I was gaining more respect for Pat with each passing hour. It was agreed: Pat went off to sit with the victim, or the chief suspect, depending on how you looked at it, and Alan returned to his work in the cloister.
‘I expect you’re badly in need of a nap,’ I commented to the vicar.
‘No, I need fresh air more than anything, I believe. I intend to take a walk.’
‘It isn’t very nice out there,’ I said. ‘I went out this morning, to look at the river, and . . .’ The lump in my throat stopped me.
‘Yes. That poor young man. It was a gallant gesture, no matter how ill-advised. Perhaps, Mrs Martin, you would care to walk a little way with me? The rain will keep away for another hour or so, I believe, and you can wrap up well. I’d be grateful for the company.’
What he meant, I suspected, was that he thought I needed some comfort. He was right about that, certainly. I found my coat and hat and borrowed some wellies, and we set out.
Mr Leatherbury was silent, a companionable silence, waiting for me to choose a topic. I didn’t want to talk about tragedy. I was weary of disaster, frustrated by our inability to do anything about – anything. At least Jim and Alan and the other men were doing something constructive, clearing away the worst of the messes and beginning repairs. I could find nothing useful to do or say.
But the thought of repairs reminded me of what, centuries ago, I had wanted to ask the vicar. ‘Mr Leatherbury, Joyce or Laurence or somebody told me you knew a lot about the history of this house. All I know is the brief outline Laurence gave us at dinner that first night. Can you tell me more?’
His face lit up. ‘Ah. You’ve hit on my passion. I warn you, I can talk about this house until you’re begging for mercy. What specifically did you want to know?’
I laughed. ‘I know too little even to ask. But I suppose I’m most interested in the ghosts – if you as a clergyman concede their existence.’
He chuckled. ‘Not officially, but I’ll tell you some of the stories, and you can judge for yourself. The oldest ghost who is purported to haunt these premises is, as one might expect, a monk who resented being turned out. The story has it that he fought King Henry’s men, against the express orders of his abbot, who had commanded them all to go peacefully. So not only was he – Brother David – killed in the scuffle, but his abbot refused him absolution.’
‘So he has no home in heaven and must walk the earth,’ I finished. ‘That’s rather a creepy story. Would an abbot actually do such a thing?’
‘That’s hard to tell. It was a long time ago, and such stories are notoriously unreliable. On the other hand, Abbot Benedict – it was a Benedictine house, and he had chosen the name of the founder – was by all contemporary accounts a tough old bird, harsh with the men under his jurisdiction. And Brother David, as one would expect, was a Welshman, with the fiery temper of his race.’
‘What was a Welshman doing way over here in Kent?’
‘That,’ said the vicar, negotiating a stretch of lawn that was especially littered with storm debris, and giving me his arm for support, ‘is one of the details that make the story somewhat suspect.’
‘Have you ever seen him? Brother David, I mean?’
‘Certainly not.’ It was said with a twinkle that left me unsure of whether he was speaking the literal truth or taking the official line that ghosts didn’t exist.
‘So you said he’s the oldest of them. There are more, then?’
‘Legions. The usual spurned lovers and bereft maidens. An early Branston, around 1650, who was said to have drowned in one of the garden ponds, is reputed to go about with a fish in his pocket, slapping it in one’s face.’
‘Ugh!’ I shuddered. ‘A real goldfish in the face would be bad enough, but a long-dead one – no, thank you! Are there no really romantic legends about the house? Alan had a temporary appointment at Bramshill once, and they had a marvellous ghost story, about a bride who was, with her guests, playing hide and seek on her wedding night. I’d have thought she’d have had better things to do, but anyway, she hid in a chest, it locked itself, and she wasn’t found for years.’
The vicar laughed. ‘Oh, that one’s been around for a long time, at various locations. Hiding on one’s wedding night appears to have been a popular pastime. But no, there aren’t any like that here. The house has seen its usual share of tragedy, as one might imagine. From the time the monastery was established in 1042, people have lived here. That’s a long time. Wars have taken their toll, as have diseases. The household was not immune to the Black Plague, nor to the influenza epidemic in the early twentieth century. Several of the Upshawes fell to the flu, which explains why there was no closer heir than a cousin when old Charles died.’
