Finding Home (29 page)

I come up with a fairly long list of things that could be developed at Rosemont Hall to turn a profit. At the very least, it could have a tea room with locally sourced organic produce, a children's adventure playground, garden walks and treasure hunts, paintball boot camps, and the real money-spinners: weddings, corporate away-days, film shoots.

It's a good start. The next section of the book covers budgeting expenses and forecasting revenue. My eyes glaze over at the examples they give of double-entry accounting systems, ledgers, and profit-and-loss statements. Writing a credible business plan is going to take a lot more research and know-how than I can gather in one afternoon, and I'm already up against it timewise with Hexagon waiting in the wings. My ‘can-do' mood begins to deflate rapidly. I shove the notebook back in my handbag and wander through the library until I find the local history section. Being surrounded by history books makes me feel instantly better. One of the shelves has a whole section on local places of architectural interest. I find an old hardback book on Little Botheringford, the village nearest to Rosemont Hall. The publication date is 1950 – before the fire, I note. The book contains a three-page section on the house.

The print is miniscule and I have to squint to read it. A lot of the information about the architecture I already know from the internet. But I'm intrigued by three black and white photos included with the blurb. The first one is a photo of two men in a mountain pass. The caption reads: ‘Sir George Windham and Francisco Walredo, Spain 1937'. I stare at the photo. I've no idea who Walredo might be, and the text doesn't say. I jot down the name to look it up later. In the photo, Sir George is smiling, but his eyes are dark and murky as pools of ink. What had Mrs Bradford said?
The eyes of a demon.
The back of my neck prickles with goosebumps.

The second photo I've seen before – it's of the inside of the great hall at Rosemont Hall, circa 1939, the walls covered with paintings. The caption describes the famous Rosemont Hall art collection. ‘Most of the artwork was sold off after the end of World War II to pay for repairs to the house', it reads. ‘However, a few key collection pieces, including “Orientale” by Rembrandt, were retained by the family.

The final photo on the facing page is dark, and the painting it shows is dim and shadowy, except for a few shimmering rays of light that reveal the figure of a man dressed in a Chinese-style robe. It's a picture of the Rembrandt! Even in miniature, the details of the painting – the folds of the fabric, the brocade on the jacket, the fall of light on the planes of the man's face – are vivid and otherworldly. It must have been a stunning sight to see that painting hanging in a place of pride at Rosemont Hall. It's no wonder that Sir George wanted to keep the painting even after all the rest of the art was sold off. It must have been his pride and joy. But in holding onto it, he unwittingly contributed to its destruction.

I close the book and put it back on the shelf. The Rembrandt was lost in the fire, and the house is about to suffer its own sorry fate unless I can conjure up a miracle. And maybe even then.

My mobile vibrates in my bag. I take it out and check the screen. It's nearly three o'clock and I have four missed calls from the office.

I leave the library and rush back to work. Everyone looks up when I enter like I'm some kind of prodigal daughter.

‘A Mr Kendall came here looking for you, Amy,' Claire says. ‘He wanted to pick up some keys but we couldn't find them.'

In fact, I did completely forget that Mr Kendall was coming by for the keys to Rosemont Hall. Keys which are currently safe and sound at the bottom of my handbag.

‘Sorry about that,' I give Claire a wry smile. ‘I forgot. I'll drop the keys off at his office later.'

‘He says someone will be at the house tonight. He asked if you can drop them there on your way home.'

‘I'll do that.'

Someone
. My heart thumps hard in my chest.

In the early evening, I drive to Rosemont Hall. My palms are sweaty on the wheel as I turn off the road and drive between the sagging iron gates. While my previous visit far exceeded any expectations, tonight, I'm expecting no miracles.

The sky is streaked with pink and gold, and the outline of the house looks lonely and forbidding. Two vehicles are parked in front: Mr Kendall's Beamer and a gargantuan black Range Rover. No Vauxhall Corsa – no Jack Faraday. As much as I want to want to forget him, I unwittingly taste the sharp bile of disappointment.

