by Amy Cross
I watch the dying flames for a moment longer, before turning and seeing that Mum is almost at the house's back door.
“You can't do this,” I whisper, although I doubt very much that she can hear me. “You just...”
My voice trails off as I realize that there's absolutely no point arguing with her. Instead, I step closer to the fire and start searching the remains, hoping that I might still be able to preserve a few scraps that escaped the worst of the flames. Unfortunately I find nothing at all, and soon the fire has burned out entirely, leaving just a pile of ash. Dropping to my knees, I reach down and run my fingers through what's left of the papers, and I can't shake a feeling of immense loss. I've never been someone who believes very much in intuition, but I feel as if there was plenty in those papers that deserved to be known. I was going to go through it all and learn the truth about the family. I was going to finish the work that my uncle started.
“Rebecca?”
Turning, I see Detective Johnson making his way across the lawn, having parked his car in the driveway.
“Are you okay?” he asks as he gets closer. “I'm very sorry about your aunt, I heard the news this morning. Are you having a clear-out of her things already?”
“My mother did this,” I whisper, feeling as if I might throw up at any moment. I can't believe I felt sorry for her earlier. “She burned my uncle's papers.”
“Is that a fact?” he replies, pausing for a moment as he looks down at the ash. “Well, maybe she has her reasons for wanting to keep the past hidden.”
I stare at the pile of ash for a moment longer, before turning to him.
“I got the results of some tests back this morning,” he continues. “The guys in the lab did a very thorough job with the body you found in your aunt's house. Thanks to a combination of DNA tests and hospital records, we're now more or less certain that we know the identity of the dead woman.”
“Who was she?” I ask, getting to my feet.
He hesitates for a moment, and I can see the concern in his eyes.
“Who was she?” I ask again.
“Her name was...” He pauses. “Her name was Rebecca Wallace.”
I stare at him, trying to make sense of what he just said. “I...” I take a deep breath. “I think there's been a mistake,” I tell him cautiously. “I'm Rebecca Wallace.”
“Right,” he replies. “Well, yes, I expected you might say that.” Reaching into his pocket, he slips out a folded piece of paper and holds it out toward me. “I've got a feeling you're going to want to see this.”
Chapter Fifty-Six
“I know what you did.”
Stopping in the reception room as she's about to examine another of the silver candlesticks, my mother – or rather, the woman I've thought of as my mother for all these years – hesitates for a moment before slowly turning to me.
I swear, I've always seen guilt and fear in her eyes, but it's only now that I understand.
“I know what you did,” I say again, “and I guess I know why you were so quick to build that little bonfire out on the lawn. You were trying to get rid of the evidence.”
“Well,” she replies, forcing an extremely unconvincing smile, “I honestly have no idea what you're -”
“Esmerelda Switherington,” I add, interrupting her.
She visibly flinches as soon as she hears those words.
“That's my real name, isn't it?” I continue, taking another look at the birth certificate that Johnson gave me a few minutes ago. “Esmerelda Mary Switherington. Mary, I assume, after my father's mother.”
I wait for a reply, but finally – after so long – I seem to have actually shut her up.
Suddenly she hurries over and tries to snatch the paper from my hand, although I pull it away just in time.
“Gonna burn that too?” I ask. “Burn anything you like, but it won't change the truth. Not unless you want to shove me on the bonfire with it.”
“You don't know what you're talking about,” she replies, her eyes filled with fear now. “Rebecca, I insist that you -”
“That's not my name!” I say firmly, with tears in my eyes. “Rebecca Wallace is dead. She was the body I found alone in one of the house's abandoned rooms. According to the autopsy, she'd been dead for almost five years, and the cause was most likely some combination of malnourishment and neglect. She was basically left to starve.”
I wait for a reply, but now there are tears in Mum's eyes.
No.
Not Mum's eyes.
Barbara's eyes. I have to get used to calling her that now. This lying, deceitful woman is not my mother, and never has been.
“Emily was my mother,” I continue, feeling a sense of tight shock in my chest. “She's dead too now. She died last night. I tried to save her, and I didn't even realize at the time that she was my...”
My voice trails off, and after a moment Barbara turns and makes her way back over to the candlestick.
“There's a police detective outside,” I tell her, struggling to hold back tears. “He has some questions for you.”
I wait for an answer, but she simply picks up the candlestick and examines it for a moment, before wiping a couple of stray tears from her cheeks.
“You know,” she says finally, her voice trembling with shock, “we'll need to get this assayed properly. They really might be worth something, perhaps we could even take it onto the Antiques Roadshow and -”
“What did you do?” I ask, feeling a sense of anger starting to rise through my body. “What in God's name did you do, and when?”
She pauses, still examining the candlestick for a moment as if, somehow, that's what matters here.
“It was for the best,” she says finally. “Rebecca was... not well. Oh, let's not beat around the bush, she was retarded. And she screamed and cried all the bloody time, and I couldn't handle it. Maybe that's wrong of me -”
“Maybe?” I ask, shocked by the suggestion. “You were her mother!”
