By the light of a lamp outside, I could see through the diamond panes the shadows of trees and bushes, tossed fitfully back and forth by the increasing wind. Above me, the fan-vaulted roof stretched ahead perhaps forty feet to another doorway, this one pure Gothic, with a pointed arch.
On my right, small but sturdy buttresses supported a wall pierced by two similar arched doorways. The door in the nearer one was slightly ajar, and through it I heard voices.
The male voice was loud and bombastic. I would have recognized Dave Harrison anywhere. I hadn’t heard Julie speak, but I assumed the petulant female voice was hers. Alan had guessed wrong. They were up and about, and in foul moods, and their bitter quarrel was getting closer to the door.
I loathe embarrassing encounters, but all the escape routes were too far away for a person with healing knees, so I took the coward’s way out. Sliding behind one of the buttresses to wait in the shadows until they had left, I hoped devoutly that they wouldn’t glance my way.
‘. . . why we had to come to this pile of garbage in the first place! There isn’t even a TV in our room. And the food!’
They were in the doorway now, their shadows bulking large in the light from the room.
‘Well, we didn’t come to watch TV,’ said Dave, ‘so just shut up about it. And you could stand to lose a few pounds, babe.’
‘Me!’ Julie’s voice rose to nearly a shriek. ‘What about that beer belly of yours? And you put away Jim’s Scotch just fine. With no ice, yet. God, I hate this place.’
‘Keep your voice down! Do you want your sister to hear? You came, sweet cakes, for a loving family visit, and don’t you forget it. And we’re staying till we get what we want. And till I get even with that dumb Polack!’ The last came out in a vicious whisper, as they moved past me up the hallway toward the main house.
Once I heard the connecting door open and close, I breathed again and moved on down the corridor. But as I explored the old abbey rooms, I wondered mightily. The Harrisons could have bickered and complained anywhere. Why had they chosen Branston Abbey?
THREE
I had been unsure about the clothes I would need for the weekend. ‘Are we going to have to dress for dinner?’ I had asked Alan, and he’d been mildly amused.
‘Only as formally as you’d dress for a meal at a good restaurant. I shall certainly not take my dress suit.’
So it was a ‘little black dress’ I wore that first night, with a pair of small diamond earrings Alan had given me one Christmas, and a string of pearls. I regretfully left my frivolous black cocktail hat in its box. I may be the last hat wearer in the UK, barring the Queen, but there are limits to what one can get by with in a private house.
We gathered in the drawing room for a pre-dinner drink, and my hopes that the Harrisons would absent themselves were immediately dashed. There they were, standing by the fireplace. Julie’s dress was of gorgeous dark green satin, well-cut, but not quite concealing those extra pounds Dave had mentioned. Still, she looked quite nice, and would have looked nicer if her face had not been set in a scowl. Dave, with a large Band-Aid across his nose and two black eyes beginning to develop, was waving a glass of Scotch around as he lectured Jim Moynihan on something or other. Plainly the drink was not his first since he left the cloister. His speech was slurred and his discourse rambling enough to be incomprehensible.
‘You said he hit his head,’ I said to Alan in an undertone. ‘Should he be drinking?’
‘Probably not. Are you going to tell him so?’
I rolled my eyes. ‘Someone should. But no, I’m not brave enough. Besides, if he passes out he’ll be a lot less trouble for everybody.’
‘The sentiment does not do you credit, love. I agree with it wholeheartedly.’ He handed me a glass of sherry from a tray, and took one himself.
The slurred voice rose higher. ‘Be damned if I will! Came to this fuckin’ place and I’m not goin’ home till I get—’
His wife’s shrill voice rose over his. ‘Shut up, Dave! You’re drunk and sounding like an ass!’ She removed the glass from his hand and threw its contents into his face.
He turned to her, his face alarmingly red, his mouth opening and closing rather like a fish. Jim took a large handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to Dave. ‘You’d better mop up, pal. Then we’ll send a tray up to your room. Julie, you’ll look after him, I’m sure.’
Julie looked rebellious for a moment, then shrugged. ‘He’ll pass out in a minute or two, anyway. And be better company, at that, than this mouldy bunch.’ She stalked out of the room.
