The Women of Heachley Hall Read online

  ‘Have you been a prisoner, locked up for something? Is that the reason why you don’t like to say anything about your life outside of Heachley?’

  He’d stuff his hands back in his pockets and returned to examining the floor. ‘No, Miriam, I have not been in gaol.’

  ‘I could understand, wanting to keep that part of your life secret, then making a fresh start.’

  He repeated his declaration, the second time, he looked straight at me and I flinched as those pale eyes drilled me.

  ‘Right. No prison. So, you’re ashamed of your upbringing, something like that?’ I persisted, leaning on the counter.

  He shook his head. ‘My parents are gone, like yours. My brother emigrated and he’s estranged. It’s just me.’

  ‘You, on your own, in a house somewhere nearby, and you walk across the fields, climb over my wall and traipse through my woods to paint walls for me?’

  A smile slipped over his tense expression and his eyebrows lifted. ‘In a nutshell.’

  ‘Why? You’re a bright man. Why haven’t you got a decent job?’ He shrivelled again, the shoulders drooping under my interrogation. He edged backwards, as if he wanted to charge out of the door. I held up my hand, signalling him to halt. ‘Please, Charles, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. I’m trying to understand.’

  ‘There really isn’t anything to understand. I don’t need much. My ambitions don’t lie far away. I don’t want to line my pockets with money. Is that hard to accept?’

  Yes, dammit, because I coveted owning mansion and the million or so quid it represented. The secrets of his life placed him at a constant emotional distance from me and I hated the implication I might never know him better. Something about him forced me to keep up my questions. ‘And you don’t want me to know where you live?’

  ‘It’s not necessary, is it?’

  ‘I could give you a lift home.’

  ‘I like walking,’ he reiterated, his voice hardening.

  ‘In the snow?’

  ‘In the snow. Do you like driving in the snow?’ He parried, crossing his arms and mirroring my own stance.

  It terrified me. My little car had no ability to hold the road in icy conditions, never mind the snow. I’d already told him I’d nearly slid off the road on the way into Little Knottisham. My reticence to answer his question showed: I gnawed my lips.

  ‘Why do you come here, Charles?’ I pleaded.

  He reached up and ran his hands through his dark locks of hair, flicking them away from his pale face. ‘I came for work, originally, yes. It’s what I do: gardening, carpentry. Now, I don’t know. If I’m being honest, I keep coming back because I can’t help it, and...’ he ducked his head and I lost sight of his translucent eyes. ‘I have to be with you.’

  ‘Be with me,’ I whispered, my pulse raced, a syncopated thrumming in my ears. ‘Are you coming on to me?’

  He raised his head. His eyebrows knitted together. ‘Coming on to you?’ he queried.

  ‘Is this some long drawn out chat up?’

  He stepped backwards again. My harrying of his personal life seemed to strip away his confidence. I’d not seen him stumble so much over his words before now.

  ‘I want to help you. Felicity would have approved.’

  ‘Have to be with me?’ I reminded him.

  ‘Poor choice of words. I meant to imply, I’m obligated to help you because of my friendship with Felicity.’

  His tune changed once again. Now, he’d dragged in my aunt as an excuse. My belly knotted itself with butterflies: it bothered me. I preferred the implication it was entirely down to me.

  ‘She’s gone. You didn’t even visit her in the home, so why care now?’

  ‘I tried. I would have. I don’t have a car and…’

  ‘Tony would have taken you. They visited.’

  Charles’s lips thinned into a line. ‘I’m not friends with them, especially her.’

  ‘Liz? Why not?’ I harried.

  He screwed his face into a barrel of frustration, then released a muffled exhale as he unscrewed it, dropping his arms at the same with an audible snap to his sides. ‘For heaven’s sake, Miriam, it’s personal. That’s the whole point of this conversation. I have a private life and it has nothing to do with you. Now, do you want me to paint the window frame or not?’

