She joined him inside the lift.
‘Tom’s right,’ said Ovid. ‘We’re more suited to dark than light.’ He slid the door shut and the lift rattled down. ‘I used this place as a base back when I was building a killer freezer,’ he said with a nostalgic sigh.
‘I don’t remember a killer freezer.’
‘It never worked properly.’
‘You mean it didn’t kill?’
‘Oh, it would have killed fine, but it didn’t keep food cold and that was all part of the plan.’
The lift came to a standstill at the bottom of the shaft and Ovid held the gas lamp, then waved the package of meat. ‘Jenny! Jenny?’ he called. ‘Where is she then?’
‘Let’s just throw it and go,’ said Lorelli.
‘Where’s the fun in that? Look, here she comes.’ A pair of keen eyes appeared in the dark and the leopard made its way silently towards them. Ovid dangled the wildebeest meat. She growled. He dropped it. The leopard sniffed the package then settled down to eat and Ovid reached out his hand and tickled her behind her ears. The leopard made a little satisfied purr as she sank her teeth into the soft flesh.
‘Ovid, I’m going up, with or without you,’ said Lorelli.
‘Spoilsport,’ he replied, but he joined her in the lift. Lorelli pressed the UP button. Nothing happened. She pressed it again. Still nothing.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Ovid.
‘It’s not working.’
‘Let me try.’ Ovid took the control and pressed the button. ‘It’s packed in. Don’t worry. There’s a ladder that comes up at the bottom of the croquet field. Come on, we’d probably better get moving before Jenny finishes dinner and starts thinking about pudding.’
‘Can’t you fix the lift?’ said Lorelli.
‘Are you sure you’re not scared of the dark?’ asked Ovid.
‘No. I’m fine. Let’s go while she’s still busy with that meat.’
As the twins edged around her, Lorelli felt the soft brush of Jenny’s fur against her leg. Once past, they sped up. Ovid held the lamp. Lorelli was close behind.
‘You’re waving that thing around too much,’ said Lorelli. They rounded another corner and she felt her foot kick something. She bent down and found an old tin hat. She picked it up and switched on the torch. ‘It still works.’
‘I know. You’re shining it in my eyes,’ said Ovid.
She placed it on her head. ‘What’s that sound?’
Behind them the leopard was growling, either in satisfaction or having got the taste for even fresher meat. The twins sped up, running as fast as the twisting tunnels allowed.
‘She’s getting closer.’ Lorelli felt as though the walls were closing in on her. The light on her hat should have helped but the shifting shadows fed her imagination. Fear gripped her like a hand to the throat. She struggled to breathe. Her chest tightened.
‘This is it. This is our way out.’ Ovid started to climb. Lorelli followed. From the loudness of the growl, she could tell the leopard was getting close. Lorelli followed her brother up. It felt like he was climbing too slowly.
‘Ovid, you’re right. I am scared of the dark,’ she said. ‘And of being eaten by leopards. Climb faster.’
The leopard was beneath them. When it growled, it sounded like thunder. It jumped up, its jaws snapping at Lorelli’s feet. She could feel its breath, warm and with the rich stench of raw wildebeest.
‘Ovid, climb quicker!’ she yelled.
The leopard jumped again.
She snatched the hard hat off her head and took aim. As she did she caught a glimpse of the name written on the back.
Vãduva.
The leopard was on its hind legs with its eyes focused on its prey. It was about to jump. It would reach high enough this time. Lorelli lobbed the hat. It smacked the leopard right between the eyes as it was about to spring. Finally, Jenny fell back to the ground and the twins climbed up towards the light.
Mrs Bagshaw’s Turnip Soup
There are people who would have let out exclamations of joy and relief after such a narrow escape from death. Most people, probably. The Thornthwaite twins were not most people. They stepped onto the croquet pitch, brushed themselves down and continued on their way back to the manor.
Ovid said, ‘Tom really does keep this pitch in immaculate order. We should have a game one day soon now it’s getting warmer.’
‘I remember the last game we had,’ said Lorelli. ‘You set fire to Tom’s rose bushes.’
‘Was that the paraffin croquet balls?’ said Ovid.
