But Veronica just sits staring straight ahead, the tears running steadily down her face and falling into her lap. "My poor sister, my poor sister. I keep thinking of her out there, all alone and suffering, with no-one to help her; dragging herself all that way. I can't stop thinking about it."
Bella begins to feel distinctly weepy herself. She feels like giving her mother a damned good telling-off for being so stupid and clumsy and causing so much grief. Where does she go, she wonders, when she's not 'at home'? If they did a scan, would they find this weird unexplained focus of neural activity, lurking in some out-of-the-way corner of her brain? She hands a tissue to her aunt.
"I keep thinking," says Veronica, noisily blowing her nose, "if only we'd been talking to each other, if only we'd made up that stupid quarrel, it might not have happened. I keep thinking it's somehow my fault. I know it's stupid, I know people always think like that, but I can't help it." She looks up, red eyed, at Bella. "It was an open verdict. They couldn't decide if she did it on purpose or not. It was in all the papers, even the nationals. I'm surprised you didn't see them. I was afraid you would see them before I could get hold of you. Don't you ever go away again without leaving a number."
"I'm not going away again, Aunty."
"Good." She lapses into silence for a while, then cries: "Everybody knows! That's the awful thing. I feel so . . . ashamed, somehow. I know I shouldn't, but I do."
"Aunty, she didn't do it on purpose. I know she didn't."
Veronica sniffs miserably. "I don't know whether that makes it better or worse really."
"What I mean is, if it was an accident there's nothing you could have done to prevent it, so you don't have to reproach yourself."
"I keep asking myself, why?" says Veronica. "She hadn't done any shooting, that I know of, since before you were born. Why start now? She didn't even ride to hounds any more, except on Boxing day, when everybody goes. She was always getting some bee in her bonnet. She was getting peculiar. Well, even more peculiar. Miranda said she couldn't be upsides with her. She'd lock herself in her room for days on end, just writing, just scribbling nonsense to that disreputable friend of hers, that Hélèn, whom she fell out with years and years ago. She never posted them, just wrote them. Then, all of a sudden, she'd take herself off somewhere. Just go, without telling anybody, and come back weeks later with a bloody great credit-card bill, which of course she couldn't pay, so Michael had to. She looks up at Bella, wide eyed and strange. "She took John's twelve-bore from the estate office. It's lucky he had an alibi or they might have thought it was him. We all heard the shots, lots of them, quite close together. Fifteen, it was, the cartridges all scattered round the Stones."
"The Stones!"
"Yes. Didn't you know? I thought you knew." Veronica begins to weep again, her voice very small. "A couple of kids found her. It must have been awful for them."
*
For such a large space, the summer room at Windy Point is but sparsely furnished. There is a wicker three piece suite with canvas-covered cushions; a few gaily striped deckchairs; a hammock slung from the rafters; a great baulk of driftwood which serves as a coffee table; a bookcase, filled with faded paperbacks; some potted palms; an immense Swiss Cheese plant, and an upright piano, painted yellow. That is all. Rugs are scattered across the otherwise bare floorboards, which in places gape open at the seams to give a glimpse of harbour mud or the high tide glittering below. There are windows along three sides of the room, filling it with light and watery reflections, while French doors give onto a narrow sunroom or conservatory (really only a glass-enclosed part of the balcony that runs the full width of the bungalow) with more deckchairs, a writing desk, and a glorious view over the hills, harbour and islands.
It is in the sunroom that we find Rat, Bluebell and McNab. Rat is reclining in a deckchair, half-dozing over the Telegraph crossword puzzle, and Bluebell and McNab are down on their hands and knees, their bottoms in the air.
This is important, Best Beloved.
"Here, puss puss puss," says McNab in the unnaturally high voice one uses when talking to cats. "Come awa puss. Puss puss pussy." He sits back on his heels and scratches his beard. "He wants tae, ye ken, but he cannae quite git it taegether."
The little cat sits where they put him down, some twelve feet away. He looks eagerly at the bowl of food that Bluebell holds ready for him and opens and closes his mouth in noiseless supplication, but he does not move.