‘Mr Bates, would you help Mr Harrison to his room, please?’ Joyce took over smoothly. ‘I’m afraid he’s not feeling very well. And if Mrs Bates could prepare a dinner tray for them?’
It seemed as if the entire room breathed a collective sigh of relief as the butler seized Dave in a firm grip and ‘helped’ him out of the room. Certainly Joyce took a deep breath before she smiled and addressed us all.
‘Sorry about that,’ she said. ‘Dave drinks a little more than he should, from time to time, but I’m sure he’ll be fine. Now some of you haven’t met our other dinner guests. Dorothy, Alan, this is the vicar, Paul Leatherbury. And this lovely lady is, believe it or not, our village solicitor, Pat Heseltine. Pat, meet Dorothy Martin and her husband Alan Nesbitt.’
Pat Heseltine resembled my idea of an English solicitor approximately as a peacock resembles a mouse. Perhaps fifty, she still had a perfect figure and smooth, creamy skin. She was poured into a little gold number that must have set her back hundreds and hundreds of pounds. It set off her flaming red hair beautifully. She wore no jewellery, and didn’t need it.
My dear husband’s eyes widened. He took her hand and held it, in my opinion, just a moment too long.
‘Good evening,’ I said, with a smile that, despite my best efforts, was a little stiff. I trust my husband completely, but this woman could tempt a celibate saint.
‘Don’t worry, luv,’ said the vision in a voice of whiskey and honey, winking at me. ‘They all do it – doesn’t mean a thing.’
I responded with a meaningless smile and turned with some polite remark to the vicar. We were interrupted by a strident, discordant clamour from outside the room. I nearly dropped my sherry glass, and all conversation stopped.
Joyce looked mischievous. ‘The dinner gong, ladies and gentlemen. I believe dinner is served!’
There were no empty places at the table. Evidently the efficient Mr Bates had removed those assigned to the Horrible Harrisons. I did a quick count as we walked into the room and nudged Alan. ‘Eleven of us at table,’ I whispered. ‘There would have been thirteen with the Harrisons. Isn’t there some kind of English superstition about that?’
‘Then it’s a good thing they’re not here. For more than one reason.’ He grinned at me before we were separated by our hostess.
In the old days husbands and wives were never allowed to sit together at table. The Moynihans were sticking to tradition, so I found myself, quite happily, between Ed Walinski and Mr Upshawe, with Lynn, the vicar, and Mike Leonard across from us, and the Andersons, Pat Heseltine, and Alan scattered about on either side. I wasn’t altogether happy that Pat and Alan were seated next to each other, but the woman had to sit somewhere, I supposed. Given our uneven numbers, there were too many men sitting next to each other. Jim Moynihan sat at the head of the table and Joyce at the foot.
For a little while I had no attention to spare for anything except my dinner. If I’d thought about it at all, I had expected decent food, but not like this. We started with a consommé julienne, none of whose ingredients had ever seen a tin. The fish was a morsel of perfectly cooked sole Bonne Femme, followed by chicken in some sort of creamy cheese sauce, accompanied by perfectly cooked vegetables. I had got to the salad course before I became interested in any conversation that didn’t involve passing the butter or accepting a little more wine.
‘I know almost nothing about the history of this amazing house,’
I said to Mr Upshawe, ‘except that it was obviously once an abbey. Did your family live in it for a long time?’
‘Well, my father was the first one in my immediate family to live here,’ he said, ‘and his cousin’s family not for very long, in relative terms. They bought the house in . . . 1843, I think it was – when the Branston line ran out. Now the Branstons had lived here for centuries, literally. Henry VIII gave the original Lord Branston the Abbey property, and incidentally the title, for “services rendered to the crown”. Nobody knows exactly what those services were, but I gather tradition tended to believe they were of a salacious nature. Old Henry was a bit of a Jack the Lad, as I expect you know.’
‘What’s a “Jack the Lad”?’ asked the photographer.
‘Oh, sorry. Let’s see . . . a rip, a roué, a rogue.’
‘A Royal Rascal,’ Ed contributed.
