House of Shadows (15 page)

When I saw his familiar figure sitting at the desk, his hair curling into a quiff above his forehead, the strong broad set of his shoulders visible beneath his crisp shirt, I wanted to throw myself into his arms and hug him in relief that he was still there.

He got up when he saw me. ‘Riana,' he said and my name fell softly into the cold air of the room. He seemed to straighten his back then, almost as if he was going to salute me. I could see at once he was keeping his distance. Gone was the Tom who had sat with me under the cloisters in the thin balmy air of a summer's night.

‘I was very sorry to hear about Rosie,' he said in his best official voice, ‘and the child. Does anyone know what's happened to them?'

‘The police are investigating,' I replied, and the formality in my own voice placed a huge barrier between us.

There was a long silence, and I searched Tom's face for some sign of softening. I knew I'd been cold to him, stayed away from him without a word, and he was stiff with pride. Even so, if he came and kissed me and told me he loved me, I'd go to the ends of the world with him.

‘I just came down to say goodbye,' I found myself saying ‘I know you'll be going home soon.'

He looked round distractedly. ‘This seems like my home now,' he said, and then he took a deep breath. ‘But you are right. I leave tomorrow.'

‘And you were going without talking to me?' I was aghast.

‘What was there to say?' Tom didn't look at me.

I managed to speak after a while. ‘Well, I want to say thanks for everything again. The gardening, the support, your faith in my painting. Everything.'

‘My pleasure.' He half bowed.

There seemed nothing left for me to do but go. I went towards the door, just as it was pushed open and two burly policemen came into the office. Before my terrified eyes, they arrested Tom, put him in handcuffs and – without looking at me – took him outside. I followed, trying to protest, but the men took no notice of me. They pushed Tom into a car and slammed the door shut. The car was an unmarked one, and as it drove away I saw something bright sticking out of the boot: a red scarf by the look of it. Suspicions aroused, I memorized the registration number – or at least some of it – and ran back through the garden to the house and the phone.

The local police, I learned, had no knowledge of anyone picking up an American Wing Commander.

I sat abruptly on the chair near the phone table and tried to sort out my thoughts. Who could have taken Tom . . . and why?

I went back to Tom's office later that day, thinking perhaps I would find a clue to what was happening there. The office was no longer standing, however. It had been taken apart, prefabricated piece by prefabricated piece, like a jigsaw puzzle. Someone had been searching the place with complete thoroughness; not even a pin would have escaped notice.

I looked suspiciously at the workmen, but none of them was wearing a cherry-red scarf. ‘What happened to the Wing Commander's possessions?' I asked.

The workman shrugged, uncaring. ‘Boxed up and sent on to his home, I suppose,' he said.

I managed a smile. ‘Has anyone got a forwarding address?'

‘Don't know nothing about that, miss.' He turned away, finished with the conversation, and in despair I returned to the house.

What's the police doing here, Miss Riana? Is it about Rosie?' Mrs Ward was pale with dark shadows under her eyes. She was evidently more worried about her daughter than she had let on.

I shook my head. ‘We've had four visits from the police about Rosie and the baby,' I said quietly. ‘They'll find her, don't worry, but this visit by unknown men is something to do with the Americans.' Though what, I didn't know, because I would have bet everything I had – even Aberglasney – that those men had not been real policemen.

‘Well, it's those Americans who started the troubles here.' Mrs Ward spoke emphatically. ‘We were all right before the war.
Then
the village was quiet and peaceable enough.'

‘And what about the five young maids who were murdered?' I asked. ‘That wasn't very peaceable, was it?'

‘Well, I don't know much about all that.' Mrs Ward turned her face away from me, and I wondered how much she did know. She played her cards very close to her chest, I'd found.

TWENTY

I
met Miss Grist again when I went to Swansea the next day. I'd been to the police station to report Tom as missing, and although my comments had been written down by the officer on duty, I felt the sheet of paper would be put in the bin the minute I left. I wandered into the library, and Miss Grist followed me into the reference room. She was wearing a smart white blouse and a dark skirt that appeared almost a uniform. Even her shoes and stockings were black.

