by Iris Gower
Eventually, the guests departed for bed. It seemed once one made a move, everyone followed, much to my relief.
I visited Beatrice briefly on my own way to bed and asked her, in a whisper, about the events of the night before.
‘The man in the window . . . that was my Edwin,’ she whispered back. ‘He wants you to get on with it and prove he’s not a murderer, and then we can all rest in peace.’
I nodded. I had been so bound up in my own problems that I’d forgotten my wish to clear Beatrice’s husband.
‘Why don’t you start by searching the house for suspicious signs,’ she said. ‘I’m not going to be here tomorrow, so make a start in the blue room. That’s where the gals died, you know.’
‘All right, Beatrice,’ I agreed wearily. ‘The guests return home tomorrow so the place will be mine again, and I promise I won’t work at all. I’ll just make a search of the house and see if I can find anything.’ I paused. ‘But surely you would have found something by now, Beatrice, if there was anything to find?’
‘I haven’t the ability, dear, nor the strength. You are young and alive, and you can do anything you choose. You’ll fight for me. You are the owner of the house now. It’s your place to sort everything out, and then we can all rest.’
‘Goodnight, Beatrice.’ I stumbled out and into my room, and without even undressing I kicked off my shoes, climbed on the bed and immediately fell asleep.
There was the usual bustle of departure in the morning. Even Diane went off home early. Although, of course, William’s girlfriend had already left. I felt he would do much better without her presence. As if reading my thoughts, he came up to me. ‘A wonderful weekend, Miss Evans. I shall certainly come again, although probably alone. My girlfriend didn’t really fit in. She is too sensitive for her own good, you know.’
‘I know,’ I agreed, finding it difficult to keep my thoughts to myself about his girlfriend’s sensitivity. ‘Ghosts and armed men aren’t everyone’s cup of tea,’ I said tactfully. ‘But I do admire the way you investigated the landing area of the house to find out if there was any trickery involved.’
He blushed.
‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘I doubted the evidence of my own eyes. I don’t know, even now, if I was seeing things.’
‘If you were, we all were,’ William said. ‘And we certainly didn’t imagine the disembodied face in the window, did we?’
‘No.’ I made a mental note to start searching the house once the last guest departed.
When it was quiet, I watched Mrs Ward prolonging her farewells to the colonel and smiled to myself as I put the kettle on. The war hadn’t managed to kill off all the romance in the world then!
I made a hot pot of coffee, and when Mrs Ward came into the kitchen, her pale cheeks flushed, I poured us a cup. ‘You like the colonel, do you?’
The question was superfluous, and Mrs Ward turned away to pour milk in her cup. She shrugged eventually, and I realized it would be wise to drop the subject.
‘I’m going to search the house today,’ I said firmly. ‘I want to look for clues as to what’s hidden here.’
‘What on earth do you mean?’ Mrs Ward gave me her full attention.
‘For one thing, why do people keep running in here with guns and things? What are they looking for?’
‘It’s just because of those Americans, I think,’ Mrs Ward said. ‘In any case, don’t you think we’d have found whatever it is they’re looking for, with all the renovation work that’s been going on here?’
‘You have a point,’ I agreed. ‘But what on earth do all these armed men think we’ve got here?’
‘Well –’ Mrs Ward’s voice was dry – ‘you’ve certainly been the target for their violence. If the ghost silliness hadn’t happened, they might have begun to torture you for information! I still reckon that Tom bloke has got something to do with it – and him so nice to us, too.’
‘I don’t think Tom could be involved,’ I protested. ‘I’m sure he wouldn’t want anyone bullied and humiliated, and he was abducted himself at one stage, remember?’
‘A cover,’ Mrs Ward declared, her lips pursed with disapproval. ‘Those Americans caused us enough trouble during the war, and why hasn’t that Tom gone back to America with the rest of them, that’s what I want to know.’