“She hated me,” she continues, setting the candlestick back on the mantelpiece. She pauses, before wiping a tear from her cheek. “I was scared of what I'd do to her if she kept screaming like that. Meanwhile Emily had this sweet, beautiful little girl who was absolutely perfect, and yet she also had all the time in the world to look after her. There seemed to be a certain mismatch in terms of which child had been born to which of us.”
“So you decided to swap?” I ask.
“You were so much easier to raise,” she replies. “People complimented me on you. They thought I was such a good mother, and I was! Once I had a proper, normal girl to raise, I was the best mother imaginable!” She pauses, watching me with a hint of concern. “I did the right thing for both of you,” she continues finally. “You'll understand that one day. Your aunt would have understood, too, if she'd ever...”
I wait for her to continue.
“If she'd ever what?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “Never mind.”
“If she'd ever known?” I ask, stepping closer. I swear, my whole body is trembling with shock and anger now as I start to realize the truth. “But she didn't know, did she? Jesus Christ, did you actually swap us as babies, and not even tell Emily?”
“Her dementia was already quite bad,” she replies, “and she was easily...”
Again, her voice trails off.
“I thought,” she continues, taking a handkerchief from her pocket and wiping away more tears, “that Emily would be in a much better position to raise Rebecca here at Auercliff, where she could shower love and attention on her. Emily was always more patient, she was simply the best person to look after such a difficult girl.”
“When we came to visit that time,” I reply, “and Nathan and I both thought we heard someone in the abandoned part of the house...”
“I told Emily to keep the girl out of sight,” she admits. “I just didn't want the fuss of her being around. She was such a simple and stupid girl, and she barely even learned to talk. She j
ust let out all these horrible grunts most of the time, and she constantly has mucus all over her nose and mouth.” She flinches, as if the memory is almost too much for her. “She was severely mentally handicapped,” she adds finally, “and it was better for all concerned if she remained in her room for the duration of our visit. But she got out of her room one day and stole the key to the mausoleum, and she was playing in there when you turned up.”
“So there was someone in there with me?”
“The little retard probably thought it was funny.”
“She was your daughter,” I point out, barely able to contain my anger.
“No, you were my daughter!” she snaps. “I mean, you are! I raised you, I looked after you and -”
“You stole me!”
She sighs. “If you're going to be melodramatic about it, then I think we -”
“You stole me from your own sister!”
Another sigh. “Rebecca, please -”
“Don't call me that!” I hiss.
“What should I call you, then?” she asks. “Esmerelda? Really? Esme-fucking-relda? For God's sake, it's the most ridiculous name one can imagine.” She pauses, and it's clear that some of her usual self-righteousness has returned. “You should thank me for taking you away from this awful place!” Another pause. “I didn't do anything wrong.”
I open my mouth to ask if she's serious, but I quickly realize that she genuinely thinks she's in the right.
“I did what was best for all concerned,” she continues. “I know it's popular these days for young women to hate their mothers, but if you actually think for yourself for five seconds, you'll see that I made the right decision. The world would be a much better place if everyone was like me.”
I shake my head.
“Oh, spare me the sanctimony,” she adds, rolling her eyes again. “The last time I was here at Auercliff, almost five years ago now, I saw what a mess Emily had become. I dropped by unannounced, all alone, just a few days after you and I had argued.” She pauses. “That retarded girl was running amok, I had to lock her in the old part of the house just to get some peace and quiet while I checked on Emily.”
“You locked the real Rebecca away?”
She nods. “She was so noisy and annoying.”
“And then you left?”
“After talking to Emily. I realized then that -”
“She died!” I hiss, feeling a wave of shock in my chest.
“Emily? Yes, I know, but -”
“No, Rebecca” I shout, stepping toward her and pushing her back.
“What are you talking about?” she stammers.
“Rebecca is dead!”
“I know, but perhaps it's for the best. She was barely -”
“You locked her in the other side of the house!” I shout. “A mentally ill girl, with no means of getting out unless someone went and helped her!”
She opens her mouth to argue with me, but I can see that she's starting to understand.
“Emily was here,” she stammers. “I told Emily to let her out again.”
“Emily was sick,” I continue. “Emily's mind was going.”
Tears are running down Barbara's face now. “I told her,” she whispers. “I knew she was in a bad way, but...”
Too shocked to say another word, I take a step back as I realize what must have happened. Emily must have been in a particularly bad way after Barbara's last visit, and she didn't remember to let Rebecca out from the other side of the house. And if she heard the poor girl banging on the walls or calling for help, she probably just thought it was a ghost.
“She starved to death,” I whisper.
For a moment, I can't help imagining poor Rebecca trapped and alone in the house's western wing. She probably didn't understand what was happening. Meanwhile, Emily's mind was falling apart and she simply thought the ghost was making all the noises.
“She was left all alone,” I add, with tears running down my face, “and she starved.”
