by Hannah Howe
Chapter Eighteen
I was annoyed with myself. In a rage, I went down on all fours and crawled along my office floor, picking up the pearls. When I’d gathered them all in, I placed them in their jewel box then threw the jewel box in a filing cabinet and locked the drawer.
I sat and reflected – how could I be so weak and feeble? This was me five years ago. I’ve moved on since then. I’m a stronger, better person. Then the frightening thought hit me – maybe I’m not. Maybe I haven’t moved on. Maybe I’ll always be weak and feeble, a coward too frightened to stand up to Dan.
I poured myself a finger of whisky and sipped it slowly. I closed my eyes and drifted into the darkness of the late afternoon. I could feel the depression wrapping its suffocating fingers around me, around my neck, like Dan’s fingers and his unwanted pearls. Then I put my arms on my desk, my head on my arms and had a good cry.
Like a summer thunderstorm after humid weather, the tears lightened the atmosphere and my head was now clear, my thoughts back in focus. I realised that sitting around in the darkness, wallowing in the cesspit of self-pity wouldn’t help me, Derwena, Woody or Milton. So I resolved to bounce back and get on with my work. Bouncing back was something I did well – I’d had years of experience.
I dried my eyes and switched on my computer. I would create a business card. Who would I be today? It was like being a young girl again and exploring my dressing up box. That dressing up box kept me sane during the early years of my mother’s illness, just as my job as an enquiry agent kept me sane today. Back then, I would escape by dressing up as an animal, a princess or a pirate. I was a tomboy so tended to go for masculine heroes, but all were fun and the fantasy was a welcome diversion from the strains of reality.
I concluded that journalism seemed to be at the heart of this case, so I decided to become a journalist for the day – a freelance journalist, working on a book about the grand houses in the district. I printed the business card, crossed my fingers and hoped that my plan would work.
I drove to Mansetree House. The building and its estate were situated in an exclusive district near the centre of Cardiff. The seventeenth century manor house was built on the site of a medieval structure, home to the lords of this particular manor. The building was set in numerous acres of green, tree-lined grounds. A high, red-bricked wall ran around the perimeter of the grounds while a large iron gate, resembling a portcullis, allowed access to the property, or kept riff-raff like me out. The building itself was a solid, square structure. Through the gate, I spied the austere facade, enriched by a front porch containing two tiers of doubled columns, crowned by a coat of arms in the pediment. The occupants had removed the top storey of the building in the eighteenth century, giving the side elevations a lopsided look. The numerous stone-mullioned windows were regular and severe. With its portcullis-style gate and muscular facade, the building was not so much a house, more a fortress. I was half-expecting bats to fly out from the belfry. Scooby-Doo, where are you!
There was an intercom at the gate, so I pressed the button and stated my business. For the purpose of this visit, I was Abigail Summer, a freelance journalist writing a series of articles and a book about the grand houses of Cardiff.
A woman replied to my request with a voice as severe as the building. “Go away, I’m not interested.”
“That’s a shame,” I replied in a sweet, ingratiating voice, “because Deke Spencer at Tusker Hall has agreed to an interview, along with the owners of Castle Gwyn, Wenvoe Villa and Sully Hall. It will look strange if your house is the only one in the district not included. It will only take five minutes of your time...”
The heavy iron gates swung open and I was allowed access to the curving, smoothly tarmacked driveway. Neat lawns and flowerbeds flanked the driveway. I noted a summerhouse in the grounds, a number of benches, a croquet lawn and a series of small outhouses. Five low steps led on to the porch, which was illuminated by an overhead light. I climbed those steps and was searching for a doorbell when the heavy oak door swung open, revealing a very tall, powerfully-built man. He was in his late forties with a strong, brooding, menacing, intimidating countenance. He also carried a shotgun under his left arm, which I found a trifle disconcerting. His head was bald, exposing a number of prominent blue veins, while his eyes were dark, fixed and staring. His rotund face displayed a pallid complexion, along with a large mole above his right eye, on his forehead, and a strawberry birthmark on his right cheek. Standing around six foot six, he was brawny and muscular and I got the impression that if he’d auditioned for a part in a Hammer Horror movie he’d have been rejected for being too scary. I was willing to bet that his father had been a boxer. Come to think of it, I was willing to bet that his mother had been a boxer too.
With a Lurch-like grunt, Baldy invited me into the building. I smiled politely, kept an eye on his shotgun, then stepped into a long, ostentatious, entrance hall. Brightly lit panels and plasterwork celebrated the rich and famous who’d graced the house. I noticed images of Adam and Eve along with a frieze, crowded with heraldry, interspersed with mythical beasts. The walls were lined with Greek and Roman statuary, including one carving of a cat playing with a snake. Yuck. A large window, at the far end of the hall, offered light into the building and I was marched to that window where Baldy pointed his shotgun at a softly padded, velvet chair. After smoothing the back of my skirt, I sat and awaited the lady of the manor.
I didn’t have to wait long. Her ladyship had clearly been out, horse riding. She was wearing jodhpurs, a riding habit and a frilly blouse. She was also carrying a whip, in her right hand. Immediately, I felt sorry for the horse. I knew this woman by reputation. According to the gossip columns, she had married into a wealthy family, divorced and run off with the spoils. Her name was Lady Fiona Grimsley and, on account of her love for jewellery, she was also known as Lady Diamond.
