Joan Smith (18 page)

“I might do that.”

As Mollie was so busy, I soon left to do my shopping. At home, I put away my groceries and went out to the garden and began pulling weeds, which Beezle joyfully scattered far and wide. It was soothing, getting my hands in the earth. When my back began to complain of bending over, I went inside for lunch. I was surprised to see it was only eleven o’clock. How long the day seemed when I wasn’t writing.

I decided to take the tour of Chêne Bay after all. To pass the time until lunch, I tidied up the cottage. This took half an hour. I showered and changed for the house tour. By the time I had made a sandwich and eaten it, a tourist bus had driven up to Chêne Bay, so I walked up the hill to join the tour.

The sense of familiarity that engulfed me was easy to explain. I had been looking at those columns for a week now. The tour guide, wearing a black evening suit, was waiting at the door. He was about twenty years old. His accent suggested that he was from one of the better universities. He welcomed me with a handshake, told me his name was Warwick, and said if I’d just step into the gold saloon, the tour would begin presently.

There were about two dozen people waiting, half a dozen of them Americans, with a smattering of German and some young English rock fans who had come to see where Ivan the Terrible lived. Warwick soon entered and began to expound on the architecture, furnishings, and artworks. Every second word was “sadly” Sadly the original Gainsborough paintings had been sold to pay death duties some years before; sadly the Italian mural had been painted over, and unfortunately the current owner had accidentally broken a Canaletto bust of Princess Charlotte which formerly occupied a pedestal that at present held the egglike head of a woman by Brancusi. Its stark modernity jarred with the surroundings.

We were taken through a long dining hall, the same one where Arabella had had her last uncomfortable meal, with William taking too much wine. We toured the library and a picture gallery, which held paintings on which the oil was scarcely dry. They were all modern nudes of unlikely contours, in various preposterous positions and colors.

One of the rock fans asked, “Can we see him— Ivan?”

Sadly, Ivan was in London, “but if you wish to purchase posters or T-shirts, they will be available upon leaving.”

How very odd life is, that the house where Arabella lived, and the property for which Sir Giles had schemed and murdered, should end up as a shop selling cheap T-shirts and posters of a rock star.
Sic transit gloria mundi.

I decided to leave. Nothing was as I had expected. The furnishings clashed, destroying the beauty of the architecture. I felt no tinglings of familiarity, but only a sense of claustrophobia.

Warwick said, “And now for the sleeping quarters. We will be touring only the east wing. The present owner has left it intact, making his own quarters in the west wing. You will see Arabella Comstock’s bedchamber. She is the ghost who walks the meadow, wailing for her lover, the infamous Vanejul of local legend. The room still holds her bed and clothespress.”

I came to attention then and followed him up the gracefully curving staircase as he gave more statistics. There were carvings in the upper hallway, by Grinling Gibbons. At the top of the staircase, I looked down a long hallway, pierced at intervals with mullioned windows. My eye stopped at the third door on the left. That was Arabella’s room. I don’t know how I knew, but I knew. First we toured a few other chambers, with period furniture and canopied beds and hand-painted Chinese wallpaper, but I hardly glanced at them. I was trying to conjure up an image of Arabella’s room. If I knew what it was like before seeing it, then I knew more than I should, because I had seen no photograph of it. When I had written of Arabella in her room, she seemed to exist in a sort of fog.

I closed my eyes and concentrated until an image formed inside my head. First came a hazy impression of yellow and green, soon turning to a room hung with pale green paper, on which clusters of cherries and hummingbirds hung suspended. On the wall opposite the doorway there was a pair of windows, looking out on the park. Beneath them a graceful chaise longue covered in tufted green velvet spread invitingly. A canopied bed sat against the left wall. On the right, there stood a matching desk and toilet table in apple green with white knobs.

Warwick led us to the third doorway and flung it open. I entered and found myself gazing at a pair of windows with a faded green chaise longue below them. The room was as I had seen it in my mind’s eye, but grown fatigued with the passing of time, and with a noticeable hole where, sadly, the Italian toilet table and desk had been removed. The honking voice of Warwick enumerating periods of furnishings and dates passed over me as I stood, transfixed. I could almost see the reflection of Arabella’s little heart-shaped face smiling at me from the mirror. It was an awesomely strange experience to have confirmed what I already knew instinctively in my deepest heart of hearts.

