House of Echoes

by Barbara Erskine

  ‘Sounds good.’ She reached up and kissed him.

  The key was in the door. Turning it, Luke reached round into the dark for the light switch and clicked it on, looking down the wooden stairs towards the small underground vaults and the wine racks. Dust lay over the bottles. The cellar was very cold. Cautiously he padded down the steps ahead of Joss and waited for her at the bottom. ‘OK?’

  She nodded. The air was a curious combination of stale and fresh – the stillness and silence of a tomb and yet, through the mustiness, the clear freshness of the frosted garden outside.

  ‘See.’ Luke pointed to the top of the wall. ‘Gratings which lead out to the flower beds outside the front walls of the house. The air gets in, but for some reason the temperature never varies much. Perfect for wine.’ He turned his attention to the rack nearest them. ‘Some of these newer ones are probably best. I’d hate to drink something worth hundreds, just in order to seduce my wife!’

  ‘Thanks very much!’

  There was nothing frightening down here now. Just stillness and, perhaps, memories. She tried not to think of an eight-year-old boy, excited, happy, on his birthday, opening the door and peering down into the dark … The thought could not be tolerated. Angrily she pushed it away. ‘Just grab something and let’s go. It’s cold down here.’

  ‘OK. Here goes. We don’t tell David, right? We’ll dispose of the evidence in the bottle bank before he gets here.’ He pulled two bottles from the rack. ‘Come on then.’

  The cellar door safely locked, the corkscrew retrieved from the kitchen, Tom Tom checked – the baby alarm switched on – they settled back by the fire. ‘So, let’s see what we’ve got.’ Luke scrutinised the label. ‘Clos Vougeout 1945. Joss, this is old after all! I suspect this ought to breathe before we drink it.’

  ‘Draw the cork and put it by the fire for a bit.’ Joss reached for the box of letters. Anything to take her mind off the child, peering through the door into forbidden territory, full of excitement, on his birthday …

  Belheddon Hall,

  Belheddon,

  Essex

  29th September, 1920

  Dear John,

  Samuel and I were so pleased to see you here yesterday, and to hear that you are once more to settle at Pilgrim Hall. And so you are to marry! Lady Sarah is a lovely and gentle person. I know she will make you so very happy. As we told you, my confinement is expected within a few weeks but as soon as possible after that I hope we may entertain you both at Belheddon. My Samuel is hoping next year to resume tennis parties here at the Hall. It would be such fun if you could both come.

  Your ever affectionate cousin, Lydia Manners.

  Lydia Manners. Joss turned the sheet of paper over in her hand. The grandmother after whom her mother had named her when she was born. She pulled another small bundle of letters out of the Bourne and Hollingsworth box. Tied with pale blue ribbon they were labelled, ‘Father’s letters’. It was not Laura’s writing. Joss frowned as she leafed through them. Different handwriting, different dates, different addresses, addresses which meant nothing to her. Then another, from Belheddon Hall. It was short and to the point:

  Our son little Samuel was born safely on 30th November. Please thank Lady Sarah for her note. I will write more soon.

  Yr affectionate Cousin, Lydia.

  The envelope was addressed to John Duncan at Pilgrim Hall. So, John was John Duncan, a relative of Philip’s. Perhaps his father and so her own grandfather? Putting down the letters Joss stared into the fire thoughtfully, listening to the voices echoing in her head, voices from her unknown past.

  ‘How about some wine now?’ Luke had been watching her for some time as she sorted through the box. Pushing aside his invoices with relief, he flung himself down beside her on the floor and put his arm around her. ‘You are looking too serious.’

  She smiled, nestling up against him. ‘Not at all. Just learning some more about the past. My father’s family this time.’ She watched as Luke poured two glasses. The wine was delicious. It was dark brown and smoky, like a wood in November. She could feel the rich warmth of it running through her veins. After only a few sips she was feeling extraordinarily sexy. ‘Is it the wine, or just the suggestion,’ she whispered.

  ‘What suggestion?’ Luke tightened his arm around her, leaning back against the arm chair. His hand drooped lazily over her shoulder and fondled her breast through the heavy wool of her sweater.

