(2011) What Lies Beneath

by Sarah Rayne

  Amy, who had already forgiven Gramps for the ‘old girl’ comment, thought this was actually one of the endearing things about him; he loved his rehearsals and the performances with almost a childlike delight. She hoped if she was ever married to someone for forty years she would still be able to share his enthusiasms, whatever they were. Even if they were grubbing around churches for fragments of obscure music and arcane legends . . .

  By way of taking Gran’s mind off Clem Poulter’s death, Amy fetched the printed article about Brenda Ford – it was difficult to think of the eager smiling girl in the photo as anybody’s great-grandmother. She wore her hair in a rolly bob and looked as if she might start singing a Vera Lynn song any minute.

  ‘She wasn’t hurt in the attack,’ explained Amy, passing it over. ‘But I was really interested to see her. I don’t think you’ve ever shown me any photos of her.’

  ‘I don’t believe there are any,’ said Gran. ‘Things get lost when you move house, of course.’

  She read the article and looked at the photograph for a long time, and the spooky thing to Amy was that Gran seemed to turn whiter and whiter as she did so. Oh God, was she going to have another of those peculiar turns?

  ‘Attacked,’ said Gran at last, and Amy heard how she was trying to sound normal. ‘Attacked in the grounds of Cadence Manor. How shocking. It doesn’t sound like a serious attack, though, does it?’

  ‘I bet it was only the German spy scare that got it into the paper at all,’ said Amy.

  Gran appeared to make a huge effort. She handed the printout back to Amy as if she wanted to put it away from her as quickly as possible. ‘I don’t know much about my mother’s life,’ she said. ‘She died when I was still in my teens. But I do know people weren’t always very kind to her. They made up cruel stories.’

  ‘What kind of stories?’

  ‘Oh, the kind of stories people did make up in those days if a woman lived on her own.’

  It sounded to Amy as if Great-grandmamma Brenda might have been a bit of a goer, which was rather intriguing. If that was so, it was small wonder Gran never mentioned her. She was quite old-fashioned when it came to morals.

  After Amy had gone up to her room Ella sat by the fire, thinking.

  Life could be extremely unkind. Just when you thought you had got rid of all the dangers that might disrupt your neat and orderly life – when you had gone so far as to feed poisonous leaves to one of your oldest friends and bury fifty years’ worth of his diaries in your garden – something came bouncing out of nowhere and smacked you in the face. It was deeply unfair. It was even more unfair that a fragment of her mother’s life should make its appearance on the scene, like a gibbering and accusatory ghost.

  But there was no cause for panic, because there was nothing in that article that might cause people to see a link between Ella’s mother and the Cadences. Even though people had whispered about Brenda Ford being a bit of a slut, they had not actually known much about her. So logically it could not matter that Dr Malik had found that old newspaper article. Or could it? Clearly Amy had been interested, and if she or Malik started delving a bit deeper . . .

  Ella’s heart bumped into its erratic rhythm at the thought of what those delvings might uncover. Three murders. The recent one of Clem Poulter, and the two in the past. Bizarrely, it was the two in the past that caused her heart to skitter like a scrabbling rodent: the death of the man the day Priors Bramley was poisoned and the death of Serena Cadence in her dim, over-scented room inside the manor.

  By the time Ella was fourteen her mother was a complete recluse.

  She said repeatedly that the scars from the Geranos had ruined her life. She had become an object of pity, she said, and there was no point in life any longer.

  ‘I’m marked for ever because I caused Serena Cadence’s death,’ she said. ‘I’m marked almost exactly as she was. There’s a terrible justice in that, Ella.’

  Ella thought something might be done about the scars. There were all kinds of plastic surgery procedures nowadays, she said. Why couldn’t they make an appointment with their GP to ask about it?

  Her mother refused point-blank. In any case, the law would eventually catch up with her, she said, no matter what the doctors did to her. One day people would find out she had killed Serena Cadence and then they would shut her away for ever.

