‘I don’t know about you, but I’m wiped out,’ Emily said, breaking the long silence at last, peering across at Paula in the dusky, shadowy light.
Paula turned her face, and quite suddenly it was clearly illuminated in the bright glow emanating from the lamps in the drawing room immediately behind them. Emily noticed at once that the stern veil had been lifted, and a lovely softness dwelt there again and there was warmth in her cousin’s expression.
Finally Paula answered. ‘Yes, I’m a bit done in too, I must admit. But at least all the important phone calls are out of the way.’ She lifted the goblet of white wine and took a long swallow. ‘This was a good idea of yours, Emily. Sitting waiting for Jim or Winston to ring us was getting awfully wearisome and frustrating.’
‘Yes, it was. I wonder if your father has managed to get hold of Philip yet? It must be nine-thirty by now.’
Squinting at her watch, Paula nodded. ‘Almost. We have to give him time to get through to Australia. He’ll be in touch soon.’ Paula cleared her throat, continued, ‘I do wish Sally had stayed longer. Do you think she was really all right when she left?’
‘She was certainly calmer when she came downstairs, but awfully subdued.’
‘Well, that’s understandable.’
Emily made no response. Shifting her position in her chair, she picked up her drink, sipped it. ‘Did you notice anything different about Sally?’ There was a moment’s hesitation on Emily’s part before she added, ‘I don’t mean when she left, but in general.’
‘She’s put on weight.’
Emily’s fingers tightened around her glass and dropping her voice, she whispered, ‘I have a horrible feeling…well, I might as well say it, I think Sally’s pregnant.’
Paula sighed. Her worst fears had been confirmed. ‘That’s what I was afraid you’d say, Emily. Actually, so do I.’
‘Oh bloody hell!’ Emily exploded, her voice rising. ‘That’s all we need. I’m surprised you didn’t spot her condition at the vernissage. Or did you?’
‘No, I didn’t. Mind you, she was wearing a sort of loose, tenty dress. Anyway I was harassed, surrounded by people. But when she walked in tonight I was struck by her heaviness, especially across her bustline. Still, I was so concerned about the news I had to break I didn’t dwell on her figure. I noticed her weight gain when she was standing near the fireplace, just before she left. It was most pronounced.’
‘That’s when it occurred to me. Oh my God, Paula, the balloon’s going to go up when Uncle Randolph finds out!’ Emily groaned loudly. ‘I can’t help wishing Gran were here.’
‘So do I, but she isn’t, and I don’t want her dragged back needlessly. We’ll have to cope the best way we can.’ Paula rubbed her weary face and exhaled heavily. ‘Oh God, what a ghastly mess this is, and poor Sally…’ She shook her head sadly. ‘I do feel sorry for her…’ Paula left the rest of her sentence unfinished, sat staring into the shadows, filled with terrible misgivings about the situation in Ireland.
Emily said suddenly, ‘Well, if she is pregnant there’s no problem. At least they’ll be able to get married now that –’
‘Emily!’ Paula swung her head, glared at her cousin horror struck. ‘Don’t say it,’ she warned.
‘Oh sorry,’ Emily apologized swiftly, but could not resist adding with her typical unnerving bluntness, ‘Nevertheless, it is true.’
Paula gave her a withering look.
Lifting the wine bottle out of the ice bucket, Emily refilled their glasses, and remarked, ‘I don’t think I’d better mention the possibility of Sally being pregnant to Winston.’
‘Don’t you dare! In fact, we’re not going to say anything to anyone, not even Grandy. I don’t want her to have that kind of worry. As for the rest of the family…you know how gossipy they’re inclined to be. To even hint that Sally’s pregnant would be like throwing a can of petrol on a bonfire. Besides, let’s face it, Emily, we don’t know that she is expecting. She might have merely gained’ weight lately.’
‘Yes,’ Emily said, ‘there is that possibility, and we don’t want to give certain people room to talk.’ She fell silent, sank back into the chair, gazing out at the garden. It had acquired a magical almost ethereal quality and the trees had turned to shimmering silver in the moonlight which now bathed everything in its extraordinary radiance. ‘It’s so peaceful, so beautiful,’ Emily murmured. ‘I could sit here forever. But I suppose I ought to drive over to Pennistone Royal to get my clothes for the office tomorrow, if I’m going to stay here with you tonight. I told Hilda what to pack for me, and she’ll have my suitcase ready, so I won’t be very long.’
