The midnight house, p.9
The Midnight House, page 9
‘Grab your boots and leave your drink,
Take your torches to the Ink,
Search high and low among the reeds,
Find a string of pearly beads,
Tell me ye, what will it take . . .’
She paused, gestured to Ellie, who nodded her head in time: ‘To find the Lady of the Lake?’
‘You remember?’ said Bernie.
‘I remember something of it. I thought it was about a mermaid.’
‘Oh, Ellie!’
Jules scribbled in his notebook.
‘And this . . .’ Bernie touched the letter’s header. It was smeared with a deep brown smudge. ‘Wynn’s something . . . well, that could be Wynn’s Castle.’
‘Where?’ said Jules frantically, as though his exams were coming up and he’d forgotten to study a module.
‘It’s in Glenbeigh,’ said Ellie quietly. She’d been there once, as a child. And she’d never returned. Couldn’t bring herself to. The trip had been with her father.
‘Owned by Lord Heaney, I think,’ said Bernie.
‘Heaney?’ said Jules.
Bernie frowned. ‘Yes, I think so. Or was it Healy? Something like that.’
Jules laid out another photo. ‘I also found this, taken at Blackwater Hall.’
It was a formal shot of a group of people arranged in two lines; one seated, one standing. There was a distinct difference in the dress style and poise of the two rows. Jules ran his finger along the seated figures. ‘This is the family.’ He traced the standing row behind them. ‘And staff.’
Ellie turned the photo over. Summer Party, 12th August 1939. A list of names was written across the bottom. She returned to the image, searching for Charlotte.
‘Here she is.’ Jules pointed to a girl seated at the far left of the photo.
‘And,’ said Bernie, frowning, ‘this is Edward – or Teddy, as he was known – Charlotte’s brother.’ He was fair and had the same dark oval eyes as his sister. His hand was raised near his face, as though he had been about to push a flop of hair from his eyes. ‘I met him that time I visited the house as a child.’
Ellie raised her eyebrows. ‘Teddy?’ She turned the letter to face her. My dearest T.
Jules followed her gaze and nodded, scribbled down Teddy’s name. Then he moved his finger along the line of seated aristocrats. ‘This is Lord Charles Rathmore, and Lady Niamh Rathmore . . . and their elder son, and heir, Hugo.’
Between Charlotte and Teddy sat a woman, her long legs tucked neatly under her. Her face was beautifully framed with arched eyebrows and wavy hair. The masculine Pied Piper hat she wore dropped low over her right eye, one hand up to steady it, and her head tipped towards Charlotte. Ellie looked closer. ‘Who’s this?’
Jules said, ‘That’s Teddy’s wife, Nancy.’
Ellie frowned, thinking of the third cup Albert had poured, the one she had thought was for his mother. ‘Charlotte looks worried,’ she said, then regretted reading so much into an expression captured eighty years before.
Jules surprised her by saying: ‘Yes, I agree.’
‘Well, none of them really look all that delighted,’ said Bernie, her attention beginning to wane.
Ellie studied the two women, Charlotte and Nancy. Nancy’s hand rested on Charlotte’s and they were looking halfway between each other and the photographer, as though they had been interrupted sharing a secret. The formality of Charlotte’s long dress looked dated compared to the below-the-knee pencil skirt that Nancy wore.
‘Are they the same age?’ she asked.
‘According to Ms Sullivan’ – Jules consulted his notebook – ‘Nancy was born in 1914. Seven years before Charlotte.’
‘It doesn’t say any more about her?’
‘No,’ said Jules. ‘The Rathmore story is a tiny part of the book; just those few paragraphs.’
Ellie thought back to her visit to the house that morning. ‘Lord Albert said that when his grandmother – Niamh – renovated Blackwater Hall, she . . . decluttered. So perhaps Brigid didn’t have much to work with.’ She paused. ‘And anyway, people round here are probably not so interested in reading about landed gentry.’
Bernie added, ‘It’s a bit of a sore point.’
‘I see what you mean . . .’ Jules looked down at his notebook, deflated.
‘Doesn’t mean the Rathmores’ history isn’t important,’ Ellie said quickly. She looked between them. ‘How old is this historical society anyway?’
