The Daughters Of Red Hill Hall (9 page)

Gemma looked up from her reading. ‘Wow. The whole family seems to have died in suspicious circumstances. The place was cursed indeed!’

Roger laughed. ‘What publication was that?’

‘
County Tall Tales
. Hmm. Sounds a bit like a red top.’

‘The clue’s in the name. Tall tales, indeed. But nevertheless, there could be some truth buried under all the sensationalism. Keep looking, would be my advice, and hopefully some more reliable papers will have covered those events. What date’s on the magazine?’

Gemma peered at her computer screen. ‘August 1838.’

Roger nodded. ‘Compulsory registration of deaths began in 1837. So if all those tragedies were recent when that was written, you might be able to find the death certificates. You’ll need the names of the deceased, of course. Which hopefully you’ll find in some other articles. At least you have a rough timeframe now for the shooting – summer of 1838 or a little before. No telling how up to date this rag would have been with its news. Well, you’ve got your coffee now. I need to open up out front. Good luck!’

Gemma took a sip of her coffee, created a folder on the laptop and saved the article she’d found, before going back to her search results on the newspaper archive website. By playing around with search terms and setting the date range as April to October 1838 she soon found a number of reports of the shooting. She saved each article and jotted down the main facts as she found them. It had happened in August 1838, and the two victims were Rebecca Winton and Sarah Cooper. In some articles they were described as sisters, despite the different surnames, and in others Rebecca was referred to as Miss Winton, and Sarah as a servant. None of the reports was clear as to exactly which, if either, died. Some newspapers reported that both girls died, while others reported they were just badly injured, or that only one had died. The one thing they were all agreed upon is that the perpetrator had escaped, leaving the pistols dropped beside the wounded girls, and that he was still at large. The public was invited to come forward with any information they might have about the murderer, although no reward was offered.

Gemma felt more and more intrigued by the story. She had to know exactly who had died, and what the girls’ relationship to each other was. And was the perpetrator ever caught? She jotted down a list of questions to follow up. If she could discover the whole story, she could make a laminated poster to display alongside the pistols in the museum. It was the sort of exhibit that went down well, especially with school groups who loved anything a bit gory.

Roger returned to check on progress. ‘You can look for death registrations under those two names,’ he said. ‘And search for newspaper articles for the following twelve months to see if anyone was caught. Might also be worth having a look at the 1841 census to see who lived in Red Hill Hall then – after the shooting of course, but if that gossip magazine article is correct and the master and mistress of the house had also died, it’d be interesting to see what happened to the estate.’

Gemma noted all this down. Clearly there was more than a day’s work here! ‘Was there an earlier census? So we could find out who lived in the hall before the shooting?’

Roger shook his head. ‘No, the 1841 census was the first complete census in England. But if it was an important country house, there could be some other records somewhere. It’d just be a case of tracking them down. Not sure I can justify you doing all the work on museum time, however. I wonder what became of the hall itself, whether it’s still in existence or not?’

‘Oh, I can answer that,’ Gemma said, smiling. ‘It’s now a country house hotel. I’m going there in June – Ben’s sister is getting married there.’

‘Ah, right! Could be worth getting in touch and finding out if they have any archived papers stored away somewhere. Probably not if it’s a hotel but you never know. Do what you can online first. And if there’s any chance of you cataloguing a few more boxes of fossils in between the research, I’d be ever so grateful.’ Roger flashed her a goofy grin and patted her shoulder as he left.

Gemma left the museum that evening in a fabulous mood. She’d enjoyed the research, and even the next couple of boxes of artefacts she’d opened had contained interesting items rather than boring old fossils (a set of Victorian postage scales and a collection of gorgeous Edwardian evening bags). All day, every now and again, she’d remembered that she was now engaged to Ben, and that had given her a little fizz of excitement. As she skipped down the museum steps she checked her watch. Ben should be home by now, and on a whim she decided to go round to his flat rather than straight home to hers. She popped into a supermarket on the way and bought a bottle of Prosecco and some chocolates. Why not celebrate their new status again?