Paula roused herself from her own reverie. ‘Perhaps you should pop back there, but take my car, Emily. The Jag is ready for the scrap heap, and I don’t want you stranded in the middle of nowhere.’ Paula stood up. ‘I’ll look in on the babies, and then start supper. Do you really want bubble and squeak?’ she asked, reaching for the ice bucket and moving into the drawing room.
‘Yes, it’s sort of comforting, it takes me back to the summers at Heron’s Nest. We always had bubble and squeak on Sunday nights with Gran when we were little. Oh for the good old days. Besides, you’ve a lot of left-over vegetables in your fridge. We might as well use them up. And I’m ravenous.’
Paula looked over her shoulder and shook her head wonderingly. ‘Doesn’t anything ever affect your appetite, Apple Dumpling?’
Emily, following her inside, grinned somewhat self-consciously. ‘I suppose not, Beanstalk,’ she shot back, using Paula’s childhood nickname. ‘But listen, I’m going to scoot. I’ll be back as quickly as I can, and if Winston happens to ring give him lots of love from me.’
As was usual on Sunday night, Harrogate was deserted and virtually free of traffic, and within minutes Emily was on the main Ripon road, speeding steadily along towards Pennistone Royal.
Since Paula had said she could take either of the two cars in the garage, Emily had elected to drive Jim’s Aston Martin. For a while she concentrated on getting the feel of the powerful piece of machinery under her hands, enjoying its smoothness and the sense of security she felt in the well-built and beautifully designed car. It was certainly a pleasant change from her rickety Jaguar which was so decrepit it was practically useless and probably unsafe.
Emily had clung to the old Jag for sentimental reasons in a way, inasmuch as it had once belonged to Winston. He had sold it to her four years ago and, until their fraternal relationship had blossomed into a love affair, driving his car had somehow seemed to bring him closer to her. It no longer held any significance because Winston himself was completely hers now that they were engaged. And the Jaguar had become a nuisance really, always breaking down at the most inopportune times. Grandy had been after her to get rid of it for ages and she decided she had better do so next week. She wondered what car to buy. An Aston Martin perhaps? Why not, it was a solid car, constructed like a tank. Emily began to ponder cars, but after a short while her thoughts not unnaturally turned to events in Ireland.
The land rover breaking down was a rotten piece of luck for Anthony, Emily thought. If it hadn’t he would be totally in the clear. This would be an open-and-shut case. Pity he didn’t go back for it before dinner, but no doubt he was trying to avoid Min. That poor woman…dying like that…drowning is the worst death…terrifying.
Emily shivered involuntarily as she contemplated the accident, endeavoured to push away the image of cold black water eddying and swirling, dragging Min down into its murky depths. Emily swallowed, held the steering wheel more tightly. She had inherited her grandmother’s fear of water, and like Emma she was a poor swimmer, assiduously avoided boats, the sea, lakes and even the most innocuous of swimming pools. All terrified her.
In an effort to dispel the vivid mental picture of Min Standish’s death, she turned on the car radio, twiddled the knob, but unable to find the station she liked she instantly switched it off. Through the car window she noticed the sign post which indicate
d she was approaching Ripley, and slowed down as she went through the small village, picking up speed as she left it behind, heading for South Stainley.
Unexpectedly, Emily felt her face tensing as a thought so distressing suddenly flashed through her mind, and she swerved, caught in the grip of apprehension. Righting the car immediately, she brought her full attention to the road, telling herself she would have an accident if she didn’t concentrate.
Nonetheless, the thought would not go away. It was a question really, and it hovered over her in the most maddening way, and she wondered why it had not reared up before now. Finally she faced it head on: What had Min actually been doing out at the lake for some five hours before she drowned?
All through those summers they had spent at Heron’s Nest, Emma Harte had instilled many things in her grandchildren. Chief amongst these was the importance of analysing a problem down to the last detail, examining every single aspect of it. Now Emily’s brain began to turn with rapidity in the way it had been trained by Emma.
