The House on the Cliff

by D. E. Stevenson

  THE HOUSE ON THE CLIFF

  D. E. STEVENSON

  © D. E. Stevenson 1966

  D. E. Stevenson has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1966 by William Collins.

  This edition published in 2019 by Endeavour Media Ltd.

  to j. r. p. with love from d. e. s. 20th january, 1966

  Table of Contents

  Part One

  Part Two

  Part Three

  Part Four

  Part One

  1

  Messrs. Riggs, Sandford and Wilkins is an old-established firm of lawyers whose offices are to be found in a quiet street not far from the Palace of Westminster. The firm has moved with the times and inside the old-fashioned buildings there is modern comfort. This modernisation of the premises has been carefully done so that it does not offend old clients, who like old ways, and yet attracts new clients who appreciate the genial warmth of central heating, the convenience of a lift and the cleanliness of the rooms.

  The original partners have been dead for years but their descendants sit in their seats and carry on the tradition. Mr. Sandford, who was once “young Sandford” is now the senior partner; his nephew Ronald Leighton is the junior partner. Between these two extremes there is Arnold Riggs, his son Peter and two Blaygrove cousins—grandsons of the first Mr. Wilkins—there is also a young Wilkins but as he is reading law at Cambridge it will be some time before he is qualified to take his rightful place in the family firm.

  One afternoon in March Mr. Sandford decided to go home early and play golf. The day was mild and spring-like, there was nothing of importance in the office and Mr. Sandford had not played golf for weeks. Mr. Sandford was a bachelor. He lived at Uxbridge in a pleasant house with a delightful garden; his youngest sister kept house for him and made him very comfortable indeed. In fact Millie Sandford was so devoted to her brother that she was apt to spoil him . . . but that was their own affair.

  Mr. Sandford put away his papers, locked his safe and looked in to see his partner, Arnold Riggs, and explain his plan. Then he made his escape.

  There was nobody in the entrance hall but as he went out through the revolving door he saw a girl standing at the bottom of the steps gazing at the brass plate which was fixed to the railings. The plate was old and the legend, messrs. riggs, sandford and wilkins was partially obliterated by years of hearty polishing. . . .

  When the girl saw Mr. Sandford coming down the steps she turned and walked away.

  Mr. Sandford hesitated, wondering whether to speak to her; he was still hesitating when she turned and came back. She was thin and pale, not pretty, but graceful and well dressed.

  Mr. Sandford had a vague sort of feeling that he had seen her before. “Can I help you?” he asked.

  “Well . . . I don’t know. I really came . . . but I don’t think I’ll bother to-day.” She blushed as she spoke and he realised that she was younger than he had thought.

  “Are you looking for someone?”

  She nodded. “I really came to see Mr. Robert Sandford, but—but I don’t think I’ll bother.”

  “You see him,” said Mr. Sandford.

  “Do you mean you’re Mr. Sandford? I thought . . .”

  “What did you think?”

  “I thought he would be old,” she replied frankly.

  Mr. Sandford was old enough to feel pleased. He smiled very kindly and said, “What can I do for you?”

  She held out a copy of the Daily Telegraph. “It was that,” she explained. “Did you put in the advertisement? I suppose you must have put it in if you’re Mr. Robert Sandford. It says you want news of Marjory Thistlewood and—and I thought it must mean my mother.”

  “Your mother?”

  “Yes, it isn’t a common name, so I thought . . .”

  Mr. Sandford hesitated, but only for a moment. “You had better come in,” he said.

  She followed him into the hall and they went up in the lift together without speaking. Although he had been looking forward to his golf Mr. Sandford was too much interested in his visitor to mind the delay. If she were really Marjory Thistlewood’s daughter it would be very interesting indeed . . . but he must make sure of course.

  He waited until they were seated in his comfortable room and then said, “Yes, it was I who put in the advertisement; I have been advertising for months in all the daily papers. Where have you been?”