"Come along, Sylvester," says Bluebell, firmly. "Here's your dinner. If you want it, you'll have to come and get it."
Rat looks up sharply from his crossword. "What did you call him?"
"Sylvester."
"Why Sylvester?"
"Because it's his name."
"Yes, but why did you name him that? Was it your idea?"
"Not really," says Bluebell. "It was Narcissus's. He's got this comic book called Sylvester and Tweetie Pie. He found it at a car boot sale. It's not very educational, but he wouldn't give it up so Mum had to buy it."
The Commander moves his spectacles to the end of his nose and peers over them. "He doesn't look much like a Sylvester to me. Why don't you call him something else? How about Sooty?"
"You can't call him Sooty! Sooty's a bear!"
"How about Blackie then. That's a nice name. Or Smoky, or Jock – that was Winston Churchill's cat – or how about Scranbag? We had a ship's cat named Scranbag, he was quite a character."
Bluebell shakes her head with exaggerated vigour so that her blonde plaits with their blue gingham bows fly wildly about. "No, I don't like any of those. Anyway, his name's Sylvester now. He'll get confused if I change it. Come on, Sylvester. Come and get your meaty turkey chunks with gravy."
"All right then," says Rat, slightly desperately. "How about Tybalt? That really suits him, wouldn't you say? Tybalt, the prince of cats."
Bluebell frowns. "That's from Romeo and Juliet, isn't it? I don't think that's suitable at all. Tybalt's not a very nice person and he gets killed."
"Hou aboot a bit o paper on a string," suggests McNab. He searches in the depths of his anorak. Ah've a wee skeinie here somewhaurs."
"He's too old for that," says Bluebell disparagingly. "Mr Woodcock says he's at least six or seven, and probably much older. He says he very nearly died and that it's only because of me that he didn't and that I've got to give him lots of love and encouragement or he might just give up." She pushes the dish a little closer. "Come on, Sylvester. There's a good puss."
But Sylvester doesn't budge. Instead he settles wearily onto his elbows and closes his eyes, as if he is indeed tired of life.
Bella appears, holding open the door for Veronica. "Coffee, anybody?"
"I'll have it in there," says Rat, getting up. "Coffee, McNab? Or something a bit stronger? Hello, what's up with you two? You look awful."
"We've been having a good cry, haven't we, Aunty?"
Rat nods sagely. "Good. About time."
"What's that creature doing in here?" demands Veronica, suddenly noticing Sylvester. "I distinctly said it wasn't to come into the house."
"He'll be going in a minute. We've just brought him back from the vet, that's all."
"Uncle Rat took me to collect him in the Range Rover," says Bluebell. "It was great. I'm going to be a vet when I grow up. Come on, Sylvester. Do it for Aunty Veronica."
Veronica looks sharply at Rat. "What did she call him?"
"I didn't catch it," says Rat, taking hold of her chair. "Come on, I'll take you inside."
Veronica grabs the wheels, preventing them from turning. "Of course you did. She said it perfectly clearly. She said Sylvester."
"Well it's a common enough name, I expect, and as I say, he'll be gone in a minute. Bluebell will make sure he stays in Roz. You won't have to see him again."
Veronica allows herself to be pushed back into the summer room. "I'd sooner see it right away from here," she grumbles.
"Physiotherapy!" says McNab when they've gone. "We pit him in a nic
e wairm bath an' maneepulate his limbs."
"You can't bathe a cat," says Bluebell scornfully. "They don't like water."
"Okay, whit if we strap his hint-end tae a rower skeet? Then he can drag hissel alang wi's forelegs. They dae it wi dugs. Ah've seen 'em."
"What's the matter? Isn't he walking yet?" says Bella, bending down. "Come on, Sylvester. Come and see Bella."
At the sound of her voice the little cat suddenly becomes alert. Struggling to his feet, he stretches awkwardly and with a curious, crab-like gait proceeds to wobble towards her.
"I don't believe it!" says Bluebell, open mouthed.
"I think that deserves a treat, don't you?" says Bella smugly. "Is this his dinner? Here you are, Puss, have some nice whatever-it-is."
Sylvester settles down at the bowl and takes a few gulping mouthfuls, but as soon as Bella moves away he follows, staggering after her as she walks slowly down the length of the room.