She was obviously intrigued by the latest stories about Aberglasney and wanted to know all the details of Rosie's disappearance. She was very friendly, talkative even, and coaxed me to go with her to the staffroom for a cup of coffee during her break and sat uncomfortably close to me.

‘How was the room left? Any signs of an intruder?' Her eyes were bright with curiosity. ‘Perhaps it was one of those American airmen who abducted her.'

I reined in my sudden burst of irritation. ‘We don't know anything more than you do, Miss Grist,' I said. ‘One thing I
am
sure about – it wasn't anything to do with the Americans.'

‘But this girl had several “assignations” with these men. They say the baby was fathered by one of them.'

‘Well, “they” might well be right, but her disappearance was during the night when the house was locked up, and there was no sign of a break-in.' I told myself it was only natural for people to be curious about events at Aberglasney; no doubt Miss Grist was only saying what everyone was thinking.

Her eyes narrowed. ‘Are you saying it was the ghosts then, or have you yourself taken the girl somewhere?'

‘Why on earth would I? If you have such evidence to back up such suspicions about me you'd better tell it to the police, or else stop being so nosy!' I felt like telling her she was reading too many of the books on the shelves of the library and allowing her imagination to run away with her.

‘Did the police suspect you, Miss Evans?'

It was a good question. ‘I don't think so. I didn't have a motive, you see. Rosie was my helper. I needed her to work for me.' I spoke wearily now. Miss Grist had the hide of an elephant and wasn't going to give in.

‘But she accused the man you loved of being the father of her child. If that wasn't a motive, I don't know what was.'

I put down my cup with a bang against the saucer, and Miss Grist drew back, realizing she'd gone too far. ‘Isn't anything private any more? I'll leave you, Miss Grist, and I'll thank you to keep out of my business. I thought it was just idle curiosity on your part, but if even you think I'm capable of abducting a mother and baby, what chance have I with everyone else?'

‘I do apologize.' Miss Grist looked distressed. ‘I don't believe any of that myself. It's just what people will think and what they will say.'

‘Precisely.' I left the library, my cheeks flaming as I walked down the steps and into the chill of the day. It was getting dark already, and there was a hint of snow in the air. I wanted to be home in my house with my dear Tom beside me, Rosie and Mrs Ward working in the kitchen, and guests about to arrive. I wanted everything to be as it was before Rosie had been silly enough to fall for a baby and ruin everything.

I suddenly realized Miss Grist was right. I did have a motive, and one of the strongest types: the vitriol of a woman scorned. How foolish though! Tom wasn't the father. He had always denied it, and I believed him. It was Tom who'd said the baby might not be Carl's son; why would he have pointed that out if he'd had something to hide? All the same, Miss Grist had raised the spectre of jealousy and mistrust in me once again.

I hurried towards the train station at the top of High Street. A drunken man staggered noisily in the echoing porcelain of the gentleman's toilet, rolling down the steps to disappear beneath road level. The train for Aberglasney was just steaming into the station, and I thanked my lucky stars I didn't have to wait on the bleak cold platform. I sunk into a seat in an empty carriage and thought of the things Miss Grist had said. Was I a suspect? Was I being watched? And what on earth had happened to Tom?

That night I left the light on in my room and took a hot toddy to bed with me. Tonight Aberglasney was quiet: no creaking floorboards, no groaning trees pressing like skeletal fingers against the old windows. And yet I was disturbed and afraid; for the first time I was uneasy in my own house.

The next day I went to the police station again, determined to talk to someone in authority about Tom's disappearance. I sat waiting in the hallway for what seemed hours, but I had decided that I was not going to go away, however long I had to sit there.

At last, a bored detective called me into his room. He switched on a tape recorder, and as I watched the wheels go round I was aware of a policeman standing behind me, guarding the door.

‘I'm Inspector Morris. What can we do for you, Miss Evans?'

