Diamonds of Death
Page 8
Alkmene decided to try a shot in the dark. ‘I do have a feeling she is somewhat locked up here in the countryside. Perhaps a change of scenery would be best, some time in the city.’
The general stared at her, his eyes wide. ‘Locked up? Oh, you mean the isolation of these parts. Yes, well… I suppose one could view it that way. But you are older, Lady Alkmene, if you forgive me saying so. When one is younger and more impressionable, one might need protection.’
Alkmene nodded solemnly. ‘I do not know Anne well. I feel sorry for her and I want to make life better for her. I considered taking her with me for a spell. But as I am known to do impetuous things… As you seem to know her better than I do, have even known her for a long time, back then when her mother was still alive, you may advise me. Do you think it wise if she were to leave here and live in London?’
The general considered her question for a few minutes. His eyes were grave, his expression tight with tension. Then he said, ‘The liveliness in the city might take her mind off that morose dwelling on her mother’s death. And now that her father has died as well, and in that fashion… The poor girl. She might need all the diversion she can get. On the other hand, the city, the people there, the…temptations.’
Alkmene thought this was a rather curious word to use. ‘Temptations?’ she prompted.
‘To spend money and all, be frivolous.’ He laughed, but it sounded insincere. ‘Her brother rather likes frugality. I would not want her to get in trouble with him.’
‘No,’ Alkmene said, ‘I think it would be better if she did not cross her brother in any way.’
The general held her gaze a moment.
Alkmene said, ‘So you had a good time that night before Lord Winters met his untimely death? When you left, you were all laughing and not at all aware of any danger lurking.’
The general hm-ed as he leaned back on his heels. ‘We did have this one little spat with young Winters. George, you know. Always has been a bit of a wild one. Drinking a little more than he can handle. He was mad with his father for some reason, shouting terrible abuse at him before he left.’
‘He did leave? He did not come back later…’ Alkmene let the sentence hang.
The general looked away from her, searching the room as if he wanted a way out. ‘I suppose not. I have no idea really. We all left. Came back here. We had a good time that night. Sorry it had to end that way. So sorry.’
‘Can you remember what particular reason George had for being mad at his father?’
‘There was none,’ the general rushed to say. ‘He had too much to drink and he got into a fit of anger over nothing. Nothing really.’
His demeanour belied his words, but Alkmene was not about to press the point. She smiled and said she would love to see his vases now. With visible relief the general walked ahead of her further into the room.
Chapter Nine
When they arrived at the Winters estate, Alkmene and Anne went into the house while Jake parked the car at the back.
In the hallway Helena came for them, down the stairs, her face tight with anger. ‘Where have you been all day?’ she snapped at Anne. ‘The undertaker was here, with the vicar, to discuss the funeral service. As he was your father, I suppose it would have been decent for you to be present and hear what is discussed.’
‘Hear it,’ Anne spat back, ‘as I can surely have no say in it. You would not let me. He was my father, yes, but you act like he was your father and you can determine everything.’
She burst past her sister-in-law and ran up the stairs.
Helena sighed, staring after Anne with her hands on her hips. ‘It does become a bit of a drag when somebody runs off at every argument. Just because she cannot win it.’
Alkmene smiled politely. ‘I am afraid it is all my fault. I asked Anne to show me around in the area, and time just flew by. Had I known she was wanted here, I would not have asked.’
Helena’s eyes flickered a moment as if the mention of ‘the area’ immediately made her suspicious. ‘Where did you go?’
Alkmene hesitated. She could lie, keep it vague, but she was interested in the woman’s response. ‘We saw the Grange. Beautiful old place. General DeBurgh was kind enough to show me his vase collection. Pieces from China, I gathered.’
At the name ‘the Grange’ Helena’s face had contorted into something like ridicule. ‘I knew she’d run after him like a schoolgirl,’ she hissed. ‘Albert will be furious. It cannot go on. She must be cared for.’
Alkmene wanted to ask what kind of care Helena had in mind, but the woman had already turned away from her and entered the room with her piano in it. Violent music burst out, as if she was just banging the keys in frustration.
Alkmene went up the steps in a rush to escape from the flood of off-key notes, which raised her neck hairs.
Bursting into her room, she found Anne sitting on her haunches beside the boxes, rubbing her hand over them as if she was petting a dog. Looking up at Alkmene, her eyes were full of tears. ‘I hate her. I hate her. She should have died. She should have gone and left us alone.’
The violence behind the words was quite shocking. This was more than just an outburst because Anne’s sister-in-law had snubbed her. She did want her to die.
Alkmene sat down on the bed. She studied the girl. ‘Helena is not happy that we went to the Grange. She seemed to sense right away that something was off with the visit and wants to speak to her husband about it. She says you should be cared for.’
‘She wants to lock me up in an asylum.’ Anne’s eyes flashed. ‘There, now you know it. She thinks I am unstable and not fit to run my own life.’
Alkmene raised a hand. ‘Now wait. Is that your own conclusion, or did Helena ever say so?’
