but ghost-haunting evenings, when witches fly and men turn to wolves in the full moon.’ I was teasing him, but his eyes widened. ‘I have visitors come to see if they can take a picture of the ghosts, the five maids who died here some years ago,’ I explained. ‘I’m sure you’ve heard the stories, officer?’
After a swift look at his superior officer, he didn’t comment, but his eyes were large.
At last the men began their search of the rooms; of course, they didn’t find anything, but in the meantime I was able to change into dry clothing.
We met again, after a remarkably short time, in the hall.
‘Nothing out of the ordinary, miss.’ The constable was usually the one to speak, as though his superior thought the whole thing beneath him. The constable’s next words confirmed the doubts of both men. ‘Sure this isn’t all a publicity trick, miss, just to get your name in the papers and these parties some free advertising?’
‘I’m sure,’ I said. ‘I was dragged away from a big opening night and I—’ I stopped talking, realizing it sounded exactly like a publicity stunt. ‘Mr Reading phoned the police station, and someone there confirmed the men who took me away were real police officers.’
‘Easy enough to fake,’ one of the men said dryly. ‘Well, as you don’t seem to be in imminent danger, we’ll have to leave, but be sure to lock up tonight just in case.’
‘Aren’t you going to guard the house or anything?’
The well-dressed plain-clothes officer took charge at last. ‘This is really not our case, Miss Evans. You were taken from a London gallery. We’ve only come out as a courtesy to our London colleagues, you know.’
‘So if I’m murdered in my bed, or abducted again from Aberglasney, it won’t be your case then?’
‘Goodnight, miss. Call us if you see anything suspicious.’ They left abruptly and drove away in a cloud of black smoke.
I closed the door and bolted it and hurried into the kitchen.
‘They were about as useful as a cow with a musket!’ Mrs Ward said in resignation. ‘Sit down, love, and I’ll make you a bite to eat.’
‘Just some toast and more hot tea, Mrs Ward, please.’ I sank down into a chair and put my head in my hands. ‘Thank goodness you were here! At least I wasn’t alone when those officers came; they thought I made it all up as it was.’
‘Aye,’ Mrs Ward said dryly.
‘What on earth is going on here? What does someone think I know about Tom? I only knew him for a few months. I know we were “fond” of each other . . . Well, I thought he was “fond” of me, anyway, and now he’s vanished and it seems he’s suspected of all sorts: espionage, perhaps, I just don’t know.’
‘Forget it now, Riana. Keep all the windows closed and your door locked and I’ll double check everything is secured down here.’
I ate the hot buttered toast with relish and then took Mrs Ward’s advice and slowly made my way upstairs to my bedroom. I wished Beatrice was here; she and Mrs Ward were the only friends I had now. Could I even trust Mr Readings and his lady friend? I just didn’t know any more.
I climbed into my cosy bed, heavy with the blankets, and rubbed my sore head against the softness of the pillows, grateful to be warm and comfortable. My summer days with Tom seemed far away now; the hours we shared in the sun and in the shade of the cloisters when it was too hot seemed a distant dream. And at last I slept.
TWENTY-FIVE
A sort of normality had returned to my life when we had the next ghost-haunting weekend. Beatrice had returned home with her little bag of belongings and, as usual, gave me no inkling of where she had been – but it was clear she loved the house to be full of people, of laughter, and of the cheeriness that came from wine-drinking and the scent of food cooking.
I always took her a small meal on a tray because she refused to join the crowd for dinner. ‘Look, dear,’ she told me this time, ‘the good people who come to these things think I’m a ghost, so don’t let’s spoil the illusion.’ She gave me a sweet smile. ‘It’s the way I dress. I know I’m eccentric, dear, but that way I’m comfortable.’
I left her then and joined the guests, thinking she had a point. I didn’t mind her presence and her constant comings and goings. When she was at Aberglasney, the house, absurd as it might seem, was happy and restful.
My guests were in high spirits, full of the news of my abduction. The actress in me came to the fore, and I told the story of being chained in a strange building, with thugs telling me I would starve and die there, in a dramatic manner that had them all riveted.
Mr Bleesdale was the first to speak. ‘Poo
r Riana, what on earth did those people want from you?’
‘They think I know something I shouldn’t about the Americans,’ I explained. ‘Because Tom and I were friends, I was mistaken for some sort of spy. Of course, I don’t know much about any of the Americans, except what everyone knows – that they were billeted here during the war.’