  ‘. . . Even though she was a mean-spirited, cold-soulled bitch who deserved to die. And they say there’s always something a murderer misses. Remember that, Ella, in the future, when you think you’re safe. Things happen – even after years and years. Somebody says something or remembers something, and people put two and two together. Remember that.’

  Ella tried to say that what had happened had been an accident. Mum had not meant to smash that frowsty old woman’s head against the marble chimney breast. She herself had not meant to push the man into the derelict chimney shaft.

  ‘Didn’t I?’ said her mother, and quite suddenly and terrifyingly there was a sly glint in her eyes. ‘And didn’t you? How do either of us know what the other did or meant?’

  ‘I do know,’ said Ella, trying not to feel frightened, trying to beat down the memories. ‘And even if it did all come out – it won’t, but say it did – we’d just tell the truth. People would believe us.’

  ‘No, they wouldn’t. I’m the local bad girl. They’d like to have something against me.’ This was said with a kind of gloomy relish. ‘They’d like to see me in prison.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be put in prison, would I?’

  ‘No, but you’d be put in one of those young offenders’ hostels. It’d be years and years before they let you out.’

  After a while Ella stopped trying to reason with her. She went off to school each morning, thankful to be out of the dingy little house and out of range of her mother’s angry despair and defeat, and thankful, as well, to be away from the constant reminders. I’m a murderer, you’re a murderer . . . sometimes her mother’s words beat such a fierce tattoo inside her brain, Ella thought it might explode.

  And then, shortly before her sixteenth birthday, her mother suddenly changed tack. She sat down at the little kitchen table, straightened her shoulders almost in the way she used to, and said, ‘I’m going to confess.’

  ‘Confess?’ Ella had been making toast for breakfast before setting off for school, and she did not immediately understand. Confession conjured up vague images of two girls at school who were Catholics and had to confess sins every week. ‘Confess what?’

  ‘I’m going to confess that I murdered Serena Cadence.’

  It could not be allowed. Ella was conscious of a tumble of confusing emotions that morning, but out of the jumble, one definite feeling came uppermost. Her mother absolutely could not be allowed to confess. It probably would not be taken very seriously – it was a long time ago, and Brenda Ford had since been damaged physically and mentally by the Geranos – but it might be looked into to some extent. And once that happened, once the police started delving into the past, they might discover there had not been one murder, but two.

  That morning Ella instinctively made a start to shut her mother up. She crushed up three of the tranquillizers prescribed by the GP and stirred them into the cup of tea her mother always drank at breakfast. This could not be regarded as a long-term solution, but it could be used to send her mother into a drowsy stupor for hours at a time. It would do until Ella could either talk her mother out of her mad idea, or . . .

  Or what?

  Or until she could find a way to keep her mother quiet for ever.

  When she was seventeen Ella opted to stay at school for an extra year to take what the school called ‘business studies’. It was a year-long course, consisting of shorthand and typing and a smattering of bookkeeping. The school was pleased it could offer this to girls who did not want to try for university places. One or two boys took the course as well, generally because knowing shorthand was useful for the police force or journalism, but in the main, it was ai
med at girls. The teachers, while conscientiously proclaiming themselves in sympathy with the vibrant sixties and equality for women, said it remained the best thing for girls. The idea was for them to work as shorthand typists or secretaries for a few years until they settled down with some nice man. Ella’s mother, told about the plan, said dispiritedly it was no doubt a good idea since Ella would have to make her way in the world.

  Ella found the course quite hard, particularly the book-keeping classes, but she persevered. Clem was going to try for a university place so he had gone up into the sixth form to take A levels. He would get a Bachelor of Arts degree and he might become a writer or a journalist, he thought.

  Veronica left school altogether and got a job behind the make-up counter at the local pharmacist. She said it was to mark time because eventually she wanted to work in fashion or the beauty industry. She quite fancied fashion journalism, actually. Ella did not think selling cheap make-up was likely to get Veronica onto the staff of Vogue or into a Mary Quant boutique, but she did not say this in case it sounded bitchy. Several people commented that Veronica seemed to have a lot of boyfriends and hoped she was not heading for an unfortunate experience. Still, working in a chemist’s ought to be useful on that score.