‘In short,’ I said, ‘a man who does exactly as he pleases. Which would fit Henry, all right. Although all I really know about him, come to think of it, is that he had six wives and murdered two of them.’
‘Please! Beheaded them. Judicial murder.’
‘Oh, yes. I stand corrected. It does make a tremendous difference. Especially to the victim.’
‘Who should have tried to keep her head,’ Ed put in. I was beginning to warm to this man.
Laurence Upshawe laughed and held up his hands. ‘I’m not here to defend Henry. He would need far better counsel for the defence than I. And how did we get started on him anyway?’
‘The house,’ I prompted. ‘He gave it to Lord Branston for services rendered.’
‘Oh, yes. In fifteen-something. And it remained in Branston hands for three-hundred-odd years, until there were no Branstons left and my great-great – I forget how many greats – uncle bought it. By that time it was pretty much the hodgepodge you see now, except for the Gothick and Regency touches, which were added by the first couple of Upshawe generations.’
‘For which,’ put in Joyce Moynihan, ‘they are either blessed or cursed, depending on whether you prefer your architecture pure or fun.’
‘“Pure” was past praying for at that point,’ said Upshawe with a chuckle. ‘The old chaps who built the place wouldn’t have known it by the time my family took possession.’
‘The monks didn’t approve of such monk-ey shines?’ That was Ed. We all groaned appreciatively.
‘The resident ghosts apparently took it in their stride,’ said Upshawe amiably. ‘If ghosts can be said to have a stride.’
‘In their glide,’ suggested Ed.
‘Exactly. But the County didn’t like us, ghosts to the contrary notwithstanding. We were called the “Upstarts” for years, my father told me, and even now I think there’s some feeling in the village that we’re incomers. In any case, the Vicar could probably tell you a great deal more about the history of the house than I can.’
‘Then the vicar’s the man I need,’ said Ed. He looked across the table, but the vicar was deep in conversation with Jim Moynihan. ‘Tomorrow,’ said Ed.
‘I want to know about the ghosts.’ I turned back to Upshawe.
‘Well, again, I don’t actually know much about them. No one’s ever seen them, so far as I know. Certainly I never have. I will admit there’s an odd feeling about some of the rooms occasionally, especially in the cloisters and on the second floor. That is, the third floor to you Americans. We never used those bedrooms much, for some reason. And there used to be a story in the village about strange noises, but I don’t know that I give much credence to it. I’m something of an agnostic when it comes to ghosts.’
‘But surely, in a house this old, where people have given birth, and died, and lived happily and unhappily for centuries, there would be plenty of reasons for restless spirits, or at least an atmosphere,’ I argued. ‘I’m inclined to believe in ghosts. In England, anyway. Not in America so much. We’re too young a country to have really old houses. Partly because we tear them down before they have a chance to turn into something amazing like this place.’
‘“Amazing” is the word, certainly. Some would call the whole place a travesty,’ said Upshawe apologetically.
‘Interesting, though. You gotta admit there’s nothing boring about this heap,’ said Ed, serious for a change. ‘I can’t wait to get started with the pictures tomorrow. Something different, everywhere you look.’
Alan left off his conversation with the delectable Pat to say, ‘Dorothy and I may go with you, if you’ve no objection. We thought of going on a sort of treasure hunt for architectural oddities. I agree with you about the house, Ed, but it wouldn’t appeal to a purist.’
‘Nor,’ said Mike, the dancer, with a malicious smile, ‘to our American visitors the Hor— the Harrisons. One does hope their views do not prevail. I heard Mr Harrison say, this afternoon, that the entire structure – “the whole damned place” was the charming way he put it – should be levelled, and a modern resort hotel built on the site. The better, one gathers, to attract tourists, despoil the countryside, ruin the village, and make millions.’
‘My brother-in-law’s opinions,’ said Joyce calmly, ‘are often somewhat . . . peculiar. Jim and I usually pay no attention. This is, in any case, a listed building, and therefore untouchable. You cannot imagine the hoops we had to jump through just to get planning permission to modernize the bathrooms, and add a few. More wine, anyone?’
