by Roberta Kray
‘Some of us handle it better than others. In my experience, things usually get worse before they get better. Still, not to worry; I’m sure we’ll survive one way or another.’
‘Let’s hope so,’ Heather said. She raised her glass and made a toast. ‘To a happier future.’
Lolly thought of Mal and her inner smile quickly faded. As if a shadow had fallen across the room, dark and disquieting, she was struck by a sudden sense of foreboding.
19
Monday 19 September. West Henby
Mal Fury hunkered down beneath the willows, smelling the earth and the water and the damp night air. He wasn’t sure what time it was, only that it was late. The lights in the house were off and the only sounds he could hear were the scrabblings and snufflings of small nocturnal creatures. He held his breath and strained his ears. It was another noise he was listening for, the tread of policemen or security guards or anyone else who might be patrolling the property. It was dogs, however, that he feared most. They didn’t need to see him to pick up his scent.
It felt like a long time since he’d walked off the farm in Surrey, more like weeks than days. And it had taken planning – and some bribery. Jed, a local man he’d worked beside for months, had provided him with what he needed: a small amount of cash, a train ticket via Victoria, a change of clothes, a rucksack, food supplies and the loan of a bike to get him to Sutton station. In exchange, Jed had got his gold Cartier watch.
There had been no guards to watch him on the farm. Open prisons relied on trust. Mal often worked whole afternoons on his own with only the pigs for company so there would have been nothing odd about the fact that his absence wasn’t immediately noticed. Jed had agreed to give him a few hours start before raising the alarm.
Even with this promise, the journey had been a fraught one. With his rucksack and casual clothes, he’d hoped to look like any other tourist, but with no way of knowing whether the search for him had begun he’d felt like a hunted man. In London, at Victoria station, he’d mingled with the crowd, anxious in case his description had been circulated or he ran into someone he knew. The half hour wait had felt like an eternity.
Mal had not got off at West Henby – too big a risk of being spotted – but had gone on to the next stop. From here he’d begun the long trek back, cutting across the fields to stay out of sight. A few miles outside the village was a derelict farmhouse and that was where he’d stopped. It had been his place of refuge for the past few days while he waited for the initial fuss to die down. If he was lucky, the police would think he wasn’t coming and concentrate their efforts elsewhere. That’s if they were even bothered.
It was Mal’s belief, and he hoped he was right, that the law wouldn’t waste too many resources on him. He was hardly a dangerous criminal. Esther would have kicked up a fuss, though, and in order to placate her they would probably be keeping an eye on the place. This was why he’d waited until cover of darkness before scaling the high wall at the rear of the estate, the way he’d done when he was a kid, still knowing off by heart where all the footholds were.
Mal rubbed his face with his hands. He was tired and hungry. It was good to be home but he was still exiled from his own house. He had no key, no way of gaining entrance. A crazy idea jumped into his head of simply ringing the bell, of rousing Mrs Gough from her sleep, pushing past her when she opened the door and going upstairs to confront Esther. Except it wouldn’t happen like that. Mrs Gough was more likely to call the police than answer the door at this time of night. He squeezed shut his eyes and opened them again. What was he thinking? He hadn’t come this far, done so much, to throw it all away on an impulse.
No, patience was what was required now. If he wanted the truth, he would have to bide his time, watch the house and see who came and went. If Heather Grant was right then Esther was hiding the fact that she’d found their daughter. Was that possible? Of course it was. It was why he was here, wasn’t it? When it came to his wife anything was possible.
There was a section of his brain, the rational part, that had railed against the plan to escape. Don’t do anything rash, that sensible voice had urged. But here he was anyway. In prison, ideas could sit in your head and fester. What Heather Grant had said made sense to him: Teddy having help from a girlfriend; that girlfriend being Hazel Finch; Vicky being around the right age to be Kay. And then Esther changing her mind about the book, making plans to go abroad, being seen with Vicky Finch . . . well, not a hundred per cent seen but close enough. It was an accumulation of evidence that couldn’t be ignored.