Jules rallied. ‘This is our first meeting.’
‘I see.’
‘It’s just us three so far,’ he added.
Ellie was alarmed. ‘Thank you, Jules, but I—’ she said at the very same time Bernie offered, ‘Ah, listen, I’m not dilly-dallying, I only dropped in because Moira called me—’
Both of them stopped at the man’s crestfallen face. Then Bernie stood and muttered, ‘I’ll get some fresh tea,’ while Ellie busied herself with studying the hall’s high windows.
After a moment, she said, ‘How long have you lived in Ballinn, Jules?’
He flushed. ‘A year. I visited last summer, took up a friend’s offer of a cottage near Derrynane Beach. I stayed for three weeks, and when I returned to London, well, it felt . . .’ he paused, ‘empty. I tried to keep up with my old life, even though I’d retired.’ He took off his glasses, set them on the table. ‘I was a lawyer for forty years. My whole world was work. And when that finished, I really had nothing. I never married. Never had children. Everything I did was for my own benefit.’
‘I’m sorry.’
He rubbed his eyes and replaced his glasses. ‘Kerry stuck in my mind. The peace. The space. The lack of trying to be someone I wasn’t any more. So I just came back.’
‘You’d be surprised how many stories like that there are around here,’ said Ellie. From Killarney to Kenmare, Kerry’s hills were littered with blow-ins, running to – or escaping from – another life. She thought of Bernie’s kindness in putting aside the books, the comfort of her mum’s home, the feeling of rolling back into the village after Dublin spat her out the other side.
He smiled with satisfaction. ‘My old colleagues wouldn’t recognise me. And a good thing too. I feel renewed. I want to do something that isn’t on the clock. Something interesting. Something that matters.’
‘Why do you think this’ – Ellie touched the portrait in front of her – ‘matters?’
He rotated the summer party shot so it faced her. ‘Look at Charlotte again.’
Warily she leaned in. Charlotte’s face was marred with worry. Or was it sadness? Perhaps Nancy had reached across to comfort her . . .
Ellie gasped. ‘Jules, look at her hand!’ A white bandage, half obscured under Nancy’s grip, was wrapped from her wrist to her fingertips.
He nodded. ‘At first I thought it was a glove, but it’s not, is it?’
‘No.’
‘I don’t think Charlotte looks worried . . . I think she looks afraid.’
‘You’re reading too much into this.’ But she knew Jules was right. Charlotte Rathmore had been afraid.
When Bernie returned, she said, ‘I’ve checked the whole kitchen . . . nothing but this muck.’ She plonked the Yorkshire Tea down with a huff. ‘I take it this is yours?’ The Englishman grimaced.
Ellie glanced at her watch. It was twenty to two. ‘Look,’ she said, getting to her feet, ‘I have to go. I need to drop into the doctor’s surgery. Here . . .’ She pushed Charlotte’s letter towards Jules, towards Bernie, towards anyone but herself. ‘I think it’s best if one of you takes this.’
Jules looked up. ‘What about this son of Albert’s . . . Milo, is it?’
Ellie’s hand lingered on the back of the chair. ‘Did I mention his name?’
‘Of course!’ said Bernie, butting in; she and Jules once again aligned. ‘You could drop the letter off while you’re there.’
‘And,’ Jules said, riding the wave of Bernie’s enthusiasm, ‘while you’re at it, you can ask him to look into the surgery records. See if the local doctor attended Charlotte in the summer of 1939.’
Ellie narrowed her eyes. ‘While I’m where? Why would Albert’s son have access to the surgery records?’
Jules closed his notebook. ‘Milo Rathmore is the new locum.’
‘Please tell me you’re joking.’
A satisfied smile was plastered on Bernie’s face.
Ellie shook her head and snatched the letter from the table. ‘You two,’ she pointed at each of them, ‘you’re both as bad as my mother.’
‘I’ll take that as a compliment,’ said Jules as he put the boxes away in a trunk beside the stage, the meeting evidently over. His hand hovered over Charlotte’s photo. ‘Here,’ he said, placing it in her hand. ‘Look after that for now.’ She began to argue. He cut her short. ‘Just for now.’