  Ella thought she might sort of have a boyfriend herself by this time, because shortly after her eighteenth birthday Derek Haywood, from the fifth form, started to take her to the pictures once a week. This was quite gratifying because his parents lived in a big detached house, and Derek was going to study for some accountancy exam or other, which sounded important. Accountants were professional people who wore smart suits and had their own offices. Veronica thought Ella was mad to go out with somebody who was almost two years younger, but she entered into the spirit of things and brought make-up samples from the cosmetic counter for Ella to try. She said Ella should wear mascara because her eyelashes were a bit pale. Men liked the sooty-eyed look, even if it was only Derek Haywood from the fifth form, said Veronica. But Ella thought the mascara made her look like a panda and Derek now seemed to think it a settled thing that they went to the cinema every Saturday anyway, so sooty eyes would not make much difference.

  At intervals her mother remembered that she was going to confess to killing Lady Cadence, but each time this happened Ella doped her tea with tranquillizers. The GP never questioned the constant repeat prescriptions. When Ella visited him to discuss it, he said it was all very sad, and he was not surprised poor Mrs Ford suffered from depression so severely. Ella should try to get her to go out. He could refer her for psychiatric help, if Ella wanted, but there was likely to be a long waiting list.

  ‘Oh, I don’t think she needs that,’ said Ella, terrified. ‘But the tranquillizers do help quite a lot. I’m very careful that she doesn’t get dependent on them.’

  The doctor said that was important, wrote the prescription, and was relieved that there was a caring intelligent daughter to cope with poor Mrs Ford, whose condition did not really fall into any NHS pigeonhole.

  The business studies course was nearing its end when Ella went home one afternoon and found her mother huddled on the settee, her face twisted with pain, moaning.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ said Ella, hanging up her coat on the back of the door. It would be annoying if her mother decided to be ill tonight because it was Derek’s last day at school before he started in the local council offices with his accountancy career. They were going to have a small celebration.

  ‘Pain – stomach,’ said Ella’s mother. ‘Dreadful. Can you call a doctor?’

  Ella sat down and studied her mother thoughtfully. She looked quite ill – she was flushed and her eyes were bloodshot. A bowl stood on the floor near her. ‘I was sick earlier,’ said Brenda, seeing Ella look towards this. ‘I thought I might be sick again and not get to the sink this time.’ A fresh spasm of pain twisted her again and she hunched over, gasping.

  ‘I think it’s appendicitis,’ she said, when the spasm eased a bit. ‘The pain’s in the right place for it.’

  Appendicitis. That was something that was easily dealt with, providing it was caught in time, Ella knew that. But what if it were not caught in time? A sudden image of what it might be like if Mum were not here glinted tantalizingly. No more living on a knife-edge, worrying if her mother would start talking again about confessing to murder. No more lying to the GP to get extra tranquillizers, and surreptitiously stirring them into cups of tea. She would be safe for ever – safe in this little house, because she was eighteen, about to finish her business course and get a job.

  She said, ‘How long have you been like this?’ These days Mum was always still in bed when Ella went to school, so she seldom saw her until the evening.

  ‘Felt a bit seedy yesterday. Didn’t want to worry you, though. Then last night the pain started . . . It’s been getting stronger since breakfast. I’m fairly sure—’ She broke off to deal with another wave of pain. ‘I’m fairly sure it is appendicitis,’ she said after a few moments. ‘So you need to get a doctor – ambulance.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ The cottage did not have a phone. Brenda had often said they should have one, but Ella had always discouraged it because she was frightened that while she was at school her mother might suddenly ring the police and tell them about Lady Cadence’s death. She said, ‘I’ll go down to the callbox and phone the surgery.’

  ‘Quicker to ask next door,’ said Mum. ‘Now they’re on the phone they won’t mind.’