I sighed. There we were, back at the problem. The elephant in the room. ‘Mr Leatherbury, do you think Laurence . . . had anything to do with Dave Harrison’s death?’
‘I should think that was obvious,’ he said, with a touch more acid in his voice than I expected. ‘Plainly he was on the scene. However, if you’re asking me if I believe he pushed the man in the river, I do not. I’ve been a clergyman for a good long time, Mrs Martin. One comes to know something about people. Laurence Upshawe is not a killer.’
He had a point. Still . . . ‘You knew him before he went to New Zealand?’
‘No. I’ve been incumbent here for only twenty years, and Laurence left in . . . 1982, I believe it was. I know his family’s history because I’m fanatically interested in old houses and have read everything I could about this one, but I met the man for the first time on Thursday night – when you did. You’re perfectly justified in doubting my judgment.’
‘It isn’t that so much. As a matter of fact I agree with you, and I think Alan does, too. But the police have to go by evidence – and Laurence was the only other one on the scene.’
‘That,’ he said with finality, ‘is their problem, not mine. It’s getting rather chilly. Shall we go in?’
SEVENTEEN
‘Wait. Please.’ I put my hand on his arm. ‘I didn’t mean to offend you. It’s just that this horrible business is the only thing I can think about. I wish to goodness I’d never seen that miserable skeleton. That’s what started everything!’
‘No, my dear. And it is I who should apologize. I should not have been so snappish with you. But your discovery did not begin this matter. It began long ago, with whoever buried the poor man under the tree. And if you had not found the evidence, someone else would have.’
‘Yes, well, that would have suited me better,’ I retorted. ‘I was so looking forward to seeing a proper Guy Fawkes celebration. I love fireworks. I’m being childish; sorry.’
‘It is a great pity, all round. Have you never celebrated the Fifth of November?’
‘No. I’ve lived in England only a few years, and somehow Alan and I have never been in the right place on that day. He’s told me all about it, of course, the Catholic plot to blow up Parliament. I’m still not quite sure why the Gunpowder Plot should be a cause for celebration.’
‘But we celebrate not the plot, but the fact that it was foiled.’
‘Isn’t it just a little . . . well, politically incorrect? Burning an effigy of Guy Fawkes, a Catholic? It seems a bit grisly.’
‘You may not know that a celebration of the saving of the King and the House of Lords was mandated by Parliament shortly after the event. Bonfires and the ringing of church bells became traditional. The fireworks and the burning of the guy came later, having little to do with the historical occasion – any more than parades and baseball games have to do with your American Independence Day.’
‘Well, it’s not quite the same – but I see your point. At any rate, I’m sorry to miss all the fun, though fireworks aren’t at all important compared to the issues we’re dealing with here.’
‘True. Whoops, here it comes!’ The rain came as suddenly, and as copiously, as turning on a faucet. We were soaked to the skin in seconds.
At this rate, I thought b
itterly as I squelched up to my room to change clothes yet again, I might as well just walk around all weekend in my underwear and have done with trying to keep clean and dry.
The rain also put a stop to the restoration work in the cloister. Alan came upstairs shortly after I did, nearly as wet as I and a whole lot grubbier. He washed as best he could in the limited hot water available, and grumbled. Alan isn’t a grumbler, by nature, but this endless ‘holiday’ was trying even his patience. ‘And what am I meant to wear?’ he asked, standing in his shorts and undershirt when he had removed as much grime as possible. ‘Everything I have here is either wet or dirty or both.’
I paused a moment to admire the view. My husband is a large man, not fat but tall and, even at his age, powerfully built. His gray hair adds authority to his commanding presence. He is, in short, a hunk.
And one of the dearest people on the planet – even when he’s grumpy. I smiled at him. ‘Aha! You reckoned without your brilliant wife. I thought ahead, and borrowed some clothes from Mr Bates. He’s just about the same size, and he was happy to oblige. They’re not quite your style, but in the circumstances, I didn’t think you’d mind too much. They are at any rate both clean and dry.’
