Being frightened that you’re right, Betty, about Lady Fiona murdering her husband and burying him out here where we could be stepping on him every day and disturbing his eternal rest. I can’t sleep at night because I’m so scared of waking up to see his ghost.”
“Clever little whatsit!” Mrs. Malloy muttered from behind me, and Ben murmured agreement.
“Ariel, you know that murder business is nonsense,” said Tom.
What was there that Betty could say? She stood looking furiously flummoxed, and Ariel nimbly seized the moment.
“You’re right, Dad, I did put Ben and Ellie to a lot of trouble. But they were wonderful. And so was Mrs. Malloy, who works for them. It was mostly her who made me see what a silly girl I’d been, not talking my fears over with you instead of running away. We have to find a way of making it up to them, don’t we?” She turned and beckoned to us, her smile one of timid optimism.
The scene had come more broadly to life. There was concerted movement now. The Hopkinses were moving toward us, Ariel with the prancing gait of an exuberant six-year-old, Betty with a visible lack of enthusiasm, and Tom looking uncertain as to whether or not he should take his smile out of his pocket and stick it back on his face. I let Ben and Mrs. Malloy go ahead of me. While they were being greeted, I focused my attention on the stark edifice that was Cragstone House.
It lacked a north tower, or the remnants of an ancient keep, so beloved of my heart in fiction. But in other ways it was splendidly suggestive of dark doings, fueled by unbridled passion, being conducted within. It was many times the width of Merlin’s Court, its rugged gray stone walls rising three stories to a jagged roof as black as a night sky, with chimney pots too many to count. I could picture it gobbling up normal-sized houses for breakfast and, like Oliver Twist, asking for more: just one small cottage… or maybe two… to keep things going until lunch. There was a furtive aspect to the tall narrow windows, which when combined with the grappling ivy and the shadowy passageway separating the ground floor of the main structure from the west wing, produced the requisite shivers to be experienced by the hapless governess or the unwanted visitor about to enter the premises. Yes, I could see why Ariel had nicknamed it Withering Heights.
Ariel appeared at my side to grab my hand and propel me forward, whispering to me as I put one faltering foot in front of another, “Dad seems pleased to see Ben, and Betty is thawing, so now it’s up to you not to ruin everything. Act humble and impressed.”
“That shouldn’t be difficult.” I was the governess clad in a stiff black gown with the demurest hint of a white collar. My bonnet was serviceable, my boots sturdy and well polished. Poverty had not defeated my attempts to present myself tidily to an uncaring world.
“Betty, darling!” Ariel, still clutching my hand, was jumping up and down in a way that Tarn and Abbey at seven had outgrown and even five-year-old Rose didn’t do much anymore. “Here’s Ellie. Oh, I do know the two of you are going to be great friends! I can feel the emanations!”
Did we have here a budding Madam LaGrange?
Betty extended a miniature hand, which I took gingerly, for fear it would break off in my grasp and Tom would have to put the Barbie doll back in the purchase box and return it to the manufacturer for a refund. That would solve my problem of trying to get on her good side in hope of being asked to spend a few days at Cragstone.
“As Tom has been saying to your husband, we appreciate your bringing Ariel home and sorry her acting out had to involve you. It’s embarrassing for us and awkward for you.” Her voice was stiff and jerky, causing me to wonder if the wrong mechanism had been installed or she had been played with more than recommended.
“She’s at a difficult age.”
“You can say that again. Sometimes I think she hates me.” Emotion showed fleetingly on Betty’s face.
“It’s a stage. We all went through it.”
“I’m not sure I’ve outgrown mine,” she said surprisingly. “Let’s go inside, shall we? You must be ready for a cup of tea.”
“Thank you, that sounds wonderful.” We followed in the wake of the others, Tom and Ben going up the stairs ahead of Ariel and Mrs. Malloy.
“Your cleaning woman seems brighter than most.” Betty pointed a finger at the purple taffeta figure now entering the house. “She’s come to see her sister, she said.”