  ‘That one.’ She pushed the box of papers aside with her foot and took another sip. ‘This wine seems very strong.’

  Luke chuckled. ‘I suspect it was worth a fortune, but who cares, if we get our money’s worth? Shall we go upstairs?’ He was nuzzling her ear, gently nibbling the lobe.

  ‘Not yet. Another glass first. Luke –’ She turned to him, suddenly serious. ‘I wouldn’t dare ask you this if I were entirely sober. You don’t regret coming here do you?’

  ‘Regret it! Certainly not.’ He inserted his hand under the collar of her sweater.

  ‘You are sure. We’ve no income to speak of – ’

  ‘Then we won’t speak of it.’ As he would never speak to her of his nightmares about the business; the creditors lurking in the woodwork, the waves of depression which sometimes swept over him when he thought about Barry and what he had done to them. What was the point? That was all in the past. Putting his glass down he leaned across, pressing his lips against hers. ‘Come on. It’s time we went upstairs.’

  Sammy! Sammy, where are you?

  The snow had melted; already snowdrops were pushing up through the frozen ground. The little boy ducked under the graceful boughs of the old fir tree and disappeared out of sight. When he reappeared, he was running down the lawn towards the lake.

  ‘Stop!’ Joss screamed. ‘Stop. Don’t go down there, please – ’

  Someone was in her way. Pushing against him she struggled to get past …

  ‘Hey! Stop it!’ Luke wriggled out of reach of her flailing fists. ‘Joss, stop it! What’s the matter?’

  ‘Sammy!’ She was battling up out of a fog of sleep, her mouth sour, her head thudding like a steam hammer. ‘Sammy!’

  ‘Wake up, Joss. You’re dreaming.’ Luke caught her hand as it struggled free of the entangling duvet. ‘Joss! Wake up!’

  She was naked, her clothes trailed across the floor; her shoulders, bare above the duvet ached with cold. The moonlight, streaming across the floor showed the overturned glass on the floor beside the bed, the empty bottle on the table by the lamp. Dragging herself back to the present she turned her head on the pillow, still disoriented. ‘Sammy – ’

  ‘No Sammy. No such person, Joss. It’s Luke, your husband. Remember?’ He stroked her shoulder, wincing at the ice cold feel of her skin, and drew the duvet higher to cover her.

  ‘Tom – ’

  ‘Tom’s OK. Not a peep out of him. Go back to sleep. It will soon be morning.’ He tucked her up tenderly and remained, propped on his elbow looking at her for a few moments, studying her face in the strangely ethereal moonlight. Her eyes had closed. She had never really awoken. It had all been some frightening dream. Too much wine. He glanced ruefully at the bottle. He already had the beginnings of a headache. By morning it would have turned into something approaching a hangover. Stupid. He threw himself back on the pillow, staring up at the embroidered bed hangings while beside him Joss’s breathing slowed and settled back into deep sleep.

  The shadow in the corner, ever watchful, stirred slightly, scarcely more than a flicker of the moonlight on the curtains, and a shiver of lust curled into the darkness.

  10

  Oavid had leapt at the idea of a weekend in East Anglia before he sat down and thought out the consequences. Peering now through the windscreen of his eight-year-old Vauxhall at the ancient, creeper-covered façade of Belheddon Hall he felt a pang of something near terminal jealousy. Then his better nature asserted itself firmly. If anyone deserved the fairy tale romance which had handed her this pile on a plate
, it was Joss. He thought again of the few rough notes he had scribbled down for her and he smiled to himself. The house was far far older even than the architecture visible from where he sat implied, and it had an enviably romantic history.

  Climbing stiffly out of the car he straightened to stretch the exquisite agony of cramp out of his bones before diving head first back in to withdraw suitcase, box of goodies from Harrods food hall and briefcase.

  ‘See here.’ He tapped a page of notes with his finger as they sat an hour later at the lunch table. ‘The church was built in 1249. I don’t know for sure, but I would think the foundations of this house go back that far at least. I’m no expert of course, but that glorious room of yours with the gallery looks fifteenth century if not earlier. Why haven’t you contacted this local historian chappy yet?’

