House of Echoes (9 page)

‘What did you say?’ Joss’s voice was sharp.

‘A temple – ’

‘No, before that. About the devil.’

‘Well, it’s just a possibility I suppose. Rather romantic really. Perhaps the original site housed a temple.’

‘There’s a local legend, David, that the devil lives here.’ Her voice was strangely thin and harsh.

‘And you sound afraid rather than amused. Oh, come on Joss.
You’re not letting the credulous yokels get to you, are you?’ The jovial manner had dropped away abruptly. ‘You don’t believe in any of this, surely?’

‘Of course not.’ She laughed. ‘I’d just like to know why the house has this reputation. It is a bit sort of dramatic!’

‘Well, I suppose it is on dark nights with the wind howling round. I must say, I can’t wait to come and see it.’ There was a pause. ‘I don’t suppose I could look in this weekend, could I? I know it’s getting awfully near Christmas but term’s practically over. I can look a few things up for you; find a few books, perhaps?’

She laughed, extraordinarily pleased. ‘Of course you can come! That would be wonderful. One thing we are not short of is space, providing you pack enough warm clothes. It’s like the Arctic here.’

When Luke came in, carrying a filthy small boy, both of them cold and terribly pleased with themselves Joss was smiling to herself as she stirred a huge pan of soup. ‘David’s coming up the day after tomorrow.’

‘Great.’ Luke held Tom under one arm over the sink and reached for the Swarfega. ‘It will be nice to see him. He’ll bring news no doubt of dear old London and civilisation.’ He chuckled, smearing green goo all over his small son’s hands as Tom crowed with delight. Luke glanced at her over the sticky curls. ‘He’s not going to make you feel you’re missing out, is he? Rural stagnation instead of academia.’

She shook her head. ‘Nope. If I want to get back into it, I can always start some kind of research project with the prospect of a book in about a thousand years’ time. Or something less academic and more lucrative. The book David suggested I have a go at, perhaps. I might just have a chat to him about that.’ The idea had in fact been growing on her.

Reaching for the pepper mill she ground it over the soup, stirred, put down the wooden spoon and sat down at the kitchen table. ‘You haven’t asked how I got on with Mary Sutton.’

Luke raised an eyebrow. ‘I could see it was good and bad when you came back. Want to tell me now?’

‘Both my little brothers died here, Luke. In accidents.’

She was looking at Tom, suddenly aching to hold him. How could her mother have borne to lose two boys?

‘Nothing will happen to Tom Tom, Joss.’ Luke could always read her mind. He changed the subject adroitly. ‘Listen, talking about Tom Tom and your writing what do you think of the idea of asking Lyn if she’d like to come and help you look after him. As a sort of proper job.’ Drying Tom’s hands he posted the little boy in Joss’s direction with a gentle slap on the behind.

Joss held out her arms. ‘While she’s out of work, you mean? She’s certainly good with Tom and we could do with some help, though we could only pay her pocket money. It would give me time to get on with the house.’ She smiled. ‘And write my best seller.’

‘No joking, Joss. We need the money. You’ve had stuff published in the past. I’m sure you could do it.’

‘In the past it was in academic magazines, Luke. They don’t exactly pay megabucks. And just those few short stories.’

He smiled. ‘Mini bucks would do, love. I do think you should give it a go. Anything to help. Keep us in bread and spuds until next year when we start our own vegetable patch, vineyard, bed and breakfast business, vintage car restoration workshop – with small business grant –’ he had all the papers spread out over the dining room table – ‘herb nursery, play group and counterfeit money press.’

She laughed. ‘I’m glad we’re not contemplating anything too ambitious. Pour me a glass of wine to celebrate and we’ll drink to Grant, Grant and Davies Industries.’ She hauled Tom onto her lap and dropped a kiss onto his hair, screwing up her face at the smell of oil and hand cleaner and dirt. ‘You need a bath young man.’

Tom wriggled round to smile dazzlingly up at her. ‘Tom go swim in the water outside,’ he said.

Joss froze. Her arms tightened round him as suddenly the image of another small boy rose before her eyes, a small boy collecting tadpoles from the lake.

‘No, Tom,’ she whispered. ‘Not outside. You don’t swim outside. Not ever.’

‘L
uke?’

‘Mmm.’