  I huffed, ‘I’m not sure what I want you to do.’ I’d forgotten my coffee. I yanked open the fridge door and poured a generous helping of milk into the mug. The liquid overflowed and slopped over the side onto the granite. I closed my eyes. I couldn’t believe I was on the verge of dismissing him. The realisation frightened me. Most weekdays he kept me company for a few hours. Having him around was a comfort and I’d grown accustomed to his inconstant visits in the house and I relished them, bundling up each and every instance, no matter how brief or inconsequential, into some kind of goodwill package to keep and hold on to in the stillness of the empty house. No, he couldn’t leave.

  ‘I’m sorry. You’re right. It’s none of my business. I’m so wrapped up with work and the mystery of Felicity. I’ve not heard from Eva Kendal, the owners of Beechwood or effing Porter in ages, and I feel isolated.’

  ‘Perhaps you need a break. Some time in Chelmsford.’

  I laughed. ‘In a warm house, yes and a hot steaming shower.’

  ‘A shower, yes, very nice,’ he murmured. ‘So, the window frames?’

  The tensioned between us had swiftly thawed, unlike the snow outside. ‘If they’re not covered in dew.’ The windows dripped condensation most mornings and recently, the watery film had frozen into sheets of ice through which light danced, projecting shadowy fractals around the room.

  ‘If they are, then I’ll replace the dodgy floorboard in the bedroom upstairs, instead.’ The creakiest rotten boards had been targeted and those that could be reused he hammered back down, others had to be replaced and he’d shaped the boards from planks of oak he harvested from the woods. It had saved me the cost of the timber.

  ‘Thank you,’ I held the mug in my hands, its warmth unnecessary – the heated conversation had driven up my body temperature.

  He edged towards the door. ‘I’ll find the paint—’

  ‘I left it in the dining room. Too cold in your shed, it would spoil. You must be impervious to the cold.’ I’d more than once offered him the opportunity to use a downstairs room to do his carpentry, but he’d politely declined each time. The man was beyond infuriating with his evasiveness and steadfast determination not to breach the interior beyond the necessary.

  ‘Hardened. Another reason to keep busy. Keeps me warm.’ He grinned, a half-hearted attempt at humour. I listened to his footsteps on the hallway tiles. That job he’d meticulously finished earlier in the month and to a high standard. When I’d paid him, he’d rolled the notes into a ball, before stuffing them in his back pocket. Why did it seem like I paid for him to be at my beck and call?

  That wasn’t fair. Charles was a craftsman, not a Casanova. He didn’t care for me that much. It had to be guilt, something to do with Felicity and he was covering it up.

  I had to chase up Eva and Dominion Estates. I needed that elusive box to have the answers.

  ·•●•·

  The wind picked up during the night and the snow slid down the roof, flying off with a whoosh. Having been woken by the noise, any attempt at going back to sleep was interrupted by flashes of Charles’ face.

  What bound him to Heachley wasn’t an employment contract or an obligation based on guaranteed employment; I made it up as I went along. It dawned on me that what troubled me was that he might simply not turn up one day. He deserved a better paid job and working conditions, and I wouldn’t be able to stop him if he walked away. What if he did? Without his help, how would I tackle the list of things that needed doing? I tossed around, curled into a foetal position, and buried my head under the covers.

  Again, the snow moved and landed with a thud below. The unhappy house groaned with the burden of winter o
n its tiles and chimney pots. The chance for sleep faded further.

  Charles Donaldson – the handsome introvert who plagued my wakefulness – seemed reticent to tell me anything substantial about my great-aunt. I’d teased a few facts out of him – her eccentricity and love of India – but he hadn’t actually provided me with much depth or understanding of her psyche. Perhaps I’d gifted him with too much knowledge. He was just the handyman-cum-gardener, and why would he understand her motives for bequeathing this place to me? Charles’s thirst for information remained focused on distant countries and cultures, and it had been those subjects he’d prised out of Felicity’s library.

  We had our own particular conversations. When I needed a break, I’d often sought him out in one of the rooms where he laboured to fill cracks or replaced rotten floor or skirting boards. Slowly and methodically he worked, and in the background his radio blared. If he wasn’t listening to Radio 4 or the classical music stations, he chose Jazz FM.

  ‘Who’s that playing?’ I’d asked on more than one occasion and he answered without hesitation.