We were nearly all suppressing yawns by the time we’d finished an amazing orange soufflé and refused (most of us) Stilton and biscuits. Those who cared for after-dinner coffee had it in front of the drawing room fire, with drinks available for those who wanted a nightcap.
The miserable weather had returned, with rain falling in torrents. I turned to the vicar, who sipped his pale whiskey and soda in the armchair next to me. ‘You’re going to get terribly wet going home, if this keeps up,’
‘I’ve accepted Mrs Moynihan’s kind invitation to stay the night,’ he said placidly, ‘as, I believe, has Miss Heseltine. In the words of the immortal W.C. Fields, “It ain’t a fit night out for man nor beast”.’ His English-accented version of the famous line set me into such a fit of laughter that I developed hiccups and had to be slapped on the back.
No one lingered long. It was a night for snuggling down under the covers, and besides, ‘We’re all afraid the Horrible Harrisons will show up again,’ said Lynn in an undertone as she and Tom left the drawing room with Alan and me.
I yawned. ‘I think Dave’s out for the count, but you’re right. The mere possibility casts a pall. Let’s just hope his hangover is bad enough to keep him in bed late tomorrow.’
‘Amen,’ said Alan piously, and we trooped upstairs to bed.
FOUR
I woke much later, feeling far too warm. The fire in the fireplace had died out long ago, but the duvet felt stifling.
Drat it all, I hadn’t had this bad a hot flash in years! This was unexpected, and unpleasant. I didn’t want to freeze Alan, but I had to have some relief. I crept out of bed, went to the window, and pushed it open.
The wind rushed in, billowing the curtains and knocking over a small lamp on the table by the window. No wonder it was hot in the room! It wasn’t me – the rain had stopped, and the outside temperature must have risen twenty degrees since we’d gone to bed.
Odd.
I got back into bed, pushed the duvet away, and curled up covered only by the sheet.
Sleep wouldn’t come. The wind seemed to strengthen every minute. It howled around the corners of the old house, battered against the walls, flung itself down the chimney. The house creaked and cracked, and so did the trees outside.
I have never liked wind storms. I can enjoy a good thunderstorm, but high winds make me nervous. I put the pillow over my head, but I could still hear the wind, could still feel it, too, blowing against the sheet, chilly, chillier . . .
For heaven’s sake! Now it was cold again – and raining again. Impatiently, I got out of bed again and forced the window cl
osed.
‘Can’t sleep, love?’ Alan sounded pretty wide awake, too.
‘It’s the wind. You know I hate wind. And I was too warm, but now I’m cold. The weather is behaving very oddly. It’s . . . unsettling.’
‘Put in your ear plugs and come back to bed. This is a strong old house. It can withstand the wind. There, now, isn’t that better?’ He pulled me close, as if to shut out the wind and the storm. I relaxed and after a time I slept.
‘What was that?’ I sat straight up in bed, my heart pounding furiously. My dream of gunshots was still clinging to my consciousness. The loudest dream-shot had wakened me. In my dream it had been a cannon. But the bangs and booms continued into wakefulness, sounding loudly over the howls of the wind.
I didn’t know what time it was, though it felt like the middle of the night. The room was pitch dark, but I could hear that Alan was awake, too, and getting out of bed.
‘Alan, what’s happening? What’s all the noise?’
‘It’s the wind, blowing things about. Devil of a wind, I’ve never known one like it. That last crash was something hitting the house, something big. I’m going down to see.’
‘Not and leave me here by myself, you’re not!’ I fumbled for my slippers as I reached for the bedside lamp.
Nothing happened. The switch clicked uselessly.
I have a recurring nightmare about waking in the middle of the night and trying, frantically, to turn on a light. I try every lamp, every wall switch. There is no light.
My nightmare had just come true. ‘Alan, wait!’ I shouted in panic. ‘Alan!’
‘I’m here.’ His voice, raised over the tumult, was calm, and calming. ‘I’m looking for the torch. Do you remember where you put it?’
I tried to remember what I’d done with the flashlight we always take along when we travel. ‘I think it’s on the table on your side of the bed. Or in the drawer, maybe.’
An interval. The wind howled, and when it let up for a second or two, we could hear voices.
A Dark and Stormy Night Page 3