A few minutes later she was knocking on the door of Ben’s flat. She really ought to get a key from him. Or better still, and surely sooner rather than later, they should sell both flats and buy a house together. One with a garden, and a spare bedroom or two. Maybe they’d have children in a few years’ time. They’d need space to expand into. She was completely lost in her daydreams when she realised that she was still standing there, outside the door to Ben’s flat, and no one had answered. She rang the bell again, and rechecked her watch. He definitely wasn’t on a late shift today. He should be home. She pulled out her phone and dialled his mobile. There was no answer, so she left a voicemail, then, frowning, walked home to her own flat and stuffed the Prosecco and chocolates in the fridge. They’d do for another day.

Gemma ate a lonely dinner, and tried Ben’s phone a couple more times, but it went straight to voicemail. Then she tried Nat’s. She was in need of some company now; maybe Nat could come round and share the Prosecco. But Nat’s phone also went to voicemail. What was the point of having a mobile phone if you didn’t leave it switched on? Gemma felt oddly annoyed with Ben. While they’d never lived in each other’s pockets, now that they were engaged she felt she ought to be able to contact him at any time, or at least know where he was and why he couldn’t answer the phone. She’d have to talk to him about this. She decided to have a soak in the bath with a good book – always her favourite way to unwind. She’d hoped to be able to tell him all she’d found out about Red Hill Hall.

Half an hour later, submerged in bubbles up to her chin and with her Kindle in a resealable food bag to protect it from splashes, Gemma was just beginning to lose herself in the latest Barbara Erskine novel when her phone rang. She hauled herself out of the bath, cursing, and wrapped a towel round her to go and answer it.

‘Hey, Gemma. Just returning your call.’ Ben sounded weary.

‘Where’ve you been? I called round earlier and have been phoning you all evening but your phone was switched off after the first call.’

‘Sorry, love, it ran out of charge. I’m home now. Did you need me for something? What’s happened? Are you OK?’

‘Nothing’s happened. I was just hoping to spend a bit of time with you this evening. Just, you know, to celebrate our engagement. Again.’ Gemma tried desperately not to sound as though she was whinging or bitter. She didn’t see herself as the possessive type – even when they were married she wanted to think they’d be able to do their own thing, lead their own lives, without always having to answer to the other. Except – she did want to know where he’d been.

‘Ah. Sorry. Actually I wondered where you were. Poor Nat, eh?’

Gemma frowned. ‘Nat? What do you mean, poor Nat?’

‘Haven’t you spoken to her?’

‘No, what’s up?’

‘She’s ill. I mean, really poorly, the poor thing. She could hardly get out of bed today. Flu, or something. I thought she said she’d phoned you and asked you to pick up some medicines and drop them round in your lunch hour?’

‘No, she didn’t call. Oh, poor Nat.’

‘She swore she had. Then when you didn’t call her back or text her, she called me and asked me to get them. So I did, after work. Stayed at hers for a while making sure she was all right.’ Ben paused. ‘You sure you didn’t get a phone call from her?’

‘I think I’d remember. I’ll call her in a minute, see how she is.’ Gemma felt irritated that Ben didn’t seem to believe she hadn’t heard from Nat.

‘Erm, I wouldn’t if I were you. She was going to try to sleep. And, well, she’s a bit pissed off at you for not responding to her cry for help.’

‘Cry for help?’

‘Her words.’

‘I told you, I didn’t get a call from her. How was I supposed to know she needed me?’

‘Hey, calm down. I’m just the messenger. Anyway, she’s got what she needs now, and I changed her sheets and put a bottle of water by her bed. If I ever want a new career I’d make an excellent nurse, though I say it myself. Maybe you should pop round tomorrow after work? I can do Wednesday. We could take it in turns until she’s better. Must be shit for her not having a flatmate or boyfriend or relative nearby to look after her. She says her mum doesn’t care and wouldn’t lift a finger to help her. At least she’s got us.’

‘Yes.’ Gemma couldn’t think of anything else to say. Why was Nat so convinced she’d called her? Perhaps she was so ill she’d been hallucinating. That was a worrying thought. Poor Nat.

‘Well, love, I’m pretty knackered now and haven’t eaten yet. I’m going to call for a takeaway then get an early night. If you see Nat tomorrow, let me know how she is. And if there’s anything more I can do.’

‘Sounds like she’ll phone you if she needs you, in any case.’ That just slipped out. Gemma hadn’t meant to say anything so snippy.