Warwick led us to a portrait on the far wall. “And here is a likeness of Arabella Comstock taken in her sixteenth year by a local artist, James Thorndyke. It was intended as a wedding gift to her husband-to-be.” I gazed at it, wondering if the artist was some ancestor of Henry Thorndyke. It was the original from which the picture in the history of the Raventhorpes had been taken. Probably the only likeness of her ever taken from life. As it was larger than the reproduction, it was possible to make out more details.

The painting was done in the romantic style of Watteau, against a backdrop of idealized trees. Arabella looked so very young. She wore her golden curls scooped up on the back of her head, with tendrils playing about her cheeks and the pearl teardrops hanging at her ears. A white shawl was about her shoulders, with a blue gown beneath. But it was at her eyes that I gazed. They were blue, long-lashed, and wearing the saddest expression, almost as if she had foreseen her fate. It was odd, for in the reproduction in the book, her eyes had looked mischievous.

While I stood there, suspended in time, I felt in my heart what it was Arabella wanted of me: to prove who had really murdered her, to remove for all time the cloud of suspicion that hung over Raventhorpe. But how on earth was I to prove a crime that had been committed nearly two hundred years ago?

Where did one even begin such an impossible task? The witnesses, if any, were long dead. The clues had turned to dust. The body had never been recovered. And on top of it all, a cover-up story had been circulating for nearly two centuries to further muddy the waters. It would take a miracle to unravel all the suppositions and lies that existed.

But still, I knew I must do it. Miracles can happen.

Chapter Nineteen

I went back to Chêne Mow, arranged the scattered sheets of the unfinished novel into a pile, and sat at the deal table. To accomplish this daunting task, I must set about it in an orderly fashion. What proof, if any, existed for the facts I knew that the rest of the world did not? I knew that Bert Robinson had lied about seeing Vanejul push Arabella into the weir. Her remains were not there; they were buried, presumably in some quiet corner of the estate. Not near any crop or pasture or garden, not in open land. In a woods, then... Sir Giles had spoken of the duel taking place in the spinney.

Did the spinney still exist, or had some house been built over it during the passing of time? If I could find her mortal remains, I could prove that she had been shot. That would at least disprove the commonly held theory, and perhaps lead to more investigation.

The lovers had exchanged notes that last day. Arabella’s letter to Raventhorpe might be at Oldstead or in Greece or tossed in the ocean in a fit of pique. What had Arabella done with the note Raventhorpe sent her? A young lady in love might have kept her billets-doux. Maybe hidden in her desk, or slid between the pages of a book.

I poured a glass of sherry and sat, trying to make sense of this whole situation. If Arabella had been writing her story through me, then that would explain why I had run dry. She had no idea what happened to Raventhorpe after she was shot, so she could not lead me on his trip abroad. But she could help me find evidence of her murder. The insight that she was buried in the spinney must have come from her. If the spinney still existed, it should be possible to find it. I had seen a copse from Arabella’s bedroom window.
In the clearing by the big oak,
Sir Giles had mentioned as a private spot for the duel, and it could provide a private burial ground as well. The English oak was known for its longevity. Some of the largest oak trees in England were believed to have been here since Saxon times. If it was known as “the big oak” nearly two hundred years ago, it would certainly stand out now. The clearing, however, might hold fully grown trees by this time.

Becoming restless, I decided I would go to the spinney and look for the big oak while it was still daylight. I took Beezle for company. Arabella’s room was in the east wing, so I skirted the east side of the park. A pair of swallows wheeled in the blue sky above. In fancy, I imagined they were Arabella and Raventhorpe, watching over me. A walk of twenty minutes brought me to the spinney. It was densely grown.

The pathway through it would begin on the side nearest the house, for the convenience of the family. Peering up at the ancient pile of stones, I darted forward along the tree line and found the path just where common sense told me it would be, convenient to the house. It was still open, and hoof marks in dried mud told me it was still in use as a horse trail.

