Slowly Ollie nodded. ‘I think he has. I think Grandfather left them to the National Gallery or somewhere. Dad said if they wanted them then they could pay for them.’
‘Money as always.’ She sounded disgusted.
He nodded again. They both sat in silence for a while, gazing gloomily into space.
‘Pity we have to go away to school,’ Ollie said suddenly. ‘I vote we insist we stay for Grandfather’s funeral. After all, they must give compassionate leave or something after a family member has been murdered.’
‘Murdered?’ Hannah looked at him in horror.
‘Maybe.’
‘So, what do we do?’ Hannah said after a while.
‘Nothing.’ he said after another silence. ‘Just wait. Maybe have a word with Mum. Something will happen. It always does.’
26
October 20th 1944
Lavinia had been a scout for Eddie for years, working for him even before the war, and continuing after it started, looking for paintings and pieces of furniture which he acquired at discount prices from people desperate for cash in war-strapped England and stashed away in a warehouse where they could wait until the prices began to rise again. It was too early yet, but soon the war would end and he was quietly confident that not long after it happened the markets would begin to rise. When they did he would be sitting on a fortune.
Lavinia was standing at the window waiting for him when he drew up outside the Arundel house. She watched as he climbed out of the car, chewing her lips with nerves. He looked remarkably pleased with himself, his hat just that little bit to one side as he always wore it, his greatcoat hanging open just enough to give him a swagger. He glanced round as he opened the gate and walked up her drive and only then seemed to notice that she was standing in the window. He raised a hand.
She met him in the doorway and raised her face for a kiss. ‘I haven’t seen you for ages,’ she said, forgetting her resolution not to nag him.
He gave her a quick peck on the cheek. ‘Busy, busy,’ he said airily. ‘You know how it is. So, darling girl, what have you got for me?’ He bounded ahead of her into her front room. On the ground floor, it looked out onto the rose garden at the back, blighted now by the stormy weather, and if one stood to one side of the chair carefully placed in a small bay to make the most of the view, one could see the castle, magnificent in the evening sunlight.
Lavinia looked at him, trying to judge the right moment to spring her surprise and for the first time noticed how tired he appeared. ‘What’s up, love?’ She went over to the tray on the sideboard and reached for the gin bottle. ‘Do you want one?’
He shook his head and sat down on the chair.
She put the bottle down nervously. Perching on another chair opposite him she waited, aware that something bad must have happened.
‘It’s Evie,’ he said at last.
Lavinia scowled. She had no desire to hear about his wife. ‘What’s up with her?’ she asked coldly.
‘She was expecting a baby. Mine. She lost it.’
Lavinia went white. ‘What happened?’
He shook his head. ‘Some sort of woman’s problem. Who knows? The doc thought she might die.’ His bravado had suddenly gone. ‘My son.’ He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes.
‘Oh, Eddie I am so sorry.’ Lavinia was struck dumb for a moment before she pulled herself together and asked, ‘But she can have more, right?’
She fixed her eyes on his face.
He shook his head slowly. ‘Unlikely. She’s been very ill.’
‘I’m so sorry, love. But at least you’ve got little Johnny.’
Eddie’s face hardened. ‘At least I’ve got little Johnny,’ he repeated bitterly.
In the end she thought it better not to tell him her secret. It could wait.
Saturday 14th September, morning
‘We wanted to talk about the ghosts,’ Maggie announced as she and Huw sat down in the living room at Rosebank and, at Mike’s invitation, took the role of mother, and poured coffee into Evie’s old porcelain cups. They were freckled with hairline cracks and chips, but still extraordinarily pretty. Mike had only just managed to rescue them from Charlotte’s desire to bin them.
‘Ghosts?’ Mike stared at his guests in astonishment.
‘Ah.’ Maggie glanced at her husband. ‘Lucy hasn’t mentioned them to you?’
She pictured herself and Huw as viewed through his eyes. Elderly couple, bit scatty, clergyman with wild hair. Not a good image!
Mike was waiting for them to go on.
