He reached into the space with his hand and carefully extracted, one by one, four leather-bound books of varying sizes and thicknesses …all written with similar intent, he deduced, from quickly leafing through each. They were personal diaries …belonging, if he guessed correctly, to the former occupants of White Briars. Two were in languages other than English. Disappointingly, Jonathan Kendal didn’t appear to have been the author of any of the diaries ...hardly surprising, thought Hamish, if he worked for military intelligence at a time when secrecy was paramount. It was a line of work that would perhaps make him less likely to leave a written record of his time at White Briars.
Setting the four diaries in front of him on the bed, he picked each up for closer inspection. He guessed that one might have been the work of Karl Van Eeden ...Hamish couldn’t translate much of the text, but could easily recognise Dutch and the writing in the volume was interspersed with beautifully drawn pen and wash sketches that were recognisably similar to the artist’s style and that Rosetta would give her eye teeth to possess. He doubted somehow that he would be allowing Rosetta the opportunity to find out about them. The cramped writing was in such an idiosyncratic style that it was going to be difficult to translate, even if Hamish could find the right kind of person to do the translation. Another was written in floridly stylised French, not such a problem, he thought, as he was reasonably fluent in that language. Although it wasn’t dated, among the entries he could read the name, Julianne, so going by the church records that would put it in the 1600’s. Of the other two, one was written in such incomprehensible Ye Olde English that it would require some translation work as well. The easiest to read, as far as Hamish could tell, on such a cursory examination, was a diary written in the 1800’s. The first entry in it was dated January first, 1837 ...the last, September 1843 … these dates indicated that it was presumably the work of the builder of White Briars, Jeremy Shaw and it, at least, was written in passably legible English.
“There goes work for the day,...” he thought, plumping up the pillows and leaning back against the headboard while drawing his legs up to make a sort of living lectern for the open diary. He made himself comfortable, having clipped the panel above his head closed after checking that he knew how to reopen it.
***
It was mid-afternoon and he was still only two-thirds of the way through the diary when the phone rang. He had left his mobile sitting on the bedclothes of his own bed in the alcove after calling Rosetta that morning and was so absorbed in his reading that it took several rings before he realised what the intrusively shrill sound was. He dived off the bed and ran across to answer the call before it went to voicemail, skating the last few feet in his socks. It was Miss Kendal, phoning from her new rest home residence in Rye. They chatted politely for some time as she questioned Hamish about the progress he had made in cleaning up the house and garden at White Briars but it took Hamish no time at all to work out from the tenor of the questions that she was insistently quizzing him about whether or not he had seen Briar.
“Miss Kendal,” he said, irritated with the continuous subterfuge, “Why don’t we stop this game of pretence and come to the point here? Yes, I’ve seen her, but I didn’t know who she was at the time and, partly due to my ignorance of the situation here, she’s gone again. At least, I think she’s still around somewhere but she’s not exactly making herself visible. You know,” he chided, “since you appear to have known about her all along, it might have been of some help to me if you’d given me a hint or two of her existence beforehand.”
“I’m sorry about that, Mr McAllister,” she said, a hint of iron in the plumy vowels of her crackled voice, “but just how does one go about telling someone else that there may be an overgrown fairy in their garden? I certainly didn’t believe it myself when Jonathan first told me.” She sighed, “So, she is still there, after all these years? ...You know I tried to convince myself that she would just go away after Jonathan died ... he told me she couldn’t, that he loved her more than life itself and that if anything ever happened to him I was to use his money to care for the place. I never met her myself and I have to admit that I didn’t like the idea that my dear brother was mixed up with some fey creature from out of the woods. It was rather easy …as the years went by and there was no sign of her, to let the place slide. Of course, I never went so far as to sell it, but I didn’t carry on doing as he had asked either. Now …I’m an old lady and I, perhaps, wanted to atone for my sins before I go ...so when you came looking and seemed so keen ...I decided that you would do admirably. I suppose you think that I need to apologise for that as well now.”
“As it turns out ...No, I don’t. There is no need at all for you to feel remorse for what you got me into,” replied Hamish, happy to let her off the hook. “This place has been exactly what I needed. So, in fact, it is I who owe you a debt of gratitude. I just would have liked to have been forewarned about her. I may have handled things differently, had I known. That’s all.”
“So you’re happy there?” she spoke with evident satisfaction. It was more of a statement than a question. “Well, in that case you will hopefully be overjoyed to know that I have instructed my lawyers to sign the property over to you, lock stock and fairy, so to speak? The documents should arrive for your signature this week.”
“What?!” Hamish was incredulous.
“Well,” Miss Kendal said with some of her familiar asperity, “What am I supposed to do with it? You said you were happy there, and you’ve obviously put considerable effort into restoring the grounds and house since your arrival, without even delving into the funds I left with the law firm. …It’s alright, Mr McAllister, I haven’t just taken your word for it. I do still have my spies in the village and they have reported good things back to me this month past.”