  “Where have I been?” asked the girl, with a surprised look. “I’ve been here, in London.”

  “Why didn’t you see my advertisement before?”

  “Oh, I see what you mean! As a matter of fact I wouldn’t have seen it to-day if it hadn’t been for a friend who drew my attention to it. She always takes the Daily Telegraph and reads it carefully. I didn’t want to come and see you—there didn’t seem any object in my coming—but Miss Martineau insisted on it. In fact she wanted to come with me but—but I thought that would be a mistake.”

  “Better to come by yourself.”

  “That’s what I thought. I brought my birth certificate and some other papers in case you wanted proof of my identity . . . but first I should like to know why you put in the advertisement.”

  “Mine is a long story,” said Mr. Sandford cautiously. “Before I embark upon it I should like to make sure I’m telling it to the right person.”

  She nodded and opening her handbag produced a large manilla envelope. “I don’t know if these papers are what you want,” she said doubtfully.

  He took the papers and examined them: the marriage certificate of Frederick Thistlewood and Marjory Mountjoy Ware; the birth certificate of Elfrida Jane Thistlewood. In addition there were half a dozen snapshots and a cabinet-size photograph of a woman and a child of about ten years old.

  Mr. Sandford smiled. He was convinced that his visitor was Elfrida Jane, not so much on account of the certificates (which might have been obtained from someone else) but because the face on the other side of the table, which was looking at him anxiously, bore an unmistakable resemblance to the face of the little girl in the photograph . . . and because, long ago, he had known Marjory Ware and this girl was like her. Very like her, thought Mr. Sandford with a sigh . . . the same blue eyes, the same wide forehead and generous mouth, the same shade of light-brown hair. There was a difference, of course, for Marjory had been a beautiful creature with a clear healthy skin and pink cheeks; her hair had been curly and full of golden lights; her eyes had been gay and sparkly, whereas this girl . . .

  He said suddenly, “You’re much too thin.”

  “Too thin?” she asked in surprise.

  “Too thin and pale and—and tired. Have you been ill?”

  “Oh, no, not ill,” replied the girl. “Things have been difficult lately and I’ve been working terribly hard. It doesn’t matter. If you’re satisfied that I’m the right person please tell me why you advertised for information about Mother.”

  “It’s a long story,” said Mr. Sandford. “It really begins when your mother was a girl. I knew your grandparents and used to go and stay with them in Devonshire. Perhaps you are aware that your grandparents didn’t want your mother to marry Frederick Thistlewood?”

  “They were in love with each other so she ran away and married him. Why shouldn’t they?”

  “Go on,” he said. “What happened to them?”

  “Father was an actor—you knew that, I expect. He wanted Mother to go on the stage and for a time she studied at a dramatic school but—but it was no good. She looked lovely, of course, but acting wasn’t her line. She used to get little jobs behind the scenes. I remember touring about the country when I was a child, livin
g in lodgings. I got small parts off and on.”

  “A hard life,” said Mr. Sandford compassionately.

  “Hard and—and anxious,” she agreed. “You never know what’s going to happen. I’m in a play now, The Motor Car. I was terribly pleased when I got the part, because it was the first big part I had managed to get, but it’s a silly play and badly produced so it isn’t going to last long. The critics tore it to pieces.”

  Mr. Sandford knew very little about the theatre but he remembered that his sister had mentioned The Motor Car. He said vaguely, “There’s a very good man in it, isn’t there?”

  “Glen Siddons? Yes, he’s very good indeed, but one man can’t carry everything on his shoulders, besides . . . well, it isn’t the right sort of play for him; it doesn’t give him enough scope. He was splendid in The Beggar King.”

  For a few moments the girl was animated—she had come alive—and her resemblance to her mother was intensified. That’s why I had a feeling I had seen her before, thought Mr. Sandford.

  He said, “Where are you living?”

  “In a boarding-house. It’s run by Miss Martineau; she’s interested in the theatre—all her boarders are on the stage.”