‘The ghost of your great-uncle, Ralph Lucas,’ Huw put in.
‘Ah. Yes. I do know about that. My dad always claimed Ralph was trying to contact him. When he was a little boy at Box Wood Farm where my grandparents lived when they were first married – with Evie’s mother and father, and then I think all through his life. It was a bit spooky. I was scared by his stories and I think my mother told him to stop talking about it.’
‘Lucy has seen him too, Mike.’ Maggie leaned forward and put her hand on his arm. ‘He has been seen several times at her gallery in Chichester.’
‘I see.’ Mike looked cautiously from one to the other. ‘So, we believe in ghosts, do we? I know she is finding out lots of stuff from all the papers she has found here. She hasn’t necessarily had time to keep me updated on everything.’
‘I suspect she is finding the research rather overwhelming,’ Maggie said gently. ‘She has certainly been very busy writing.’
‘You mentioned ghosts in the plural,’ Mike said. ‘Assuming there are such things, do we know who the other ghosts are?’
His guests looked at each other and he saw the look of concern which passed between them. ‘What is it? Is it Evie?’
They both shook their heads. ‘Not Evie, no,’ Huw said carefully. ‘It is the ghost of a man, a very forceful individual, who seems intent on hiding much of the evidence that Lucy is uncovering.’
Mike sat back and folded his arms. ‘That would be Grandfather. If anyone is being a ghost round here, it would be him.’
‘That’s Edward Marston?’
Mike nodded. ‘He and Evie were divorced in 1960. They didn’t have a happy marriage as far as I know and after the divorce Evie came to live here with my father and my uncle George, and Grandfather Eddie did everything in his power to deprive her of her paintings. ‘
‘Do you remember him?’ Maggie asked.
‘I was about thirteen when he died. I don’t think we ever saw him, but I know my father used to be furious at the way he hounded Granny. Her paintings were potentially very valuable even then and he wanted them, even those she painted long after they were divorced. I think he claimed he was her agent and there was some kind of legal tie.’
‘And his interest descended to his younger son, George, and now to Christopher?’
Mike looked at her with interest. ‘You know my cousin?’
‘I know Frances,’ Maggie put in hurriedly.
Mike nodded thoughtfully. ‘Of course.’
Mike took a sip from his cup and leaned back in his chair. ‘So, you think Eddie is haunting Lucy? That wouldn’t be good.’
‘Are you prepared to believe in ghosts?’ Huw asked bluntly.
Mike paused for a moment before he answered. ‘I’ve never seen one, but I have heard enough to have an open mind.’ He sounded cautious.
‘Good. So,’ Huw went on, ‘we can discuss the form this haunting is taking. It is of sufficient violence to frighten everyone who has witnessed it and we want to try and find out if there is some specific moment which has triggered this, or if it is just the overweening ego of a man who is not prepared to accept that he is no longer able to influence events he has left behind.’
‘Wow.’ Mike grinned. ‘Violence, you say?’ Suddenly he frowned. ‘You mean this ghost has tried to hurt Lucy?’
‘It has repeatedly tried to destroy the painting of your grandmother with the young pilot who was, we suspect, her lover during t
he Battle of Britain.’
‘What painting?’ Mike looked puzzled.
‘The painting in her studio –’ Huw stopped abruptly as Maggie aimed a kick at his shin under the table.
‘The painting she told me had been destroyed in her husband’s car crash,’ Mike went on. ‘I see. So Christopher was right. It does still exist.’
There was a long silence. Huw rubbed his face with his hands. ‘I’m sorry. I thought you knew.’
Mike gave a deep sigh. ‘Lucy chose not to tell me. Perhaps it’s my fault that she didn’t trust me enough.’
‘She trusts you, Mike,’ Maggie put in. ‘Perhaps there was a misunderstanding.’
He gave a bleak smile. ‘Perhaps.’ He folded his arms. ‘You were saying, you thought the ghost was trying to destroy this painting?’
Huw nodded slowly. ‘It has come very close once or twice. The painting has been damaged a couple of times; then the place where it was stored caught fire.’