I park next to the Range Rover, pull my pink scarf tightly around my neck, and walk to the front door. As I'm about to knock, it opens. Mr Kendall is standing there (apparently he doesn't need my set of keys
that
badly), and behind him, a shortish man in a pin-striped suit. Something about him looks familiar, and everything else – from his ginger-hair (looking suspiciously like a comb-over), to his golf club print tie and rhinestone-chip cufflinks – makes my hackles rise. A single word comes to mind…

Hexagon.

‘Hello Ms Wood,' Mr Kendall says. ‘Thanks for stopping by. We were lucky to catch Mr Jack before he left for the airport – he let us in.'

‘Oh.'

Jack is gone. I'm suddenly awash with anger – at myself. Why didn't I return his calls? Why did I let him go?

Mr Kendall turns to the ginger-haired man. ‘I don't believe you two have met,' he says. ‘This is Amy Wood, the estate agent.'

The man's fleshy face lifts into a smile. ‘Hello there,' he says. ‘Nigel Netelbaum, CEO of Hexagon plc.'

‘Hello.' I croak. I realise why he looks familiar. I've seen him in a photo in David Waters's flat. The two of them were standing together holding up a golf trophy. I force myself to shake his hand.

‘We're just finishing up,' he says. ‘Helluva place, isn't it? Must have really been something once upon a time.'

‘It's still really something,' I say wistfully. ‘For a little while yet, it still is.'

‘Yeah, O-Kay.' He raises an eyebrow like he's humouring me, then turns back to Mr Kendall and asks him something about the paperwork. His accent is American like Jack and Flora's – the conspiracy theorist in me begins to wonder if it's all some kind of nefarious transatlantic plot. The two men talk and I stand there feeling like an outdated piece of furniture cluttering up space. I should hand over the keys and leave – there's no reason for me to be here. But I keep a tight grip on the key ring.

‘Right then…' Mr Kendall is saying, ‘…that all sounds good. We'll send over the draft contracts early next week.'

The two men shake hands. Mr Netelbaum gives me a little wave and a ‘cheerio' as he goes down the steps and climbs into the Range Rover. The vehicle roars to life and he reverses in a three-point turn. I watch the vehicle until it disappears into the gloom.

‘So that's it, then?'

‘That's it.' Mr Kendall lets out a long sigh. ‘He's just doing his job, Amy. We all are.'

I shrug like I'm not bothered. ‘Sorry I wasn't in the office earlier,' I say. ‘I guess subconsciously I don't want to hand these over.' I place the heavy ring of keys in his hand. They're no use to me now.

‘Thank you.' He tucks the keys into the pocket of his overcoat. ‘Jack forgot to leave me his keys. He and Ms Flora are on their way back to America. You just missed them. I doubt either of them will be back.'

I don't trust myself to reply.

‘Would you like a last look around?' Mr Kendall offers. ‘Since you love the place so much?'

He stands aside so I can enter. For the first time, I have no desire to go inside. The house seems cold and dead: an empty shell where my heart once lived. And I can't even pretend that it's all down to meeting Mr Netelbaum and seeing him seal the deal.

Jack is gone.

Mr Kendall raises an eyebrow expectantly. ‘Unless you need to be somewhere—'

‘No.' With a sigh, I walk past him into the main hall. I'll see the house one last time, then try to start the process of forgetting. ‘I've no other plans.'

He flicks the light switch and the chandelier illuminates (minus about half its bulbs that blew out during the power surge). I circle slowly, taking a last look at the grand staircase, the marble floor, the cool stone walls, the exquisitely decorated ceiling. Despite everything that has – or hasn't – happened, I want to remember every detail.

The power is still off, but other than that, everything from my evening with Jack has been cleared away, as if it never was. Even the heaters are gone. Last night, I didn't notice that in the other rooms off the great hall, most of the furniture and bric-a-brac had been removed. Now, more than ever, a once-loved home feels cavernous and forbidding. I peak into the library. Even the books have been cleared off the shelves. All that's left is dust and mice droppings.

But there's one thing that does cheer me up a little. The painting of the lady in the pink dress is still hanging in her place on the staircase landing. As long as she's there, I feel a tiny flicker of hope that, somehow, Rosemont Hall can be saved.

Mr Kendall follows me up the stairs and we stand together in front of the painting. ‘She's quite stunning, isn't she?' he says.

