Castle of Secrets (16 page)

She began to
draw up a plan for cleaning the castle, in the hope that Mrs Willis would find
her some willing helpers, and was rewarded for her hope by the arrival at the
castle of seven girls and six men, shortly before
ten o’clock
. On asking them their
names, she was pleased to learn that Sally and Martha, the two girls who had
worked at the castle before, were among them.

She went down
to the kitchen to speak to them.

‘There is
plenty of work to be done,’ she told them. ‘Can you start today?’

They had all
come prepared to stay, and
Helena
set them to work. Whilst two of the young men began
polishing the silver under the direction of Dawkins, the other four took down
one of the tapestries and carried it outside, where
Helena
set three of the girls to work
beating it with brooms. The men than moved on to fetching buckets of water so
that the rest of the girls could wash the floor.

Fortunately
the day was fine, and
Helena
joined the girls who were working outside. It was pleasant
to be out of doors, and though the air was cold, beating the tapestry was heavy
work and it soon warmed them.

‘I think you
have you worked at the castle before?’ she asked Sally and Martha.

‘That’s right,
missus.’

They were
perhaps seventeen or eighteen years of age, and although they seemed ready
enough to work, the glances they kept throwing at the younger footmen whenever
they walked by suggested they would not be reliable if left alone.

‘What were
your duties?’

‘We kept the rooms
clean, missus. We dusted ’em and polished the grates and kept the fire irons
shiny. We swept the floors and made the beds.’

‘Then I would
like you to do the same now you have returned. Did you air the rooms before?’

‘Yes, missus,
some of ’em. The ones that ’ad someone in ’em.’

‘Good, then
you can continue to do so. Did you air the attics?’

‘No, missus,
we daren’t go near the attics.’

‘Why not?’
asked
Helena
.

‘There was
noises,’ said Sally.

‘At night,’
said Martha, with wide eyes.

‘Made my blood
curdle, they did,’ said Sally. ‘All that screeching and wailing.’

‘You said it
was crying,’ put in one of the other girls, as she hit the tapestry with a
broom.

‘Screeching,’
said Sally emphatically, ‘and wailing.’

The story grew
in the telling, and
Helena
was not surprised when the girl asserted that she had heard chains clanking
behind the door. However,
Helena
believed there had been something in the girl’s story.

‘When did you
hear it?’ she asked.

‘It were just
before Mrs Carlisle disappeared. A week before, mebbe.’

‘And you
stayed in the castle a whole week with such noises?’ asked
Helena
.

‘They weren’t
so bad after that. Just sobbing now and then.’

‘Ghost must’ve
got a sore throat,’ said one  of the footmen cheekily, as he walked past on his
way to the well.

‘I’d like to
see you spend a night there, for all your talk,’ retorted the girl.

Helena
was not sure what the
girl had heard, and she knew she couldn’t rely on what the girl said, but
nevertheless she was sure Sally had heard something.

‘Perhaps it
was a cat,’ suggested
Helena
.

‘That’s what
Dawkins said, but it weren’t no cat,’ said Sally definitely.

‘Was he with
you when you heard it?’

‘Right next to
me, e was.’

So, the sound
had not been made by Dawkins, at any rate. Then who, or what, had been crying
in the attic a week before her aunt left?

In an attempt
to find out more about Lord Torkrow’s family, Helena tried to induce the maids
to talk of them, but they answered her questions with monosyllables and would
not be drawn. Whether it was deliberate, or whether they were simply more
interested in their own affairs,
Helena
did not know.

It was a pity,
because something was tugging at her memory, and she thought it might be
important, if only she could remember what it was.

At last she
returned to the housekeeper’s room to finish her plans. There was a lot of hard
work to be done before the castle was ready for the ball.

The fire
burned low, and Effie arrived with a bucket of coal to mend it.

Helena
was about to ask her
again what she had seen in the housekeeper’s desk, when she had a better idea.
Going over to the window, she toyed with the curtains, then said: ‘Bring me
some string from the drawer, would you please, Effie?’

Effie
hesitated.

‘The top
drawer,’ Helena prompted her.

The girl
reluctantly went over to the desk, wiping her hands on her apron. She opened
the drawer, and stood looking at something inside. She appeared to wrestle with
herself, then blurted out incoherently: ‘If someone knew something and someone
’ad said something but someone thought it wasn’t what they said it was, what
ought they to do?’

‘They should
tell the housekeeper,’ said
Helena
promptly.

‘Very
particular about ’er quills she was,’ said Effie, looking at
Helena
nervously. ‘Always used ’er
own quills for letters.’

Helena
wished the girl would
hurry up and tell her something she did not know.

‘Always used
’er own quills, missis, but it’s still ’ere.’

Helena
’s eyes widened as she
realized what Effie was telling her. If Aunt Hester had left the castle, she
would have taken her quill with her.

Lord Torkrow’s
ominous words came back to her:
The castle has a way of keeping people.

Effie was
looking at her with a frightened expression, and
Helena
quickly reassured her.

‘Don’t worry,
Effie, Mrs Carlisle knew her sister’s pens were well mended, I am sure.’

‘Really,
missis?’

‘Yes, really.’

Effie’s face
shone with relief.

‘I’ve been
that worried, missis. It wasn’t like ’er to go without saying goodbye. Always
good to me were Mrs Carlisle.’