‘Oh, there was some talk a while back about a new aeroplane engine the Americans were testing. Perhaps it was something to do with the plans,’ the colonel said importantly. ‘Remember that poor pilot who was killed in a flying accident – Jenkins, was it? Well, he was involved in all this testing business, I heard. That’s why his death was kept rather quiet.’
All this was new to me – and a light went off in my head. Tom had never said a word about testing a new type of engine – though why should he have? But perhaps that was why I had been abducted: so my house could be searched for some sort of designs. It didn’t explain why Tom had asked me to hold the exhibition in the first place though . . . But I remembered once more that Mrs Ward had told me that the men who’d searched the house had had American accents. Perhaps Tom had learned that the house was to be searched and had wished me out of the way for my own safety. It was just bad luck that I had been targeted by the very men who were after Tom himself!
Another thought struck me, and after dinner was over and the ghost haunting was given up for a good night’s sleep I went to see Beatrice. She was sitting on the bed reading, as if she’d been waiting for me. ‘You want to know what Edwin did for a living,’ she said at once.
‘Have you been listening on the stairs?’ I asked with wry amusement.
Her smile was sweet. ‘No, dear, I’m clairvoyant. Didn’t you know?’ She nodded. ‘He was an engineer and an inventor. He designed a new engine of some sort for an aeroplane, and the Americans – who always had too much money – took it up. The money never came, of course, once my dear husband was accused of murder, though I don’t believe he had given the final designs to the Americans before he died.’
I went to sit on the bed, but Beatrice waved me to a chair. ‘My old bones are too brittle, dear. Please don’t put your weight on the bed.’
‘Where are his plans now?’
‘If you knew that, dear, you’d be in more trouble than you are now. If you’d known you’d have told those horrible men and they’d have taken the plans from you and Edwin’s innocence would never be proven and you’d never have got the money from the Americans.’
‘But that’s your money, Beatrice! If you’d that you wouldn’t have needed to sell the house. Anyway, how do you always seem to know everything that goes on?’
‘You’ll find out all about me, Edwin and the house one day, Riana, I’m counting on it, and then the money will be yours. You own Aberglasney now, and I want you to bring it back to its former glory.’
‘I’m doing my best.’ I was a little piqued.
‘I know that, dear, and I do my best to help by showing myself on the ghost nights, just now and then, to encourage the story that the house is haunted.’
‘Don’t you think it is then?’
‘Of course I do. Don’t be silly, dear. Clearly, the house is haunted. It wouldn’t be honest to say so otherwise, would it?’ Did she wink or was I imagining it?
‘Go to bed, Riana,’ she said brusquely. ‘You seem very tired all of a sudden.’
‘I am,’ I said. ‘It seems to have been a long day.’
If the ghosts came out that night, I never heard them. I slept deeply and dreamlessly and woke in the morning, ready to tackle breakfast with my guests.
‘You missed a spectacle, dear Riana.’ The colonel greeted me with old-fashioned courtesy, rising from his chair and bowing slightly before tucking into his bacon and eggs once more.
‘What do you mean?’ I poured some coffee from the pot on the sideboard. Mornings, we’d agreed, were ‘help yourself’ times, when Mrs Ward brought in platters of food and pots of coffee and left the people who deigned to rise early to fill their own plates. I usually was up from bed in time to help her, but this morning I’d slept late.
‘The ladies appeared, dear. The five maids.’ The colonel’s eyes were quite serious, and I realized he wasn’t joking. ‘They came along the corridor, drifting like clouds of mist, and then they just disappeared when the young lad William came along to go to his bed.’
‘Did he see them too?’ I asked innocently, suppressing an inane desire to laugh. Not surprisingly, Colonel Fred shook his head.
‘Unfortunately not. He was too busy trying to load his camera with film. He did see the wreath of mist disappearing into the blue room though.’
‘You were very lucky then, colonel. Not many are privileged to see the maids.’ I guessed he’d had too many brandies after dinner and the ‘mist’ had probably been the smoke from his pipe.
‘They do say there’s going to be a disaster when the maids appear.’ Mrs Ward had come into the dining room with fresh coffee and was standing there, her eyes large. Good old Mrs Ward, I thought. Anything to drum up business for the weekends. I smiled approvingly at her.
