House of Shadows (7 page)

Being alone was such an anticlimax. I didn't know what I imagined would have happened if Tom had come in with me. Would I have allowed him into my bedroom, into my bed? On the other hand, how could he have walked away from me? I was his for the taking, wasn't I?

I sat at the kitchen table and rubbed my eyes wearily. I had been saved from making a fool of myself by Tom's good sense; he was an American officer and he would never take advantage of a drunken friend.

When I opened my eyes again, Beatrice was sitting opposite me. ‘What were all those strange people doing here?' she asked.

‘Oh –' I pulled my senses together as much as I could after drinking all evening – ‘they were visitors, looking for ghosts. Remember your suggestion? Well, I thought about it and decided ghost hunting was a very good idea.'

‘I presume they were paying good money to stay here then?'

‘Yes, I suppose they were, but they all enjoyed themselves and intend to come again.' I was a little on the defensive.

‘Well, don't let the old house down, and don't forget your vow to solve the murders, my dear. I would like my late husband's name cleared.'

‘I didn't know I had actually
made
a vow,' I said, puzzled.

‘Well, you did.' She smiled a beautiful and somehow old-fashioned smile. ‘In spirit, anyway.'

I began to laugh. Everything seemed so funny suddenly: Tom, me, my ghost nights, and my struggle to build up a crumbling old house. I was a painter – what was I doing trying to be a businesswoman?

‘Go to bed, dear,' Beatrice said reprovingly. ‘You're a little bit the worse for wear, I believe.'

Like a child, I obeyed and went meekly to bed.

TEN

I
didn't see Tom the next day. I deliberately stayed in my bright studio, working on my painting of Aberglasney. At one point I stood back a little way and thought that the light and shade I had added worked well and that the shadowy figure in an upper window looked rather like Beatrice. I smiled fondly. She was becoming a good friend, a companion, soothing me when my nerves were frayed.

Mrs Ward called early afternoon and I beckoned her into the kitchen. I lit the stove and set out two cups. ‘Do you take milk Mrs Ward?' I asked cheerfully.

She nodded and put a basket on the table. ‘I've brought you some eggs, Miss Evans.' Her voice was hoarse from her continuous smoking, and as she sat down she lit up another Woodbine. ‘My Rosie didn't come home last night, Miss Evans. She told me she stayed with you.' She was narrowing her eyes against the smoke and scrutinizing my face.

I poured the tea to give myself time to think. The last I'd seen of Rosie was her dancing with a handsome American airman. ‘Well, there's plenty of room here,' I prevaricated. ‘And I was a little bit . . . tired myself, so everything is a bit blurred, but I'm sure if that's what Rosie says that's what she did.'

‘I see, miss.'

I was sure she did: right through me. I hadn't the heart to let Rosie down, but I meant to have a word with her when I next saw her. How dare she use me as an alibi when she had obviously been up to no good?

‘When will you want me and Rosie again, miss?' Mrs Ward's voice broke into my thoughts. I looked at her and saw her brows were drawn into a frown. She knew I was lying, and she was displeased with me.

‘In a month's time, Mrs Ward,' I said flatly. She was being paid to help me, not to question me. ‘If you have the time to come and work for me at Aberglasney, that is.'

‘Yes, I want to come. I need the money, and anyway, I like cooking and waiting on town folks and foreign folks alike. But –' her eyes narrowed – ‘I don't like them dark-skinned airmen down at the barracks. Up to no good, they are. Chasing after respectable girls like my daughter.'

‘Thank you for the eggs, Mrs Ward,' I said, hastily changing the subject. ‘How much do I owe you?'

She told me, and I counted out a shilling and then took the eggs from the basket to put on the cold slab in the pantry. They were brown and fresh with bits of feather sticking to the shells, and my mouth watered. I realized I hadn't had anything to eat that morning, and it was well past lunchtime.

When Mrs Ward had gone, I made some poached eggs on toast and ate hungrily. When I had finished, I glanced out of the kitchen window and decided I'd do another hour or so's painting while there was still plenty of light.