"Ah think ye've made a wee pal there," observes McNab.
"Rather surprising since she's the one who squashed him," says Bluebell sourly.
"Uncle, come and look at this," calls Bella.
Rat comes to the French door and leaning against the frame begins to fill his pipe from his yellow tobacco pouch while he watches the little cat begin to explore his surroundings. "Got a bit of leeway on him, hasn't he?" he chuckles. "He's not altogether pointed where he's headed. Hey! Not in here you don't!" But Sylvester, eluding his outstretched foot, slips past him and scuttles remarkably quickly across the summer room, heading straight for Veronica.
Veronica puts down her coffee and begins to back away. "No! Get it out! Get it away from me!" But before anyone can intervene, the little cat turns his back on her, his body heaves and ripples ominously and with wonderful accuracy he directs a powerful jet of stinking urine over her legs and chair.
CHAPTER TEN
Passing through a little iron kissing-gate, Bella enters St. Ethelfleda's ancient churchyard. Here, where the grass grows rank among the worn and lichenous gravestones, she pauses to take out a mirror and adjust her make-up. She is wearing a pretty but demure lilac dress, carefully chosen for the occasion, and she takes the trouble to brush some dust and burrs off the hem before arranging about her shoulders her newly washed and lustrous black hair.
Close under the church's north wall is a sizeable pile of wreaths and wilted flowers, but Bella scarcely glances in their direction as she marches purposefully along the gravel path that leads to the porch. Taking a deep breath, she pushes open the heavy oak door and walks in.
The church seems very dark after the bright sunshine and the air strikes damp and chill. Bella shivers, and not just from the cold. Since her epiphany at the Stones, ancient and terrible memories have come at night to haunt her; many associated with this place. She walks a few yards up the nave, her heels clicking noisily on the stone flags, and stops, fiddling nervously with the strap of her bag.
"Oh, hello there," says an echoing voice. "I thought I heard someone."
Bella starts a little and swings round. A tall man in a dog collar – mid thirties, slightly stooping, with thinning hair and a pale, gingery aura – has emerged from the shadows and is striding towards her. She smiles winningly. "Reverend Hawksmoor?"
The vicar gazes at her in apparent confusion. "Yes, hello. How can I help you?"
Bella puts out her hand. "I don't think we've met. I'm Bella Hauteville."
The vicar blinks several times – he has, she notices, a remarkably powerful blink – while looking her eagerly up and down. "Why, of course! You're Mrs Broadmayne's sister. I've heard such a lot about you. I'm very pleased to meet you at last." He takes her hand. "I thought you were she for a moment; Mrs Broadmayne, I mean. You two could almost be twins."
Bella decides to let this pass. Clearly the man needs glasses. "Do you know my sister well then?"
"Oh yes, certainly. She's chair of our maintenance committee now, you know, and was extremely active in getting our cracked bell recast. At a very reasonable price too, I might add. I really don't know how she packs it all in, what with the estate to run and the Hunt as well. She's quite the whirlwind. And of course she usually comes to the Sunday service. Always someone in the family pew, I'm glad to say. My stalwarts, I call them. Mr Broadmayne sometimes, though I know his work takes him away a great deal, and Commander and Mrs Aubrey-Hole almost never miss, rain or shine, and the Commander such a fine, strong singer too, we'd certainly notice if he wasn't here! That's only every other Sunday, of course; they don't come to St. Agnes – too awkward for Mrs Aubrey-Hole, I expect – although several St. Agnes' come here now, which is very gratifying. And of course the church remains open then if anyone wants to make a private devotion; we don't have any nonsense with locked doors here!"
During this speech he has not relinquished her hand, continuing absentmindedly to shake it. Now, as Bella gently releases herself, his expression suddenly changes. "Oh but goodness me! What am I thinking of? Please let me express, Miss Hauteville, my most sincere condolences on your recent loss. We are all so very sad about your poor mother. Such a tragic accident. It must have been a terrible shock for you."
"Yes, it was," agrees Bella.