‘No, hot coals dropped from the southwest tower.’ Lorelli looked up and spotted Dragos working on the tower. ‘You said you saw someone who looked like Dragos in that old film.’
‘Yes, but Tom’s right. He’s not old enough,’ said Ovid.
‘That mining helmet had his surname on it,’ said Lorelli.
‘Maybe he’s been doing some repairs down there,’ said Ovid.
‘The helmet hadn’t been used in years. Besides, you know what he’s like about safety. He would never leave it down there if it was his.’
Ovid pushed down a molehill with his heel. ‘Now I think about it, Tom never denied it. He said the film was too old, then changed the subject.’
‘So, what? It was a relation of Dragos’s?’
‘Maybe.’
‘It doesn’t make sense. Why wouldn’t he tell us? Why would he lie?’
‘Why do any of them lie?’ asked Ovid.
Up high on the tower, Dragos spotted them and waved. Lorelli raised a hand. With the sun going down behind him, Dragos’s features were hidden in dark shadow.
‘Maybe Silas was right. Maybe there really is gold down there.’
‘Dragos has never shown any interest in that mine,’ said Ovid.
They stepped in through the back door of the manor. Ovid held the door open for his sister. They heard a bell tinkle. Dinner was ready. They made their way to the dining room, where they found Hazel placing a vat of brown soup in the centre of the table. She removed the lid and a stench filled the room.
‘Beaufort is off his game today,’ said Ovid.
‘Mrs Bagshaw made it,’ said Hazel flatly.
‘Mrs Bagshaw?’ repeated the twins.
‘Yes. She’s back. She was released yesterday on good behaviour.’
‘She was serving a fourteen-year sentence for murder,’ exclaimed Ovid. ‘How well behaved could she be?’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t know, sir …’ Hazel was fighting hard not to cry and her voice wavered.
Seeing how upset she looked, Lorelli took her hand and said, ‘You must be so relieved.’
‘Yes, miss, I am … It’s just … It’s just …’ She burst into tears and ran out of the room.
‘I wonder what’s wrong with her,’ said Ovid.
He picked up a ladle and poured some soup into a bowl. He offered it to Lorelli, but she scowled at him. ‘Hazel is obviously really upset and all you can think about is soup.’
Ovid lifted a spoonful of it, sniffed it, then poured it back in. ‘Actually, I’d rather not think about this soup,’ he said.
Tom Paine entered the room and sniffed. ‘Ah, now there is a familiar smell,’ he said. ‘Mrs Bagshaw has requested that I join you for dinner. She’s keen for me to try this soup of hers.’
‘Tom,’ said Lorelli, ‘is everything all right? Hazel seemed rather upset.’
‘That’s on account of our French chef turning out to be a chap by the name of Artie Newly who, as it happens, is Hazel’s father.’ Tom poured himself a bowl of soup and picked up a rock-hard bread roll. He banged it on the table in a futile attempt to break through the crust. When it remained undamaged, he dipped it into the soup to soften it up.
‘Her father?’ said Lorelli. ‘Did you know this?’
‘I did think he had a familiar look to him, but no, I can’t say I knew Artie well enough to recognise him after all these years. Remember, Nurse Griddle didn’t come to work here u
ntil after he was gone. How was the mine?’
‘The lift packed in,’ said Lorelli.
‘I did warn you it’s not safe down there, but I am relieved you made it out. If only to help me get through all this soup.’
‘Tom, was it a relation of Dragos’s I saw in that film?’ asked Ovid.
Tom blew on a spoonful of soup and took a sip. He gulped it down and said, ‘What makes you say that?’
‘I found a helmet,’ said Lorelli.
Tom muttered something inaudible, then spoke. ‘Dragos’s father worked for Silas.’
‘Why didn’t you tell us?’ demanded Lorelli.
‘And don’t say you assumed we knew,’ added Ovid. ‘You vetted him before suggesting we take him on.’
Tom laid down his spoon and placed his elbows on the table, resting his chin on his hands. ‘I kept it from you because I knew you would get like this.’
‘Like what?’ asked Ovid.