I worked until my back was aching and it was almost dark, but finally the painting was finished and all I needed to do was to let it dry. I opened the big widow in the gallery – and then, on second thoughts, shut it again. I didn't want anything happening to this painting. I'd worked too long and hard on it.

I put on the gas lights and heard the pop and saw the widening of the light. One day I would be able to afford electricity in more of the rooms, but for now, the gas worked very well – at least it was most atmospheric for my guests on the ghost nights.

I helped myself to a glass of sherry and then, just when I felt relaxed and sleepy, there was a knock on the front door. My heart almost stopped as I imagined Tom's big figure waiting for me outside, but when I opened the door it was Rosie who was waiting for me.

‘Just the person I wanted to see,' I said in a hard voice. ‘Will you please keep me out of your private life in future? I won't be your alibi again.'

‘I'm sorry, but it wasn't what you think,' Rosie said quickly. ‘I was helping Carl with a letter he was writing home to his mother, that's all.'

‘And for that you had to stay out all night, is that it?' My tone was steeped in sarcasm, which Rosie missed completely.

‘Well, no, not
all
night, but then I fell asleep on the sofa – in the communal sitting room, mind – and Carl left me there while he went to the barracks' dorm, as he calls it.'

‘I'll believe you, though not many would,' I said. ‘Just don't tell your mother you stayed with me again, hear me?'

‘I hear you, miss,' Rosie said meekly and made a quick exit.

Alone again, I tried to fall back into the relaxed state I had been in before she'd come, but somehow the mood was gone. I wanted to be with Tom. Almost without thinking, I went outside and stood in the garden and saw my seat, a patch of light wood, under the arches of the cloisters. I walked towards the seat, and as I came close I heard a scraping sound above my head.

I glanced up in time to see a huge stone object falling towards my head. I darted under the cloister just in time as the stone crashed down, throwing up dust and fragments that shot like bullets towards me.

When I caught my breath, I saw one of the stone dragons had fallen – or been
pushed
– from the walkway above the cloister. It now lay shattered and broken at my feet.

One huge wing stuck up from the ground – embedded in the earth like a giant, curving scythe. If the statue had fallen on me I'd have had very little chance of survival.

I scrambled up the steps, too incensed to be frightened. Someone was trying to kill me, or to destroy my mind! I stood there in the darkness . . . and, of course, I was alone. I stared out at the shadowed land around me. Why would anyone want to hurt me? Was it because I was trying, in a feeble way, to solve the deaths of the five young maids? Or was it because I was the new owner of Aberglasney?

Shivering, suddenly apprehensive, I returned to the house, curled up in my chair and helped myself to another glass of sherry. Soon I felt more relaxed. It had all been an unfortunate accident, I told myself, but before I went to bed I switched on some lights and made sure all the doors and windows were locked against the outside world.

ELEVEN

I
n the morning, my painting of Aberglasney was almost dry. The colours seemed to blend in harmony, and the whole house had the mysterious air I'd been trying for. The figure, who looked a little like Beatrice with a dim glow of warmth behind her, gave the painting a piquancy that took it from a cold stone building to a lived-in house.

It was a great pity the ornate portico was missing from round the front door, I thought. It had been sold some time before I'd bought Aberglasney, but I vowed that one day, when I had enough money, I would get it back.

There was no sign of Tom, and feeling restless, I decided to take a train into town. I would go to the library, read up on the house and delve more into local reports of the deaths of the young maids.

The train journey was enlivened by the antics of a young girl and her brother, who were shut in the same small carriage as myself. At last, tired of the exuberance of the children, I wandered into the corridor for a little respite. Enclosed in the carriage behind me I could hear them play and fight, and then the girl began to cry, and by the time I arrived in Swansea I had a thumping headache.

Miss Grist, the woman behind the counter, helped another librarian carry the huge book of newspapers without so much as a smile and placed it on the table for me.

‘Be careful with the papers, Miss Evans,' she said. ‘You know how careless some folk are. They lick fingers and touch the old newspaper, and it doesn't do it any good at all.' She suddenly sat down beside me. She wasn't the typical type of librarian you see on the stage in a theatre: no glasses, no bun, but heavy lidded eyes and a full, drooping mouth.