  “You mentioned Miss Martineau before.”

  “Yes, she’s the friend who saw your advertisement and advised me to come and see you. She’s very kind and—and interested in people.”

  “Does she make you comfortable?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  There was a short silence. Mr. Sandford took off his spectacles and polished them with a silk handkerchief. “Well, now,” he said. “You want to know about your grandparents. They were friends of my parents so the connection goes back a long way and we have always done all their business. Your grandfather died last August; he had been seriously ill for some time so his death was not unexpected. In October I received word that your grandmother would like to see me; needless to say I went at once.”

  “You went to Mountain Cross?”

  “Yes, I got my nephew to drive me down. It’s a long way. I suppose your mother has told you about the old house.”

  “She talked about it a lot, especially when she was ill. She told me stories about her childhood. There’s a little photograph of Mountain Cross in that envelope.”

  Mr. Sandford picked it up and looked at it. “Yes, it’s quite a good photograph. I know the house well, of course. It’s a solid, well-built house, comfortable but rather old-fashioned. Mr. Ware was one of the old school, he hated anything to be changed. It isn’t a house I should care to have,” added Mr. Sandford, thinking of his own modern, labour-saving little house at Uxbridge.

  “Mother loved it.”

  “Yes, it was her home,” agreed Mr. Sandford. “She was happy there when she was a child. Well, as I told you, I went to Mountain Cross and saw your grandmother; she was ill in bed so I saw the doctor and made sure she was being properly looked after. I had several long talks with her. She asked me to find her daughter.”

  “She wanted to see Mother?”

  “She told me that she had wanted Marjory for years; she had tried to persuade Mr. Ware to forgive Marjory and make up the quarrel but Mr. Ware was obdurate; he refused to speak of her, he had removed her portrait from the drawing-room wall. Your grandfather was a very determined man, Miss Thistlewood.”

  “Hard and unforgiving,” said Elfrida bitterly.

  Mr. Sandford hesitated and then said, “It’s difficult for you to understand, because you didn’t know them. The Wares were not young when Marjory was born, she was their one ewe lamb. Mr. Ware adored Marjory; he was immensely proud of her; nothing was too good for her. In his eyes she was perfect . . . so you can imagine what a terrible blow it was when she ran away with Frederick Thistlewood. However, it’s no use talking about that. When I saw your grandmother she was ill and lonely and wanted her daughter. She thought about Marjory constantly; she had had Marjory’s portrait hung over the chimney-piece in her bedroom so that she could see it from her bed. She besought me with tears to find Marjory. I said I would find her—as a matter of fact I didn’t think there would be much difficulty in finding her. That was in October and I’ve been searching for her ever since, advertising in the papers in London and in the Provinces, in America, Australia, Canada and New Zealand. I engaged a private inquiry agent to search for Marjory Thistlewood . . . what else could I do?”

  “Mother died on Christmas Day.”

  “Oh!” exclaimed Mr. Sandford in dismay. “Oh, dear, I was hoping . . .”

  “I’ll tell you about it—if you want to know.”

  “Yes, of course I want to know! Oh, dear, this is very sad news. I had hoped so much . . .”

  “We had a flat,” said Elfrida in level tones. “We lived there together. The flat was at the top of an old house; it was little more than an attic, too hot in summer and very cold in winter, but Mother made it a home. I was able to get small parts and Mother did sewing for one of the big shops. Then Mother got a cold which developed into bronchitis and the coughing affected her heart. She was ill for weeks; she couldn’t sleep and became weaker every day. At last she was so ill that the doctor said she must go into hospital. Mother didn’t want to leave me but there was nothing else for it—I was too busy rehearsing for The Motor Car to look after her properly—so they brought a stretcher and took her away. She was in hospital for a fortnight . . . and then died. After that I gave up the flat and went into lodgings. I couldn’t bear to be alone in the little flat . . . we had been so happy together . . . it wasn’t a home . . . any more.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Mr. Sandford sadly. “It must have been dreadful for you. Believe me, Miss Thistlewood, I sympathise with you most sincerely.” He hesitated and then added, “What I can’t understand is why we didn’t manage to find your mother. The private inquiry agent tried all the hospitals over and over again; it was one of the first things we thoughts of.”

