THE TRYSTING TREE (5 page)

‘Dead right,’ I said, turning and heading back to the house, leaving him standing in the rain. ‘This mystery had better be good,’ I called out over my shoulder.

‘It is,’ he shouted back. ‘Completely baffling. Definitely a three-pipe problem.’

~

I told Phoebe we were having tea with Connor Grenville. Her eyes widened and she zapped the TV with the remote. Turning to him she said, ‘Are you going to buy my house then?’

He looked embarrassed and said, ‘I’m very sorry, Mrs Flint—’

‘It’s not Mrs, it’s Phoebe.’

‘Sorry, Phoebe, but I’m here on false pretences. I
am
looking for a property, but to be honest, this one is a bit outside my price range.’

‘So why are you here?’ she asked, with a terseness he could hardly fail to notice.

‘I suppose I’m here in my capacity as a garden historian and archivist.’

‘Really? Is that what you do?’

‘Among other things.’

‘And you wanted to give our garden the once-over?’

‘Well, yes. But only because there’s a family connection. With my grandmother.’

‘Oh? Did she used to live here?’

‘She was born here, then later she lived up at the big house. Beechgrave. But her mother continued to live here.’

‘Your great-grandmother? You don’t say!’ Phoebe looked up at me and said, ‘Get the kettle on, Ann. And crack open a packet of chocolate digestives. I think this is going to be interesting…’

~

When I offered Mr Grenville a towel for his wet hair, he took it saying, ‘Please call me Connor.’ I reciprocated and said he should call me Ann. The formalities over, I also suggested he remove his sodden jumper so I could put it in the tumble dryer. As he handed it to me I noted his check shirt had seen better days, but not an iron. Rubbing his hands together to warm them, he thanked me and asked if he could help in the kitchen, an offer I declined.

So it was in a spirit of friendly informality that we gathered round the wood burning stove to drink tea. It was dark outside now and the rain had turned to sleet, but Garden Lodge was always a good place to be holed up in bad weather. It wrapped itself around you. Its thick walls and wooden floors felt solid and timeless. They’d last another hundred years or more if left in peace. But, I reflected, the house’s new owner might have other, radical ideas. The thought was uncomfortable, so I pushed it to the back of my mind and concentrated on the potential buyer who was now our guest.

When you’re an artist, it’s hard not to stare at things, including people. You’re always looking at the play of light on surfaces, observing shadow and texture. When studied, anything becomes interesting and almost abstract as a collection of shapes and colours. I wondered if Phoebe was already painting Connor’s face in her head. She was certainly paying him a lot of attention, but Phoebe had always had an eye for attractive young men and I supposed Connor could be called attractive. He looked fit and tanned, as if used to an outdoor life. His long, thick hair had darkened with the rain, but when dry, it was a warm mix of blond and toffee shades. He possessed steady grey eyes, a pleasant, open face and a manner that was engaging without being pushy. Nevertheless, I suspected he was used to getting what he wanted. Connor Grenville would be a hard man to ignore.

I passed him the plate of biscuits and, as he took one, he asked, ‘Do you happen to know if your family had any connection with the Mordaunts?’

‘Who?’

‘The Mordaunts. They built Beechgrave and lived there for several generations. The house was sold by Hester Mordaunt in the 1920s, then it was requisitioned during World War II. Did you realise this was the Head Gardener’s house?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Phoebe said. ‘My husband was interested in the history of the place. He was a keen gardener himself.’

‘But he had no connection with the Mordaunts?’

‘None that I know of.’

‘Nor the Hatherwicks?’

‘I’ve never heard the name. Who were they?’

‘Herbert Hatherwick was the Head Gardener before the First World War and he lived here with his family. His son, William started off as a pot boy in the garden and worked his way up to journeyman gardener before going off to fight in France. Herbert Hatherwick’s daughter, Violet – that’s my great-grandmother – had an illegitimate daughter, Ivy who was later adopted by Hester Mordaunt, the mistress of Beechgrave. Hester seems to have been quite a remarkable woman. She never married and ran Beechgrave on her own, turning it into a convalescent home for wounded Tommies.’

‘Was your great-grandmother impregnated by one of the toffs at the big house?’ Phoebe asked with a spectacular lack of delicacy.