  ‘You like jazz, why?’

  ‘It doesn’t clutter my mind with emotions, rather it keeps me company without impeding.’

  I’d taken that to mean I was unwelcome. ‘Sorry.’ I’d backed towards the door.

  He held up his hand and the signal halted me. ‘No, not you. My own thoughts impede. Things I care to forget.’

  ‘Oh.’ What things? I’d murmured to myself, but I never asked him.

  His mental stimulation came in other forms – quiz shows or debates: I yawned at that kind of endless droning. Once I’d marched in on him listening to Woman’s Hour. He’d shown no embarrassment when I queried his tastes.

  ‘Felicity liked it,’ he’d shrugged.

  So much of what Charles spoke about was confined to the world according to Felicity.

  I started in bed and the covers fell off my shoulders. He was her love child, was that it? It proved to be momentarily idea that failed to blossom when I pictured his face – the supreme pale skin, brown hair and translucent eyes – all of which were at odds with Felicity’s mixed ethnicity. Why if he’d been her son had she not left Heachley to him? I slumped back down and yanked the duvet back under my chin. A stupid idea.

  A spine tingling creak. The eerie low squeal was followed by a long drawn out scraping sound. Was something being dragged along the wooden boards?

  I inhaled sharply, held my breath and slowly opened my eyes wide.

  The faint trace of moonlight offered little assistance. Another solitary creak – shorter and shriller – even more like a squeak.

  I sat again, but slowly, drawing myself up on my elbows. I concentrated hard on listening. Again, the isolated creak. Not in my room, but close by and unlike the wind outside that buffeted and whistled in a random fashion. The sound indoors possessed rhythm – footsteps?

  The wind paused, heralding the onset of silence – the creaking had ceased. Regardless of my anxieties, I had to investigate.

  Sticking my legs out, my heels then toes touched the rug. I rose, reached out with my hands, and hunted for the door handle. I stubbed my toe on something, and hopping about, I cursed under my breath. I needed light. Back tracking, I crashed into the bedside table before fumbling for the lamp switch.

  The spotlight blinded me. I waited for my pupils to shrink. Gradually, I refocused on the attic bedroom. The source of my stubbing was evident – I’d tripped on a boot. I kicked the offending item under my bed. Facing the door once again, I listened. Nothing – not a peep.

  I squeezed the door handle with my trembling hand, nudged the door open and poked my head out. Peering around the small landing that separated the two rooms, I jumped. A dark figure greeted me.

  I groaned, ‘Idiot.’ Clutching my hand to my chest, I inhaled slowly: the light behind me had cast my shadow against the wall opposite.

  I lowered my eyes and my attention was drawn to the floor just outside the bedroom door. I crouched and ran my finger along the wooden board. White dust coated the tip of my forefinger. The same ash like substance that came and went all about the house. It formed a trail from my door towards the staircase. Switching on the landing light, I tracked the dust downstairs, then into Felicity’s bedroom. Flicking on the light switch, I entered. There the trail stopped, the powdery particles had spread themselves around until they disappeared into the cracks between the boards.

  Squatting on my haunches, I searched for footprints, something to identify the source of the residue. Lightning flashed about the room, the air crackled with electricity and my scalp fizzed with static.

  I leapt to my feet and the onslaught of cold air triggered a bout of shivers. Outside, a gust of wind rushed towards the house and from above, a bank of snow cascaded off the roof, blanketing the window with a shower of whiteness. Simultaneously, the force of the squall smashed the snow against the pane and high in the sky, thunder cracked. I tottered backwards. The draught swirled around my ankles, picking up the dust and billowing it upwards into a cloud. Behind me, the door slammed shut.

  I screeched, then I held my breath. From out of the silence came a solitary pop and the light went out. The power had failed.

  The darkness swathed, impenetrable, rather similar to the glutinous cellar air. I froze and only my heartbeats drummed in my ears. Snatching a trembling breath, I softly panted and slowly stretched out my arms, daring to explore the pitch-black space.

