Night After Night (6 page)

He manages not to laugh. This will hardly be a cause close to the heart of anyone at HGTV.

‘Who is it? Who did Marcus recommend?’

‘You don’t know?’

‘Jo, if I knew—’

‘Her name’s Grayle, with a Y, Und—’

‘Grayle Underhill?’

It had very much not been his intention to expose little Grayle to any of this. What’s Marcus playing at?

‘It might be safer,’ Jo says, ‘if you had no contact with Ms Underhill. We haven’t told her about you, and we don’t intend to at this stage. Or anyone.’

‘You’re saying Mr Driffield wants whatever happens in this house to be a surprise to us all, Jo?’

‘Defford.’

‘Of course it is.’

‘And, ah… that’s what I wanted to talk to you about,’ Jo says.

Cindy senses a darkening momentum. He now knows what Defford is and what he’s looking for.

What Jo meant about “serious television” is late-night viewing, well past the watershed, on a channel that likes to break barriers. What they’re now proposing – what Jo says is “very exciting”, although, having worked with him before, she clearly has her doubts – is to use the element of danger he’s come to personify. The loose-cannon Cindy Mars, famous for abandoning all human restraint on live television.

But he knows – he’s not naive – that this will have to be in a way they can predict and control. Or think they can. Be feeling safer, he would, if the formidable Marcus Bacton was on the other side of the wall. Grayle Underhill… very fond, he is, of little Grayle, but she’s been through the mangle. Why on earth would Marcus inflict this on her?

Ending the phone call, Cindy feels himself observed. Looks up and meets the sardonic, globular gaze of Kelvyn Kite, who is ignominiously squashed into the netting of the luggage rack near the caravan ceiling.

‘Am I dangerous, Kelvyn? Still? At my age?’

Kelvyn cackles sourly but makes no reply. Cindy doesn’t think Kelvyn cares much for him any more. Which is understandable.
Anybody’s nowadays, he is, if the money’s right. A spiritual mercenary, a soul on eBay.

And yes, he’d still do this, of course he would, even if he didn’t know the house selected for the project.

But of course he
does
know the house if, to his eternal regret, not yet well enough. He missed something. And now Trinity Ansell is dead.

Yesterday a parcel arrived for him, special delivery. You might describe this as serendipitous. But
serendipity
is a word used for happy accidents. And nothing about this is happy.

From the little window, he sees shiny charcoal clouds racing at him, bunched like fists.

5

Its own darkness

‘
IT
’
S FUNNY
,’ Jeff Pruford says. ‘When there were guests in the house, they always introduced me as the steward. All part of the pastiche. I’m not even sure the term described what I did, but that didn’t matter, it was near enough and olde English enough to appeal to the guests. And when you’ve been in the army you know how to look solemn and dignified and never laugh. You can turn it on.’

Pruford’s in his forties, slim and smart-looking in a cautious kind of way, with crisp greying hair and a smoothed-out accent which Grayle thinks is Yorkshire. He was in the Royal Welsh regiment, reaching the rank of sergeant-major before losing a foot to a roadside bomb in Afghanistan.

Not that you’d know; he doesn’t even have a discernible limp. On the phone she’s told him the truth, that she’s a professional journalist researching for a TV programme about the mysteries of Trinity Ansell and Knap Hall. And that some of his former colleagues there have spoken to her. She didn’t name them and he didn’t ask.

After a couple of hours, he called back and agreed to tell her what he could without breaking confidences. For which he’d accept £2,000 on the understanding she’d get no second-hand gossip from him, only what he’s seen personally.

Which is evidently going to be interesting.

‘The night she was in the red dress? Oh, yes. There was a very weird postscript to that. Never talked about it before, mainly because nobody’s ever asked me. You talk to most blokes who’ve done time in the military, and they won’t diss this stuff, but you don’t go out of your way, not these days.’

*

It’s mid-afternoon, in the back of an old pub close to the centre of Cirencester. Jeff Pruford’s running a restaurant on the other side of town. Won’t be staying here long, he’s had an offer from a cruise company. Bit of travel without getting shot at, but it won’t be like Knap Hall. That was… very different. Oh, yes.

