Ghost Song (42 page)

‘People do that more and more with property these days,' said Hilary and Madeleine sent her a grateful look, ‘specially since all those pension fund crashes.'

‘Unexpected parts of London were coming back into fashion,' said Madeleine. ‘Notting Hill and Docklands and so on. I thought Bankside might do the same.'

‘As, indeed, it has.'

‘Yes. I don't know why my father made that clause,' she said, ‘but he was no fool for all his roving Irish blood, and he must have had good reason. After I married, the Tarleton, in cash terms, didn't seem so important. My husband wasn't a millionaire but he was quite comfortably off. My life was here—in Somerset—in this house. And as the years went along, when I thought about the Tarleton I found I rather liked the idea that I was doing what my father had wanted. It gave me a feeling of connection with him.' She studied them. ‘Now you'll think I'm a hopeless romantic.'

‘If you're a hopeless romantic, so am I,' said Hilary. ‘Anyway, think of the fun we'd have missed. Think of the myths and legends that have grown up round that place, and how you've been at the heart of them. Adding to a little piece of theatre history.'

‘What a nice way of seeing it. And you're quite right, Hilary.' She made another of the brisk determined movements, as if putting the past firmly in its place. ‘Now, it's already getting on for seven o'clock and you'll be ready for some supper, I daresay? It's only very simple—a girl from the village comes in a couple of times a week to help with a bit of cleaning and gardening and shopping—that wretched stroke on top of the heart problems slowed me down a bit. But she's made a chicken casserole and there's an apple pie with my own apples from the orchard here. Oh, and we can make inroads on your delicious cheese as well. All right?'

‘A feast,' said Shona. ‘You're very kind.'

‘Can we help with any of it?' asked Hilary.

‘It's all set out, and the casserole only needs heating through. And I never think it's right to expect guests to help out,' said Madeleine.

‘We aren't guests really, though,' said Hilary. ‘At least—we're not the kind that need to be waited on.'

‘In that case, I'd be grateful if one of you could carry the casserole to the table when it's ready. No need for anything more. But we'll be civilized and have a glass of that Madeira you brought before we eat, shall we?'

After the meal, Shona asked Madeleine if she would mind if they entered the substance of their talk onto the laptop right away.

‘It would be quicker for us than writing sheaves of notes and then entering them,' she said. ‘And I'd like to get it all down while it's fresh in my mind.'

‘Of course you must,' said Madeleine at once. ‘And if you're intending to do that, perhaps you won't think I'm discourteous if I leave you to it. I know it's only just on ten, but I'm used to early nights these days. The coffee pot's still half full and there're drinks and glasses in that cupboard. Help yourselves to whatever you want.'

‘You've been very kind,' said Shona, smiling at her.

‘I've enjoyed it immensely and I'm looking forward to the actual reopening. Goodnight to you both. Will breakfast around eight be all right?'

‘Yes, but we can forage for ourselves perfectly well,' said Hilary.

‘Not a bit of it. My girl from the village is coming in, and she'll do scrambled eggs and toast for you.'

‘That would be lovely. Goodnight, Madeleine.'

Shona went upstairs with Madeleine to get the laptop from her case, and then she and Hilary spent another absorbed hour, pulling their discussion and all the ideas into a workable outline.

‘It'll all be marvellous,' said Hilary, finally leaning back in the deep comfortable armchair. ‘If we can bring this off, it'll be such a night.' She paused, then said, ‘Did you think there was something—some memory—that upset Madeleine earlier on? When she was talking about not wanting publicity if the Tarleton were reopened? Just for a moment or two I thought she was going to have an attack of some kind—heart or something. Did you notice it?'

‘There was something,' said Shona slowly. ‘But whatever it was, it passed. Probably it was just remembering the past—her father and so on—that upset her. Whatever it was, I shouldn't think it's relevant to us.'

‘No. What's relevant,' said Hilary, ‘is that astonishing clause her father made in his will. It explains why the place has been closed all these years, but it doesn't explain what was behind it in the first place. We thought we were going to find out the truth about it all, but it sets up more questions than it answers, doesn't it?'

‘It does rather. But I don't think we can pry into any of it very deeply.'

‘No, of course not. And all families have secrets, anyway,' said Hilary. She stood up and stretched her arms. ‘Shona, if you don't mind, I think I'm for bed. I know you did all the driving, but I'm absolutely zonked.'

‘I sometimes think it's more tiring to be a passenger on a long car journey than it is to be the driver. You go on up, Hilary. Goodnight.'

‘Are you coming up?'