‘Yes. It's Arabella Windham, isn't it?' I half-turn to him. ‘All along it's been her, watching as everyone tramps through her house, talking about her things like they're just some old lady's rubbish.' I purse my lips.

‘Arabella? Is that who you think she is?'

‘Yes, I do.' I explain briefly about the costumes I found. I avoid mentioning the sketchbook and the letters, which are still safely ensconced in my knicker drawer. If anyone misses them, I can always post them back.

Mr Kendall frowns. ‘But I've always assumed that the painting was old. It says 1899 here on the frame.'

‘But frames can be changed, can't they? New wine in old bottles and all that.'

He shakes his head. ‘I don't know, Amy. I've been their solicitor for about twenty years – Arabella was already well into middle age when I knew her. But she had light brown hair and brown eyes.' He points to the face of the girl in the painting. ‘Not blue like hers.'

‘Oh.' I take a step back. The only photo I've seen of the young Arabella was the blurry black and white wedding photo, where it wasn't possible to make out the colour of her eyes. But now, I realise that it's obviously not the same girl. All of my sleuthing – thinking that I was so clever to discover the historical joke that Henry and Arabella must have played – has been pointless. If there is a mystery as to who the girl in the portrait is, I haven't solved it.

‘Anyway,' Mr Kendall says, ‘whoever she is, most likely she won't be going far.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘All the art in the house was left to Mrs Bradford, not Flora and Jack,' he explains. ‘That's why that painting is still there. When the house is sold, Mrs Bradford will have to take it away.'

‘Oh. Is she going to sell it?'

‘I've no idea.'

Mr Kendall turns and slowly walks the length of the landing. It's as if he too is trying to imprint the house on his memory. ‘If this place does become a golf clubhouse,' he says, ‘then at least Hexagon will be required to keep the fabric of the building. Maybe it won't be so bad. Lots of people will be able to enjoy the house, not just one family.'

I shake my head. ‘You don't believe that.'

‘Of course I'd prefer it to be left intact. It's a national treasure – too bad the National Trust didn't want it.'

‘You checked too?' I smile wryly.

‘Yes, I did. A while back, when Mrs Windham was ill. I was told that the Trust has its hands full – during the last recession, a lot of the
nouveau-pauvre
walked away from their stately homes, leaving them to rot.' He stops walking and puts his hands on the railing, leaning over to look down at the great hall. ‘And even were that not the case, this place needs too much work. It's a money pit.'

‘They could open it up to the public.' I say, all too aware that I'm grasping at straws. ‘With the right business plan, Rosemont Hall could be self-supporting. A wedding venue; a tea shop and restaurant; organic garden shop – the whole estate would draw in loads of people if it was advertised properly.'

Mr Kendall shakes his head. ‘That requires a huge outlay of up-front cash. No bank will lend on a wing and a prayer – not anymore. And as I mentioned before, there's a large inheritance tax bill that the heirs are responsible for. The first instalment is due next month. Eighty thousand pounds. And that's only the beginning. The total bill is closer to a million.'

‘A million pounds in taxes?'

‘Yes, that's right.'

The truth seeps through my veins like freezing water. I remember what David Waters once said:
It will take buried treasure to save this house.
No amount of number-crunching about tea rooms and adventure parks is going to make any difference.

‘You have to remember that the crown always gets paid first out of an estate before any remainder can be distributed,' he says. ‘The house and land are the only assets with any value. If the heirs don't sell, they'll still be liable for the IHT. Imagine getting a phone call out of the blue that you've inherited a crumbling mansion in England. And by the way, please can you pay a million pounds for the privilege.'

I look at the young woman in the portrait, my eyes blurry with tears. ‘It's hopeless,' I whisper.

She smiles back, keeping her secrets.

‘Anyway, the heirs were very relieved to get an offer from Hexagon. At least they can walk away with the debts cleared.'

‘Of course.' I turn away from the painting, my head hung low. It was ludicrous of me to think that Jack might want to keep the house even if he could afford to. How relieved he must be to be shot of the whole inheritance palaver, and everything and everyone associated with it. Everyone – including me.