‘When I say “pastiche”, it became quite real for all of us. Mainly because it was always real for Mrs Ansell. She thought of herself as a historian. A historian who’d let herself get diverted into modelling and then acting. A body in a frock – she said that once. With some bitterness, I think. She wanted to get back
into
history. Be a part of the past, somehow. You sensed this disillusion with the present day and the whole celebrity business. Well they all say that, don’t they – “oh, I wish I wasn’t famous and I could have a normal life.” Then, soon as they lose a bit of fame they’re clawing each other’s eyes out to get back on top.’

He drinks some Guinness, wipes the froth from his lips with an actual handkerchief, remembering.

‘Not her. She’d done the Hollywood film premieres and the posh parties. Now it could all come to her for a change. It was about getting herself out of London but not losing the glamour. Just a different kind of glamour. History was glamour to her. And the views are better.’

‘When you say getting
back
into history…?’

‘During the Elizabethan weekends, we all had to wear period costume. I had this… jerkin thing that never felt right. But when
she
was in a Tudor dress, it was like she was relaxing into it. I can’t explain it better than that, Grayle.’

‘Like she felt she was living in the wrong age?’

‘Not any more. At Knap Hall she was in the
right
age. When there was nobody staying there, you’d still see her wandering in the woods in costume, kind of. Long dress in
summer, heavy cloak in winter. Wouldn’t notice you. Like she was out of it. Out of
your
world. As if she’d taken something.’

‘Had she?’

‘I doubt it. She didn’t drink much either, and she’d given up smoking. I noticed that. When they first came here she was a smoker, but after a month or two she’d just packed in, no fuss at all. Like it didn’t exist for her any more. And the music. She used to like modern folk music – Laura Marling, Seth Lakeman. And then you didn’t hear that any more, only this Tudor choral music. Thomas Challis?’

‘Tallis, I think.’

‘Whatever. It was piped around the house, quite low. Followed you around. I could’ve done without it.’

‘How did Harry Ansell feel about this?’

‘Not sure. He didn’t unload his private thoughts on the staff. Or anybody, I’d guess. Businessman, and he kept his business to himself. And
she
was his business. In all senses of the word. Whatever made Trinity happy. Putting her on a pedestal, that’s an understatement. If you ever go to Knap Hall, have a glance at the chapel. I’m saying nothing, just have a look.’

‘Do I get the feeling you didn’t like Ansell?’

‘I didn’t say that. Don’t you suggest I said that, Grayle, all right? I just got worried about her. The way she was becoming more and more withdrawn. Like she was fading into a tapestry. I don’t think she was eating properly. I think he should’ve done something, that’s all. To save her from herself.’

‘Was she sick?’

I never thought that till afterwards. I thought it was the house. Listen, I’ll tell you what I think you’re looking for, Grayle, but I won’t speculate about it. I think the Ansells dressed up that house to be what it wasn’t. Even when it was first built, it wasn’t posh. And when it got bigger it was only to accommodate… well, it was for bad lads, wasn’t it?’

‘I keep hearing about that.’

‘It was a charitable trust, I think. Providing outward-bound holidays for young offenders. Long walks and all that. Tire them out. Not enough, apparently. One of them raped a local girl. In the grounds.’

‘At Knap Hall?’

‘Brought her back and kept her there all night. Quite nasty, she spent some time in hospital. Look for a happy story about Knap Hall, you’ll be hard-pressed to find one.’

‘So when you said it was hard, meaning the house…?’

‘Who told you that? Never mind. Aye, I would’ve said that. Historic, but basic. But they made it into a small palace and it wasn’t meant to be, and that was… it was like when you see a dead person – a corpse – all dressed up in its Sunday best with the face all made up. Sorry.’

When she offers him another drink he shakes his head. He’s deciding whether or not to say something, looks down into his empty mug, begins to muse, and she notices his northern accent is more pronounced.

‘Soldiers… we’re funny buggers, like I say. Day I got my foot blown off, it was actually Friday the thirteenth. Didn’t realize till afterwards. I remember laughing like a clown when they carried me into the hospital and there’s this bloody calendar. This programme you’re making… won’t be taking the piss out of all that, will it? It’s not that funny.’

‘In all honesty, I’m not in a position to say. If it was my decision, no, it wouldn’t.’

‘All I can say… I’m quite susceptible to atmospheres, and I didn’t take to Knap Hall. But you don’t let a few misgivings about the feel of a place put you off when you’re offered a brilliant job by Harry Ansell and his famous lady, do you?’