  “You were looking for Mrs. Thistlewood, I suppose?”

  “Of course!”

  “We called ourselves Ware.”

  Mr. Sandford gazed at her in surprise.

  “I used it as my stage name,” she explained. “I’ve used it as my stage name ever since I was a child. You see, Elfrida Thistlewood is a frightful mouthful. Mother said Jane Thistlewood sounded quite well, but Elfrida Ware was better. Then, when Father died, Mother decided that it would be a good plan for us to be called the same; it was such a bother explaining to people that she was my mother.”

  “Your mother called herself Mrs. Ware?”

  “Yes, it saved trouble. I can see it seems funny to you, but it’s quite usual for stage people, you know.”

  It seemed very funny to him. “What about your father?” he asked. “You said he died. How long ago was that?”

  “He died years ago in Australia. He went to Sydney with a touring company and for a time he wrote to Mother . . . then we didn’t hear any more and Mother’s letters were returned.”

  “Didn’t you make any attempt to find out what had happened to him?”

  She shook her head. “We couldn’t spare the money and Mother was sure he was dead. Mother said he would have written to us if he could, so what was the use of making any inquiries?”

  Mr. Sandford was often surprised at the extraordinary things people did—or left undone—but this was almost incredible. He said, “You should have taken steps to trace your father; you could have done it through the police.”

  “Mother was sure he was dead.”

  “How long ago did this happen?”

  “I don’t know,” she began. “I can’t remember much about it; I was just a child . . . Oh, wait a minute! I must have been ten years old because Mother had that photograph taken to send to him. That makes it eleven years ago,” she added.

  Mr. Sandford was surprised; he had thought her younger. He said, “I can’t think why you didn’t see any of my advertisements, Miss Thistlewood. Don’t you ever read the papers?”

  “Not your
sort of papers,” replied Elfrida, with a sad little smile.

  “Oh, well, it can’t be helped. I’ve found you now.”

  “It’s too late. Mother died at Christmas.” She rose and added, “you can write and tell Mrs. Ware the whole story. Tell her that Mother often thought of Mountain Cross, especially during her last illness. She used to say, ‘the air is so lovely at Mountain Cross; I would get well quickly if I could breathe that lovely fresh air.’ We were very poor, you see. I couldn’t give her nourishing food or—or proper attention. Tell Mrs. Ware all that . . . and tell her that in spite of everything we were happy together because we loved each other so dearly.”

  “Your grandmother died two days ago.”

  “Oh!” exclaimed Elfrida with a little gasp.

  There was a short silence.

  “Please sit down, Miss Thistlewood,” said Mr. Sandford at last.

  “What’s the good?” she asked bitterly. “It’s over and done with. They’re all dead—all except me—and sometimes I wish I were dead too.”

  “Please sit down,” he repeated. “I know you’ve had a bad time but perhaps we can make things more comfortable for you. Before Mrs. Ware died she made a testamentary disposition in favour of her daughter. Let me explain the matter simply. I told you that I went to see Mrs. Ware when she was ill. She was very frail but her mind was perfectly clear; she told me that she wanted to make a new will, so I drafted it according to her instructions: there were some small legacies to friends and charities and a pension for the couple who were looking after her—they had been with the Wares for many years so it was right that they should be pensioned. Mountain Cross and the residue of Mrs. Ware’s estate she bequeathed to her daughter, Marjory . . . or to Marjory’s children. As I told you I felt certain I would be able to trace the family.”

  For a few moments Elfrida gazed at him in silence. Then she said in a whisper, “You mean . . . you mean it belongs to me?”

  “Yes.”