‘I want to report a missing person. Again,' I said, and waited.

The inspector wrote something down, ignoring me completely.

‘Do you want any details, or are you going to use mind-reading?'

My sarcasm was lost on him. ‘Carry on,' he said.

‘Tom Maybury, an American officer, was taken away by men dressed as policemen a few days ago, and there's been no sign of him since.'

There was silence. Morris rifled through some papers. ‘There's no record of any such event,' he said.

‘So I was told yesterday.' My voice was strong and Morris looked at me sharply.

‘I'll write the details down, miss, but this American is nothing to do with us. Perhaps he's gone back to his own country.' His tone indicated that ‘his own country' was the best place for him.

I forced a calmness into my voice I didn't feel and wondered how I could get through to this man. ‘What if the Americans send someone over here and demand to know what the British police have done to find the officer? They will think we British are very unprofessional.'

The inspector looked a little uneasy. Finally, he wrote something on paper and then looked up at me. ‘We'll investigate, of course, but I don't hold out much hope of finding the officer. Our resources here are very limited, you understand.'

‘I understand, and thank you so much for your help. I will be sure to tell the American authorities about your understanding and command of the situation.'

This time the sarcasm hit home, and Inspector Morris grew red with embarrassment. ‘We've done all we can to help these foreigners,' he snapped, ‘and they've repaid us by drinking copious amounts of liquor, being free and easy with our women, and making trouble everywhere they go.'

‘Hmm.' I walked to the door and then looked back. ‘I think you might have to cut off that piece of tape, don't you?'

Inspector Morris stood up. ‘See the lady out, Atkins,' he said abruptly, but he was already fiddling with the tape machine.

I stood outside the tiny police station and breathed in the cold, thin air. It cut like a knife, and I shivered involuntarily. I hurried into the tiny coffee shop and sat down, wrapping my scarf more tightly around my neck.

‘Excuse me, may I sit with you? I think I've an apology to make.'

I looked up in surprise. ‘Miss Grist! What are you doing down here? Aren't you supposed to be at work today?'

‘I realize I spoke out of turn yesterday, and when I saw you at the police station I thought the worst. I thought you were being arrested!'

‘Still the soul of tact then?' I said shortly, and Miss Grist pursed her thin lips.

‘I'm
trying
to apologize,' she said. She looked pale and cold, and her eyes were an icy grey as they narrowed against the white of the falling snow. She had made an effort to see me, however, and so I relented.

‘Let me buy us a hot pot of coffee,' I suggested.

She smiled at once, and it seemed we were on amicable terms again. I thought it would be helpful if I explained the situation. ‘I went to the police to report a missing person,' I said. ‘I won't go into it all, but let me assure you I'm not being accused of anything – certainly not Rosie's disappearance or the abduction of her child. She had a key to the house, naturally. I thought it remiss of the police not to ask me that right away.'

‘So she might have left of her own accord. Again, I can only apologize.' Miss Grist was frosty again.

‘My next ghost weekend will be just before Christmas. Perhaps you'd like to come, Miss Grist? As my guest, of course, though I wonder if you would be kind enough to help me serve the meals. I can't get any village girls up to the house – not since the awful night Rosie disappeared.'

‘A superstitious lot, the villagers, and of course I would be delighted to help,' Miss Grist surprised me by saying. She appeared genuinely pleased. She took out a diary and meticulously penned in the date I gave her. ‘If there's any secretarial work for me, I'm very good at typing. I could contact your list of guests.' She sounded eager.

‘That would be a great help.' And it would; I hated handwriting all the letters and addressing all the envelopes to my growing list of guests.

‘What about the cooking?' she asked. ‘That's not one of my great skills, I'm afraid.'

‘Mrs Ward does that. Rosie's mother.'

‘Oh, is that what Gladys Williams is calling herself now?' There was a spiteful edge to Miss Grist's words. ‘No better than she should be, is Gladys. Had an unseemly affair with a foreign gentleman, and poor little Rosie was the result.'