The Catherine Howard Conspiracy

by Alexandra Walsh

  “Grief does odd things. Maybe he thought we’d recover more quickly not knowing. I suppose we accepted it before because we didn’t want to upset Dad, but also, he was the adult and we assumed he knew best. It’s only now I wonder if we shouldn’t have stood our ground. She was our mother, we had a right to know, even if he did find it difficult,” replied Piper. She wiped a tear from her eye. “I’m glad we’ve finally seen Mum’s grave, though.”

  “It’s a shame it’s too late for bluebells,” said Perdita sadly.

  “We have so much money now, we can build a greenhouse and pay someone to grow them all year round so Mum always has her favourite flowers,” said Piper, only half joking.

  Perdita laughed. “Her favourite flower was one of the few things we did know.”

  They both drifted into their own thoughts again, until Perdita sat up, no longer able to bear staring at her mother’s portrait and its reminder of all they had lost as children.

  “Come on, let’s go into my room, we can finish exploring in here another time,” she said.

  Piper squeezed her hand and they wandered back through Mary’s suite of rooms, which was slightly larger than their own and had magnificent views over the lake and out to sea, back to Perdita’s. Piper settled on the sofa and Perdita emerged from the kitchen with two wine glasses and a bottle of red.

  “From the cellar?” asked Piper, taking her glass.

  “No, the supermarket,” laughed Perdita. “Alistair hasn’t mentioned a wine cellar, but I’m sure there’s one somewhere.”

  Settling at the other end of the sofa, Perdita glanced around her living room. There were piles of boxes that Piper, after a swift visit to their old home in Chiswick, had brought with her. By coincidence, the eldest son of Sarah Eve, the housekeeper and her husband, Alan, the grounds man and head of security at Marquess House, had been in London and had been able to meet Piper at the airport, making the collection and delivery of Perdita’s belongings even easier. Perdita itched to begin unpacking her books and other items, but she knew there would be time after the funeral when her sister had returned to America. Now, she turned her thoughts to more immediate issues.

  “What do you think about Mary requesting the same readings as Dad? Weird, eh?”

  “Or, they meant something to Dad and Mary, which could mean the readings are somehow connected to Mum,” replied Piper. “Perds, stop looking for strange coincidences that aren’t there. Our situation is tough enough to get our heads around without you finding conspiracy theories at every turn.”

  “Have you read them both again?” she persisted, not quite prepared to let the matter drop.

  Piper sipped her wine. “Yes, I know them both off by heart.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “They’re both about being watched, spied on, and in the case of Susanna, punished, or nearly punished for something she hadn’t done…”

  “Perds, I love you, but I’m exhausted and I’m going to bed,” interrupted Piper in a tone of weary finality before standing up and running her hand through her abundant red hair. “You’re tired, overwrought and doing what you always do when you’re upset, allowing your imagination to run wild. Get some sleep. I’m going to do the same thing. It’ll look less strange in the morning.”

  Piper hugged her sister, then walked quickly from the room, leaving Perdita feeling irritated. Perdita finished her wine while she contemplated her sister’s reaction. She wondered if Piper also found the choice of readings unnerving, but was refusing to acknowledge her feelings, blocking them out until the funeral was over so she could safely put them behind her. Piper had always bottled things up, usually confiding in Perdita only when she felt more in control of her emotions. Since her arrival, she had not mentioned Jeremy or her marriage but Perdita knew it would come eventually.

  Sighing, Perdita picked up their glasses and took them to the kitchen. No matter what Piper thought, she found the choice of readings eerie and a shiver ran down her spine.

  The sun shone in a cerulean sky, its joyous brightness jarring with the stream of black clad people below. The procession wound its way from the entrance of Marquess House along a path to the chapel situated in the grounds. It was a short and pretty walk through an abundant flower garden where a fountain played, water gushing from the centre of a stone oval held in the delicate hands of a beautiful but sad-faced mermaid.