  ‘We haven’t had time.’ Joss whisked off Tom’s bib and wiped his face with it while David watched with horrified disgust. ‘Wait while I put this young man down for his rest, then we’ll talk some more. Put the coffee on, Luke.’ She hauled the child out of his high chair and straddled him across her hip. ‘You don’t know how glad I am to see you, David.’ She rested a hand lightly on his shoulder as she passed. ‘I need to know about the house.’

  David frowned as she disappeared through the door. ‘Need to know is rather a strong term.’

  ‘It’s weird for her, living here.’ Luke filled the kettle and put it on the hot plate. ‘Imagine it. Generations of her ancestors and yet she knows almost nothing even about her mother.’ Sitting down he leaned forward and cut himself a generous lump of cheese. ‘She’s been having a lot of nightmares. Some tactless old biddy who lives locally told her that both her elder brothers died here in accidents. She’s got a bit obsessed by the thought.’

  David raised an eyebrow. ‘I can hardly blame her for that.’ He shivered. ‘How dreadful. Well, the more distant past seems to have been more cheerful. A junior branch of the De Vere family lived here for a couple of hundred years. One of them got his head chopped off in the Tower.’

  Luke laughed, reaching for the wine. ‘And you find that more cheerful?’

  ‘I’m a historian; it fills me with morbid delight.’ David chuckled contentedly. ‘History is a moving staircase. Characters step onto the bottom, rise slowly. They get to the top, they descend. Occasionally something goes wrong and they fall off or get a foot trapped. They face forwards, looking up at the heights or they face backwards, looking down.’ He smiled, pleased with his metaphor. ‘In the end it makes no difference. One disappears, one leaves no trace and already another queue of figures crowds behind one all rising and falling in just the same way.’

  ‘Chateau-bottled philosophy.’ Luke topped up Joss’s glass as she reappeared. She had combed her hair and removed from her cheek the imprint of Tom’s gravy-covered fingers. ‘This has been a house of substance for hundreds of years, my love. You should be very proud to be its chatelaine.’

  ‘I am.’ Switching on the baby alarm which stood on the dresser, Joss sat down contentedly. ‘I’ll take you over to the church later, David. It’s very beautiful. They were doing the Christmas decorations and flowers earlier.’ She smiled. ‘Janet said I would be let off helping this year, as we’ve only just arrived.’

  ‘Imagine!’ Luke shook his head in wonder. ‘Joss, do you remember the old joke about the flower ladies hanging in the porch? Another few weeks and you’ll be a pillar of the church.’

  David was scrutinising Joss’s face. She had lost a lot of weight since he had seen her last; there were dark rings under her eyes and in spite of the laughter he sensed a tenseness about her which worried him. It was two hours before he had the chance to talk to her alone, when she put Tom in his buggy and they pushed him across the drive and down the narrow overgrown path towards the churchyard gate.

  ‘That’s my father’s grave.’ She pointed down at the headstone.

  ‘Poor Joss.’ David pushed his hands deep into his pockets against the cold. ‘It must have been disappointing to find neither he nor your mother were still alive.’

  ‘To put it mildly.’ She pushed Tom on a few feet and stopped as the little boy pointed at a robin which had alighted on a headstone only a few feet from them. ‘Did you find out anything else about the name?’

  ‘Belheddon.’ He chewed his lip. ‘The name goes back a very long way. Multitudes of spellings, of course, like most old English place names, but basically the same in the Domesday Book. That takes you back to about 1087. How far did you want me to go?’ He grinned at her, blowing out a cloud of condensed air to make Tom laugh.

  ‘You mentioned Celtic. Iron Age? Bronze Age?’

  ‘That was guesswork, Joss, and I’m afraid I haven’t made any more progress on the definitions. There was a possibility of it coming from belwe which means bellow in middle English. Heddon does seem most likely to mean heather hill. Perhaps they grazed noisy cattle up here once! But we’re really talking archaeology here. There are recognised sites around here – I noticed in one of the county histories that there are several very close to the house – but who knows when it comes to names? I don’t know yet if there is anything Roman.’

  ‘Why would the devil live here, David?’

  She had her back to him, watching the robin. He frowned. There was a strange tone to her voice – a forced jocularity.