‘No, not at all,’ Connor replied, unperturbed. ‘The menfolk were all dead. Killed in the war. That’s how Hester came to inherit. There was no one else left.’

‘So who was Ivy’s father then?’

‘Well, that’s just it. There are big gaps in the story because the family archive is incomplete. My grandmother and I were investigating when she died.’

‘What a shame,’ Phoebe said. ‘And I suppose a lot of information died with her?’

‘More than you might think. Much of the archive was destroyed. There was a fire, you see…’

IVY

24
th
November, 2013

Ivy Watson threw another log on to the dying fire and replaced the fireguard. Turning, she picked her way carefully through the photo albums, letters and postcards strewn on the floor of her small sitting room and settled down again in her armchair. She lifted one of the old albums on to her lap and turned its heavy, ornamented pages. Connor had said he needed more photos to scan, partly to preserve them, but also to help him plan the book. He’d asked her to choose her favourites.

It was a pleasant job for a winter’s afternoon, but Ivy felt guilty dismantling the family albums Hester had made. Connor had shown her how to keep track of where the photos came from. When she removed a photo, she used two coloured bits of sticky paper, both with the same number written on them. One went on the back of the photo, the other filled the gap in the album. It was a simple system and one that Ivy’s old, arthritic fingers could manage. Nowadays writing anything was a trial, so it was kind and clever of Connor to have thought of an easy way to keep the precious albums in order.

She decided he must have a picture of the old beech, the Trysting Tree. Hester had loved that tree and there were many photos of it, taken in all seasons. One of them showed the graffiti in close-up. Generations of gardeners and housemaids had carved their brief and cryptic declarations of love on its smooth bark, but someone – an educated man, evidently – had carved a Latin inscription:
Crescent illae crescetis amores.
Ivy didn’t know what the words meant, but she guessed
amores
was something to do with love. Connor had studied Latin at school and might be interested in deciphering the inscription, so she removed the photo of the beech, making sure she didn’t bend it with her clumsy fingers.

As she extracted the corners from the small card triangles holding the photo in place, Ivy saw an envelope had been tucked behind. As she turned it over, she was astonished to see the envelope was addressed to
Ivy Hatherwick
. Until her marriage, Ivy had been known as Ivy Mordaunt. Ivy Hatherwick had been her name before she was adopted as an infant by Hester Mordaunt.

Curious now, she opened the envelope and removed a single sheet of notepaper. At once she recognised her Uncle William’s handwriting and noted that the letter had been written the day before he died. Ivy settled back in her armchair, but she’d read no more than a few lines when she suddenly shot forward, her hand covering her mouth. As she continued to read, her eyes widened and she emitted a small whimpering noise. When she’d finished reading, Ivy crumpled the letter into a ball, held it tightly in her fist for a moment, then threw it on the floor. She leaned back, clutching the arms of her chair and wept for a long time.

After she’d composed herself, she bent down, her breathing still unsteady, and retrieved the letter. She spread it out on her lap and read the words again, hoping they might have changed, that she had been dreaming, that her aged brain had simply misunderstood. But the words remained the same and there was no other construction she could put upon them.

Ivy got to her feet and staggered towards the fireplace. Setting the fireguard aside, she threw the letter on to the fire and watched it burn. When there was nothing left and the flames had died down, she turned and surveyed the family archive spread out on the floor and dining table. She bent down and grabbed some letters and photographs and hurled them onto the fire. As she gathered up the orderly piles of photos and consigned them to the blaze, she began to weep again, but she stood and watched as the photos buckled, then burst into flames.

As she turned away, Ivy tripped over one of the albums on the hearth rug. She lost her balance and flailed, reaching out for the mantelpiece, but she fell, banging her head on a corner of the table. Stunned, she tried to get up on to her knees, but found she had no strength in her arms or legs. She lay helpless on her sitting room floor, like a felled tree.

Burning letters tumbled from the grate and Ivy watched in horror as they ignited a paper trail of scattered photos leading from the hearthstone to the rug where she lay. She began to shout, calling for help, but her voice was frail and the walls of her cottage were thick. She clutched at her skirt, hoisting it away from the flames. As the rug began to smoulder, Ivy reached up for the corner of the tablecloth and tugged. There was a vase of flowers on the table. Connor had brought a bunch of chrysanthemums and arranged them for her. The water in the vase might be enough to douse the burning rug.