‘Say so? It was even worse.’ Anne sat up, her eyes wide and feverish. ‘Once, a couple of months ago, when we went to see friends in the city, a man was there and he talked to me a while. He asked me all kinds of questions about what animals I liked, what I dreamed of, where I’d like to go if I could choose any place in the world. I thought it was just conversation, you know, someone trying to be nice to me. But later I heard he was a famous psychiatrist and he had told my brother that I was very disturbed for a young person and I needed therapy.’
Anne laughed softly. ‘I think he believed my brother would spend a lot of money to let him treat me. It was just a lie to get money out of my gullible family. Right? I am not really mad.’ Her expression changed from defiant to worried, almost anxious. ‘Right?’
Did Anne know what had been said of her mother, shortly before she had died?
Alkmene swallowed and forced a light tone. ‘I have really no idea what these new-fashioned psychologists do with their dream therapy and all. I know I have the oddest dreams at times and I can assure you it means absolutely nothing. At least I don’t feel like I should be in therapy for them.’
Anne laughed again. ‘Good. I can talk to you.’ She jumped to her feet. ‘Can I unpack some of these boxes, see what is in them?’
‘Of course. Do whatever you want. They are your mother’s things.’ Alkmene wanted to rise from her position on the bed. ‘Perhaps I had better leave you to it.’
She was not sure she would have liked a stranger to be present when she went through her mother’s things, not having been able to touch them for so many years.
‘No, stay. I don’t want to do this alone.’ Anne’s gaze was pleading. ‘I have not seen these things since she died in India. I don’t know how I will feel when I see them again. Her death was so sudden. And they all lied to me about it.’
Alkmene sank back on the bed. ‘Lied to you about it?’
Anne didn’t respond. She stood at the boxes, almost as if she was afraid to touch them now that she had the chance. She reached out and ran a finger over the top. Her hand was shaking.
Alkmene bit her lip. Her own limbs felt heavy, and her throat clogged up.
Anne said, ‘You are related to her too. I guess it is OK then.�
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A pang of guilt shot through Alkmene. Related, yes, but how much had her mother really cared for her half-sister? And why had her father always acted like that part of the family did not exist?
She said quickly, ‘I never heard much about her. You must understand that my mother died when I was just four years old.’
‘Does your father ever talk about her? Mine never mentioned her again after she died in India and we all came back here. It was like he wanted to forget her.’
Anne opened the lid of the top box. She gasped a moment. ‘Her dressing gown… The one with the peacocks. I loved it so. It shimmered under the light.’ She pulled it out with a careful, almost reverent touch.
The rich fabric unfurled to the floor, revealing an elaborate pattern of peacocks in blossoming trees. The colours had faded a bit over time, but the shimmer Anne had mentioned was still there.
The girl stroked the fabric, her face still, lost in memories.
Alkmene said softly, ‘My father never talks about much to me, except for his plants. He is a botanist, you know, always on the trail of a new rare species. He travels a lot to places so far away I don’t even get any letters for months. We are not that close.’
‘It was the same with Daddy and me. Not that he travelled a lot, but he was always doing something. Busy with something. Mostly his stones.’
Alkmene perked up. ‘The stones that got stolen the night he died?’
Anne sighed as she held her mother’s dressing gown in both of her hands. ‘The stones all came from India. I have no idea how he got them there. I think people paid him with stones or he bought them from traders. They have nice stones there. Special ones. Not just diamonds, but also rubies and emeralds. He collected them. My mother used to say he was just like a magpie, in love with sparkly things.’ She laughed. ‘Mama could say funny things like that.’
Alkmene smiled. ‘Did your father mind when she did?’
‘No.’ Anne’s expression set. ‘Not because he liked what she said, but because he thought it was silly. He often said that what she thought or said was all silly. Especially about the stones bringing bad luck.’ She held Alkmene’s gaze. ‘My mother was sure the stones would somehow make us all unhappy.’
‘Superstition?’ Alkmene asked. She tried to form an opinion of this unknown woman who had lived her life far away from home, in a mysterious land, loving animals, taking care of the strays, finding the love she lacked from her husband with those helpless and in need of her. Depending on her to keep them safe and happy. A woman perhaps who had been carried away by the mood of the land around her, by the beliefs of local people?
‘No. Mama said it was their past that made them wicked. What people had done to own them.’ Anne looked at her. ‘All of the stones had some history of murder attached.’
Alkmene shivered, reaching out to rub her arms. ‘I guess your mother had a point then. Your father died because of the stones.’
Anne looked over the dressing gown. ‘It looked so pretty on her.’ She walked over to the tall mirror and held the dressing gown in front of her. Staring intently at her mirror image, she said, ‘Why did you have to die? Why did you have to leave me?’
Alkmene studied the girl’s thin frame, the shoulder blades sticking through the cardigan she wore. ‘What happened to your mother?’
Anne turned away from the mirror jerkily. ‘She left me. They all leave.’ She dropped the dressing gown to the floor and ran from the room, banging the door shut.
Alkmene sighed and rose to pick the precious fabric off the floor. Helena did have a point that it was frustrating when someone ran out on you just as you were about to discuss something serious and important.