I wait, but after a moment Barbara turns and starts walking toward the chairs by the window. After just a few paces, however, her trembling legs give way and she drops down to her knees.
“You locked her away,” I continue, staring at the back of her head, “and Emily never let her out.”
Again I wait for an answer, but I can hear that Barbara has finally started sobbing. For a moment, I consider going over and comforting her, but then a wave of hatred washes over me and I realize I need to get out of here before I do or say something I'll regret.
Turning, I hurry to the door.
“I love you,” Barbara whimpers.
I glance back and see that she's crawling to the chairs. She turns to me and I see tears streaming down her face.
“I love you,” she says again. “You'll always be my daughter, no matter what you think. You'll realize that one day, I know you will. Please, come and sit with me. I don't want to be alone right now.”
I stare at her for a moment, before turning and walking out.
“Get back here!” she shouts, her voice filled with all the anger and fury that I remember from my childhood. “I'm ordering you, Rebecca! I'm your mother and I demand that you come back!”
“She's all yours,” I tell Detective Johnson as I hurry toward the front door. “Ask her about the time she locked a mentally ill girl away in the old side of the house.”
“I'll need a statement from you!” he calls after me.
“Later.”
“Rebecca, wait!” Barbara calls out from the reception room. “Come back! You have to think about this properly! Don't be a fucking idiot! Get back here right now!”
Ignoring her, I quicken my pace. All I know is that I have to get away from her, that I have to go somewhere and get my thoughts together. The air in the house suddenly seems very thin, and I can barely breathe. Detective Johnson has already told me that charges are unlikely, given the amount of time that has passed and the fact that there are no witnesses who can testify about what Barbara did, but right now I just need to be alone.
And I don't ever want to see that woman again. She was my aunt, not my mother, and she can go to hell.
Finally, once I'm outside, I lean against the wall and take a series of deep, gulping breaths. With tears running down my face, I sit on the gravel and try to get my thoughts together. All I can think about, however, is that poor girl trapped alone in the abandoned side of the house, left to starve to death. She must have been terrified, and in so much pain, and no-one went to help her. Poor Emily's mind was in tatters, and she didn't even realize what was happening.
Holding my head in my hands as more tears stream down my cheeks, I feel as if I might never stop crying again.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
“I'm on my way,” Scott replies. “I'll drive all night and I'll be there first thing in the morning. Until then, I really think you should reconsider. Go back to the village and stay in the pub again.”
“I'm fine here,” I reply, sitting dry-eyed in the study. “Barbara's not going to come back. The police took her to ask some questions, and I think I just want to...”
My voice trails off as I look at the scraps of notebooks and letters that I've managed to find elsewhere in the house. Most of Martin's work was destroyed in the bonfire, but Emily kept a few items next to her bed and I also located a few journals that Barbara somehow missed in her haste. It's not a lot, but at least I have something I can use to keep my mind occupied tonight.
Looking over at the window, I see that it's pitch-black outside now. I reach over and switch on a lamp, bringing a little more light to the room.
“Why are you doing this?” Scott asks.
“Doing what?”
“Making yourself stay the night in that house, after everything that has happened.”
I pause, listening to the silence all around.
“I have to face it,” I tell him finally. “I can't run away. Just one night will be enough.”
“I'm worried about y
ou,” he replies. “I don't like to think of you all alone in that place.”
“I'll be fine.”
“Rebecca, no-one would be fine after what you've been through. Please, I'm begging you, go to the village for the night.”
“I'm staying at Auercliff,” I tell him. “It's just a house, it's my...” I pause as I realize the enormity of what I was about to say. “It's my family's house,” I continue finally. “Martin Switherington was my father, not my uncle. That means I'm directly descended from all the Switheringtons who lived here in the past. Even if Emily's mind was too far gone for her to realize the truth...”
Again, my voice trails off. To be honest, it's getting difficult to keep my thoughts together.
“And it's not spooky being all alone there?” Scott asks.
I look over at the doorway, and out at the dark hallway where all those paintings still hang on the wall. I pause for a moment, but there's no hint of movement, and the entire house is absolutely silent.
“It's just me here,” I reply, feeling a rush of relief. “There are no ghosts.”
“But -”
“I need this,” I add. “I need to spend one night here now that I know who I really am, and I need to learn more about my family history. And I need to prove to myself that it really is just a house. I'll be fine, I promise.”
Again, my thoughts seem muddled, and finally I realize that I can't put it all into words.
“You shouldn't drive all night,” I continue. “You should get some rest.”
“I'll be there at first light,” he replies. “Nothing in the whole world can keep me away.”
Once the call is over, I take a moment to rearrange the documents on the desk and then I get to my feet, figuring that I should force myself to eat something before I really get stuck into the work. Heading around the desk and toward the door, I tell myself that I can spend the entire night going through what's left of the history of Auercliff, trying to piece together the various links. Fortunately, I was able to find a family tree in the library, which means I can trace the different generations of the Switherington family – of my family – going back more than five hundred years. By morning, I should have a much better idea of who I really am.