Again, Mrs Ward had a point. I sighed; there was no use arguing about it. I was too weary and too puzzled and too afraid of what I might find out about Tom to continue with the conversation. Instead, I started a systematic search of the house, starting with the servant’s rooms at the top of the house. I found nothing untoward in the recently refurbished and brightly-curtained rooms, however.
I knew Beatrice would be away, so I went to the first floor, entered Beatrice’s room, and immediately wondered if there was a window open. Everything felt cold and damp and decayed, and yet when Beatrice chose to be in residence the room felt warm and normal.
I felt dreadful as I searched in drawers and cupboards and even tested the floorboards for anything coming loose – but there was nothing. I left Beatrice’s room, having made a thorough search, but feeling uneasy that I’d intruded on her privacy. The blue room, which up until now had been unoccupied, was where the whole thing had begun, the scene of the deaths. The paint was still on the wall, the windows unchanged. So far as I could tell, the room was the same as when the maids had died. Why they hadn’t been housed in the servant’s quarters at the top of the house, I didn’t know. Perhaps the rooms were left to flake away as they weren’t needed. But lead from the paint in the blue room had killed the girls, the stories claimed, and indeed it did smell strange in there. I shrugged and went outside and shut the door. There was nothing to find, and I hardly thought it worth searching the other rooms. But I’d promised Beatrice that I would look for evidence of her husband’s innocence, and look I would. Perhaps in searching Aberglasney I would find some answers to my own problems.
TWENTY-EIGHT
To my great happiness and relief my paintings continued to sell well, in spite of the gallery having changed hands. The art-loving crowd knew Diane well and trusted her honesty and judgement. One or two of the more senior critics watched on the fringes for a while, expecting – or perhaps hoping – Diane would make mistakes and have to put the valuable gallery up for sale, but that didn’t happen.
At the official reopening exhibition, my six new works, including the painting depicting the haunted face in the window, were put on display, with lights fixed above each picture to reflect the colours and the nuances of light, and to highlight the progression of shadow and brightness across the canvas.
There were paintings by some old masters too, including one owned by Diane that I’d seen hanging in her sitting room in the guest house. It must have been a real wrench to part with it, but I knew that Diane needed to make a living as much as I did. Mr Readings would have left her well-provided for, I knew that, but perhaps there was some hold up with releasing all his private fortune to her? Diane had not confided in me, but that she had to sell one of her precious paintings told me enough to know she was short of immediate funds. This thought inspired me to vow to work harder once I returned home.
The exhibition was well attended, both by the curious and by those who genuinely wanted to buy. Silk gowns and fur capes shone under the glittering chandeliers and diamonds sparkled on white fingers: the art-loving crowd from London were out to show how prosperous they were. Nowadays, they arrived in cars, but in the olden days carriages with finely decorated horses would have been waiting outside in the stables, and suddenly I was inspired to paint something from the past.
Diane seemed to dance around the room. There was a smile on her face and a glass of champagne in her hand, though I noticed she didn’t drink much of it. And underlying her smile was an air of sadness, because she’d lost the man she loved.
I, on the other hand, was determined to forget Tom. Why should I continue to waste my love and my passion on him when he had disapp
eared from my life yet again? And yet I ached for him. Not just for his touch, but for the familiarity and friendship we used to share, sitting under the cloisters in the garden Tom and his men had worked to bring into some kind of order.
‘Excuse me, Miss Evans. I’m Justin. I’m supposed to paint your portrait, remember?’
I looked up to see a handsome man about my own age staring into my eyes.
‘Your work is so atmospheric,’ he said. ‘Even more so than when I saw it at an earlier exhibition. I have bought one of your new paintings, and may I say that although the face in the picture is ghostly and haunted, the image reminds me of my late father?’
‘Your father!’ I was fearful and suddenly wary. ‘Who was your father?’
‘Edwin Mansel-Atherton,’ he said. ‘Unfortunately, my father is dead, so he’s the late Edwin Mansel-Atherton. Did Mr Readings mention it when we last met?’
I saw him suddenly as a threat to my future in Aberglasney. After all, might he not be the rightful heir? I liked him very much, but I didn’t want him taking my home from me. ‘So you’ve bought my painting?’ I said with false brightness.