He actually looked quite nice in them, if somewhat more casual than he usually appears. I hadn’t fared so well. No one in the house was my size, which rather runs to the dumpling configuration. But one of Joyce’s sweaters fit not too badly with my cleanest pair of slacks. Beggars, as I carefully had not said to Alan, can’t be choosers.
We went down to a badly needed cup of tea. The rain slashed at the window panes and dripped down the chimney, hissing in the kitchen fire. Nobody had much to say.
‘We wouldn’t have been able to do the fireworks anyway.’ That was Joyce.
‘No,’ Jim responded listlessly. ‘And we can’t work on the house until this lets up.’
‘But we’re coming along on the ark.’ Ed tried to lighten the atmosphere. He didn’t succeed. I missed Mike, who would have made everyone laugh with some drawling, bitchy remark. Astonishingly, I missed Pat, who had come down when the vicar relieved her, downed a cup of tea and a biscuit or two, muttered an excuse, and gone off, presumably to the library to read something classic. She could strike sparks, but apparently wasn’t in the mood. Tom and Lynn hadn’t come down at all.
The house party was utterly demoralized, and Jim and Joyce didn’t even seem to notice.
‘Somebody has to do something,’ I whispered to Alan, ‘or we’ll all go stir crazy.’
‘You’re right about that.’ He rose, stretched, and addressed our host. ‘Jim, I have a proposal to make. I know Mr Bates has been trying to assess the damage to the house, but he has a great many other responsibilities. Suppose you and I take a complete tour of the house and see what we can from the inside. An outside inspection is needed, too, but with this kind of rain, we’ll be able to tell a good deal from where damp spots appear, where the rain is actually coming in walls and windows – that kind of thing. And anyone else who would like to come along can get the house tour we were promised and never had time for. What do you think?’
There was no wild upsurge of enthusiasm. Everyone was too dispirited for that. But eventually we recruited Ed, who hadn’t yet been able to see the house thoroughly, and dragged Tom and Lynn out of their lair. Pat, who was in a strange mood, growled that she already knew as much about the house as she cared to, thank you very much. Mr Bates found several lanterns, since the rain made the house dim as well as gloomy, and we assembled what flashlights we had.
‘Should have waited until morning,’ Ed complained. ‘Can’t see worth a damn this afternoon.’
‘If we had waited,’ I said, sotto voce, ‘there would have been more murders done. And I might have been one of the villains.’
In truth it was a somewhat futile exercise, but it gave us something to do besides sitting around wishing we were anywhere else on the planet. And though we couldn’t see much in the way of storm damage, from the standpoint of a house tour it was perfect. Those rooms hadn’t been designed for harsh electric lighting. Daylight, candles and, later, lamps would have provided the illumination for the first many hundred years that the house had been standing. Our lanterns restored the lovely proportions of the rooms, softened and mellowed the old panelling, showed the carving at its best.
They also, less fortunately, made the uneven floors and odd corners that much more hazardous. The first time I tripped on a raised floorboard I nearly fell. After that I kept my hand tucked securely in Alan’s arm.
I had wandered a good bit of the house by myself, or so I thought. I soon realized I had only scratched the surface. Mr Bates, who knew the house intimately and soon became our guide, knew the history of every room, every piece of furniture, every painting. This bit of panelling was reputed to have been removed from one of Thomas More’s rooms after More fell out of favour with the king. This was an Adam fireplace, this a Gainsborough painting. Here was the bed Queen Anne had slept in, bought for the purpose, her visit nearly bankrupting the family. And so on.
‘Mr Bates,’ I said when we were climbing to the third floor and I could get a word in edgewise, ‘the Harrisons apparently had some idea there were tunnels leading from the house. I thought it unlikely, myself, because those were mostly used for smuggling, and we’re too far from the sea. Right?’