She pulled steadily and felt the tablecloth slide, bringing the vase to the edge of the table. As the cloth travelled, more photographs fell from the table, fluttering into the air before landing on the rug where they curled and smouldered. Coughing, blinded by smoke and tears, Ivy propped herself on one elbow and reached up for the vase. She grasped it and threw the contents at the burning rug. There was a hissing sound and smoke filled the room. Choking now, she dragged herself across the carpet, towards the telephone, thinking of her grandson. The dear boy had taken pity on her ancient eyes and useless fingers and had bought her a special phone with big buttons, saying it would be easier for her to use “in an emergency”.

When someone answered, Ivy managed to gasp the word, “Fire” and the first line of her address before she passed out.

ANN

Connor earned his tea. It must have been a gruelling story for him to tell, even though he’d gone over the few known facts with the police and in his own mind many times. Ivy had died in hospital of smoke inhalation and although he’d been at her bedside, she’d been unable or unwilling to speak to him.

He’d rescued what he could of the family archive. Some was untouched by the fire, but much of it was burned or damaged by smoke and water from the vase Ivy had emptied in an attempt to put out the fire.

‘Do you know for certain that she actually started it?’ Phoebe enquired. ‘Perhaps it was just a dreadful accident.’

‘The firemen said it was clear a considerable amount of paper had been put onto the fire. And the fireguard had been set to one side.’

‘I see. That doesn’t sound like an accident, does it?’

Connor shook his head. ‘There seems little doubt Ivy dumped a load of material onto the fire, most of which burned, but some must have fallen out onto the hearth. The only significant damage was to the rug and Ivy’s clothing, but she seems to have doused that pretty effectively when she realised the fire was getting out of hand. But the paper must have continued to smoulder and fill the room with smoke. And at some point she must have fallen.’

‘How do they know that?’ Phoebe asked, her eyes bright.

‘She had a bad bruise on her forehead. She hit something hard, something sharpish. Knowing the layout of that room, I’d say she keeled over and hit the corner of the table.’

‘So,’ Phoebe said, summing up. ‘You’re convinced she was trying to destroy the archive.’

‘Well, yes, I am, if only because I know my grandmother. If there’d been some kind of accident, if a spark had landed on some photos and they’d started to burn, Ivy would have put out the flames with her bare hands rather than lose them. So it had to be her doing. For some reason she was trying to destroy something that, up till then, had meant all the world to her.’

‘Apart from you?’ I asked.

Connor looked up, surprised. ‘Yes, she was very fond of me. I was like the son she never had. My mother died when I was quite young, so my grandmother stepped in. Dad was in the army and abroad a lot, so it was Ivy who raised me really. She’d always treated that archive with the utmost respect. Reverence, almost. But something must have caused a change of heart. Unless it was some kind of brain storm.’

‘Why did she destroy it?’ Phoebe asked.

I sighed and wondered if she’d dozed off briefly. ‘That’s what we don’t know, Mum. That’s the mystery.’

‘No, I mean why did Ivy
destroy
it? Why not just hide it? Put it away in a box on top of the wardrobe. Or in a safe deposit box in a bank. Why did it have to be
destroyed
? And why was she trying to destroy
all
of it?’

Connor and I were silent for a moment or two. I must admit, I was impressed with the clarity of Phoebe’s thinking. Years of watching
Murder, She Wrote
had evidently paid off.

‘Well,’ Connor said, considering, ‘if she suddenly wanted to restrict my access to her stuff, it would have been awkward to explain.’

‘Was she the type of woman who could lie convincingly?’ Phoebe asked. ‘Make up some story to fool you?’

Connor laughed. ‘Definitely not! Ivy would have been the world’s worst poker player.’

‘So she didn’t want to lie to you
and
she didn’t want you to see something.’

‘See something?’

‘Oh, yes, don’t you think so?’ Phoebe was well into her stride now. Despite the tragic subject matter, I could tell she was enjoying herself. ‘Your grandmother might just have had a change of heart, I suppose, but I think it far more likely she found something – a note, a photograph, something she’d never seen, or never seen in a particular light before. Perhaps it was a letter she’d never read properly.
Something
must have made her change her mind. And then her immediate response must have been, “Destroy the evidence.” But why
all
of it? Why not just destroy the offending article?’