I entered warily. High above, leaves rustled in the breeze. In small clearings, wildflowers grew and an occasional forest creature rustled the fallen leaves. It was as peaceful as a graveyard. I examined the trees at every clearing. Several of them were oak, but not big enough to be the one I sought.

It should tower high above the others. I looked all around, unable to see the tree for the forest. Just as I was about to continue along the path, I noticed one treetop to the right that did soar noticeably above the others. I followed the path and soon reached a small clearing. At its edge, a giant old oak towered like a cathedral. Its trunk was thick, its branches gnarled and intertwined. Here—this was the spot Robinson had buried her. I could almost feel the earth tremble beneath me. But it was a largish clearing, roughly thirty feet square. To excavate the whole place would take weeks.

Could I pinpoint the grave more closely? He would not have dug too close to the oak, where the roots would make it difficult. Yet not in the middle of the clearing either, where a fresh grave would stand out. These spinneys were used for sheltering game birds, so the poachers would often be here. Around the edge then. I sat on a gray flat-topped rock as big as a throne, mentally selecting the most inconspicuous spot for a grave. Beezle was no help. He curled up at my feet.

I thought of poor Arabella, lying all these years without even a headstone to honor her last resting place. It was a few moments before it occurred to me that I might be sitting on her headstone. Rolling a large rock over the freshly dug grave would be a good way of concealing it—and it would make digging her up difficult, if any poacher became curious about the newly turned earth. I leapt up and examined the rock. The passage of time had imbued it with an ageless, immovable quality. Grass and weeds and a few wildflowers covered the earth, making it appear like the rest of the clearing.

I could only test my theory by digging, and for that, I required Ivan’s permission. As Mollie knew him, I must ask her to help me. I rose and darted back along the path, out into the park and down the hill to Chêne Mow, with Beezle bounding at my heels. I phoned Mollie just as she was leaving the office.

“Mollie, it’s Belle. Can I see you? It’s important. Come here for supper. Are you busy?”

She sensed my eagerness. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” she said.

I flung together a hasty meal. Pasta was the easiest thing. I made chicken fettuccine and a salad. I hastily chilled a bottle of white wine in the freezer, and when Mollie arrived, I served it while the sauce simmered.

“Oh, thank you, dear. This looks super. Did you take the tour of Chêne Bay?” she asked, kicking off her high heels and rubbing her swollen toes with the heel of the other foot.

“Yes, it was so strange. I knew exactly what Arabella’s room would be like before I saw it. Mollie, I need your help. I know where Arabella’s body is. She’s not in the lake. Bert Robinson made up that story. She’s buried in the spinney.”

Mollie’s green eyes sparkled with interest. “How do you know? And who’s Bert Robinson?”

I unburdened myself to her, thankful that she was a believer, because the story sounded so farfetched, I was half-ashamed to relate it. But Mollie took it all in her stride.

“I don’t think Ivan would object,” she said. “He’s very much attuned to occult matters. But he wouldn’t want a lot of gawkers interrupting his privacy.”

“The more private, the better, but we’ll need one man to help us move the big rock. Do you think Henry Thorndyke might give us a hand?”

“I’ll ask him, but first I’ll have to give Ivan a buzz. I have his unlisted London number.”

She called and got an answering service. He was out for the evening. She asked him to call her back. “He’ll call,” she said complacently. “He fancies me. No point calling Henry until we hear back from Ivan. Is there anything else we could be getting on with in the meanwhile?”

I mentioned the note Arabella had written Raventhorpe asking him to apologize to her uncle, and more important, his reply. She received that note on the very day of her murder.

Remembering my novel’s interpretation of that day, I said, “It might be in her desk. Emily has her desk.”

‘You’re thinking there might be a secret compartment?”

The open drawer was there, inside my head. I could almost feel myself reach to the rear of that scented, pinkish drawer. “At the back of the small drawer on the right,” I said.

“Ah!” Mollie smiled to see me practicing my skills.