  As Mary’s granddaughters and chief mourners, Perdita and Piper walked behind the coffin as it was carried on its short, final journey. Both dressed in simple but stylish black dresses, their heels clicking on the stone path, they followed their grandmother’s earthly remains through the kissing gate and into the chapel’s cool interior.

  Flowers covered every surface, the heady scents filling the air like a drug. Behind them walked the Mackensie family: Alistair, his wife Susan, their eldest daughter Megan and her fiancé Pablo, middle son Stuart and finally, Kit. They were all pale-faced and sad at Mary’s loss.

  Upon the arrival of Kit’s two elder siblings a few days earlier, Perdita had been both comforted and slightly overwhelmed by the warmth with which they had absorbed her into their family group. Usually, her natural shyness acted as a barrier, keeping people at bay until she was ready to trust them, but the Mackensies had merely included her as though she were a life-long friend or even a cousin and, to her surprise, she had found herself responding. When Piper had arrived, she too, was absorbed into this happy band. As such, the twins had insisted they sit with them in the front few rows of the small chapel. Warren had offered to come back from France but Perdita had explained it was something she felt she should do with Piper and he had accepted her wishes without an argument.

  Earlier that week, when Kit had taken her to the exquisite chapel, she had been surprised at its beauty. It reminded Perdita of a miniature version of the Chapel Royal at Hampton Court Palace, once the home of Henry VIII. A stunning blue and gold ceiling climbed skyward above them and stained glass windows featuring mythical creatures and various Biblical scenes filled the interior with dancing, jewel-like light. Ceiling bosses ran the length of the chapel, some decorated with flowers and, to her surprise, mermaids. Others featured delicately carved and beautifully painted faces.

  “Who are they?” she had asked Kit, staring up in wonder.

  “I don’t know,” he had replied. “There might be records in the archive but they were probably the first owners or particularly important people who have come after them.”

  “They’re all women,” she had said in surprise.

  Kit had stood next to her, scrutinising the faces staring at him across time. “Do you know, I’ve never noticed that before.”

  Now Kit slid into the pew beside Perdita. She gave him a quick on-off smile, glad to have him there. The vicar stepped forward and Perdita was not surprised when Piper, crying quietly, reached for her hand. Squeezing it, trying to offer reassurance, Perdita attempted to marshal her own teeming thoughts by concentrating on the vicar’s words. Then the haunting notes of Elgar’s Cello Concerto rang through the chapel and the small congregation, mostly of close friends and people who worked at or were connected to Marquess House, took comfort from the flow of the soothing music. Alistair rose and read a short eulogy focusing on Mary’s personal, rather than professional, achievements. Perdita found her eyes filling with tears.

  She felt Kit’s hand on hers and was about to snatch it away when she realised he was pushing a pristine handkerchief towards her. She smiled gratefully and took it, dabbing her eyes as Alistair regained his seat at the end of the pew across the aisle. There followed a short reading by the vicar, then they sang Mary’s favourite hymn, Morning Has Broken, before Piper, now tear-free, walked to the front of the chapel to read the George Orwell passage from the novel 1984, which she had read so recently at their father’s funeral. It was only a few lines long and was about being watched. Perdita continued to wonder at its significance.

  Piper returned to her seat and P
erdita stood, walking slowly towards the pulpit. Swallowing her feeling of déjà vu, she looked down at her typewritten sheet. Susanna, verses 42-48. She cleared her throat and began to read.

  These were the specific verses Mary had selected, exactly the same as her father. A short excerpt that concentrated on the point where Susanna had been falsely accused of a crime and was about to be executed, then Daniel stepped in to save her, claiming it was the people who had accused her who were guilty, not Susanna. Perdita had wondered why her father, James, had chosen this. She was even more mystified why her grandmother had too. It was yet another question she would never be able to ask. Returning to her seat, she bowed her head and after a stream of prayers, they stood for the final hymn, Jerusalem.