‘Suspicious. I knew you’d go concocting your whodunnits and what-have-yous. But Dragos is a good, honest man and he cares for this house as much as any of us. He cares for you two as well. The fact that his father worked for your grandfather should make no difference.’
‘We’re not Bleeding Hearts,’ said Lorelli. ‘We deserve the truth.’
‘The truth isn’t something anyone deserves,’ said Tom. ‘It’s something people earn.’
Fear of Telephones
Dragos had located an old-fashioned black-handled telephone in the attic and placed it on a three-legged table at the top of the main staircase in case of emergencies. As far as Ovid was concerned, no one knew the number, so when it rang later that evening he was slow to realise what the sound was. As his room was nearer, he reached it before his sister, but he was unaware that Lorelli had stopped just short of the corner to listen in on his side of the conversation.
He hesitated. His hand hovered over the ringing telephone. The twins’ mother had been killed when she had answered the telephone during a thunderstorm. A lightning bolt had struck at the moment she picked up the receiver, frying the late Lady Thornthwaite. This had left Ovid with an understandable fear of telephones. He listened for any sign of thunder before cautiously picking up.
‘Yes? Hello?’ he said.
‘Ovvy … it’s me … Millicent,’ a voice whispered.
‘How did you get this number?’
‘Lorelli gave it to me, but listen, I can’t talk for long. My father might come in. He says I can’t see you, but I don’t care. Come and meet me tomorrow.’ It was a bad line. Her voice sounded muffled.
‘Meet you where?’
‘The old water mill by Bagshaw’s End at eleven o’clock. There are things I need to explain.’
‘What things?’
‘Things I need to say in person. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
The line went dead and Ovid replaced the receiver. He remained by the phone, listening for a sign that anyone was eavesdropping. Satisfied that he was alone, he headed back towards his bedroom, only to bump into Hazel on the way. She was carrying a bundle of clean bed linen along the north corridor.
‘Good evening, sir,’ she said.
‘Hazel,’ he replied, ‘Tom told us about Beaufort. It must have been … well, quite a shock.’
‘Yes, sir. It was something of a shock.’
‘It’s funny in a way. Our uncle and your father turn up together.’
‘It doesn’t feel funny at the moment, sir.’
‘No, I mean … No, you’re right.’
Ovid had lived under the same roof as Hazel his entire life. She was only a year older, but Ovid could count the number of proper conversations they’d had on one hand.
‘I heard the phone ring,’ said Hazel. ‘It was Millicent, wasn’t it?’
‘How did you know that?’
‘You’re smiling, sir.’ Seeing his reaction, she said, ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to speak out of turn.’
‘There is nothing to say.’
‘Yes, sir. Good night then, sir.’
‘You know, you don’t really need to call me sir,’ said Ovid.
‘Thank you, but Mrs Bagshaw is back now and she prefers it if I do, sir.’
‘And Beaufort?’
‘He’s gone now, sir.’
‘For good?’
‘It doesn’t feel good, but yes, sir. Forever.’
Ovid was not a natural reader of people, but it was easy enough to recognise emotions that had been so present in his own childhood. He understood fear and paranoia, but it was not either of these things that was plaguing Hazel. From the faraway look in her eyes to her quiet, tearful voice, Ovid understood that she was grieving.
Where to Start?
After listening in on Ovid’s conversation, Lorelli waited until he went back to his room before returning to her own. She sat down at her desk, picked up a fresh sheet of white paper and a pen. In spite of Miss Wilde’s encouragement, she had lost faith in her story about the Russian dressmaker. The character had seemed so vivid at first. Now, she felt flat and dull. Lorelli needed to write a story she believed in. She needed to be swept off her feet just as she had been when she first read The Seven Dances of Franciska Tˇoth. She didn’t accept Miss Wilde’s claim that a writer was in control. She believed that stories should spill out of a pen onto the page.
The white paper stared back at her. No more beginnings. Miss Wilde was right about that. She needed a story with a middle and an end too. Lorelli’s pen hovered over the paper. Slowly she lowered it until its nib touched the white paper. She wrote the words:
Beginning, middle, end.