‘Not just yet. I'd like to get out a few draft costings for all this while it's still fresh in my mind.'

‘OK. I'll take the coffee things out to the kitchen on my way. Don't burn too much midnight oil,' said Hilary, and went out.

All families have secrets. The words lingered after Hilary had gone, and the past stirred uneasily in Shona's mind again. Secrets… Secrets were dangerous things, they were better kept in dark places—walled up if necessary. But the Tarleton's secrets, whatever they might be, wherever they might be hidden, were nothing to do with Shona. That underground wall in the Tarleton was nothing to do with Grith's underground wall, or with what had stood behind it…

So there was no need for this faint sick uneasiness: the Tarleton could perfectly safely be reopened. It would be wonderful publicity for the Harlequin Society; it would not, in fact, do Shona any harm personally, either.

There was a faint clatter of crockery from the kitchen—it sounded as if Hilary was washing up the coffee cups. Shona listened, and after a few moments heard the soft creak of the stairs, and then the sound of taps running in the bathroom. The floor joists overhead creaked softly again and the bedroom door closed. The house sank into silence except for the occasional crackle of the logs burning in the grate.

What secrets might there be in Madeleine Ferrelyn's past? There had been that brief spasm of pain in her face earlier on—had that been caused by remembering her father, or had it been for some other reason?

Secrets… There had been so many secrets at Grith House.

Shona had not been looking for secrets on the day just before her eighteenth birthday, and if it had not been for Cousin Elspeth she would not have gone up to the attic that afternoon or any other afternoon. But the sentimental old fool had thought it would be nice to take a few photographs to mark Shona's birthday, and had spent most of the morning fussing and flapping about, trying to find photograph albums. In the end, Shona had said exasperatedly that the albums were probably in the attic and if it meant so much to Elspeth she would go and find them.

‘Would you? I'd come up with you, but your mother hasn't been so well today.'

This was a euphemism for Mother being soddenly drunk yet again. Shona supposed they should be grateful that when her mother did become drunk (which was six days out of seven), she did it quietly and unobtrusively, falling asleep in her chair, occasionally crying over the harsh way life had treated her. The Cheesewrights probably knew about Mother's drinking because they knew most things, but they were reasonably discreet and loyal. Shona did not much care if they broadcast on national television that Margaret Seymour was getting through two bottles of vodka a day and three at weekends.

Occasionally her mother made determined assaults on the kitchen, declaring she would cook them all a meal—it was high time she pulled herself together; she had been feeling a little under the weather lately, but that was all over. A good strengthening stew, that was what she would make.

She normally got as far as cutting up the chicken or the beef before discovering Elspeth had moved everything round in the larder making it impossible to find so much as a stock cube. After this she declared they were all in league against her, hiding stock cubes and chopping boards, and then headed for wherever she had hidden the most recent of her bottles, leaving the kitchen in chaos. Several times Shona put the case to Elspeth for proper professional help for her mother, but Elspeth said they did not need folks poking into their private affairs; poor Margaret was just a bit low and there was nothing wrong in a little drink to cheer her up. Shona wondered what planet Elspeth was living on, because most days her mother was incoherent by lunchtime, although she was no trouble and could usually be safely left to sleep and brood in her chair by the fire.

It was anybody's guess if she would make any kind of effort for Shona's birthday or even remember it, but it did not much matter because the day would be much like all other days and all other birthdays. ‘A small family celebration,' Elspeth had said, bustling about the kitchen, baking a lavish cake that nobody at Grith really wanted and would probably end in being given to the Cheesewrights.

Still, Shona supposed they might as well have a few photographs of the day if it would please silly old Elspeth who had found a camera from somewhere and bought a roll of film in the village. She went up to the attic just after lunch.

The photograph albums were not immediately visible, but then nothing was immediately visible because people seemed to have dumped all the household rubbish up here and forgotten it. Shona had brought a torch with her and began to sift through the larger packing cases, which were the likeliest places.

The albums—four of them—were finally found in a small suitcase which might once have accompanied some forgotten Seymour or Ross ancestor on weekend holidays. Shona lifted them out, flicking off most of the dust in the process, and then thought it was a shame to leave the suitcase up here; it was old, but it was a good leather case. She had not actually travelled beyond Moil since the long-ago half-term holidays at Whitby, but now she was eighteen she might soon be able to go off to live somewhere livelier, so a good suitcase would be very handy. She scooped out a few ancient magazines and some old sixties-type hair rollers that had unaccountably got inside, and as she did so a handful of clipped-together papers fell out of one of the pockets.