‘Yes, I suppose she will. Right then, goodnight, love. See you soon.’

‘Night.’ She hung up, and shivered. Realising she was still wet, wrapped in her towel, she went back into the steamy bathroom and climbed into the bath. She lay there for another twenty minutes until the water had cooled, pondering the conversation with Ben. Maybe she should phone Nat after all, and apologise for – for what? There was definitely no message from Nat on her phone, either voicemail or text. So how was she supposed to know Nat was ill? And once Ben had found out, why didn’t he ring her to say he was going round? Gemma would have dropped everything to go and help her friend; he must know that. Presumably he hadn’t called because his phone had been out of charge. But he could have used Nat’s phone, when he got there.

The interrupted bath had not had its usual calming effect on her. She climbed out, dried off and got into a pair of warm pyjamas. What a rubbish evening this had turned out to be! But she shouldn’t think like that. Poor Nat. Maybe her odd behaviour at the weekend had been because she was already sickening with this bug. Gemma got into bed, promising herself she’d pop round to Nat’s in her lunch hour tomorrow. She’d do whatever she could for her. And she’d go again after work. Nat was a good friend. She remembered a time, many years ago now, when the boyfriend before Ben had dumped her. She’d phoned Nat in tears; Nat had cancelled her own date and come rushing round bearing a bottle of wine and a DVD, to help take Gemma’s mind off her woes. They’d ended up having a fabulous, giggly girlie evening. It was the sort of thing Nat always did – put her friendship with Gemma first. ‘You’ll be around when the blokes are all long gone,’ she’d said. ‘So I’ll always put you ahead of them, in your hour of need, any time.’ The least Gemma could do was put Nat first when she was ill, to pay her back for all her support in the past.

Chapter 8

March 1838

Rebecca was still in mourning for her mother, nine months after her tragic accident. The household had been much subdued ever since it had happened, although Charles, who had leased a house in nearby Bridhampton, was a frequent visitor and did what he could to lift their spirits whenever he was there. He would go riding with Sarah, sit and discuss books and poetry with Rebecca, or try to engage Mr Winton in talk of business or politics. It was Papa who needed the distraction most, Rebecca thought. He had shrunk into himself since the death of his wife. He had lost weight, had a grey pallor to his skin and was seemingly uninterested in his estate and investments. Poor Papa. Mama’s loss had hit him so hard.

It had been a long cold winter, but today was the first day that there was a hint of spring in the air. Rebecca put down her stitching and gazed out of the window of the old schoolroom where she still liked to sit. Weak sunlight shone through the still-bare branches of the magnolia and flowering cherry trees. It was the kind of day that made her want to go outside and be a part of it, not just an indoor observer.

Charles was due to call on them today. He would probably want to go out riding with Sarah, to make the most of the glorious weather. Rebecca sighed. A pity, because she would be pleased to have his company today. She decided to suggest a walk; perhaps if she caught him before Sarah did, he’d agree to come out with her. Were they competing for his attention? She didn’t like to think of it in that way. The unofficial agreement, that Charles would eventually marry her, Rebecca, was still in place, although her father had not mentioned it since Mama had died. Sarah was still insisting that she would be happy for Rebecca if she were to wed Charles, but sometimes Rebecca doubted her sincerity.

At last, the distant jangle of a bell announced a visitor. Rebecca checked the mantelpiece clock and was sure it would be Charles. She threw aside her stitching, patted her hair and smoothed her gown, then rushed downstairs to greet him. He was standing in the hallway, still in his cloak and hat despite Spencer hovering nearby waiting to take them from him. Sarah, unfortunately, had reached him first. Where had she been lurking? In the library, perhaps, so she could pounce on him as soon as he arrived and suggest going riding. As Rebecca approached she realised that was exactly what Sarah was doing.

‘It’s a beautiful day. Oh please, Charles, don’t waste it indoors. Let’s go for a gallop, feel the wind in our hair and the sun on our faces!’ Sarah was clinging on to his arm, trying to pull him across the hallway towards the corridor that led to the stable yard. She had dressed, Rebecca noted, in her new riding habit, her golden hair providing a fine contrast with its bright scarlet hue.