“That wouldn’t happen to be a spy by the name of Arthur Blaine, would it?” he asked.
“I am not at liberty to say. My brother did at least teach me that one should never reveal one’s sources. Suffice to say that I know that your heart is in the right place ...Now Mr McAllister, I’m already late for my afternoon game of Canasta with the other old biddies here, so if there is nothing more you wish to ask me, I’ll say good afternoon and wish you well. I hope to have nothing else to do with White Briars from this point onwards.”
The line disconnected even as Hamish said good bye. It seemed a day for revelations ...first discovering the diaries and now Miss Kendal’s personal confirmation of his theory. So, she had resented her brother’s involvement with Virginia, Jasmine, Briar. ...Whatever-her-name. It went a long way to explaining some things that had been niggling in his subconscious since his first meeting with the elderly lady. While he had the phone in his hand, Hamish put a call through to David, hoping to tell him of his discoveries, but the only reply he got was a politely worded answerphone message of the standard variety, requesting that he ‘please leave a message after the beep, and I will return your call as soon as possible....’, he left a short message, asking David to call back as soon as he was able but omitted any mention as to why, ...this wasn’t the sort of thing he wanted on record, especially on the vicar’s answerphone, so he pushed the button to cut the call, planning to try again later in the day if he hadn’t heard from David by then.
He couldn’t concentrate on reading now, not even the diary could hold his attention, as fascinating as it was. Miss Kendal had blown him from the water with this latest offer ...Wow! ...White Briars, his ...well, his in name. …He was well aware by now that the ‘property’, to use Andrew’s terminology, came with a sort of sitting tenant of the ethereal variety. The sooner he found her the better … ‘Touch-me-not’ …well; too bad ...he didn’t need to touch her but he did need to talk to her.
It was all very well to have made the decision to find her ...but carrying it out was a different matter. He spent the rest of the afternoon until dark searching out-of-the-way places in the garden and trudging through flurries of wind-driven snow, calling any an
d all of her names at regular intervals, but finding nothing that indicated she had been there. The only living creatures that he stumbled upon was a pair of foxes, slinking silently through the woods ...they regarded one another across an opening in the trees for a few seconds, the foxes evaluating the danger, apparently not overly concerned, as they stood another minute or more before turning and disappearing back into the green shadows of the shrubbery. When Hamish returned to the house for food late in the afternoon he climbed up to the tower, hoping perhaps for some glimpse of her or signs of another fire, but the air over the woods was still and smoke-free. Frustrated, he left food out for her again in the kitchen then banked the sitting room fire …determined to stay up all night in a sort of stakeout, keeping watch and reading Shaw’s diary, one ear listening for sounds of an intruder in the kitchen. She didn’t come, and by dawn after he’d finished the informative diary he crawled up to bed for a few hours of restless sleep, feeling exhausted and grumpy at the lack of progress in locating her.
***
He was rudely awakened by a phone call at lunchtime the next day. Dazed and still semi-comatose, Hamish picked up the receiver. It was Sara, calling about the delivery of the pigeons. He mumbled a greeting.
“O.K. if Matthew and I bring them first thing tomorrow morning?” Sara spoke briskly, did not seem to notice his state of half-wakefulness.
Hamish was too stupefied from sleep to ask her for a later delivery time and agreed to her request without too much consideration. It wasn’t until after the call that he wondered how many birds would be arriving but he supposed Sara knew the dovecote and would only bring enough for the space. Sara had also suggested that he should make sure the pigeons could not get out of the dovecote for at least a week, to give them time to settle in and identify with their new home. Still groggy from sleep, Hamish promised that he would bird-proof the dovecote that afternoon. Satisfied, Sara rang off with a promise to be there after breakfast the next morning and Hamish sat back against the pillows, looking up at the sky while he got his thoughts in order. His head felt muzzy from sleeping late so he went to take a shower in the hope it would help him freshen up. While he was under the water he remembered that one of the mesh screens that he would need to cover the louvres in the dovecote needed some repairs, so he decided that he’d have something to eat then go and fix it.