In the end, he had gone with his gut. His instincts had won the day. If he’d waited for his sentence to be completed it could have been too late. Esther might have taken Kay abroad, placed her somewhere Mal would never find her. And every day that passed, every minute of every hour, she would be trying to poison their child against him. He had to find out the truth whatever the cost, whatever the consequences. It was killing him not knowing.
Slowly Mal got to his feet, his knees complaining. He wasn’t as young as he used to be and sleeping on the ground for the past few nights had made his joints creak. He walked along the water’s edge, moonlight spilling over the path, until he came to the summerhouse. The door was locked but he knew where the key was, under the terracotta pot with the white geraniums. He lifted it with care – sound travelled in the dead of night – and fumbled underneath until his fingers touched the cool metal.
The summerhouse smelled musty inside, as though it hadn’t been used for a long time. No one would have been here since he went to jail. Esther never used it. She had never come near the lake, not since the day Kay had been taken. The horror was too much for her. But he’d often come to sit and contemplate, to stare out across the water in the hope that one day the lake might accede to his demands and give up its secrets.
There were two wide wicker chairs and he slumped down in one of them, stretching out his legs. He thought some more about his daughter. She would be nineteen now, the same age as Lita. The photo Heather had left for him hadn’t corresponded to the visual image in his head, but he was starting to adjust to it.
Mal ran his palm over his chin, prickly with stubble, and dreamed about having a shave. He needed a shower too although he’d have to make do with a swim in the lake. Not tonight, though. He was too tired to negotiate the reedy water, too chilled with fatigue to risk plunging into its depths.
He bent and undid the laces on his boots, kicked them off and flexed his toes. His stomach, hollow with hunger, rumbled its displeasure. It crossed his mind to creep round to the back of the house and rummage through the bin for scraps, but he didn’t have the energy. Tomorrow. He would deal with the demands of his body in the morning.
Mal sat back and closed his eyes. The stress of the last few days, the constant fear of discovery, had left him feeling drained to the point of exhaustion. But he had finally made it. He was home. Was he crazy? Perhaps. But not completely out of his mind. What he had done, was doing, might seem irrational to others, like a madman chasing ghosts. Not to him. It was necessary, vital. He had lost his daughter once and he wouldn’t let it happen again.
He heard an owl hoot, an eerie sound that sent a shiver through him. His shoulders tensed and his eyes flew open. The sound came again, echoing through the night. Folklore had it that the owl was a harbinger of doom, of death. He stared through the window into the dark.
20
Tuesday 20 September. West Henby
When Lolly woke in the morning the first thing she noticed were the printed peacocks strutting across the wall. She studied them for a while, their little heads, their fabulous tails, just as she had so many times in the past. The room felt simultaneously strange and familiar. It did not belong to her any more and yet a part of her was engrained within it. When she wasn’t at boarding school this was where she’d slept, dressed, cried, dreamed and planned. It knew all her secrets, her joy and her pain.
She threw back the covers and padded over to the window
. The sky was pale blue and cloudless. Looking out over the grounds, at the lake, she thought of Mal and hoped he was a long way away. In Antwerp, perhaps, finding refuge with friends, people who would shield and protect him. And yet she couldn’t quite believe it. He’d gone AWOL for a reason and it wasn’t to revel in the charms of Belgium.
Lolly took a shower and got dressed. She was standing in front of the mirror, combing her hair, when she heard footsteps along the landing. Quickly she opened the door and looked out. It was Nick.
‘Are you off?’ she asked.
‘Once I’ve found some coffee.’
‘I can help you with that.’
It was early and the house was quiet. Mrs Gough was probably the only other person up, but there was no sign of her as they descended to the basement. It was chilly in the kitchen. In the old days Mrs Docherty would have had the range going, making the place snug and warm while she organised breakfast. The place felt empty without her.