‘It’s true, Riana,’ she said in all seriousness. ‘They only appear when something bad is going to happen.’
‘I’ve had my guests taken away from me, and I’ve been kidnapped – I didn’t see the maids any time then,’ I protested, forgetting the presence of guests. I could have added that my beloved Tom had become engaged to a dreadful, scheming woman too, but that would be giving too much away about my own feelings.
I sat down abruptly and drank my coffee, trying to see beyond Mrs Ward’s serious expression.
‘You’ll see, Riana,’ she said soberly.
I ate some toast, nearly choking with every mouthful. Not even the marmalade helped. I drank more coffee, just to keep the guests company
The ‘something dreadful’ happened very soon; dear Mr Readings was found dead in his gallery.
I travelled up to London for his funeral and stood at the graveside with Diane, who was dry eyed and despairing as she stood and watched his remains being put into the cold earth.
I touched her arm. ‘How are you?’ A stupid question; I knew it as soon as the words left my mouth.
She stared down at her sensible shoes. ‘I’m desolate, dear.’ She even used Mr Readings’ phrases. ‘We were married quietly last week. I’ve only been his wife for a few days.’ Tears blurred her eyes. ‘For so long I’ve wanted him to make an honest woman of me, and now he has died and left me a widow. How can I bear it?’
‘I’m sorry, Diane. Are you all right for money? I know Mr Readings will have left you well provided for, but if you need help right now please just tell me.’
‘I have my guest house, Riana. It doesn’t bring in a fortune, but I’ll be far from destitute, and as you say my dear man will have left me well provided for. But what about you? What about your work? Who will market your paintings for you now?’
‘I don’t know. Don’t you worry about that, Diane. I’ll manage.’
After the service – during which I shed some tears for the honest, encouraging Mr Readings – we went back to Diane’s guest house for a small glass of sherry and some very dry cake her cook had made. The loss of Mr Readings’ influence and money was already making a difference. The black market served those who had money to spend very well indeed. Now that Midas touch was lacking, and it showed.
That night I slept at the guest house and drank some more sherry with Diane as she reminisced about the good times she and Mr Readings had shared. It helped her to talk, I could see, and in spite of my tiredness I was happy to listen.
The next morning I travelled home from London, cursing the train that stopped at every small station on the way back to Wales.
As I stepped out of the train, a tall, big shouldered figure came out of the shadows of the station platform. As he came nearer I realized it was Tom. I gasped as he came forward and took my overnight bag and kissed me on the cheek as if I was his maiden aunt.<
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I pulled away sharply. ‘None of that! You are spoken for now, or have you forgotten?’
Tom tapped his nose. ‘Don’t believe all you hear and only half of what you see,’ he said cryptically.
I shook my head and let him lead me to his car, a beaten-up old Ford that I’d never seen before. ‘What’s happened to all this money you’re supposed to have had? Has your new girlfriend spent it? I understood she’s some kind of heiress. Or have you come into some sort of plans? Drawings of engines, that sort of thing?’
He just chuckled, but didn’t answer.
‘What’s going on, Tom?’ I demanded. ‘I think you owe me some sort of explanation.’
He didn’t reply, but drove in silence all the way to Aberglasney. I felt a bit intimidated by his closed-in look and didn’t ask any more questions.
Once outside my home he stopped the car, took me in his arms and kissed me deeply and thoroughly. I should have slapped his face, but instead I melted into his arms, breathing in the scent of him, the feel of his arms around me, his mouth against mine possessing me. We belonged together. It was unspoken, but known to both of us. What was he doing planning to marry another woman?
‘Whatever happens, remember I love you,’ he said, and then he opened the door, practically pushed me out of the car, and ground into gears and shot away in a cloud of dust.
Mrs Ward was waiting for me in the doorway. ‘Was that Tom?’ She was craning her neck to watch the disappearing car.
I didn’t answer, wanting to clutch his words and his kiss close to me – something of mine, something precious that I didn’t want to share.
‘Kettle on, Mrs Ward?’ I shrugged off my coat in the hall and let it dangle over the hallstand like a lifeless body. I shivered.
‘You’re cold, Riana,’ Mrs Ward said. ‘Come into the kitchen. It’s warm there, and I’ll make you a nice cup of tea and a sandwich. I have some cold beef and pickle in the larder, will that do?’
I nodded, not wanting to eat anything, but feeling a sandwich might give me some warmth and energy.