‘Because she was angry,’ I said.

Connor and Phoebe turned to face me. ‘Angry?’ Phoebe frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean, if Ivy had read something awful or looked at a particular photo and realised something shocking, she might have burned it. Maybe torn it up and hurled the pieces on the fire. That’s what you’d do, wouldn’t you? But Ivy went on and on, burning stuff, adding fuel to the fire. So I think she must have been very angry. Or in the grip of some other strong emotion.’

Connor frowned. ‘So you mean it wasn’t just that she didn’t want me to know—’

‘She didn’t want
anyone
to know. Ever. Which makes me think it was something she hadn’t known and really didn’t want to know.’

‘But what?’ Phoebe said, gazing into space, her eyes narrowed.

‘I don’t see how we can ever know. Ivy’s dead and most of the archive was destroyed.’

‘Well, that’s not quite the case,’ Connor said leaning forward in his chair. ‘I told you she’d burned a great deal of stuff, but some survived and it’s still mostly legible. And there are copies of a lot of photos and documents on my laptop.’

‘The trigger can’t have been anything that survived though, can it?’ I said. ‘That would have been the first to go, surely?’

‘Oh, yes, of course,’ Phoebe said with a groan.

‘But whatever it was,’ I conceded, ‘Connor might still have a copy.’

‘I might, but if I do, Ivy had already seen it because she was the one who gave it to me.’

‘Damn!’ Phoebe exclaimed. ‘Just when I thought we were getting somewhere!’

‘You see what I mean,’ Connor said, looking at me, ‘about a three-pipe problem?’

‘I certainly do. But you now have my mother on the case and she’s not one to give up easily. Nor, I suspect, are you. Perhaps between us we might be able to piece the story together. Or maybe a new piece of evidence will turn up. You never know.’

‘I certainly feel encouraged,’ Connor said, beaming at Phoebe. ‘Some sort of picture is beginning to emerge.’

‘If not the one Ivy burned,’ Phoebe murmured. She sat back and slapped her palms on her thighs. ‘Well, this has been first rate entertainment, but I can’t do any more brainwork on an empty stomach. We need sustenance, Ann.’

‘Mum, you’ve eaten half a packet of chocolate digestives!’

‘No, that was mostly Connor.’

‘Guilty as charged,’ he said, raising his hands in submission. ‘I missed lunch, so I’m afraid I put away quite a few.’

‘Time for something more substantial then. Will you stay for supper, Connor? I doubt Phoebe will let you go until she’s squeezed the last drop of information out of you, so you might as well give in gracefully. It’s chicken and leek pie.’

‘If it doesn’t mean short rations for the ladies, I’d love to join you.’

‘Good!’ said Phoebe, clearly delighted. ‘Now while Ann is busy in the kitchen, you can make yourself useful with the drinks tray. Help yourself. Mine’s a large gin.’

‘Is that with tonic?’ Connor asked getting to his feet.

‘Just wave the bottle in the general vicinity of my glass.’

‘One large gin coming up, madam.’

As he poured her drink, Connor exchanged a conspiratorial look with me. He seemed to be enjoying himself and, as I stood in the doorway, listening to the banter, it occurred to me, he
would
be good with old ladies. He’d been raised by one and perhaps still missed her.

I went to the kitchen to fetch some ice. Taking a lemon from the fruit bowl, I began to slice it. It was touching to see Phoebe so engaged, enjoying her second favourite pursuit: flirting with young men. She was enjoying herself, using her brain, laughing, chatting, being useful to someone. She was in her element and pain was temporarily far from her mind.

Connor’s untidy head appeared round the door. ‘Phoebe’s calling for ice and a slice. Can I help?’

I handed him a tumbler full of ice cubes and a dish of lemon slices. As he took them, I found myself unable to say any more than a heartfelt ‘Thank you’, but I wasn’t thanking him for collecting the ice.