  ‘I very much doubt if he does.’ She turned and he met her eye. ‘What is frightening you, Joss?’

  She shrugged, fussing with Tom’s harness. The little boy had started to whine. ‘I don’t know. I’m usually quite sane. And I adore the house. It’s just that somehow, something is not right here.’

  ‘But not the devil.’ It was his most schoolmasterly tone, stern with just a hint of mocking reproach.

  ‘No. No, of course not.’ Comforting the child, she sounded far from sure.

  ‘Joss. If the devil chose anywhere to live on Earth, I doubt that, even as his country residence, he would choose Belheddon.’ He smiled, the corners of his eyes creasing deeply. ‘For one thing it’s far too cold.’

  She laughed. ‘And I’m keeping you hanging around. Let’s go into the church.’

  The iron latch was icy, even through her gloves. Turning the ring handle with an effort she humped the buggy through the doors and down into the shadowy aisle.

  ‘It’s a lovely old church.’ David stared round him.

  She nodded. ‘I’ve even been to one or two services. I’ve always loved evensong.’ She led the way towards the far wall. ‘Look, there are several memorials and brass plaques to people from the Hall. None with the same names, though. It’s as if a dozen families have lived here. It’s so frustrating. I don’t know who, if any, are my relations.’ She stood staring up at a worn stone memorial by the pulpit. ‘Look. Sarah, beloved wife of William Percival, late of Belheddon Hall, died the 4th day of December, 1884. Then, much later, there was Lydia Manners, my grandmother, then my parents’ name was Duncan. All different families.’

  ‘Have you found the family Bible?’ He had wandered up into the chancel. ‘Ah, here are some De Veres. 1456 and 1453, both of Belheddon Hall. Perhaps they were your ancestors too.’

  Joss pushed the buggy after him. ‘I hadn’t thought to look for a Bible. What a good idea!’

  ‘Well if there is one and it is sufficiently huge you ought to be able to find it quite easily. I’ll help you look when we get back to the house. But Joss –’ he put his arm round her gravely, ‘I very much doubt if you are descended from the devil!’

  ‘It would be an interesting thought, wouldn’t it.’ She stood in front of the altar rail and stared up at the stained-glass window. ‘I suspect if I was there would have been a smell of scorching by now, if not whirling winds and screaming demons flocking round my head.’

  Katherine

  The sound in the echoing chancel arch above her was no more than a whisper of the wind. Neither of them heard it.

  David sat down in one of the pews. ‘Joss, about the writi
ng. I gave your short story Son of the Sword, to my friend Robert Cassie at Hibberds. It intrigued me so much when I read it. That mystery thriller angle set in the past: I thought it worked really well and I was always sad it was a short story. I thought it would make a good novel then, and I still do.’ He glanced up at her under his eyelashes. ‘Bob agreed with me. I don’t know if that particular idea appeals, but if you thought you could expand it into a full- length novel, he would be interested to hear your ideas on how to do it; perhaps write some character sketches, a few chapters, that sort of thing.’

  She stood stock still, looking down at him. ‘Was he serious?’

  David nodded. ‘I told you you could do it, Joss. He liked the characters; he loved the mystery – and of course, in the story, it’s never solved.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Do you know what happened at the end yourself?’

  Joss laughed. ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘Well then. All you have to do is tell the story.’

  They found the family Bible that evening. The huge, leather-covered tome was stored sideways in the bottom of the bookshelf behind her mother’s chair in the study. ‘Bookworm.’ David fingered the crumbling edges to the pages. ‘And probably mice. And there you are. Dozens of entries written on the end papers. Fascinating! Let’s take it through to the kitchen and we can put it on the table under the bright light.’

  Luke was scrubbing oil off his hands at the sink when they carried in their find in triumph and laid it reverently down. ‘Now what have you found.’ He grinned at them tolerantly. ‘You are like a couple of school kids, you two. Such excitement!’

  David opened the book with careful fingers. ‘Here we are. The first entry is dated 1694.’

  ‘And the last?’ Joss craned over his shoulder.

  He turned the heavy handmade page. ‘Samuel John Duncan, born 10th September 1946.’