Just then Diane came and took my arm. ‘Some people want to meet the talented lady artist,’ she said, hurrying me away. ‘You must mingle, dear. You can’t stand talking to the most eligible man in London all night, even though he is gorgeous!’ There was a proprietary air about the way she spoke of Justin, and I imagined she’d met him many times before.
My head was ringing with confusion and questions: most importantly, was Justin the legal heir to my house? I stopped Diane as she made a beeline for the other art lovers. ‘Wait! I’ll meet your other clients later. What do you know about Justin Mansel-Atherton?’
Diane appeared puzzled. ‘He was a friend of dear Mr Readings. Why? Are you interested in him?’
‘In a way,’ I said softly, ‘but not romantically. I’ll tell you all about it after the exhibition.’ I’d arranged to stay the night in London with Diane. I could trust Diane and confide in her. She’d find out all she could about Justin – and use her discretion into the bargain. Once I got home I would also question Beatrice about the man, although I would have to be tactful and careful.
Most of the paintings sold that night, leaving only three – one of them mine. I knew I could look forward to some money to spend on the house. Providing, I thought, the house was really mine.
I knew I’d bought it legally, but if Beatrice had no right to sell it then I’d be in trouble. I knew some of these old mansions used to be entailed to the eldest son; I could only hope that wasn’t the case with dear old Aberglasney.
Diane was sympathetic and comforting. ‘If you’ve a legal document signed by the owner you must be all right, dear,’ she said firmly.
‘Yes, but was Beatrice the legal owner? What if Edwin left the house to his eldest son?’
‘Don’t panic.’ Diane poured me a glass of the leftover champagne. ‘Justin might be illegitimate. Have you thought of that?’
‘I’ve thought of nothing else.’ I sank into a chair with my glass.
Diane sat opposite me. ‘I wish dear Mr Readings was here. He’d know who to contact and what the legal position was,’ she said. She gave a wan smile. ‘And the dear man would have celebrated such a good sale too.’
And I wished that Tom was here and was truly mine, instead of blowing hot and cold and vanishing at every turn, and that Justin would disappear from the face of the earth. Unfortunately, wishes didn’t always come true.
‘Don’t worry about it, dear.’ Diane’s voice intruded on my thoughts. ‘At least you’ve sold your paintings, and you always have that – your talent to paint evocative scenes of Aberglasney.’
‘The house is my inspiration,’ I said, and I knew I sounded despondent, but I was tired and it was time I went to bed. I kissed Diane’s cheek and went to my room, and there I climbed into bed, turned my face into the pillow, and cried bitter, self-pitying tears.
In the morning, everything seemed clearer and much more hopeful. I had a legal document that confirmed I was the owner of Aberglasney. It had been signed and sealed by Beatrice, by me, and by the solicitor. Of course I was the legal owner, and no one could take the house from me.
TWENTY-NINE
Some days later, when I’d returned home, Justin came to visit. The house seemed to crackle with hostility, and Beatrice, who I’d longed to question about Justin, was away on one of her frequent jaunts. I still couldn’t help but wonder where she disappeared to, but whenever I asked her she was vague and unwilling to talk about her life, and I couldn’t say I blamed her for that. Still, I dearly wanted to know about Justin and his history.
‘Come into the sitting room.’ I forced a pleasant smile as Justin handed Mrs Ward his cap. Today he looked like a country squire; I wouldn’t have been surprised to see him carrying a gun beneath his arm.
‘A tray of coffee, madam?’ Mrs Ward was staring suspiciously at Justin, and I wondered if she’d seen him before or if she knew anything about him. I was surprised at her formality; she usually addressed me by my Christian name.
‘That would be lovely, Mrs Ward.’ I gestured to the sofa. ‘Please take a seat Mr . . . er . . . Justin.’
He was staring round at the high ceilings and the beautifully moulded cornice, and I felt an instant antagonism to him. ‘You like my house?’ I emphasized the ‘my’, and he smiled as he took a seat.