Lolly put the kettle on, took the coffee from the cupboard and spooned it into the percolator. ‘Would you like something to eat? I could do you scrambled eggs.’
‘Just coffee, thanks.’
‘Are you sure? What about some toast?’
‘No, really. It’s too early for food. I’ll grab something when I get into town.’
While she was waiting for the kettle to boil, Lolly sat down opposite him at the big wooden table. ‘I still don’t get it, why Esther wants me here. It’s weird, don’t you think? The woman can’t stand me and she knows I wouldn’t tell her anything about Mal even if I could.’
‘All the more reason to come back to London with me,’ he said. ‘Whatever’s going on, you don’t want to be involved.’
Except Lolly was involved. Mal had taken her in, been good to her, and she couldn’t cut and run when things got tricky. If he did show up she had to be here. ‘I’ll give it a few days, see what happens. What do you think of Heather? Do you trust her?’
‘No.’
‘Me neither. Or Jude, come to that. And don’t get me started on Mrs Gough.’
‘So you’re going to stay in a house where you can’t trust anyone?’
Lolly grinned. ‘That’s about the sum of it. Still, at least I know where I stand.’
‘With a dagger in your back if you’re not careful.’
Fifteen minutes later, Lolly walked down the steps and onto the drive with Nick. She was sorry to see him leave. Once he was gone she’d be well and truly on her own. A daunting thought but she tried not to let the worry show on her face. This, as it turned out, wasn’t difficult; she’d had years of practice at hiding her feelings.
‘Call me if you need to talk,’ he said as he climbed into his car. ‘Any time. And let me know when you want to go home. I’ll come and pick you up.’
‘That’s okay, I can get the train.’
‘It’s no bother. The offer’s open. I’ll leave it up to you.’
She waved him off and stood on the drive until the car was out of sight. Despite the sun, the morning was chilly and she wrapped her arms around her chest. Later, when it had warmed up a bit she’d take a walk in the garden, maybe even go down to the village and find her old friend, Theresa. If there was any gossip to be had – and she was sure there was plenty – Theresa would be more than happy to share it.
Lolly breathed in the crisp air, trying to clear her head. She hadn’t drunk much wine last night but hadn’t eaten much food either. There was a fuzziness around the edges of her thoughts. After a while she went back inside, washed up the cups, cleaned out the percolator, and wondered what to do next.
With most of the household still sleeping, Lolly decided to take the opportunity to have a look around. She went from room to room, each one with its own memories. She had known this house when it was quiet as the grave, when the only sound was the soft ticking of the old clocks and had known it too when it was full of voices, of music, of talk and shrill laughter, of people filling every available space.
The parties had been Esther’s idea or perhaps more precisely Esther’s revenge. Mal had not wanted company, had not wanted his house taken over by the glitterati and their hangers-on. He preferred peace, or the closest he could get to it. These constant invasions were, however, the price he’d had to pay for bringing a kid Esther neither wanted nor liked into the family home.
Lolly had always understood why Esther loathed her. She was a poor replacement for the child that had been lost, a changeling, a mockery. Every misspoken word, every clumsy action only served as a reminder of what might have been. Even when the rough edges had been smoothed out, when she was able to speak without making Esther wince, when she could walk gracefully and almost pass for a lady, nothing had changed. She was, and always would be, an interloper.
Lolly sighed and went into the library, one of her favourite rooms. She looked at the brown leather chair Mal had sat in. The arms were worn, paler than the rest, and there was a slight dip in the seat. This was the place he would retreat to when the parties were in full swing, to work or read or drink his whisky in peace.
She went over to the tall bookcases and ran a finger along the spines of the books. She would pick out one to read; it would pass the time while she waited for the rest of the world to wake up. There was everything here from art to zoology and a good selection of novels too. She was on the point of plucking out a volume on the history of clocks and watches when the door suddenly opened and Mrs Gough strode in with a duster in her hand. When she saw Lolly, she stopped dead in her tracks.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Just browsing,’ Lolly said. She knew exactly what the housekeeper was thinking. Many of the books here were valuable, first editions, and girls like her couldn’t be trusted. ‘That’s all right, isn’t it?’