“Five minutes, no more,” Lady Diamond moaned in severe, clipped tones.
Five minutes with you, dear, and I’ll be screaming to get out. I smiled, “Thank you. Five minutes should be fine.”
Lady Diamond was in her early fifties. She had iron-grey hair, parted in the centre, curving to meet under her chin, grey, cold, piercing eyes and an ugly face with no redeeming features whatsoever. She was comfortably built, not exactly fat, but lacking in feminine curves of any distinction. She was slightly shorter than me, standing around five foot tall. In her ears, she wore large, sparkling, diamond earrings while her fingers were covered with baubles equally as ostentatious and flamboyant.
I like to give people the benefit of the doubt, but I disliked this woman instantly. She looked evil. She had the sort of look that gave good witches a bad name. I was tempted to look for her broomstick, but I’m too polite. You see elderly ladies in town, in the park, and there’s a grace about them that tells you that in their youth, they must have been beautiful – no matter what the makers of beauty creams say, the longer the clock ticks, the more women lose their looks; it’s a fact of life and my motto is, ‘get over it’ – but this woman had no beauty about her now, and probably had none in the past. I was willing to bet that there was no milk in the house because if she caught sight of it, it would curdle. As you might have gathered, I didn’t like her, big time.
“What a wonderful hallway,” I smiled ingratiatingly, waving a hand in the direction of the Greek statues. I must show you my porch sometime.
Lady Diamond nodded. She offered me a tight smile.
“Do you mind if I take notes?”
Her ladyship scowled. Clearly, her scowl was her default expression, so I dipped my fingers into my shoulder bag and removed my notebook and pen.
“When was the house built?”
“Sixteen eighty-eight.”
“Any idea who built it?”
She gave me a withering, ‘what a stupid question’ look.
“Has the house always been in your family?”
“The house
belonged to my ex-husband.”
“And you acquired it as part of the divorce settlement?”
“He was unfaithful to me, he stifled my career in politics and damaged my business interests; he was lucky to get away with only losing the house.”
I tried to look empathetic, one divorced woman to another. “It must have been a very difficult time for you, during the divorce.”
Lady Diamond glared at me. So much for empathy.
“And now, I believe the house is open to the public?”
“Only the east wing.”
“But you hold public events here?”
“Invitation only.”
I scribbled a note in my notebook. It’s libellous, so I’d better not tell you what I wrote.
“The upkeep on a place like this must be enormous.”
“We get by.”
I made another note in my notebook. I was about to ask my next, incisive, penetrating question when Baldy marched down the hallway, his shotgun slung over his right shoulder. He whispered something to Lady Diamond and she nodded. Then she glared at me. The glare said, ‘get out’.
“Can I take some pictures?” I swung my camera gaily, and smiled brightly, like a young girl anticipating a trip to the seaside.
“Only in the public areas.” She nodded towards the rooms on her right. “I’ve given you enough of my time, Miss...”
“Summer. Abigail Summer.”
“Take your pictures, Miss Summer, then leave my house.”
I waited until Lady Diamond and Baldy had disappeared from the hallway. Then I wandered around the house. Clearly, the public areas would hold no interest for me because they contained no secrets. I had to find my way into the private quarters and nose around.
I climbed a staircase, the kind you see in Busby Berkeley musicals, and discovered a bedroom. I eyed a deep blue, extremely thick, shag pile carpet, and was working out whether I should walk or swim across it, when I heard a sound. I pressed my slight frame against a wall – getting by on one cooked meal a day does have its advantages – and listened for footsteps or voices, anything to suggest that I should run. Thankfully, apart from the normal hums and groans of a building, all was quiet. And, with my breathing returning to normal, I set foot on the deep blue, shag pile carpet.
There were mirrors on the ceiling and pink champagne in an ice bucket. I wandered over to the king-sized bed. The bed sheets were purple, a shimmering satin, while the bed frame was metallic with large brass spheres at each corner. My eyes were drawn to the head of the bed and a series of scratches, caused by a heavy-handed maid with a duster or by something more sensual? The scratches suggested metal on metal and handcuffs sprung to my mind. Come on, admit it, that’s what you were thinking as well. I shrugged, whatever turns you on, I suppose. I took some photographs, of the room and of the bed, and wondered, was this a private love-nest, or used for something more sinister? Does someone as ugly as Lady Diamond have sex? What about her male partner, does he wear a blindfold? Maybe that’s where such practices originated, wealthy men copulating with ugly, rich women. I’m wicked, aren’t I?
I was lost in my work, taking photographs. That and the deep pile of the carpet were my undoing and I failed to hear Lady Diamond as she appeared beside the bed.
“What are you doing in here?” she snarled.
“Sorry.” I waved my hand around in absent-minded fashion. I gave her a vacant look, you know, the one normally reserved for women of a certain age and hair colour who appear on reality television programmes. “Your place is a bit bigger than mine. I guess I got lost.”
Lady Diamond was not impressed. Her scowl deepened and with a savage grasp, she snatched my camera from my hand. “Get out!”
“Yes, ma’am, sorry ma’am.” If I’d had a forelock, I’d have tugged it.
While sitting in my Mini, I reflected. There was something about Mansetree House that made me feel dirty, unclean. Maybe it was the ostentatious wealth. Maybe it had something to do with that bedroom. An involuntary shiver ran through my body. I felt in need of a bath.