  ‘They’re away,’ said Ella at once. ‘Don’t you remember? But it won’t take me long to go down to the callbox. D’you want anything while I’m gone?’

  ‘No—’

  ‘You’d better have a hot-water bottle,’ said Ella. ‘And aspirin.’

  The kettle took a long time to boil on the old-fashioned stove. Ella watched it and thought if this house really did belong to her, she would try to make a smart shining kitchen with a modern cooker. She took her time about filling the bottle, then dissolved two aspirin in water. After that she fetched a blanket from the airing cupboard. Mum seemed feverish, she said, and you had to keep warm when you were feverish. By this time it was after six, which meant the surgery would be closed.

  ‘I’ll go down to the phone box now,’ said Ella.

  Phone boxes were notoriously unreliable. Even in a law-abiding place like Upper Bramley they were occasionally vandalized, and even if they were not, they were often out of order. People said it was a sad joke how you could never find a phone box that was working.

  The phone box on the corner looked all right, but the receiver cord was very frayed. Ella had brought change with her and she dialled Derek to explain she might not be able to meet him because her mother was poorly. No, it was nothing very serious, she thought, but she was going to ask the doctor to come out, just to be sure.

  ‘Can I help at all?’ said Derek, clearly a bit nervous at being confronted with illness, but obviously aware that it was polite to ask.

  ‘Oh, no, I can manage,’ said Ella. ‘It’s nice of you to offer, though.’

  ‘Will you still be able to come to the pictures on Saturday? It’s West Side Story.’

  ‘Yes, I should think so,’ said Ella. She rang off, considered the frayed cord, then tugged on it as hard as she could. It frayed a bit more, then came partly away from the receiver. At first look it did not seem too bad, but when she lifted the receiver there was no dial tone. Good. Very good indeed.

  It was easy to tell her mother she had made the call – the line had been very crackly, she said, but she thought she had got through and left a message for a doctor to call. Oh yes, she had stressed the urgency. Well no, she had not actually mentioned the possibility of appendicitis because they were not sure about that. It might turn out to be just a tummy bug. In the meantime, she would refill the hot-water bottle, and perhaps Mum could try some warm milk with a dash of brandy?

  It was eleven o’clock before Ella finally agreed to try phoning again. The message mustn’t have got throug
h, she said. Yes, she would go out to phone again, of course she would.

  This time, she walked all the way to the High Street to the phone box near the post office. It took fifteen minutes. She dialled the number of their doctor’s surgery, and there was a series of click and buzzes, which Ella supposed was the call being transferred to whoever was on night duty. When a man’s voice answered, she said she was a bit worried about her mother who was being sick and having a bit of stomach pain. Yes, she looked as if her temperature might be higher than normal. She did not have a thermometer, but her mother was certainly flushed and her skin felt hot.

  ‘Probably no more than a bug,’ said the voice at the other end. ‘How much of an emergency is it, do you think?’

  ‘She didn’t want me to call you,’ said Ella. ‘But I said better to be on the safe side.’

  ‘Give her a good dose of soda bicarbonate or Alka-Seltzer. Something of that kind,’ said the voice. ‘And plenty of fluids. I’ll put her on the rounds for tomorrow morning. But you’d better ring back if it gets worse during the night.’

  ‘Thank you very much.’

  It did get worse. Shortly after 1 a.m. Ella’s mother became delirious. She began to talk about the past, the words pouring out, as if a dam had given way. Ella sat in the little bedroom, helplessly listening, wanting to shout at her mother to stop, because she did not want to hear any of this, she did not want to know about it.

  But towards three the torrent of words slowed to a meaningless mumble, and Ella breathed a sigh of relief. She fetched a bowl of tepid water to sponge her mother’s face and neck. The Geranos scars stood out like angry raised lumps, but there were mottled patches between them and Brenda seemed to be having difficulty in breathing. Ella nearly gave in and ran out of the house to hammer on the neighbour’s door, to ask them to call 999 for an ambulance. They were not away, of course, that had just been a delaying tactic. But she did not. She sat it out.