She took a shot of the view over the lake to the house and decided not to try to navigate the forest behind the house. The undergrowth hadn’t been cleared for ages looking at it and she didn’t feel like trampling her way through prickles and cobbler’s pegs. If needed, she’d come back another time. It was doubtful there would be anything in the dense foliage that would appeal to the general public when she had so much to share about the house. She retraced her path and skipped up the front steps and through the open door.
The sound of hammering came from the back of the house and Billie decided to start her discovery tour upstairs to keep out of Pete’s way. He’d made it pretty clear he didn’t have the time or the inclination to be included in her tour of Foxborough Hall. No worries, she was more than happy to explore on her own.
The wide staircase reminded her of Gone with the Wind the way it swept up to the second floor, wide, proud and very regal. The red carpet had seen better days and had faded over the years, the tread threadbare in patches. The layer of dust covering everything didn’t help matters at all. As she took a step, she glanced back at her path and saw the shape of her shoes imprinted in the dust. Thank goodness she wasn’t the one going to be doing the cleaning here!
When she reached the gallery, Billie paused to look over the banister down into the hall way. If she held her breath and closed her eyes, she could almost see the butler walking to the door, the maids bustling around with their feather dusters and the master of the house walking out with his gun dog at heel. A vivid imagination had never been something she had to strive for – it was part of her psyche.
Imagine polishing all of the carved wood –she shuddered at the thought. On the walls generations frowned down at her. This house could have stood for no more than two hundred years, but it gave her a sense of being older with more history. Perhaps some of the portraits had come from England. It would be worth finding out to add character to her story.
Ignoring the disapproving stares, she glanced at the first door. May as well be methodical and do the whole house room by room starting on this level. It would be terrible to miss the most appealing snippets of history because she rushed through the job. That had never been her style before and she wouldn’t start it now. This house deserved her time and reverence and Alex understood how she worked and probably wouldn’t worry if she got home a little later than she’d promised.
With her hand on the old brass door handle, she pushed back a twinge of apprehension and turned it, giving it a nudge when it resisted her. Forcing the door open, Billie held her breath as she gazed inside. This was the sitting room Pete had mentioned. Dark drapes covered the window making it hard to see more than a slither of the interior. Billie walked over and pulled one back, choking when a cloud of dust let go of the heavy dark-green velvet. It rained down on her like a fine dusting of snow. She coughed and the taste of spider webs coated her tongue.
A high wing-backed chair sat pulled up to the fireplace, the embers long since cold, a few clusters of charcoal scattered on the hearth amongst dead white ash. The brass fire poker and shovel set sat to one side of the hearth. A yellowing newspaper lay folded on the small oak table next to the chair, an empty pipe on top of the paper as if waiting. Billie raised the camera and took a shot, felt a small pulse of adrenalin throb in her belly and paused, looking over her shoulder. The movement cause a shiver to flutter down the back of her neck. Why did it feel as though someone was watching her? Cold fingers tapped the back of her skull, hooking at a memory sitting barely out of reach, the ever-present waver of lights in the corner of her vision.
Get a grip, Billie. An empty house is nothing compared to a grisly murder scene in a dark back alley. Here she only had whispers of ghosts to deal with, which strangely didn’t give her any sense of relief at all.
She spent another ten minutes casting her eye over the row upon row of books in the glass cases. The housework must have gotten too much for Primrose in the latter years as piles of newspapers were haphazardly stacked on the couch and small side tables dotted around the room. They should have been tossed out, which probably made her old age and slap-hazard style of housekeeping a bonus for the Historical Society. Billie could imagine the joy they would have cataloguing the items in this room alone.
She picked up the top paper and read the top of the first page: The Singleton Argus, 12 July 1969. Wasn’t that about the date Mr. Wallace was found dead in his bed? A faded envelope lay tucked under the corner of the newspaper, its top slit open. She pulled it out, recognition triggered in her brain. The same handwriting as on the letters she’d found with the watch.
Billie took a shuddering breath and took the page out, scanned the words.
30th October 1940
My darling Wilz,
I don’t think I can bear it. Oh, we were so pampered at home, dear sister. I thought I knew what I was getting into but alas, I was disillusioned. Not that I’m complaining, mind you. Merely explaining how things are. However, I’m here to do a job and I shall do that