‘You felt it was… unlucky?’

‘I felt it was angry. Didn’t like what had been done to it.’

‘So, um… when she died…’

He takes a mouthful of air, breathes it out, eyelids lowered.

‘I took the call – did they tell you that? From Harry Ansell’s secretary in Cheltenham. I had to tell everybody. Worse, in a way, than when one of your mates is being sent home in a coffin. And the implications. I think Ansell went back there three times, four at the most, and never for very long, and never to sleep. Without Trinity… nothing. Almost a shrine when she was alive, but then… get rid. Some folks are like that.’

He talks about how quickly the house was stripped. He was kept on to oversee all that – the valuable stuff taken out quickly, furniture sold to antique dealers. And then the place was just abandoned, except for a caretaker and a gardener. Regular police patrols for a while. He looks up, smiling ruefully.

‘But you want to hear about the red dress, don’t you?’

She gives him a small smile.

‘Aye. She loved that dress. They say she was buried in it. Or cremated, I’m not sure which – we weren’t invited, though I did attend the memorial service at Gloucester Cathedral. Anyroad, night she wore the frock, there was a group of American
Cotsworld
readers staying there and, although she didn’t like it, you could tell a few were taking pictures of her surreptitiously, with their phones.’

‘I’m surprised she even allowed phones into the, um, sixteenth century.’

‘Aye, well, that’s why the woman didn’t show it to her.’

‘A picture?’

‘On her phone. She showed it to me. An elderly lady from the Midwest or somewhere. This was the following day after breakfast. Stops me on the stairs. “Master Pruford…” – I was
Master
Pruford on the weekends – “Master Pruford, ah cain’t keep this to ma sey-ulf any longer. Couldn’t get a wi-unk of sleep last night.”’

She smiles at his western accent and Jeff Pruford smiles at the memory, but it’s fleeting. Earlier he asked Grayle if she’d be staying overnight in Cirencester and she gave him a wry no and handed over the cheque from HGTV. Although he’s asked for
a raincheck on whether he wants to repeat the story for a TV recording, she can’t see he has any reason to string her along.

‘This lady… a very seen-it-all, matronly kind of woman, but she was one hell of a state. Didn’t want anybody else to see it, so we went down to my office and she brings out the phone, puts it in front of me…’

He places his own phone on the pub table, reverses it so the symbols are facing Grayle.

‘… and she’s like this, flipping over the pictures with one finger, half looking away and then she comes to this particular one and snatches her finger back and she’s looking over my head, anywhere but at the phone. So I’m looking down and at first I think it’s one end of a group photo. There was Mrs Ansell standing at the door of the dining room – after a meal, she always left before the others, which was a kind of queenly thing to do. And she’s standing in the doorway in that red dress, all right? Graceful, poised, a little wistful smile. I bloody wish I had it now. I asked this lady to send it to my phone, but she just said a very shuddery sort of no. I should’ve offered to buy the phone off her or something. What’s a phone to these people?’

He puts away his own phone. The pub is old, has uneven timbers in the walls, and they’re on their own in the shadows at the end furthest from the bar.

‘Here’s the thing,’ he says. ‘It was the only time while I was at Knap Hall that a real shiver went up me. Took another look, and I’m thinking double exposure? But, wait, this is digital, that doesn’t happen, does it? And anyway, the other woman’s…’

Pruford gives her a look that says he still isn’t sure he actually saw this and can’t believe he’s telling her.

‘I’m sorry, Jeff, which other woman we talking about?’

‘Another woman in another red dress. Might’ve been the same, but you couldn’t make out the detail. It was just like a sheen of red in the photo. Like an Impressionist painting. And her face… very pale. So pale it’s like parts of it have been eaten away.’

He stops, as though he’s thought of something for the first time.

‘Eaten away by the background,’ he says. ‘By the house.’ Smiles. ‘Take no notice of me, Grayle, I’m daft.’

‘You’re saying there are two women in the picture?’

‘The door’s open, right? Into the next room. It’s two linked rooms that were possibly the same room at one time, I’m not an expert on Tudor architecture. Doesn’t matter because all you can see through that doorway is darkness – that could be the camera in the phone, only picking up the nearest lights, no depth. But I remember there were a hundred candles lit in that other room that night – literally ablaze with light. Anyway, the second woman – she’s a little way behind Trinity – is in that darkness.’