"Such a shame you were unable to attend the funeral. I sensed, you know, so much love for her among the local people. I'm sure you would have found it a great comfort. Would you like me to show you the grave at all? Such a lot of flowers."
"Er, I stopped on the way in, thanks."
There is a pause while the vicar continues to gaze at her keenly, still nodding and blinking. Sensing admiration, albeit apparently shared with Miranda, Bella begins to relax. Perhaps this won't be so difficult after all.
"I wondered if I could have a word, actually," she says. "In private. It's . . . rather delicate."
The vicar straightens, looking pleased. "Oh I see. Yes, of course you may. Perhaps you'd like to come back to the Rectory?" He smiles conspiratorially. "Not quite so cold and gloomy there."
Bella feigns hesitation. "I don't want to put you to any trouble."
"Goodness me, it's no trouble! That's what I'm here for. I was just going to have a cup of tea as it happens. Would you like one? Do call me Julius, by the way; we don't stand on ceremony here."
Relieved to be outside again, Bella allows the vicar to shepherd her across the road to the rambling red-brick rectory, built in the days when the Parish of St Ethelfleda offered, under the patronage of the Manor, a handsome living.
"I rattle like a pea in a colander in this place," says the Reverend Hawksmoor, indicating with a mildly disparaging sweep of an arm the large and elegantly corniced hall. "I had a little semi before. Bit different from this, I can tell you! Go on in and sit down. I'll just pop off and make the tea. Won't be a mo'."
Finding herself abandoned in the vicar's study, Bella explores her surroundings with analytical care. Know thine enemy is her motto. The heavy mahogany furniture is old and surpassingly ugly and, she decides, probably goes with the place, but the large collection of stuffed creatures in glass cases, though somewhat dusty, is clearly a more recent addition. She counts twenty, including stoats, weasels, squirrels (red and grey) a collection of voles, fieldmice, a magnificent pair of foxes and any number of birds. All are skilfully posed as if in life with nests, branches, dried grasses and various other props to give the impression of a natural environment. She is intrigued to note that several of them, including the foxes, appear to be caught in the act of copulation. Is this normal? It certainly gives a whole new meaning to the expression 'stuffed and mounted.' These gristly trophies cover all available horizontal surfaces – the mantlepiece, the window sills, a low, hexagonal table – and one, a barn owl in flight, hangs by a string from the ceiling.
The bookcase, topped with a collection of finches under a glass dome, is filled, Bella notes, not with the religious works one might expect, but volumes on insects, wild flowers, British mammals and, of course, taxidermy. A whole shelf on taxidermy. At the ce
ntre of the room is a large, leather-topped desk with an open diary, a last month's parish magazine, a Book of Common Prayer – currently acting as a mortuary slab for a dead mole – and, significantly, a tea-tray containing the remains of a boiled egg and some scraps of toast on a plate. A nature lover, then, but more to the point, almost certainly a bachelor — the dust, the breakfast things still there at tea time. And if I can't charm a lonely bachelor with two hundred generations of womanly guile at my disposal, she thinks, well then it's a poor tale.
"Tea!" cries the vicar triumphantly, as if he has done battle with the kitchen and won. "Oh there's the tray, I wondered where I'd left it. Oops! A little bit in the saucer. Not to worry, I'll have that one. Do you take sugar?"
"Please. No milk."
"Goodness me, do sit down, Miss Hauteville. Er, may I call you Bella? If that's not being too familiar on so short an acquaintance."
"Not at all, Julius," says Bella, and settles herself decorously in a big leather armchair.
Sitting at the desk, Julius pulls his own chair round to face her. "Tea all right?"
"Yes, fine."
"Good, good." He nods and blinks amiably. "Now then, what is it you wanted to see me about? You can tell me anything, you know, anything at all – I'm totally unshockable – and it will not go further than this room."
"It's about my mother, actually."
Julius looks slightly disappointed but nods sympathetically. "Ah yes. Of course, of course." Bringing his hands prayerfully together he rests his chin on them and sits silently for a moment, apparently gazing at Bella's knees. Bella, shifting a little, subtly allows her hem to rise an inch or so. "This must be a very difficult time for you," he says at last.
Isabella: A sort of romance Page 14