Bernie was off, out the door. ‘Places to be,’ she shouted back over her shoulder. ‘I’ll see you Saturday.’
Ellie called, ‘Saturday?’
Bernie paused, her hand resting on the door frame. ‘It’s Tabby Ryan’s one hundredth birthday. Here in the hall. Open invite.’ She looked at Jules. ‘Even blow-ins are welcome.’
Ellie paused. Moira had mentioned something about a hooley; a whole village-worth of people chatting, asking questions. ‘I hadn’t planned on going.’
‘Really?’ said Bernie. ‘Is that so?’
‘It is.’
‘Because,’ she continued, ‘you should know that Tabby worked up at the big house, at Blackwater Hall, before the war. I imagine she knew Charlotte. Before she . . . disappeared.’ And then, with a speed that belied her size, Bernie was gone.
Jules followed Ellie out. He went to the shoe rack in the Lobby and lifted the fixed-gear bike she had thought long abandoned.
‘You ride that thing?’ she said.
‘My new toy,’ said Jules as they spilled onto the street. ‘As I said, my old colleagues wouldn’t recognise me.’ He swung his leg over the saddle and pushed away from the kerb, calling over his shoulder: ‘Don’t forget to ask Milo about your girl.’
Your girl, she wanted to shout after him, but he was already halfway down the street.
Chapter Eleven
Ballinn, County Kerry
September 2019
‘Hi,’ Ellie said. Then, again, ‘Hello?’
‘Ah.’ Dr Milo Rathmore looked up from his computer and Ellie paused, one hand on the door. This was Albert’s son? She had expected a frump. Someone much older. Excessive amounts of tweed.
‘Eleanor Fitzgerald? Please, take a seat.’
‘Thank you. And call me Ellie, please.’ She smiled, but his eyes had already swung back to the screen, his hand on the mouse. All business. ‘You haven’t been into this clinic for’ – he raised an eyebrow – ‘seventeen years?’
‘I’m back from Dublin. For a bit.’ She clasped her hands in her lap. ‘Just visiting.’
‘I see.’ He had that manner of speaking that forced rather than invited the other party to fill the silence.
‘It’s been a tough few months. Work isn’t going well and . . .’ She wanted to add and other things, but Dr Rathmore began to type, irritating her immensely. ‘And I’d like a bit of help with . . .’
Tap, tap, tap. His hair was dusky blond.
She paused. ‘Are you listening to me?’
‘I am.’ His face softened a little. He pushed the keyboard aside and placed his palms flat on the table; the gesture, she supposed, was meant to be reassuring.
She hesitated. The room was hot – stifling – and she unzipped her jacket.
He waited. ‘You were saying?’
But her conviction was gone. She had come to the medical centre with the vague notion of finding a temporary solution to her troubles in pill form. Now she was here, she wanted nothing more than to leave. Was it Dr Rathmore’s bedside manner? Or perhaps the image of Albert’s shaking hands . . . did she blame the man sitting in front of her for not being there to steady them? She cleared her throat, sat a little straighter. ‘I’m having trouble sleeping,’ she said. It was true. But not the whole truth.
‘Okay.’ He leaned back. ‘This is a recent concern?’
‘The last couple of months.’
He nodded. ‘Has anything changed for you in that time?’
Everything, she wanted to say. ‘I . . .’ She paused. ‘I’ve had a lot on my mind.’ Grief. Such grief. She bit her lower lip.
He appraised her, let the silence linger. Then said, ‘Professional problems?’
Grateful for the way out, she said, ‘I’ve lost my job.’
‘What do you do?’
‘Journalist.’
He tapped something into her notes. ‘Have you lost weight?’
‘Hardly.’ The word came out as hoardly, as she reverted to Dublin’s rounded vowels. ‘Mum’s cooking is quite . . . wholesome.’
Tap, tap, tap.
Ellie’s fingers prickled with annoyance. This was not what she’d envisaged when she’d finally plucked up the courage to make an appointment. ‘I just want a few nights of uninterrupted sleep.’ She spread her hands in a manner that said, Is that so much to ask? There were shadows under her eyes; slugs crawling beneath her skin.