  The service, while soothing, had only added to the mystery of her grandmother, and Perdita once more wiped away tears as she and Piper allowed Kit to guide them from the pew to the family vault on the edge of the small graveyard. Mary was interred between her husband, Hector Woodville, and her daughter, Louisa, and as the service ended, Perdita felt a huge sense of relief. Not because the ordeal of the service was over, but because she felt her grandmother was safe now. The world could not hurt her anymore. Piper had moved towards their mother’s grave, tears streaming down her face. Perdita turned away, ready to repel anyone who might interrupt her sister. She knew Piper needed this moment of solitude.

  It was as she turned away from her sister, her eyes searching the crowd for Kit or his father, that she saw two strangers by the kissing gate, watching her intently. An elderly man in a wheelchair, his suit impeccable, and what remained of his snowy white hair, brushed back in an old-fashioned style. With him was a man in his fifties. The younger man was tall, his own luxuriant hair was still reasonably dark and cut into a short, military style. Both men wore charcoal grey suits and black ties. They seemed to be observing her with interest, yet neither of them showed any inclination to come forward and speak.

  Perdita turned her back on them and beckoned to Piper, feeling strangely uncomfortable. She glanced around looking for a member of the Mackensie family to ask who the men were when she saw Stuart marching towards them, his step purposeful and angry. Piper joined her and they watched as Stuart stopped by the two men and, after a short exchange, stormed away, fury on his face. It was a few moments before the men by the kissing gate turned to leave, but not before the man in the wheelchair had nodded respectfully to Perdita and Piper, by which time Megan, Stuart and Kit had surrounded them.

  “Who were those men?” Perdita asked as the Mackensie siblings guided the Rivers twins back towards Marquess House.

  “People who should have known better than to come here today, where they’re not welcome,” said Stuart, who still seemed rattled by his confrontation.

  “But who were they?” Piper insisted.

  “They were from your grandmother’s past,” said Kit.

  Megan glared at her youngest brother and continued: “And as Stuart said, they had no right to come here today, especially Morton Keller…”

  “Which one was he?” said Perdita.

  “The older man in the wheelchair,” interrupted Kit, raising his eyebrows at his sister to indicate she should shut up. “He and your grandmother fell out years ago. I suspect he came here today looking for forgiveness.”

  “From whom?” asked Piper intrigued.

  “From you two,” said Kit.

  “But why?”

  “Ah, there you are!” They were interrupted by the booming voice of Alistair Mackensie. “Let’s get you safely inside, Perdita, Piper,” he said leading them into the house. Piper shot Perdita a bemused glance. She raised her eyebrows in response but not before she thought: And there it is again, the word safe. She allowed Alistair to guide them through the Tudor hall and into a large sitting room known as the Lady Isabel Room, which had magnificent French doors opening out onto the terrace where they had decided to have the reception. It was a suntrap with a long, paved platform. At one end was a pergola covered in wisteria, while numerous flights of stone steps led to the intricate Elizabethan knot garden below.

  “Who is Morton Keller, Alistair?” Perdita asked as he handed her a glass of champagne, another instruction from Mary. His face went momentarily blank, then his usual avuncular smile appeared.

  “He’s no one you need to worry about.”

  “Please don’t patronise us,” said Piper quietly. “He wasn’t in the chapel for the service but he and that other man barely took their eyes off us while we were in the graveyard. Who are they?”

  For a moment, Alistair hesitated and Perdita could tell he was weighing up what he should tell them. Finally, he took a deep breath and spoke: “You are aware of how your mother died?”

  The twins nodded; it was one of the few pieces of information they did have. “She was killed in a car accident,” said Perdita. “She tried to stop to avoid an oncoming car which was driving too fast but her brakes failed, she swerved, lost control of the vehicle and smashed into a stone wall, then went over the edge of the cliff. She never regained consciousness.”

  Alistair nodded, then with great reluctance he spoke, wincing as he did so, as though each word caused him intense pain. “The man in the wheelchair, Morton Keller, was driving the other car. He was the reason your mother died.”