One possible answer to the question struck her instantly – Min had not spent five hours at the lake, because she had not been there in the afternoon. It had been late at night when she had gone there for the first time yesterday. Oh my God, Emily thought, shuddering uncontrollably, that would mean Anthony is lying. That can’t be so, and even if he was responsible for her death, why didn’t he remove the land rover? Why did he leave it at the lake?
Start at the beginning, Emily instructed herself. Think it through logically, and first of all work on the premise that he could be lying. She ran a possible sequence of events through her head.
Anthony has dinner with Edwina. He takes her home to the Dower House afterwards. He returns to Clonloughlin House around ten. Min arrives unexpectedly soon after. They quarrel. He rushes out, jumps into the land rover and drives off. Min follows, accosts him at the lake. They row again, she becomes violent, following her pattern of the past few weeks. He fends her off. They struggle. He accidentally kills her. He dumps the body in the lake so that it will look like an accident. Then the land rover won’t start, or it conks out. He has no alternative but to walk back to the house.
It could have happened that way, Emily told herself reluctantly. But if it did, why didn’t he return to the lake later to get the land rover? The last thing he would do is leave it there.
Her mind raced as she took her original thought to its conclusion.
Anthony decides it’s risky trying to tow the land rover by himself late at night. He resolves to remove it early the next morning. But the estate manager is up and about at the crack of dawn and finds it first. Anthony concocts a plausible story with Edwina about Min arriving in the afternoon, explains the land rover broke down at that time. He cleverly bluffs his way through, counting on everyone to conclude, as I myself did, that only an innocent man would leave such damning evidence at the scene. On the other hand, Anthony does have an alibi for those crucial hours late at night. The housekeeper saw him. But is Bridget to be believed?
Was Anthony’s story a huge pack of lies? Was this an immensely daring and brilliant bluff?
As Emily passed through Pennistone village and turned into the gates of her grandmother’s estate she told herself that a man would have to be awfully cold-blooded and ruthless, would have to have nerves of steel to carry off such a scheme so successfully. Was Anthony such a man? No. How do you know that, Emily Barkstone? Only a few hours ago you told Paula that neither of you knew him all that well.
Appalled at her thoughts, Emily did her best to shake them off as she parked and climbed out of the car.
Hilda, her grandmother’s housekeeper, was coming out of the door leading to the kitchen and the servants’ quarters at the back of the house.
A broad smile flew on to Hilda’s face at the sight of her. ‘There you are, Miss Emily,’ she said, and peered through her glasses worriedly. She clucked, ‘You’re looking a bit poorly. You’d best come to the kitchen for a cup of tea.’
‘Thanks, Hilda, but I have to get back to Miss Paula’s immediately. I’m fine, honestly, just a bit tired.’ Emily managed to produce a smile, then glanced around, looking for her suitcase.
‘Your overnight bag’s here,’ Hilda said, producing it from behind one of the heavy Tudor hall chairs. She carried it to her saying, ‘What terrible news, just awful. It gave me a right turn, that it did. I had to sit down and have a drop of brandy after your phone call. His poor lordship…oh deary me what a tragedy for him. But then life’s so unpredictable, isn’t it.’ She nodded, her face mournful, then took hold of Emily’s arm with a show of affection. Accompanying her across the hall, she said, ‘Does Mrs Harte know yet? Have you spoken to her?’
‘No, Hilda. Mr David is trying to reach Mr Philip in Australia. Don’t worry, Grandma will be all right.’
‘Oh I’ve no doubts about that, none at all, Miss Emily. But it does seem so unfair. Just when she gets a chance for a little rest, a nice holiday, a dreadful thing like this accident has to happen. Your poor grandmother’s life has been full of troubles…I’d hoped that by now she’d be free of them.’
‘Yes, Hilda, I second that. But you said it yourself – unexpected things happen and we can’t control life.’
Emily began edging her way to the front door, looking about her as she did, savouring the beauty of the Stone Hall, but also suddenly acutely conscious of its normality. It was filled with lovely warm light, the fire in the huge hearth blazed as it always did through the autumn and winter, and pots of gold and bronze chrysanthemums were clustered in the well of the great staircase. Yes, this hall looked exactly the way it had all of her life, even to the brass urn filled with copper beech on the refectory table.
