Secrets of the Past

by Estella McQueen

  Secrets of the Past

  Estella McQueen

  © Estella McQueen 2017

  Estella McQueen has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 2017 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  This edition published in 2018 by Endeavour Media Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  Chapter One

  The text was from his brother. Carols in the Courtyard. Addleston House 3pm.

  Was it a hint, an invitation? It was deliberately obtuse. The question was: why?

  What the hell. An hour’s drive away at the most. He needn’t stay long - a walk round the lake, tea and cake in the tearoom, and back in time for dinner.

  The tree-lined, wintry-sparse B-road that took him towards the entrance of Addleston Park that afternoon was freshly tarmacked, the road markings new; otherwise the grounds looked much the same as any other English country estate.

  Bumping over the cattle grid he whizzed past the distinctively twisted branches of a monkey puzzle tree next to the gatekeeper’s cottage and on he went.

  The long drive was exactly that, drawing him away from civilisation, deeper into the estate, deeper into the past, until a red brick Neo-classical mansion emerged from behind the trees; its four towers presiding majestically over what was left of the once generous parkland.

  He parked the car, buttoned his coat and set off for the east front.

  Soaring above his head, the vast pillared portico and classically decorated pediment made a particularly arresting introduction, and the stone griffins either side of the staircase, lent a seductive fairy-tale quality to the house’s welcome. The temptation to scamper up the steps to the raised courtyard was pronounced, and he was about to begin the ascent when he noticed a well-dressed woman approaching hurriedly from the stable block. Wearing a broad brimmed hat pulled low over her auburn fringe and a slim handbag tucked under her arm, she looked as though she’d just stepped off the running board of an old Tin Lizzie.

  ‘Can I help you?’ said the woman.

  His mind was blank.

  ‘There’s mulled wine and mince pies on the lawn,’ she went on, ‘a gift stall near the tea shop, and the choir’s on at three...Have you visited the house before?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Never.’

  A sudden and unbidden pang of grief tugged at his innards; an odd experience, after all he’d never met this woman before. A torrent of memories was unleashed in his mind, things he hadn’t thought about for a long time.

  ‘Oh,’ said the woman. ‘You’re looking for Astrid!’

  ‘I am?’

  The woman blinked. ‘I’ll find her for you. My name’s Megs,’ she added.

  ‘Charlie,’ he replied. ‘Charlie Gilchrist.’

  ‘Don’t go away,’ she said. ‘I’ll be back.’

  In the meantime he resumed the climb up the steps towards the courtyard.

  Passing under the colonnaded portico now twinkling prettily with fairy lights, Charlie caught a pungent whiff of cinnamon and cloves. In the corner was a vast Christmas tree, alive with silver bulbs and shining blue baubles, and he slipped in amongst the crowd as the choir, some ten-fold strong, kicked off with a lively ‘God rest ye merry gentlemen.’

  Taking a song sheet from an obliging bystander he made a half-hearted attempt to sing along, realised his rusty voice wasn’t up to it, and hummed a few bars instead.

  The choir voices rang sweet in the afternoon gloom, lifting the grey heaviness, cutting through the cold. Inexplicably moved by their dedication to the task, he leaned back against the nearest pillar and gazed up at the stone pineapples on the cupolas: a symbol of the owner’s wealth. As if the massive house itself wasn’t enough of a giveaway. The man alongside sang lustily, drowning out pretty much everyone else in the vicinity.

  Almost before the singers had even lowered their song sheets, Charlie made his way back down the steps towards the trestle tables now set up on the gravelled area below. There was some sort of marquee too, like a beer tent, pitched on the picnic area. He couldn’t see Megs anywhere so he helped himself to a plastic cup of mulled wine and went to stand by the iron railings. He harboured a suspicion that mulled wine probably smelt better than it tasted but he rested the cup against his chin and inhaled the steamy fragrance.

  The lake appeared gently ruffled and blue grey in the distance, the picnic area tufted and overgrown, and the copse between the field and the car park concealed a gardener’s tool shed. Three hundred years was nothing to such an inscrutably poised and elegant building, splendidly minding its own business; a blink of an eye, a brief disinterested turn of the head, a momentary distraction.

  A pair of supercilious swans glided past and then Megs reappeared, sidling up beside him. ‘We had a film crew here last year. Dickens thing, it was. Hire the place out, get some income, promote ourselves. One of Astrid’s whatsits, innovations. Anyway, you ready?’ Megs eyed him expectantly.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Come on,’ Megs said, cocking her head. ‘This way.’ She took Charlie’s arm and escorted him back up the steps and across the now empty courtyard towards the main entrance. ‘The house isn’t open to visitors today, but I’ve got the key, and we’re not visitors. Don’t worry,’ she said mischievously, ‘you’ll be all right with me.’

  Megs unlocked the front door and ushered Charlie inside. All the blinds were drawn and the sculptures covered in white shrouds. ‘The house is being put to bed for the winter,’ Megs said. ‘Gives it a whole different whatsit, when it’s asleep. Dimension.’