  Chapter Four

  Perdita and Piper sat, pyjama-clad, clutching mugs of hot chocolate as they talked about the man in the wheelchair: Morton Keller. His name unknown until today. His condition or even his survival, never discussed. Yet, in the aftermath of their grandmother’s funeral, they had been forced to confront another aspect of their turbulent past — the man who had been responsible for their mother’s death when they were seven years old.

  “It’s all his fault,” said Piper, her voice low, unforgiving, deadly. “If it hadn’t been for him, we would still have Mum, we might have still had Granny. We would have had different lives…”

  “Pipes, we can’t think that way,” said Perdita, holding back her own pain, knowing if she let go of her anger, it would be devastating. “We can’t change it.”

  “Do you think he’s in the wheelchair because of the accident?” asked Piper.

  Perdita shrugged, then said: “I hope so.” The bitterness in her voice was so completely out of character, it brought Piper up short.

  “Do you mean that?” she asked, horrified.

  Perdita’s eyes welled with tears. “No,” she replied. “But it seems so unfair that he survived, yet his moment of carelessness sent our lives into chaos.”

  The image of Morton Keller in his wheelchair and the chill stare of his companion were still making her shudder.

  “If he wanted forgiveness, why did he make no attempt to speak to us?” she continued.

  Neither twin spoke, the silence growing. They had no answers, only questions, which they were wise enough to realise would probably never be resolved.

  After a while, Piper spoke, her voice quieter now, sad: “I think Jeremy’s having an affair with a woman at work called Kirstin.”

  “Oh, Pipes, no,” whispered Perdita, reaching out to squeeze her sister’s hand. “Jeremy loves you, he wouldn’t…”

  The twins had grown up with Jeremy Davidson, the only son of their father’s best friend since his university days. The three had been inseparable and, in their teens, when it had become apparent that Piper and Jeremy were falling in love, no one could have been more delighted than Perdita. The thought of his possible betrayal broke her heart too.

  “I always thought that too, Perds, but in the past few months, he’s changed.”

  “In what way?” asked Perdita, hoping her sister was wrong.

  “I thought at first he was having a nervous breakdown, pressure of work, that kind of thing. He’s become secretive, he loses his temper with me all the time — sometimes I’m scared to speak because I can’t stand the shouting — and he’s changed the password on both his phone and laptop. We always used the same one or variat
ions of it, anyway: COPPER, after our old dog. He won’t tell me the new one. The worst thing is that he’s stopped mentioning her name.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When we first arrived, he was the usual Jeremy, happy, open, sharing his life and work, like we always did. Then this new woman started — she’s on secondment too, but from a different office, Corby in Northamptonshire. For a few weeks, it was Kirstin this, Kirstin that. Kirstin who is supposedly married with two daughters. Then suddenly, no more mentions of Kirstin.”

  “Has she left?”

  “No, I bumped into the wife of one of Jeremy’s colleagues when I was out shopping and casually brought Kirstin’s name up in conversation,” she sighed. “You should have seen the look of pity she gave me, Perds. It confirmed everything I was beginning to suspect.”

  Perdita stared at her sister, her face mirroring the misery on Piper’s. She put her empty mug on the floor and reached out to envelope her twin in a huge hug. Leaning into Perdita’s shoulder, Piper began to cry.

  “I didn’t tell him I was coming to Granny’s funeral. I went while he was at work and left him a note. Maybe me walking out will have brought him to his senses,” she said, her voice muffled.

  “Why don’t you stay a bit longer?”

  Piper wriggled out of her sister’s arms and shook her head. “I can’t. I have to at least try to salvage my marriage. I’ve loved Jeremy most of my life. What we have is worth fighting for.”

  “Do you want me to come? You know, moral support.”

  “That’s so kind but no, this is something I have to do alone.”

  “Of course,” said Perdita. “While I need to stay here and try to discover why Mary has left us everything. From what everyone says, it seems she did love us and wanted us in her life.”

  “And that picture,” said Piper, pointing at the abstract depiction of Marquess House over her fireplace. “Do you think it’s the one?”