Its unchanging appearance engendered an enormous sense of security in Emily, and she felt Emma’s presence so powerfully, so forcefully at this precise moment she was reassured, and her fears began to ebb away. Her grandmother was a brilliant woman with a shrewd and penetrating understanding of people. She loved and trusted Anthony…not because he was her grandson but because of his character and his qualities as a man.
Swinging around, Emily gave Hilda a dimpling smile and although her green eyes were serious her voice was strong as she said, ‘Don’t worry, Hilda, Gran will take this in her stride. And thanks for packing my bag.’
‘It was no trouble, Miss Emily, and you drive carefully, do you hear.’
Taking her leave of Hilda, Emily ran outside to the Aston Martin, threw her bag on the back seat and within seconds she had reversed the car and was spinning down the driveway, heading back the way she had come.
On her return trip to Harrogate she kept a firm hold on the positive feelings she had experienced at Pennistone Royal, and she kept telling herself that Anthony had been truthful and that Min’s death was an accident.
In fact Emily had so brainwashed herself she was in exceptionally good spirits when she drove into the garage at Long Meadow. Although she had made the journey to Pennistone and back in record time, it had taken her a good hour, and she was beginning to feel faint with hunger. She was looking forward to a pleasant supper and her mouth watered as she thought of cold lamb, bubble and squeak and a glass of icy white wine.
But all such thoughts were swept out of her head as she went into the kitchen. She could not fail to see the disarray at once. Food lay abandoned on the counter top. The lamb was only half carved, the bubble and squeak had congealed in the frying pan on top of the stove and cupboard doors swung open.
Paula sat inertly at the kitchen table and there was such a stricken look on her face Emily’s worries sprang to life.
‘What is it?’ she cried from the doorway. ‘Something awful’s happened at Clonloughlin. They haven’t arrested –’
‘No, no, nothing like that,’ Paula assured her, lifting her eyes. ‘I haven’t even heard a peep out of them.’ Her voice was exhausted.
‘Then what is it?’ Emily demanded, joining her at the table, scanning her troubled face.
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Paula exhaled, remained mute.
Emily suspected her cousin had been crying, and leaning forward she took hold of her slender, tapering hand and patted it. ‘Please tell me,’ she said softly.
‘I’ve had a terrible row with Jim. He phoned a little while ago and he was so snotty with me I can’t get over it.’
‘But why?’
‘Sam Fellowes. He ignored my warning and called Jim. He left three urgent messages at the hotel in Toronto. When Jim got in he rang him back, and Fellowes told him about the accident, and my instructions not to run a story, or an obituary. Fellowes said I’d treated him in a most rude and high-handed manner, that I’d even threatened to give him the sack. Jim was obviously furious, yelled at me, chastised me. He thinks I handled things most undiplomatically. He said he’d had to spend twenty minutes placating Fellowes, and had finally convinced him not to resign.’ Paula reached for a handkerchief and blew her nose.
‘I can’t believe it!’ Emily was aghast. ‘Surely Jim apologized once he understood your reasons for putting a lid on the story, when you explained about Anthony being under suspicion.’
‘Oh he did ease off a bit,’ Paula told her morosely, ‘but his nose was definitely out of joint. And no, he didn’t apologize. He was more concerned about whether he could get a flight to Ireland tomorrow. He thinks he should be with Edwina and Anthony to give them moral support.’
Emily made a disagreeable face. ‘He would.’ She shook her head slowly. ‘What’s wrong with Jim? Has he forgotten Grandy’s rule about the family not being mentioned in our newspapers?’
‘No. At the outset of our conversation he said this was different, that since reports of Min’s death would probably appear in the nationals, we’d look ridiculous if we didn’t carry an obituary. Once he was fully aware of the facts he sort of calmed down, but he still insisted I had handled Fellowes in the wrong way.’
‘What the hell did he expect you to do?’
Paula smiled thinly. ‘He said I should have told Fellowes not to run anything in the early editions, but to have the obituary prepared, and then to hold it until either Winston or he had been contacted in Canada. He told me it was their decision – his and Winston’s – not mine.’