  Despite the limited light, the grand entrance hall was bright, fresh, well kept. It was the house’s greatest asset, the reason it had been saved for the nation in the first place. The coffered ceilings in the alcoves either end, and the friezes around the walls, were bright white against the clean grey paint.

  Giving him no time to linger, Megs hurried across the inlaid Portland stone floor, her shoes tic tacking on the bare surface. Through the corridor opposite, and beyond the library and the breakfast room, they were headed straight to the areas closed to the public - offices and the store rooms. Charlie followed Megs down a short flight of steps to the lower ground floor, hurrying to keep up. He looked out for paintings, wall hangings, carvings, decorative features, anything that might give him something to think about until they arrived at their destination.

  ‘Now,’ said Megs, stopping outside an office door, ‘let’s see if she’s in.’

  She knocked twice and paused, her fist hovering in mid-air.

  ‘Come in!’ said a voice from within.

  Megs opened the door and propelled Charlie inside. ‘There you go! Don’t hurry back.’ She scurried away, her heels echoing down the corridor, her laughter reverberating around the Gre
at Stair.

  Charlie took a step forward and then stopped.

  A strange dislocation occurred whereby the present became the past, the past became the present. A blink of an eye, a brief disinterested turn of the head, a momentary distraction. The woman smiled at him. He smiled back. It was only polite.

  ‘I’ve been looking for you,’ she said quite unexpectedly.

  He found his tongue at last. ‘Have you?’ His voice sounded ludicrously high, without depth or tone, or anything approaching gravitas.

  She pitched forwards suddenly in her chair. ‘Mr Gilchrist, I’ve got something to show you, and I think you’re going to like it.’ She rapped out a brisk two-fingered tattoo on the desk edge. ‘Yes,’ she said with quiet satisfaction. ‘I think you’re going to be very interested indeed.’

  It was hot in the office. His head felt itchy. He unbuttoned his coat collar and unwound his scarf. ‘In that case,’ he said, ‘I think I’ll sit down.’

  Chapter Two

  She didn’t look like your average estate manager. Estate managers were supposed to be middle aged and stomp the grounds in mud-caked Hunter wellies, padded gilets and a woolly hat. Astrid Buchanan was in her late twenties, wearing slim jeans and a generous cowl necked sweater.

  By comparison his crumpled Paul Smith suit jacket was worn smooth at the cuffs like he’d had it for years. Which he had. His white open-necked shirt was tucked haphazardly into his black jeans and his watch was scratched and battered like he’d been using it in a war zone. He scuffed his hair out of his eyes. ‘Something to show me?’ he said. ‘And what might that be?’

  ‘The Taffeta Silk bedroom,’ she said, ‘on the first floor.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Recent renovations in the room uncovered something interesting. When the workmen lifted some damaged floorboards, a small wooden box was found concealed between the joists.’

  ‘What kind of box?’

  ‘Exciting, mysterious, locked kind of box.’ She made a shape with her hands. ‘About so big. Judging by the design on the lid and the condition of the inlay, I’d suggest late eighteenth century, possibly early nineteenth.’

  Stories behind the objects. That’s what it was about. He wasn’t totally convinced by Astrid’s spin, however. It could easily turn out to be a worm ridden trinket box filled with old bills and washing receipts, like Catherine Moreland’s disappointing discovery in Northanger Abbey. ‘And why would that interest me?’

  She sat back in her seat. ‘I understand you have a special affinity for certain objects, artefacts, documents?’

  ‘No more than you, I expect.’

  Evidently it wasn’t the answer she’d anticipated. What exactly did she want from him?

  ‘Well you can see that after lengthy submergence in a three hundred year old house, I’m desperate for lost treasures,’ she said. ‘Mysteries, secrets – they’re the only reason I work here.’

  ‘Really?’ he teased. ‘I thought it was love of the formal planting, cream teas and scented soap in the gift shop.’

  ‘Don’t forget the shortbread and the tea towels. Personally,’ she went on, ‘it’s cruelty, tragedy, illness and war that get my juices flowing.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Charlie. ‘And that’s just the staff.’

  A hint of impatience flitted across her brow and Charlie felt extremely foolish. Now she would think he was arrogant and indifferent, and didn’t take her or her job seriously. And that wasn’t true at all.

  ‘You’re right,’ he said, ‘I am fascinated by characters and tales from the past.’

  Her attitude warmed slightly. ‘That’s the gist of it. Tales from the past, I mean. Doesn’t always come off, mind you. It’s all about trying to recreate a picture of the people who used to live here, but it’s also about being able to wander around a beautiful garden and sit on a bench in front of the lake.’ She checked her watch. ‘Dark in an hour but that gives us plenty of time. Come on!’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘On a tour of the house of course!’

  *

  Back in the entrance hall Astrid rattled off a brief, potted history of the building to date. ‘Original site medieval, present building dating from late seventeenth century, various alterations over succeeding decades, empty for a period during late nineteenth century, used by the army during the second world war. With me so far?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Charlie, ‘very clear.’