‘So long as you’re careful and put them back where you find them.’
‘Of course.’
Mrs Gough didn’t retreat – she must have had plenty of other rooms to clean – but instead began to run a duster over Mal’s desk. All the time she kept her eyes on Lolly, watching her as closely as she could without actually hovering at her shoulder.
Lolly refused to be driven out. This was a battle she wasn’t going to lose. In order to add a little interest to the proceedings she said, ‘You must be busy, getting ready for the States. Are you looking forward to moving?’
Mrs Gough stopped wiping, her cloth poised in mid-air. There was a distinct air of fluster about her, a redness creeping over her cheeks. Then, after a short hesitation, she straightened up and replied sharply, ‘Me? What on earth makes you think I’m going to that place?’
‘Oh, I see. I just presumed—’
‘Well, you presumed wrong. I can’t go gallivanting halfway round the world, not at my age.’
Lolly, who had always been of the opinion that Mrs Gough would follow Esther to the end of the earth if called upon to do so, was puzzled by this. But then it struck her: the decision had not been the housekeeper’s. Esther wasn’t just leaving behind the house, her home, but Mrs Gough too. After years of loyal service, the woman was about to be dumped.
‘Oh,’ Lolly said again. ‘I didn’t realise. What will you do?’
‘Do?’
‘When Mrs Fury leaves.’
‘It won’t come to that. She’ll see sense in the end. This is where she belongs.’
‘You think she’ll change her mind?’
But Mrs Gough wouldn’t be drawn any further. She pushed out her jaw and her mouth pursed. ‘I haven’t got time to stand here gossiping all day. Some of us have work to do.’ And with that she gave a single flap of the duster, turned on her heel and flounced out.
As soon as she’d gone, Lolly sat down in the leather chair and thought about what she’d learned. She might have had some sympathy if Mrs Gough had ever showed her an inch of compassion. As it was, she had only ever been treated with cruelty and disdain. She reckoned Mrs Gough had modelled herself on Mrs Danvers from Rebecca: all darkne
ss and spite and hostility. The comparison didn’t do much to ease Lolly’s already troubled state of mind.
Finding herself too restless to sit still, Lolly stood up, flew upstairs to get a sweater and then went out into the garden. It was her intention to walk around the lake but she hadn’t got further than the tennis court when she came across Heather Grant sitting on a bench. If she’d had the option she would have turned back and avoided her, but it was too late. She’d already been spotted. She walked up to the bench and forced a smile.
‘Hi. I didn’t know anyone else was up yet.’
‘Actually, I’m in hiding. I’m trying to avoid Mrs Gough.’
This piqued Lolly’s interest. ‘Why, what have you done to her?’
‘Nothing, as far as I know, but every time I turn around she’s there. It’s like having a permanent shadow. Everywhere I go, she’s two steps behind.’
‘I know the feeling,’ Lolly said.
‘To be honest, she gives me the creeps.’ Heather put a hand to her mouth as if she might have spoken out of turn. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to—’
‘Don’t apologise on my account. She creeps me out too.’
‘But she’s known you for years.’
‘That doesn’t mean she likes me.’
‘Does she like anyone?’
‘Just Esther.’ Lolly could have gone on to say that she thought Mrs Gough’s attachment to her mistress bordered on obsession but was wary of sharing too much. Even Mal had only ever been tolerated, more a necessary evil than someone to be liked or respected.
Heather patted the space beside her. ‘Why don’t you sit down?’
Lolly hesitated, thought about making an excuse, but then decided to take up the offer. If she was going to find out what was going on round here she couldn’t do it by avoiding contact with everyone else. But she made a mental note to be cautious. Talking to Heather, she imagined, was like talking to the law: anything could be taken down in evidence and used against her.