Luke was poring over some papers, sitting at her mother’s desk in the study. They had had supper and had brought the last of the bottle of wine, eked out from lunch, to drink by the fire. Joss was sitting on the rug, feeding twigs to the hungry crackling flames. Outside the curtains a deep penetrating frost had settled over the silent garden.

‘I suppose with a cellar full of wine, we could afford to open another bottle, couldn’t we?’ Beside her sat a box of letters and papers, extricated from beneath some old silk curtains in the bottom drawer of the chest in her bedroom. It was still tied with a piece of string. The label on the box said Bourne and Hollingsworth. It was post marked September 23 1937 and addressed to John Duncan Esq, Belheddon Hall, Essex.

‘We could. But one of us would have to fetch it.’

‘Bags you do.’

He laughed. ‘Bags we both do. It means we’d have to go down there.’

‘Ah.’ She bit her lip.

‘It’s not so scary, Joss. There’s electric light and hundreds and hundreds of wonderful bottles. No rats.’

‘I’m not scared of rats!’ She was scornful.

‘Right then.’ He threw down his pen and stood up. ‘Come on.’

‘Why don’t I fetch the corkscrew from the kitchen?’

‘Joss.’

She gave an awkward shrug. ‘It’s just – Luke, one of my brothers died falling down the cellar stairs.’

He sat down again abruptly. ‘Oh, Joss. Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘I only found out this morning from Mary Sutton. But last time,
when you went down – I felt it. Something strange – something frightening.’

‘Only the smell of cold and damp, Joss.’ His voice was very gentle. ‘Surely there would be nothing frightening about a little boy’s death. Sad, yes. Very sad. But a long time ago. We are here now, to bring happiness to the house.’

‘Do you think so?’

‘Why else did your mother give it to you?’

‘I’m not sure.’ She hugged her knees, gazing into the flames. ‘She gave it to me because my father wanted me to have it.’ She shook her head. ‘It’s strange. He seems such a shadowy figure. No one talks about him. No one seems to remember him.’

‘He died a long time before your mother, didn’t he? That’s probably why.’ He stood up again. ‘Come on.’ Stooping he caught her hand and hauled her to her feet. ‘We’ll find a bottle of Philip’s best and get gloriously uninhibited, while Tom’s asleep and we’ve still got the house to ourselves. Sound good?’

‘Sounds good.’ She reached up and kissed him.

The key was in the door. Turning it, Luke reached round into the dark for the light switch and clicked it on, looking down the wooden stairs towards the small underground vaults and the wine racks. Dust lay over the bottles. The cellar was very cold. Cautiously he padded down the steps ahead of Joss and waited for her at the bottom. ‘OK?’

She nodded. The air was a curious combination of stale and fresh – the stillness and silence of a tomb and yet, through the mustiness, the clear freshness of the frosted garden outside.

‘See.’ Luke pointed to the top of the wall. ‘Gratings which lead out to the flower beds outside the front walls of the house. The air gets in, but for some reason the temperature never varies much. Perfect for wine.’ He turned his attention to the rack nearest them. ‘Some of these newer ones are probably best. I’d hate to drink something worth hundreds, just in order to seduce my wife!’

‘Thanks very much!’

There was nothing frightening down here now. Just stillness and, perhaps, memories. She tried not to think of an eight-year-old boy, excited, happy, on his birthday, opening the door and peering down into the dark … The thought could not be tolerated. Angrily she pushed it away. ‘Just grab something and let’s go. It’s cold down here.’

‘OK. Here goes. We don’t tell David, right? We’ll dispose of the evidence in the bottle bank before he gets here.’ He pulled two bottles from the rack. ‘Come on then.’

The cellar door safely locked, the corkscrew retrieved from the kitchen, Tom Tom checked – the baby alarm switched on – they settled back by the fire. ‘So, let’s see what we’ve got.’ Luke scrutinised the label. ‘Clos Vougeout 1945. Joss, this is old after all! I suspect this ought to breathe before we drink it.’