‘And where is it now?’
Huw looked at his wife. ‘In our vicarage. Lucy was terrified alone in her gallery with the picture still there. Who or, whatever it was, was threatening her, smashing things up, causing doors to open and shut, hurling the canvas off the easel. We thought it best if it came to the chapel in our house where we can surround it with prayer.’
Mike gave a quiet laugh. ‘Well, if it is Eddie, prayer won’t have the slightest effect. From what I gather he was not a religious man.’ He stood up restlessly. ‘How could she not have realised that I didn’t know? I don’t understand. I thought I was her friend!’
‘Christopher frightened her,’ Maggie said. ‘Don’t blame her, Mike. We have all been confused and worried about this picture and the seeds of evil it seems to contain.’
Mike shook his head slowly. ‘No, that’s not good enough. I have helped her; I have given her everything I could find of Evie’s. I have introduced her to my family. I have trusted her, but it seems she was not prepared to trust me.’ He was becoming increasingly angry. ‘Maybe Christopher was right. He could well be a better judge of character than I am, anyway. She stands to make a lot of money from this book of hers, no doubt, and boosting Evie’s fame will make this painting far more valuable.’
‘Mike, wait a minute.’ Maggie could feel the colour flaring in her cheeks as her temper rose to match his. ‘Are you really suggesting she would have gone to all this trouble and effort and hard work, planning to take months if not years out of her life, to boost the value of one picture?’
‘If it’s worth a million, yes.’
‘A million?’ Huw echoed. ‘Are you serious?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t own any of my grandmother’s oil paintings.’ Mike pushed his hands into his pockets. ‘Look, I’m sorry. I’m not sure what you came here for, but if it was to make sure I knew about the painting, then thank you, you have succeeded. You have given me a lot to think about. And now, perhaps if you wouldn‘t mind leaving. I have a great deal to do.’
Huw and Maggie glanced at each other as they walked up the lane towards the village. ‘What have I done?’ Huw shook his head slowly. ‘I am such an idiot! Couldn’t keep my big mouth shut.’
‘He had to find out, Huw. Someone was bound to tell him,’ Maggie said.
‘But it didn’t have to be me!’ He sighed bitterly. ‘Poor Lucy, I have ruined everything for her.’
June 1944
Tony’s latest posting had arrived out of the blue. He had been supervising gunnery training in Hawarden in North Wales for several months, then he had been posted up to Peterhead in Scotland where he was running 14 APS, armoured practice camp, training men in the use of air-to-air and air-to-ground machine guns and cannon. There had been rumours that the camp was closing – the war in Europe was winding down after the D-Day landings, but nothing firm had been said.
And now this. He stared down at the signal, trying to take in the implications. Squadron Leader Anderson had been posted. He was to report to Liverpool. He was to board the troop carrier, HMS Britannic, heading for who knew where. Oh God, this was it. He was destined for the Far East.
Over the last three years Tony had been posted to a succession of air training schools in England and Scotland, managing to visit his parents at infrequent intervals. As he walked up the drive to the farmhouse this time he was full of dread as to what his mother was going to say at his news. He stooped to greet the dogs as usual and found her in the garden where she was deadheading the roses. They embraced and almost at once he found her studying his face in that way she had which seemed to read his very soul.
‘What is it, darling? What’s happened?’
He gave her a cheeky grin. ‘What will I do when I really want to hide something from you?’
‘You can’t.’ She pushed her gloves into her pocket and waited.
‘I’ve been posted again,’ he said, giving up the idea of breaking it to her gently. ‘Overseas.’
‘What?’ He saw her cheeks pale. ‘Where?’
‘That’s the trouble, I don’t know. I have been ordered to join the Britannic at Liverpool. We have sealed orders as to where she will be going. I’m going to be the security officer.’ He grinned.
His mother glared at him. ‘You are not in the Navy.’
‘Not yet. Sounds as though I shall be quite close.’
He saw her sigh as she turned towards the house and led the way slowly inside. ‘Is it a promotion?’