~

A week later I was in the kitchen preparing lunch when the phone rang. I always left it with Phoebe in case she felt like calling someone for a chat – something she declined to do, even though I was sure she would have loved someone to ring
her
. She’d put Connor’s number on the fridge, “in case anything turns up” and I sensed she’d been brooding about his three-pipe problem.

To judge from the tone of her voice, the call was business rather than pleasure. I wondered if it was another buyer wanting to view the house. I quickly rinsed my hands in case Phoebe handed me the call, but she finished speaking and after a moment, the door opened. She limped into the kitchen with an odd look on her face, something between a grimace and a grin.

‘Guess what? We have an offer for Garden Lodge.’

‘You’re joking! Are they buying blind? No one’s viewed it.’

‘Connor Grenville has. And he’s made an offer.’

‘But—’ I stared at her, astonished. ‘But he can’t possibly afford— and he said he wasn’t a serious buyer!’

‘Well, he’s made a serious offer. Four hundred and fifty.’

‘That’s not a serious offer, it’s an insult!’

‘Hardly, Ann. No one else has been to view in months. The price is obviously much too high.’

‘It’s the winter. The agent said there would be little interest until the spring.’

‘She was just covering herself. People move all year round, don’t they? Disasters happen. Death. Divorce. I suspect four hundred and fifty is much nearer the mark.’

‘You’re not going to accept?’

Phoebe paused before replying, then, looking very guilty, said, ‘I
have
accepted.’

‘Mum, that’s not how it’s done! You say you’ll think about it and then you haggle. That won’t be his best offer.’

‘Oh, I think it probably is. He didn’t strike me as the kind of man who plays games. I suspect that’s all he can manage. And of course he’d expect me to turn it down. Yet he still put the offer in. He must want it quite badly, don’t you think?’

‘I suppose so, but that’s no reason to accept. I can’t think what possessed you… Without even consulting me.’

‘It’s my house,’ Phoebe replied, sounding petulant. ‘And I knew you’d try to persuade me to reject the offer.’

‘I certainly would!’

‘Because you want the best for me, don’t you?’

‘Of course I do.’

‘Just as I want the best for you,’ Phoebe said, studying a point on the wall over my right shoulder.

‘Mum, I don’t see what—’

‘It’s high time you got on with your life, Ann. Stopped worrying about me. I need to get shot of this place and move on.’ She looked down and regarded her shabby carpet slippers. ‘I wasn’t much of a mother to you, but I’m damned if I’ll be a burden.’

‘You
aren’t
, Mum. I’ve enjoyed spending time with you. I think it’s done us both a world of good. I love working in the studio and the garden and I quite enjoy looking after you. It’s taken my mind off Jack and the divorce and… well, all the past. Please don’t feel you have to sell up because you’re a
burden
. I do understand how you feel about Garden Lodge. I love it too. I had no idea just how much.’

Phoebe was looking at me, but her expression was hard to read. ‘My God,’ she said softly. ‘You don’t actually want me to sell, do you?’

‘Of course I do!’ It was my turn to avoid her eyes. ‘But only at the right price.’

Phoebe pulled out a kitchen chair and sank onto it. ‘Come on, Ann. Be honest. When you arrived, you wanted me to get rid of it, didn’t you? But now you’ve settled in. You’ve spent so much time in the garden… worked so hard… you’ve
invested
something in the old place. And I suppose you must feel closer to Sylvester out there too.’

I couldn’t speak. Blinking furiously, I said, ‘Not just Dad. I feel closer to you now. I just… I just didn’t think we’d be selling up so
soon
. I was going to carry on renovating the garden, so we could have one last summer here. To say goodbye. Then move on.’

Phoebe nodded. ‘That’s when Sylvester went... You won’t remember.’ She looked up and searched my face. ‘You don’t, do you?’ I shook my head. ‘It was autumn. He always got depressed in the autumn. As soon as the days began to get shorter, he’d panic. It was the thought of winter, you see. It used to get him down every year.’ She sighed and said, ‘Shall I ring the agent? Tell her I’ve changed my mind?’

‘
Do
you want to sell up, Mum?’

‘I don’t know now. I thought I did. But I certainly like the idea of one last summer. Time to make our peace with the old place and say goodbye… I think perhaps I’ll ring back and do my batty old woman act. Tell her I’ve had second thoughts. But can I ask a favour, Ann?’