‘Draw the cork and put it by the fire for a bit.’ Joss reached for the box of letters. Anything to take her mind off the child, peering through the door into forbidden territory, full of excitement, on his birthday …

Lydia Manners. Joss turned the sheet of paper over in her hand. The grandmother after whom her mother had named her when she was born. She pulled another small bundle of letters out of the Bourne and Hollingsworth box. Tied with pale blue ribbon they were labelled, ‘Father’s letters’. It was not Laura’s writing. Joss frowned as she leafed through them. Different handwriting, different dates, different addresses, addresses which meant nothing to her. Then another, from Belheddon Hall. It was short and to the point:

The envelope was addressed to John Duncan at Pilgrim Hall. So, John was John Duncan, a relative of Philip’s. Perhaps his father and so her own grandfather? Putting down the letters Joss stared into the fire thoughtfully, listening to the voices echoing in her head, voices from her unknown past.

‘How about some wine now?’ Luke had been watching her for some time as she sorted through the box. Pushing aside his invoices with relief, he flung himself down beside her on the floor and put his arm around her. ‘You are looking too serious.’

She smiled, nestling up against him. ‘Not at all. Just learning some more about the past. My father’s family this time.’ She watched as Luke poured two glasses. The wine was delicious. It was dark brown and smoky, like a wood in November. She could feel the rich warmth of it running through her veins. After only a few sips she was feeling extraordinarily sexy. ‘Is it the wine, or just the suggestion,’ she whispered.

‘What suggestion?’ Luke tightened his arm around her, leaning back against the arm chair. His hand drooped lazily over her shoulder and fondled her breast through the heavy wool of her sweater.

‘That one.’ She pushed the box of papers aside with her foot and took another sip. ‘This wine seems very strong.’

Luke chuckled. ‘I suspect it was worth a fortune, but who cares, if we get our money’s worth? Shall we go upstairs?’ He was nuzzling her ear, gently nibbling the lobe.

‘Not yet. Another glass first. Luke –’ She turned to him, suddenly serious. ‘I wouldn’t dare ask you this if I were entirely sober. You don’t regret coming here do you?’

‘Regret it! Certainly not.’ He inserted his hand under the collar of her sweater.

‘You are sure. We’ve no income to speak of – ’

‘Then we won’t speak of it.’ As he would never speak to her of his nightmares about the business; the creditors lurking in the woodwork, the waves of depression which sometimes swept over him when he thought about Barry and what he had done to
them. What was the point? That was all in the past. Putting his glass down he leaned across, pressing his lips against hers. ‘Come on. It’s time we went upstairs.’

Sammy! Sammy, where are you
?

The snow had melted; already snowdrops were pushing up through the frozen ground. The little boy ducked under the graceful boughs of the old fir tree and disappeared out of sight. When he reappeared, he was running down the lawn towards the lake.

‘Stop!’ Joss screamed. ‘Stop. Don’t go down there, please – ’

Someone was in her way. Pushing against him she struggled to get past …

‘Hey! Stop it!’ Luke wriggled out of reach of her flailing fists. ‘Joss, stop it! What’s the matter?’

‘Sammy!’ She was battling up out of a fog of sleep, her mouth sour, her head thudding like a steam hammer. ‘Sammy!’

‘Wake up, Joss. You’re dreaming.’ Luke caught her hand as it struggled free of the entangling duvet. ‘Joss! Wake up!’

She was naked, her clothes trailed across the floor; her shoulders, bare above the duvet ached with cold. The moonlight, streaming across the floor showed the overturned glass on the floor beside the bed, the empty bottle on the table by the lamp. Dragging herself back to the present she turned her head on the pillow, still disoriented. ‘Sammy – ’

‘No Sammy. No such person, Joss. It’s Luke, your husband. Remember?’ He stroked her shoulder, wincing at the ice cold feel of her skin, and drew the duvet higher to cover her.

‘Tom – ’

‘Tom’s OK. Not a peep out of him. Go back to sleep. It will soon be morning.’ He tucked her up tenderly and remained, propped on his elbow looking at her for a few moments, studying her face in the strangely ethereal moonlight. Her eyes had closed. She had never really awoken. It had all been some frightening dream. Too much wine. He glanced ruefully at the bottle. He already had the beginnings of a headache. By morning it would have turned into something approaching a hangover. Stupid. He threw himself back on the pillow, staring up at the embroidered bed hangings while beside him Joss’s breathing slowed and settled back into deep sleep.

The shadow in the corner, ever watchful, stirred slightly, scarcely more than a flicker of the moonlight on the curtains, and a shiver of lust curled into the darkness.