True, her eyes had lines around them and the skin of her jaw was rather loose, but she would be a very good subject for a painting. I could see her in a Pre-Raphaelite gown of bright gold with her hair hanging loose against the silk. I realized I was staring and picked up my pencil.

‘You are the lady who bought the old house, Aberglasney, aren't you?'

‘That's right.' I carefully opened a newspaper, aware of her watching eyes.

‘I hear there was quite a stir there last weekend. The ghost hunters actually found a ghost, I believe?'

‘It seems so.' I tried to keep my voice steady and I took a deep breath. This was the sort of publicity I wanted, needed . . . so why did I feel such a cheat? ‘Of course, I didn't see a ghost myself,' I added, absolving myself of some responsibility.

‘And you living there. Isn't that strange?' She watched me with shrewd eyes. ‘But there are some eerie goings-on there, I know that.'

My attention was caught; I turned to look at Miss Grist. ‘How do you know?' I spoke gently, not wanting to frighten her away.

‘I did some collating of books for the owners some time ago,' she volunteered. ‘The library was extensive in those days, so I was told. I don't know what it's like now, of course.'

‘Did you know Mr Mansel-Atherton?'

‘Not personally. I'm a little too young for that.' Her tone was sharp, and I tried not to giggle. ‘It's all very suspicious, if you ask me.'

‘You think the maids were murdered then?'

‘All I know is that they died in strange circumstances,' Miss Grist said briskly, as if
I
was prying into the past when it was
she
who had brought it up.

‘Why are you so interested?' I looked at her suspiciously. She had sensible black shoes and even black thick stockings, like a nurse, perhaps . . . or a policeman.

‘Just a feeling,' she snapped. Evidently, talking about Mr Mansel-Atherton was touching a raw nerve for Miss Grist. ‘So, what have you found out about the strange things that happened
before
the girls died?' Miss Grist said after a moment's silence. She asked with more interest than a mere librarian would, I thought.

‘Accidents,' I said. ‘I read there were strange accidents, but not since Mr Mansel-Atherton died.' Just then someone came to hover at Miss Grist's side, and with an apologetic look at me she departed to help the other librarian.

I tried to concentrate on the papers and made notes about Aberglasney, the maids, and the accusations against poor Edwin. There were brief reports in most papers, and one lurid headline in a Sunday paper about ‘Murder at the Manor'. No new details, though – just the suggestion of sexual misdemeanours, written for sensationalism.

I found nothing new or helpful in any of the reports. I would have to talk to the locals and read church records to try to find the background to it all. But I decided, as I hauled the book of papers back to the desk, that I would certainly talk to Miss Grist again when I had the opportunity.

It came sooner than I expected. I was sitting in a small tea room just minutes after I had left the library, admiring the pristine white tablecloths and the aprons of the waitresses, when a shadow fell over me.

‘Could I join you, Miss Evans? I feel the need of a cup of tea.' She had a hat squashed over her hair and a black sober coat, straight-hemmed and with huge buttons.

‘Please.' I indicated the chair beside me. ‘I would love some company.'

I waved to one of the waitresses, and she came and took our order for a new pot of tea and some scones with jam and cream – a real treat after the wartime shortages. The cream was synthetic, but the jam was home-made and tasty. Miss Grist looked doubtful when they arrived.

‘My treat,' I said breezily. ‘Have you got the afternoon off, Miss Grist?'

‘No, this is just my lunch hour, but I had to talk to you.' She leaned forward. ‘I have to advise you to vacate that house before harm comes to you.'

‘Do you mean the malign spirits, Miss Grist?' I hoped my scepticism didn't show in my voice.

‘The threat is real enough,' Miss Grist said. ‘I don't know who or why, but you are in danger from something – or someone – if you go prying into the past.'

‘Were you in danger when you were collating the books at the house?' I heard the scepticism in my voice – but Miss Grist, apparently, didn't.

‘A few nasty accidents happened.' She didn't look at me. ‘A huge stone statue from the roof fell and nearly killed me.'