‘I rather think the old place is mine.’ His words fell into the room like cold chips of ice. Mrs Ward almost dropped the tray of coffee she was carrying into the room. She frowned, and I shook my head, hoping she wouldn’t say anything. She took the hint and retreated, glaring at the visitor.
‘I don’t understand you,’ I said vaguely, unwilling to argue such an important point without professional advice.
‘It’s quite simple. I am the only son of Edwin Mansel-Atherton, therefore I am his heir.’
‘Then why have you taken so long to come to see me or the house – or, for that matter, a solicitor? Is there a will to that effect – that you are heir, I mean?’
‘As it happens, I haven’t searched for one, and what’s more I live in a very fine house in London. What would I do with this place? It takes so much money, and to what effect?’ He took a seat as if he owned the place. ‘A little bit of tidying and building isn’t going to change the bad ambience of the place, is it?’ He paused to drink some coffee, and with a grimace of distaste he put down his cup. ‘Chicory coffee from a bottle, I take it?’
‘The war hasn’t long ended, and we are still on rations,’ I pointed out, beginning to dislike Justin very much.
‘I could let you rent the old place, of course.’ He sounded smug.
I stood up, forcing my hands together to stop them shaking. I felt a cold fury turn to a fire in my belly. ‘How dare you come here and patronize and whine and then offer me the tenancy of my own house?’ My tone was raised.
Justin came towards me and I flinched, expecting a torrent of abuse. I’d got used to being roughly spoken to since I’d bought the house. Instead, Justin took me in his arms and kissed me, deeply and passionately, before I instinctively pushed him away.
‘We’ll talk again when you are a bit calmer,’ he said. He left me, and I heard the door slam after him as I almost fell into a chair.
I painted for the rest of the day, but my heart wasn’t in it. I went to bed early, wanting the night to pass.
In the morning, an early sun was shining and I felt refreshed. Feverishly, I searched for the document Beatrice had given me when I’d bought the house, and I sighed with relief when I found it filed away in my desk drawer. I read through it avidly, line by line, trying to learn if there was any loophole in the agreement. After reading and rereading, I could find nothing to disprove the legality of the document. Tomorrow I’d go into Swansea and see the solicitor who had witnessed my signature, I decided, just to be certain. I was still shaking, however, when I put the agreement away carefull
y and locked the drawer, hiding the key beneath the clock on the mantelpiece.
A knocking on the door made me freeze. I knew it was Justin before Mrs Ward announced him.
‘Do come in.’ My tone was frosty as I led the way into the sitting room. ‘Please tell me what I can do for you. I’m very busy today.’ I sat well away from him, with a low ornate table as a barrier between us. Mrs Ward brought us coffee, and I held my cup like a guard against his undoubted charm and good looks.
‘There’s no doubt the house is mine,’ he said without preamble, ‘but I have a solution, seeing as you don’t want to rent the old place from me.’
‘The house is mine,’ I said firmly, ‘and I have no intention of arguing about it.’
‘What I was thinking,’ he said, continuing as if I hadn’t spoken, ‘is that it would solve everything if we got married. Then there would be no dispute, and the house would belong to both of us.’
I was breathless with the cheek of it. ‘What makes you think I would want to marry you?’ My tone was angry, and I felt the heat come into my cheeks at his arrogance.
‘Well, you would be Mrs Mansel-Atherton for a start. You would have rights to the house, indisputable rights, and no one could take it from you.’
‘And you. What would you hope to get from such a marriage? My money? A very easy living?’ I asked, my voice heavy with sarcasm. ‘I’ve checked, and you have very little money except what you win at cards. You rent a good address in London and put yourself about as a man of means.’
‘I have charm and respectability, and I’ve done some checking too. You are – what shall we say? – a fallen woman, aren’t you? Rumour has it that you’ve had at least one man in your bed, not to put too fine a point on it, and some say these weekends you run are an excuse for all sorts of goings on. Didn’t one of the girls here have an illegitimate child, for instance?’