She stared at the words, then released her pen and dropped her head into her hands. Why was it so hard to find a story when she was surrounded by them? She picked up Alfred’s book, A History of Murder. So many stories. Irony and tragedy. Love and death. But how did you know where a story started? Where was the beginning of her life story? Did it begin on the day of her birth or did it go further back than that? She put the book down and picked up the pen again. She found a fresh piece of paper and wrote: How does a history of murder end? Then she wrote the answer. When everyone is dead. She crushed the paper into a ball and threw it across the room. She considered writing to Adam, but she had promised him only the truth and Lorelli was no longer sure she knew what that was.
She gave up and went to bed but struggled to sleep. When she did finally drift off it was into a disturbed slumber. The next morning she entered the dining room, bleary-eyed and groggy-headed. She found Ovid staring at a mountain of dry black puddings. There was a big black pan of baked beans, piles of burnt toast, soggy bacon stacked high and greasy fried eggs with solid yolks. Mrs Bagshaw entered with a bowl of boiled mushrooms.
‘Ah, my young masters, Lorelli and Ovid. How lovely to see you. Please don’t stand on ceremony. It all needs to be eaten. Tuck in. Tuck in.’
‘Mrs Bagshaw, welcome home,’ said Lorelli.
‘Thank you, dear, but the best welcome you can give me is a full stomach. Come on now, eat up.’
Not wanting to cause offence, Lorelli placed a sausage, an egg and a piece of toast on her plate, while Ovid risked the mushrooms.
‘So, how was prison?’ asked Ovid.
‘An experience better forgotten,’ said Mrs Bagshaw. ‘If I hadn’t had my turnips, I don’t know what I would have done. They really helped me get away from it all.’
‘Thank goodness for the turnips then,’ said Ovid.
‘Yes, but that’s enough about me. What’s new with you?’ Mrs Bagshaw sat down at the table. ‘Hazel has been hopeless at providing news. She keeps bursting into tears. I think she’s a bit overwhelmed about my release. I’m sure you have bags to tell me.’
Worse Than Murder
Ovid regretted the mushrooms. He was reminded of them with every bump he went over on the road to Little Fledgling. He cycled harder and sped up past Hartwell’s Rare Meat Emporium, then parked his bike outside the old water mill and went around th
e side of the building. The mill had been out of use for as long as anyone could remember, but the large wooden wheel still turned during the wetter months when the stream flowed fast and high. Ovid leaned over the fence and gazed down at the swirling water. The rushing was so loud it took him a moment to realise someone was behind him.
‘I’ve always loved it here. It’s so pretty.’
He turned, expecting to see Millicent, but found Felicia standing behind him, wearing a pretty bow in her hair, a blue dress and an excited look on her face.
‘Where’s Millicent?’ he asked.
‘Oh, probably working in that dreadful meat shop, elbow deep in ox blood or some such horror. It’s so icky.’
‘But the phone call …’
‘That was me, silly. I know you think you like her, so I pretended to be her, but it was me all along. Are you impressed?’
‘Why would I be impressed that you lied to me?’
‘Oh, Ovvy-wovvy, don’t be like that. I pretended. I didn’t lie. It’s very different. And just think, one day it will be a cute story about how we started going out.’
Ovid racked his brain for a suitable response. His brain offered up nothing.
Felicia took a step closer. ‘I know you think that someone like me would never look at someone like you, but you’re wrong. I am looking at you.’ She took a step closer. ‘I’ve seen you.’
It felt like a well-rehearsed speech. There was something unnerving about the way she looked at him. Ovid moved back instinctively and his fingertips found the top of the wooden fence. It wobbled.
‘What are you up to?’ he said.
‘Little old me? I’m not up to anything.’ Another step.
‘But Millicent …’
‘Millicent isn’t here now. I’m here.’
‘You …’
The fear Ovid felt was unlike any he had previously experienced. It was almost as though he wanted Felicia to push him into the water. He made no effort to step away. He couldn’t have moved if he had wanted to. His head was filled with the sound of rushing water.
‘What do you want?’ he said.
The Thornthwaite Betrayal Page 13