‘Indeed, madam. To my knowledge there is no history of smuggling or piracy connected with the house, but during the civil wars various hiding places were devised, because the Branstons were royalist, and there were pockets of Parliamentarians out to do mischief wherever they could. The family plate was locked up on several occasions, and once, if the stories are true, the family themselves had to go into hiding. Most of the secret rooms have been converted over the years into bathrooms and closets, but I can show you one of them, or I hope I can. I came across it the other day when I was repairing a bit of the panelling.’
We were in one of the unused third-floor bedrooms. He stepped to the wall near the fireplace and, carefully moving aside a chair, pushed on a piece of moulding. It moved aside to reveal a keyhole, surrounded by old brass, black as iron. Bates took from his pocket a huge old key, the kind I associated with castles and dungeons. ‘I don’t know that this will fit, but it’s the right size and age. It was in a drawer in one of the attics, with a lot of other old keys, and I’ve found the locks that match most of them. Even if it fits, the lock’s apt to be a bit stiff,’ he said, man-oeuvring the key into the lock. ‘I don’t imagine this has been opened for a hundred years or more.’
We were very still. The rain pounded against the house; the lanterns flickered. Our modern clothes were hidden in the gloom; only our white faces could be seen. I felt suddenly oppressed, as if back in that time of terror when King James’s loyalists were hunted down by Cromwell’s men, Christian against Christian, Englishman against Englishman.
And I suddenly did not, very much did not, want to see that door opened. If I had followed my instincts, I would have fled that room, run down to warmth and light and normality. But I suppose my manners were overdeveloped, so I gripped Alan’s arm and waited.
The lock was indeed stiff, but Bates persevered, and suddenly, with a harsh grating sound like the gnashing of teeth, the lock gave. Bates pushed, shoved, then tugged at the door, which finally, with an eldritch shriek of hinges, opened outward. Bates took the lantern he had asked Jim to hold, held it high, and illuminated the interior of the dark hole in the wall.
And crashed to the floor in a dead faint.
EIGHTEEN
Somebody screamed. Maybe it was I. I don’t know. I vaguely remember Alan pulling me close, burying my face in his shoulder so I couldn’t see. Tom and Ed hustled Lynn away, while Jim tried to deal with the inert form of the butler. When I could think again, I said shakily, ‘Love, you’d better see to Mr Bates. You know CPR and all that. I’ll take Lynn to the next room and wait for you. Just – just be as quick as you can.’
‘Sure you’ll be all right?’
‘Sure. But give me the flashlight. Come, Lynn.’
The flashlight didn’t give us as much light as a lantern, but it was modern. It didn’t flicker evocatively, didn’t conjure up images of past dreadfulness.
Lynn and I just sat for a few minutes, our hands clasped together tightly, trying to stop shaking. When I thought I could speak without chattering teeth, I said feebly, ‘Was that thing real?’
‘I don’t know.’ Lynn’s voice was no steadier than mine. ‘I thought it was maybe a ghost. Dorothy, it moved! I swear it moved!’
‘I think it just fell forward. I – at first I thought it was the guy. You know, for the bonfire. But it wasn’t, was it?’
‘It was a woman. I think. There was a dress . . .’
‘It looked like . . . Lynn, do you know what it reminded me of? You remember that terrifying scene in Psycho when they go into the room where the mother is, and she’s in that rocking chair, and—’
‘Don’t! She looked like that, exactly like that, all dead and dried up and horrible . . .’
Lynn’s voice was rising higher and higher, and I wasn’t feeling steady enough myself to calm her down, so I was most relieved when Tom and Alan walked in. No two men ever looked more like white knights. I could feel my blood pressure drop about thirty points just at the sight of him. Lynn started to sob on Tom’s shoulder.
It took me differently. I had to know. ‘Alan, what was that thing?’ I didn’t at the moment even remember to be concerned about Bates.
‘A body, my dear. Long dead, mummified by being in there close to the fireplace for so long.’
‘A woman?’
‘From the clothes, yes. They’re remarkably well-preserved.’
‘And . . . how old? How long was that poor thing walled up in there?’ I was starting to shake again, to gasp. The space was so small, so airless, so dark . . .
A Dark and Stormy Night Page 12