He nodded. ‘And exercise?’
‘Yoga, a few times a week,’ she lied, trying to remember the last time she’d touched her toes.
‘Have you been prescribed sleeping tablets before?’
‘No.’ She looked at her fingernails; they were down to the quick.
If he had been wearing glasses, this would be the point he removed them. ‘How’s life at home?’
‘It’s fine. If I avoid Mum’s bookshelf.’ She laughed, but he only gave her a small smile.
‘I meant your other home. In Dublin?’
Ellie became acutely aware of the door behind her and how desperately she wanted to be on the other side of it. ‘Nothing to report.’
‘You seem a little hesitant . . .’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Ellie, is something worrying you? Something you haven’t mentioned?’
She bit her bottom lip in contemplation. ‘Not that I can think of.’ She appraised him; his eyes were a vivid green, crinkled at the edges, the suggestion of a sense of humour she couldn’t imagine.
He dug in a drawer and pulled out a brochure. ‘There’s a great mental health support group here in Ballinn . . .’
She recoiled in horror. ‘I don’t need to talk to anyone . . .’ News of her life would spread like wildfire.
He appeared to understand her concern. ‘There’s also a weekly clinic in Kenmare.’
The forty-five-minute drive between Ballinn and Kenmare was nowhere near enough. ‘No,’ she said firmly. They stared at each other across the table.
He looked away. ‘Okay, Ellie. I’m going to give you something mild to help you sleep, but I’d like to check in with you again, maybe this time next week?’ Before she could argue, he continued, ‘In the meantime, returning home to live with a parent—’
‘For a bit.’
‘For a bit,’ he conceded, ‘can also be . . . difficult.’ He paused. ‘Make sure you’re getting enough space. Enough exercise. And stay off the caffeine, if you can.’
‘Okay,’ was all she said.
Across the room, the printer whirred. Dr Rathmore stood to collect the prescription. He was taller than she’d expected, and the fit of his dark blue chinos distracted her for a moment.
She cleared her throat. ‘Actually, I have something else I wanted to mention . . .’
‘Yes?’ He turned back to her.
She cursed Jules inwardly. ‘Or rather, not so much mention as give . . .’
He folded the prescription into an envelope and took his seat once again. ‘Go on.’
She pulled the letter from her pocket. ‘This is a bit awkward, but seeing as I’d already planned to drop in today . . .’
He raised his brows; under them his eyes looked tired.
‘I met your father this morning. Albert.’
Dr Rathmore blinked once, twice. A flicker of something crossed his face. Annoyance? More than annoyance? Anger?
‘It seems to me he needs . . . help.’
‘Yes.’
She paused. ‘You agree?’
‘I do, and I’m working on it.’
‘Only he did seem very . . . confused,’ she pushed.
Dr Rathmore took a deep breath. ‘My father is in the early stages of dementia . . .’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘. . . as I’m sure you’ve surmised. He refuses to have anyone stay in the house but family. Hence’ – he spread his hands wide – ‘me. Here. Now.’ He looked at his watch. ‘In fact, I need to be getting back.’
‘You’re staying at Blackwater Hall?’ She felt a pang of guilt at how quickly she had judged him.
He barely managed a smile. ‘Like you, Ellie, I’m back. For a bit.’ He let the end of his sentence hang. Then he said, ‘I’d rather you didn’t call to the house.’
Her guilt melted in an instant, and in one movement she took the envelope from him and replaced the space between his fingers with Charlotte’s letter. ‘I wanted to give him this.’
He unfolded the paper, ran his eyes over the contents, his expression changing from a frown to surprise and then . . . yes, then, right at the end, when he read the last words . . . fear? The letter fluttered to the table as he stood. ‘Your prescription.’ He went to the printer, paused by the empty tray.
She held it up. ‘I already have it, thank you.’
His back still turned, he said, ‘Where did you get that letter?’
‘From the books you dropped at the charity shop.’
‘I see.’ He straightened a few papers, then returned to the desk. ‘Thank you. I’m sure we can find somewhere to file it. I’ll talk to Harriet.’