She lifted the dressing gown and folded it, then walked over to the box to put it back in place. As she began to lower it in, she saw a bundle of papers lying on a neatly folded robe. A red ribbon was tied round them. Of the top one a few lines were visible. Dear sister, it read, I have to tell you this, and only you.
Alkmene froze. Dear sister?
To her knowledge her aunt had only had one sister. So the sister referred to here had to be Alkmene’s mother. Were these letters written to her?
But why were they here in this box at the Winters estate? Had they never been sent from India to England at the time?
Alkmene carefully took the stack and pulled it up, looked at the lines. Half out loud, she read, ‘There is no one else I can trust. I think I am going insane.’
Alkmene dropped the stack back into the box as if she had burned herself. She remembered Jake Dubois’s joking remark to her about Denise Hargrove’s interest in her ancestors. Madness in the family? he had asked, tongue in cheek.
It had hit an uncomfortable note with her as she had once as a child caught a hint of a whisper, a snippet of conversation between some acquaintances. Sad to die that way.
Deluded.
She had not even been sure what the word deluded meant. But now she was.
Her mother’s half-sister, having gone insane. She had written about it. Her own admission could not be a lie.
Was that the reason why Albert and his wife Helena were so concerned for Anne’s mood swings, her unpredictable behaviour? Was that why they had asked the psychiatrist to talk to her, at a party, where she would have no idea her mental condition was being assessed?
Did Albert and Helena think Anne was going crazy, like her mother had?
Like Alkmene’s own aunt had?
Alkmene looked down her own body, as if it had suddenly grown claws or fangs. Mental illness in her family? In her bloodline?
Was that why her father had never wanted to talk about the half-sister and the other relatives? Had he hoped she would never find out about what had happened in India? How the poor woman had died?
George said it had been a disease all right. With a mixture of abhorrence and fear.
And the general at the Grange had also talked about her aunt with a curious mix of pity and anxiety. Like one does about someone ill who might never recover. Poor woman, he kept saying.
Alkmene swallowed hard. The room’s air suddenly seemed stuffy and suffocating.
She tried to calm her breathing and think up a logical way to handle this situation.
It was pertinent she found out how her aunt had died. If only to set her own mind at ease. Else she might forever wonder about the blood running in her own veins and the possibility that one day in the future she’d also start thinking she was losing her mind.
She looked around her in the room, suddenly finding all the blue cold and threatening. Why had Helena put her in this very room?
Had she guessed, even hoped, that Alkmene would be curious enough to open the boxes and find the letters? Read the incriminating lines written by a desperate woman to her half-sister back at home, the only one she felt she could still trust?
What had Helena’s intentions been with that move? Just to humiliate her? Just to pain her with bad news about her family?
Or was there much more to it?
Anne had said Helena had come to the family house in India and had bewitched everybody.
Alkmene stared ahead with a thoughtful frown.
She wondered if it had been after Helena’s arrival that her aunt had started to feel like she was losing her mind.
Chapter Ten
Anne did not appear at the dinner table. Helena had apparently informed her husband of the visit to the Grange for Albert was looking at Anne’s empty seat with drawn brows and a tight line around his mouth.
Alkmene worried that by her agreement to the plan to see the Grange she had made the situation worse for the poor girl. But she had not known Anne wanted to meet her lover there. Just that she wanted to be away from this stifling place. Something that had made a lot of sense to her.
George was not there either. Just the three of them ate in silence, only broken by the scraping of cutlery over china or the tinkling of a wine glass. The atmosphere was heavy like thunder brewed in the distance
and lightning could come crashing down any moment.
Alkmene did not wonder why Anne disliked it here and wanted to leave. She had only been here a short while, with a clear purpose in mind, and already she was aching to leave.
Especially to leave behind the implication her aunt might have been mad.
Albert excused himself again before dessert and Alkmene rose also. Normally she loved pudding and pastry over anything and would not forgo her favourite bit of the evening meal, but she was not about to sit alone with Helena and let the strange woman offend her again. She claimed to need an evening walk to stretch her legs and left in a rush.
Outside she walked to the stables, patting a horse on the neck and talking to it, fetching a carrot from a bowl and offering it, listening to the happy munching as she considered her next move. She had to read the letters, all of them, in order, to assess the mental condition of the woman who had written them. To see if it deteriorated over time, if perhaps there were clear signs of delusion, growing into madness, contained in those papers. Proof, black on white, of what had happened in India, all those years ago.
But she was not sure that she was able to.
That she really wanted to know.
She wanted Jake to do the reading for her. He was a stranger, not related to the writer of the letters, so he could do it with a clear mind, drawing the inevitable conclusion without personal regret or pain.
But asking him to do it meant revealing to him what she had seen and how it had shocked her. Knowing him, he would not make light of something serious, but still she was not sure if she would later on regret having shared something so personal and sensitive with him.
‘Like horses, huh?’ a voice with double tongue asked.
Alkmene looked up to the hayloft. George Winters glared down at her, a bottle in his hand. Straw rained down as he moved towards the ladder.
‘Stay there,’ she said at once. ‘You might break a leg.’
‘Afraid of blood?’ George asked.