‘I am sure she
wanted to say goodbye, but did not want to wake you,’ said
Helena
.

‘Yes, missis,’
said Effie, nodding.

‘And now you
had better go back to the kitchen. Mrs Beal will be wondering where you are.’

As soon as she
had gone,
Helena
went out into the hall.
Lord Torkrow had left the castle on horseback after luncheon, and Miss Parkins
was also out of the castle, it being her day off. Their absence gave
Helena
an idea.

‘Leave that,’
she said to the footmen, who had rehung the tapestry and were preparing to take
down the next one. ‘I have something else for you to do.’

She took them
upstairs, and then into the attic.

‘The key to
the attic has been lost,’ she said. ‘I would like you to break the door down.’

The footmen
looked at each other uneasily.

‘You’re not
afraid of ghosts, I hope?’ she asked.

‘No, missus.
But smashing a door . . . what will his lordship say?’

‘His lordship
has given me responsibility for the castle,’ she said.

The footmen
looked at each other, then shrugged and set their shoulders to the door. After
much heaving they managed to break the lock. They stood back and
Helena
went in, her heart
racing. She expected to find a madman, or her aunt, or a body . . . but she
found nothing. The attic was empty. She went through into the room leading off
from it. Again there was nothing. The entire east wing was empty, save for an assortment
of discarded furniture and a few odds and ends. She did not know whether to be
relieved or disappointed.

She went
through the attic rooms again, looking for any signs that someone had been
there recently. There was less dust in the central room, and a few items of
bedding that could have been used, but it told her nothing. Whatever secrets
the castle was nursing, they were no longer to be found in the east wing.

‘Thank you,’
she said to the footmen. ‘You may return to your work downstairs.’

They departed,
leaving her to wander through the rooms again. There must be something, some
sign, she thought . . . But she could find nothing. Why, then, had the attic
been kept locked? And why had someone hidden the key? Had it ever contained
anything of importance, or had it simply been locked once when it contained
some fragile vases or delicate furniture, and then been forgotten about?

As she looked
round the bare room, it seemed ridiculous to remember that she had fancied it
housing Lord Torkrow’s mad brother. She was ashamed of herself for such a
thought. He was probably away, abroad, perhaps, or attending to business in
London
. Or . . . something Mrs
Beal had said came back to her. It had been nagging at her mind for some time,
and now she remembered what it was.

She went down
to the kitchen, asking Mrs Beal if she needed any of the maids to help her,
before suggesting they take tea together.

Mrs Beal was
agreeable, and they talked over the likelihood of the maids and footmen
remaining at the castle.

When they had
done,
Helena
asked casually: ‘What is
his lordship’s name? His family name?’

‘Pargeter,’
said Mrs Beal. ‘His lordship is Simon Pargeter. Why do you ask?’

‘I was just
curious,’ said
Helena
.

But hers had
been no idle curiosity. As soon as she had finished her tea, she put on her
cloak and, slipping out of the side door, made her way to the graveyard. An icy
wind was blowing across the moor, and she wrapped her cloak tightly round her.
She crested the rise and then went through the gap in the low stone wall, where
she found the grave she had been looking for. It was very simple and said,
Richard Pargeter.
Master Richard
, Mrs Beal had called him. Lord
Torkrow’s brother. He wasn’t in the attic, he was here in the graveyard. And
next to him was his wife.

She heard a
slight movement, and turning her head she saw Lord Torkrow sitting on his horse
at the edge of the graveyard, watching her. So absorbed had she been that she
had not heard his approach. Their eyes met; then he dismounted, tethered his
horse to the dry stone wall and entered the graveyard.

‘So. You
discovered whose graves these are.’

‘Yes. I’m
sorry.’

He did not
answer her immediately, and she did not break the silence, for he was lost in
his own thoughts.

The sun went
behind a cloud and the landscape darkened, the bright green of the grass fading
to sage. The dry stone wall, which had been silvered by the sun, returned to
its sombre dark hue. It was bitterly cold, and as the chill wind blew across
the moor,
Helena
shivered.

He did not
seem to feel it, even when it blew his cloak open and whipped at the tails of
his coat, for he stood there, motionless, making no move to fasten it.

At last he
spoke.

‘You asked me
once how I earnt my name.’

She was very
still, waiting for him to continue.

‘I do not know
why, but I have a mind to tell you.’ He looked at the gravestone, as if he
could see his brother’s face there. ‘It was on a dark night in the summer, when
I had been to a neighbour’s ball. It had been a tedious evening, the
conversation had been shallow and the company bored me. I left early, and
returned to the castle. There was an . . . incident . . .’ He became lost in
his thoughts, then seemed to rouse himself with difficulty. ‘ . . . I knew at
once that I had found my curse, or that my curse had found me. We are all
cursed, we stormcrows. We are all fated to carry terrible news. It was my fate
to carry it to my brother. I had to tell him that the woman he loved, his bride
of six months, my sister-in-law, was dead.’

The wind
moaned, and rain began to fall.

‘I will never
forget his face. I should have known better than to leave him. He went up to
the battlements, his favourite place in times of sorrow – it had been so since
he was a boy. He could barely see or think, driven mad by his grief.’ The wind
howled. ‘He fell from the battlements. It was my fate to earn my name not once,
but twice. For the second time I was the bearer of terrible news: I carried it
to my mother.’

‘It was not
your fault,’ she said.