Once outside, his head felt clearer. He paced along the garden path then bounded up the steep steps to the dovecote entrance. The screens, he recalled had been in the central storage space when he had cleaned it out just before Christmas ...but once inside, he did a double-take …that was strange; there they were sitting outside in the main room, leaning up against the nesting boxes. It had to be the same screens; one had that rent in the mesh that he’d remembered. He walked around the perimeter of the room, there was little else that could be out of place ...but he was sure that he had left the solid shutters open to allow the space some fresh air. Now they were firmly shut …making it dark in the small space. “Hmmm,” he thought, chiding himself for his assumption. He had been so sure that she wouldn’t hide somewhere so obvious ...he went back around and pulled open the door to the storage area. “Bingo!” he exclaimed. So this was where she had been hiding out. The space that he had left swept and empty, apart from the screens, was now lined with a thick layer of dried moss, leaves and straw, ...and in the middle of it all, there was the purloined blanket, neatly folded, ...the large cupboard would have looked like a rather untidy birds nest were it not for the flowers, ...lavender, camomile and rosemary were strewn among the bedding, filling the small room with their soft scents, ...and the shelves now looked more like the hanging gardens of Babylon than the pedestrian things he had left swept clean. On the topmost shelf, Hamish could see the cardboard packet that had contained the hot chocolate powder and the pot that he had left outside, along with one or two other items that he recognised as coming from his pantry. But they didn’t interest him at all. ...It was the cascade of flowers and ferns that flowed from top shelf to floor, woven into a living waterfall of colours and textures that defied description that was mesmerising his attention. He stood gaping, open mouthed at the sight, wondering what kind of creature was capable of producing such beauty ...before reasoned thought returned. What to do now? She wasn’t here, that much was obvious, but it looked as if she intended to be coming back, ...so, ...he backed out of the space without disturbing anything and moved to sit in the far corner of the dovecote, quietly mending the ripped screen with some fine wire he’d brought from the cottage. Then, that complete, he sat with his back to the wall, his eyes on the outer door.
It was getting late and cold, and he was starting to wish that he had borrowed his own blanket from her bower to sit on, when the door quietly swung open and closed. Hamish strained his eyes against the growing dark but could see nothing. He was leaning back, and putting the opening of the door down to an errant gust of wind, ...which was somewhat strange, he was thinking, because he hadn’t felt any breeze from where he was sitting, when a voice close to his right ear announced quietly, ...”If I chose for you not to see me, you know, ....there would be little chance of your ever finding me. I have eluded far more determined men than you.” He stayed still, schooling himself not to move too quickly or over react, turning his head slowly towards the disembodied voice.
“I know that now,” he spoke to the air.
“Then why, pray tell, have you been so very persistent.” The still quiet voice sounded accusing and more than a little cross.
“I’m not completely sure.” He decided that honesty might be his best defence. “Perhaps I recognised someone whom I thought needed help ...and I thought ...I don’t know exactly what I thought ...that if I could find you, that you might accept whatever aid I could give?” He leaned forward slightly, staring into the space where he assumed she must be.
As if to prove her point about how difficult it would be for him to find her if she chose otherwise, she materialised in the opposite corner of the room, close to the exit door. ...At first she was so misty and insubstantial that he could see right through her to the darkened wall behind her. He watched, spellbound, as she gradually solidified until she reappeared, her general appearance much as he had seen her that first night, though now dressed in his pyjamas and the thick pullover that she had taken with her on her flight from the house. Even in the fast-fading light, he could see that her hair was as wild and tangled as it had been but she had, at least, lost that pinched look of imminent starvation that had concerned him so much. He noticed that her bare feet, sticking out from the rolled-up pyjama trousers, looked blue with cold, and found himself wishing that she had borrowed some footwear as well as the clothes and blanket.
“How very noble of you ...it warms my heart to know that chivalry is still not dead.” That she wasn’t sincere in her choice of words was quite obvious from her tone, so he chose to ignore it, trying a different approach instead.
“We haven’t been properly introduced,” he said, clambering to his feet and swiftly crossing the short distance between them to stick out his right hand in what he hoped she would interpret as a peaceful gesture. “I’m Hamish Alexander McAllister, latterly from London, but originally hailing from Scotland.”
Flinching visibly at his approach, she ignored the hand. He left it there anyway. By now it was getting so dark that he could barely see her eyes.
Narrowed.
Warily watching him, as if deciding whether to stay or flee.
It was a close decision but she stayed. “Scotland you say? ....Well, with a name like that I hardly assumed you were French.” He was heartened that at least he could detect the merest hint of some good humour in her voice this time. “And you wish to know my name?”
“Well,” he replied, “I have eight possibilities, but it would be nice if we could narrow it down to just one?”
“Eight? You have been busy, Mr McAllister, haven’t you? ...Very well. I’ll give what you ask. My first and true name i
s Liana ...not so very different from some of those titles that your prying nature has unearthed, I think?”
He ignored her criticism of his sleuthing. “Liana.” The name was elegant and rolled off his tongue with a musical lilt. “It suits you, and, well, it’s good to know. I was getting confused calling you so by many different names. By the way, Liana,” he continued, “my hand’s still out there and it’s getting kind of tired just hanging about.”
This raised the ghost of a smile from her ....he felt her cool slender hand take his, returning the briefest pressure from hers before she broke the contact. She stood, silently gazing at him so he decided that now was the time to wade right in. He’d had an idea he wanted to share with her and, he supposed, the worst she could do was refuse ...at least he hoped that was the worst she could do. “I’ve been thinking about you a lot since you left so suddenly ...and I wanted to talk with you ...but ... it’s freezing out here, and I don’t know about you, but my rear end feels as if it’s turned to ice. Would you like to come back to the house and talk some more over a coffee, or a hot chocolate -since you seem to prefer that? That is, if there’s any drinking chocolate left in the container?”
Flowers in the Morning Page 24