  For those seconds of darkness, I believed in ghosts. They surrounded me, those invisible phantoms who haunted and put fear into the minds of sane people. They were there with me. How many? Who were they? Whoever I’d imagined, they had to be the cause of the sudden onset of my unexpected terror. What else could make my body shake and my brain freeze, but the spirits of the dead? I snatched back my hands, fearful something would grab at them, pull me into, what? An abyss? A void?

  ‘Felicity?’ I murmured. ‘Is that you?’ Wretched silence greeted my strange question. Not even the wind or the house uttered a noise; nothing bothered to reply.

  Seconds of paralysing inactivity, which felt a lot longer, the light flickered back on. I blinked, desperately seeking focus. I spun around and checked I was alone. The room was empty. Combing my fingers through my tangled hair, I groaned my relief, hoping it might displace the ridiculous pummelling of my heartbeats and shallow pants of breaths

  ‘What the hell is the matter with me? I don’t believe in ghosts.’ Felicity was gone and why would she haunt here anyway? I waited for some semblance of calmness to embolden me. ‘I don’t believe in ghosts,’ I repeated through gritted teeth.

  With a firm grasp I snatched at the door handle and threw the door open. I stomped upstairs, back to my little room and burrowed under the duvet.

  ‘I’m going nuts.’ Charles was right; I had to spend the weekend at Chelmsford. The sooner the better.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Ruth poured over the drawings laid out on her dining room table. While she perused, tapping her finger on her lips and nodding repetitively, I nervously waited for her appraisal. She might be my friend, but during those moments, she was my client, too.

  ‘Well?’ I broke the silence. ‘I’ve not gone overboard on the colours, have I?’

  She shook her head. ‘They’re perfect.’

  I slumped into a nearby chair and puffed out my lips. ‘Thank God. I’m up to here—’ I levelled my hand with my nose ‘ – with work. What with my monsters, the new project with robots, now clowns. I’m spinning around.’

  Ruth offered a smile of encouragement. ‘Don’t fret. I’ll show these to my editor. We’ll discuss how to layout the text, then update you with any changes needed.’

  My mobile bleeped. I’d connected to Ruth’s Wi-Fi to download my emails. Most had been sent in the last couple of days. I scanned down the list. One in particular caught my eye and I bolted upright in my seat.

  ‘What is it?’ Ruth asked, collecting up the pieces of paper scattere
d across the table.

  ‘This Dominion Estates who own Beechwood, they’ve replied to my email.’

  She paused in her gathering. ‘And?’

  I squinted at the small text. ‘We apologise for the delay in reply—’

  ‘Nice of them.’

  ‘We can confirm we have no property belonging to Twilight Care Homes, nor any of Beechwood’s former residents. Any assets were stripped out by Twilight Care Homes upon termination of their lease.’ I scrolled down the screen.

  ‘Did you really think Dominion had anything?’

  ‘No. Why would the landlord keep things left behind by a bunch of geriatrics? Oh okay, listen to this, they confirm the contractors refitting the building should have contacted Twilight before disposing of any unidentified items found.’

  Ruth perched on the edge of the table and folded her arms. ‘Contractors?’

  ‘Yeah, seems the place has been taken over by another care provider. Dominion Estates has no involvement with refitting as long as it falls within the scope of the lease, blah-dee-blah. Regards, mister so and so.’

  ‘So you’re back to blasted Twilight again.’

  I pocketed my mobile and my head lolled forward. It was a road to nowhere. I had to face the fact Felicity’s last possessions on this Earth were gone. What a sad state to live to ninety and have nothing to show for all those wonderful years of life.

  Ruth snorted, ‘Mr Porter—’

  I wanted to ring the solicitor’s neck, instead I held up my hand. ‘Don’t go there. He’s gone into hiding and not replying to any of my emails.’

  ‘Eva?’

  Another fruitless avenue of enquiry. ‘Nothing either and I don’t want to hassle the woman. What’s the point? I don’t think she gives a damn.’

  Ruth slid into the dining chair next to me. ‘Try a different tactic.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Heachley has a history, one that’s probably recorded in newspapers and letters. If Felicity had any secrets to tell, then perhaps, so did somebody else.’