‘Probably.’
He had wondered what had led to this posting himself and had a strong suspicion that his old CO, Don, had something to do with the transfer. Over the last couple of years or so he had found himself moved abruptly from station to station at short notice and although it happened to everyone now and again, he wondered if his former CO was still keeping a fatherly eye on him from the distance of whatever lofty rank he now possessed. If so, he was pleased. There had been no other unforeseen incidents threatening his life, beyond the small matter of the war!
As though reading his thoughts his mother turned to him as they walked into the sitting room. She had gone over to her desk, which stood in the window. From a pile of papers and books she retrieved a newspaper cutting. ‘Do you ever hear from Evelyn Lucas?’ If she saw the wince of pain on his face at Evie’s name, she gave no sign.
He shook his head.
‘I thought you might be interested to see what she is doing now,’ she said. She handed him the cutting and he stared down at it. There was a small picture of Evie. She looked older and more serious than he ever remembered her looking in the past.
Well-known artist, Evelyn Lucas, features in new exhibition in the National Gallery in London. Miss Lucas has contributed some two dozen paintings to the exhibition which centres on the bravery and endurance of the people of this country … Miss Lucas is married to art critic and collector, Edward Marston and the couple have one son. They live in Sussex.
Tony realised that his eyes were blurred. He handed it back to his mother. ‘Good for her.’
She studied him carefully. ‘No regrets?’
He shook his head.
‘You’ll find someone else, darling.’ She reached over and touched his hand for a moment. Unspoken, the thought of oceans and submarines and distant theatres of war rose between them. ‘Don’t tell your father I’ve shown you this,’ she whispered. ‘He said I shouldn’t, but I thought it better you know she is –’ she stopped short, then ploughed on, ‘she is getting on with her life, darling, and so must you.’
He nodded sadly and wondered, not for the first time, what had happened to the portrait of himself which used to hang above the fireplace. It had mysteriously disappeared after he had been posted back to Scotland. He had, half-ashamed, half-embarrassed, poked around the house, even searching the storerooms in the attic, but he never found a trace of it and he never plucked up the courage to ask. He guessed his parents were being tactful, but nevertheless he would have hated to think they had destroyed it. It was a picture of h
im, after all, and had been painted by a famous artist for a purpose – to remember him by if he were killed.
His job was no sinecure. HMS Britannic was carrying some five thousand troops, Army and ATS, Navy and Wrens, and Air Force and WAAFS, and his duties mainly involved the maintenance of some kind of discipline on board. The ship was crowded, the troops sleeping on hammocks below decks and the scope for mischief was vast. One of his duties was to try to keep the men and women from becoming too friendly with one another, in a vain attempt at preventing too much immorality, for instance, checking that amorous couples had not climbed into the lifeboats at night, and he and his team were also charged with the censoring of the letters, which would be posted at their first port of call. Their destination was under seal until they had passed Gibraltar but it was easy to guess. The war in Europe was winding down and this was part of the redirection of much needed troops from the theatre in Europe towards the war still raging against the Japanese.
The upside of the posting, as the ship ploughed out into the Atlantic and headed south, was that he had his own cabin and the ship, whose last port of call before Liverpool had been in the US, was laden with food such as hadn’t been seen in Britain for years. Besides, his duties were not so onerous he couldn’t enjoy the feeling of being on a great ship out at sea with plenty of time for himself.
Standing at the rail staring out at the heaving grey water he prayed, like most of those on board, that Hitler’s submarines would stay focused on the Channel and fail to spot them. The ship was fast and modern; this was one of the great White Star Line which had been called up just before the war and it tackled the waves with ease, to Tony’s relief. As an airman he had not been too sure how he would take to the sailor’s life! In the event he enjoyed it.
Having left the stormy waters of the Atlantic and headed in through the Straits of Gibraltar, the ship cruised through the Mediterranean, following the north coast of Africa. The air grew warm and balmy and from time to time as they sat on deck in the evenings they could see the shadow of the Dark Continent looming up out of the haze to the south.