I had to stop grinding my teeth to reply. “That’s right, Melody Tabby. She’s secretary to a Mr. Scrimshank.”
“We went to him for some advice about the money we… came into. But he won’t be handling our investments.” Betty stepped through the open front door. “We feel quite capable of doing that ourselves.”
“Do accountants often perform that service?”
“He did for the Gallaghers who owned this house. But that may have been because they were friends. Perhaps Ariel told you”-she gave me a speculative look-“that Mr. Gallagher disappeared, just upped and vanished, about a year and a half ago. And no sign of him since.”
I hedged. “I heard what she said to you and her father, about a murder and a ghost.”
“All these months I’ve thought she, like Tom, didn’t believe me.”
“The police?”
She shrugged, a gesture so akin to Ariel’s it might have been genetic if they had been blood relatives. The hall in which we stood was vast and thick with shadow. Given the lack of light, it could have been any time of day-from early afternoon, which was the case, to dead of night. The vast chandelier was unlit and too closely resembled the branches of a gallows tree to suit my sensibilities as a designer. The window high on the staircase wall resembled a leper’s squint. The rest of the group, though standing just a few feet away from us, were mere silhouettes in monkish robes. Ever since picking up my first gothic romance, I had yearned to enter a house such as this. The sensation I had experienced when looking at the exterior was now heightened. The dark wainscoting, somber furniture, and looming paintings in heavy frames issued a hushed warning that Death could be lurking behind a door or crouched down on some hidden step. I shivered, despite a muggy warmth that was oppressive in itself.
Betty flicked a switch and the chandelier burst into light. No longer did it look like a gibbet. It glinted with gold and sparkled with crystal. The paneling was revealed as a richly mellow walnut, the staircase a graceful curve of banisters and broad steps, exquisite in its simplicity. Regency, I thought. Or more likely Queen Anne, my favorite period. There was an Aubusson carpet underfoot, its colors faded by time to possibly even greater beauty than originally present. A grouping of Empire chairs with black gilded frames and yellow silk seats occupied one corner, along with bronze-topped tables. To my right stood a magnificent long case clock of Beuel design and on my left a Chinese chest whose period I could not even begin to guess at.
My foolish panic evaporated. Perversely, I found myself wishing for a more Tudor atmosphere: dark oil portraits of Elizabethans in ruffs staring censoriously down at me, pewter tankards on a trestle table, rush mats on the floor. This was all very lovely but too suggestive of an ultra-expensive hotel.
“I don’t know why you don’t leave that light on, Tom,” Betty called across to him. “It’s not like we have to worry these days about meeting the electricity bill.”
Had things been tight for them financially before the big win? Had the stress of pinching pennies made her snippy? I paused in the general movement toward an arched doorway to glance sideways at an assortment of porcelain snuffboxes on the Chinese chest. A cobalt blue and gold one caught my eye. It was a lovely thing with birds delicately painted on the lid. But it would not do to dally. As it was, I made up the rear in entering a drawing room that possessed two superb marble fireplaces.
Although the leaded front windows did not admit an abundance of light, this was more than compensated for by wall-to-wall glass doors at the rear, leading into what appeared to be a conservatory. The furnishings were an elegant eclectic mix of antiques and the contemporary. There were groupings of gold damask sofas and chairs covered in black and cream toile. I spotted an art deco table, a William and Mary secretary desk, and two Venetian glass lamps by an artisan whose name was currently being spoken with awe. The artwork was an interesting juxtaposition of abstracts and meticulously detailed etchings. I gave the Hopkinses’ decorator top marks. A major name, I supposed, from a London firm. I couldn’t have come up with anything this good.
“What a wonderful room,” I told Betty.
“That’s a real compliment, seeing you’re in that field. Tom’s mother mentioned it. We were very close.” She ushered me toward a chair positioned across from the front fireplace and took the one beside it. The others were already seated and engaged in conversation, save for Mrs. Malloy, who, with her handbag on her lap, appeared to be soaking up her surroundings, the better to report back to her chums in the Chitterton Fells Charwomen’s Society.