  ‘Bequeathed to the nation, acquired by our organization, opened to the public ten years ago.’ She crossed the floor and opened the door to an immensely long gallery, bare of carpet, bereft of curtains, with only a handful of paintings hanging on the pea green walls. A pair of narrow sofas covered in emerald watered silk either side of the fireplace were utterly dwarfed by the size of the room.

  ‘The Chinese gallery. Forty feet long and occupying the whole of the garden front. With a great view of the meadow from the windows. But most of the contents were sold to pay for death duties, and the two Chinese pagodas -’ she pointed to a pair of ceramic sculptures either side of a large mirror, ‘are the only original artefacts left.’

  Feet echoing on the bare floorboards they paced the great expanse from one end of the gallery to the other. ‘It’s all in the guidebook: the gradual dispersal of the house’s contents, the stuff that got destroyed in the fire…,’

  ‘What fire?’

  ‘A disastrous blaze in the nineteen-thirties. This side of the house suffered particularly badly. During the war the important paintings were sent to Jersey for safe keeping and were promptly sunk by a U-boat.’

  He almost laughed; it was the way she’d said it. ‘How valuable?’

  ‘A Titian and a Rembrandt, amongst others. The paintings that we do have are on loan.’

  His eyes alighted on the only other piece of furniture that the room contained - a large oriental cabinet, fussily constructed with hidden doors and drawers. The black lacquered panels were decorated with flowers and rural scenes intricately picked out in gold paint. ‘Beautiful,’ said Charlie. ‘Pure theatre.’

  She liked the description. ‘Although, I understand you generally prefer castles to houses. Military history is your thing, isn’t it? Sword displays and gun cabinets?’

  ‘That’s right. Battles, disputes, skirmishes.’

  ‘Skirmishes?’ she said. ‘Oh, I get plenty of those.’

  She took him into the next room, a drawing room in faded silk damask with eight rococo armchairs and precious little else. Despite the remnants of a few Robert Adam designs, it was far from being the most lavish or sumptuous of country house interiors.

  ‘It’s looking tired, I know. Half the rooms are bare; no-one of any historical importance ever stayed here, no one of historical importance was born here, and consequently the lure to visit isn’t strong. I’ve had a mountain to climb to make the house attractive to visitors. Despite my best efforts I’ve failed to unearth any scandals, mysterious deaths, or political intrigues. The U-boat and the destroyed paintings is the sum total of its dramatic history.’

  ‘Not even a death in childbirth?’ he asked. ‘An outbreak of small pox or influenza? A gambling debt? A duel?’

  She shook her head. ‘A few minor domestic incidents, but nothing blood curdling to get the punters in. As dry old places go this one’s the driest I’ve ever known. Apart from when we had the leak in the roof, of course,’ she quipped.

  He understood the regret, but didn’t quite share it. Addleston House might not be the most palatial, baroque, or unique example of English architecture, but it had something else - a sort of dignified modesty - that was just as valuable. There was a hushed, expectant atmosphere, a hesitation, as though the house was holding its breath that already inspired curiosity. As the weak winter sunlight struggled to penetrate the dim corners and hidden alcoves, the shadows held themselves in suspended animation, whispering to each other not to move. Wait a minute, be patient. As soon as their backs are turned…,

&nbs
p; Leaving the Gallery they walked up the Great Stair towards the first floor, a graceful set of shallow, broad stair treads. Beautiful to walk up and down.

  He shivered, although there was no draught. The great chandelier was suspended above their heads as he looked down through the stairwell. These stairs had witnessed countless comings and goings. For decades and centuries, hands had hovered over the rail, the way his were now doing.

  ‘Here we are.’ Astrid opened a door at the far end of the corridor. ‘The Taffeta Silk bedroom.’

  He followed her in.

  The floorboards had been fixed back into place, the hole covered over with rugs and runners. There was no obvious sign of the secret wrested from its grasp. But as Charlie walked forwards he immediately sensed a presence permeating the room. Not a ghost as such, more like the memory of someone. The exquisite pain of an impossible love; suffering that lingered; emotions still present. He turned around.

  The west facing window looked out onto the pasture behind the house. Rare breed cattle clustered together near a trough and there was a view in the distance of the village church. Inside the room a pair of fire dogs ornamented a modest marble fireplace, and a vase of dried honesty seeds filled its otherwise empty grate. Opposite was a squat satinwood armchair with worn cushion covers. But the main feature of the room was an ornate satinwood four poster bed hung with red silk taffeta curtains, its top decorated in gilded putti.

  ‘The bed hangings have been restored,’ Astrid said. ‘And the conservators are about to start on the quilt. Have a look. You’ll notice there’s a small area that was never completed. We’re wondering whether to leave it like that, or fill in with a design copied from another section. It doesn’t go with the bed hangings of course, it’s a separate item.’

  At a distance, the original fabric of the quilt appeared faded and worn, its overall hue a degraded rose, a washed out pink. On closer inspection, Charlie could see that it was covered in hundreds of stylised embroidered flowers: all done in coloured silks, each one an example of highly skilled needlework. A great deal of concentration had gone into the intricately repeated patterns and designs. Except for that last small unadorned section. Almost as though it had been deliberately overlooked. He put his finger in the empty hole and traced its raised edge with his thumb.