The inheritance, p.7
The Inheritance, page 7
CHAPTER TWELVE
This wasn’t like reading one of Aunt Evelyn’s novels. They usually started with a bang, sometimes quite literally, and there would be a body, often on the first page, then an investigation and, at the end, a terrible reckoning, with justice for the victims and harsh punishment for the offenders. This was different and Sarah knew why. You’re easing me into this. You want me to know Lucy. You need me to care about her, because then I might just go the extra mile for you both.
There were several parts of Evie’s account of her early days at Cragsmoor Manor that had intrigued Sarah, including the exact location of the priest hole, but none more so than the casual reference to a wine cellar. Was it still there and, more importantly, did it contain a few bottles that might still be drinkable?
Sarah tried three doors before she found the right one, which had a short but steep staircase going straight down into a pitch-dark and possibly empty cellar. Locating a switch that turned on a single bare bulb to light the stairs, she walked down them but could barely see into the room, though there was another switch here. When she pressed it, several overhead lights blinked on, illuminating the whole cellar. It was a large open space with a curved stone roof and tall racks filled with old bottles of fine wine.
‘Jackpot,’ she said.
Sarah brought two bottles of impressive-looking wine up to the kitchen with her. Then she got cold feet. What if the solicitor had an inventory of every bottle of wine here then billed her for each one she consumed in six months? It could cost a fortune. Best to clear it with him first.
She called Dickie and they talked about her journey and how to process future expenses such as petrol for the car, and then she said, as casually as possible, ‘While I’m here, am I allowed to consume items of food and drink I find on the premises?’
‘Of course,’ he said.
‘Including the wine?’
He seemed perfectly relaxed about that, ‘I don’t see why any of that should go to the Tory party, do you?’
‘Absolutely not.’ Since Sarah could see no way in which she would ever end up owning the manor house, she figured she might as well enjoy its wine while she was here, if only to keep it out of the Conservative Party’s clutches.
Sarah cooked and ate dinner. She was on her third glass of wine when she decided she could put off the priest hole no longer. It was quiet with no one else in the manor house, and the only sound was her own footsteps and the creak of the stairs beneath them. It felt decidedly eerie being the manor house’s sole occupant. Even the presence of Mrs Jenkins would have been preferable.
Sarah stopped just below the final stair. Just like Evie all those years ago, she could see no sign of an opening. She took hold of the top step and pulled it upwards. It opened surprisingly easily and now Sarah was staring into a sizeable dark space.
She decided not to climb in, in case she became trapped somehow and would be stuck in there until morning at the very least. Instead, Sarah turned on the torch from her phone and held it at an angle till it was shining into the priest hole. There wasn’t much to see but it was still an exciting discovery, a glimpse into a secret world from five hundred years earlier. What would it be like to hide in there for hours, possibly even days, knowing that at any moment you might be discovered, tortured and executed? As she swept her arm around, two small, dark, metal objects were caught in the beam of her torch. Lucy’s candlesticks. They were still there. Sarah thought of her hiding here whenever she felt the need to escape from her siblings and domineering father. Seeing the candles like this made it feel as if she was making a connection with that young girl, decades later.
Sarah stayed up late that night, reading more of Evelyn’s book, but she didn’t learn anything that could help her to solve the riddle of Lucy’s disappearance. Evelyn had admitted she did not know what had happened to Lucy Woodfell and found it impossible to narrow the story down, in case a small part of the memoir became a vital clue. Even so, it was almost as if her aunt had become lost in a nostalgic reverie of past, precious times with her friend.
Evie was dying as she completed this memoir, and she knew it. Who would begrudge her reminiscences of what must have been one of the happiest periods of her life? The two girls spent almost all their time together, on long walks or squirrelled away in the priest hole, the library or their bedrooms. There were no other members of the set to divide them or exclude Evie and little in the way of parental supervision. For a young girl who looked up to her friend, it must have been idyllic.
They saw Freddie at mealtimes and occasionally listened to LPs with him if they all felt in the mood. It was the time of the early Beatles and Rolling Stones, and that must have added to Evie’s excitement. She always did have a soft spot for Mick Jagger.
Sarah found herself thinking about the priest holes again. Lucy had said there were three and might even be a fourth somewhere, but no one had ever found it. She herself had no way of locating the other priest holes. Considering that Lucy Woodfell had disappeared and her body had never been found, would it be unreasonable to think that her remains could have been hidden in one of them? No, that didn’t make sense. The one below the staircase wasn’t deep enough to be a grave without the smell of a rotting body filling the air. Presumably, the other two were of a similar type and the family knew of their whereabouts, so someone would have searched them for Lucy. The idea of a fourth priest hole was still intriguing. Someone might have known of its existence. If they did, would it have been a good place to hide a body, at least for a little while, before moving it again?
It struck her then that she knew nothing about the architecture of the manor house and had no plans of the building. Dickie probably wouldn’t be much help since he hadn’t realized there was a cellar full of wine. What she needed was an expert.
Thanks to the internet, it didn’t take Sarah long to compile a short list of local historians with expertise in the Tudors and Stuarts. Up popped a number of names, some old and some part of a new breed who were social media-savvy and had YouTube channels and Instagram pages, as well as jobs as university lecturers. The older guys looked stuffy or severe, so she chose three of the younger breed and did further research. One turned out to be entirely self-taught but made a living writing books containing contrary opinions. Richard the Third didn’t order the deaths of the Princes in the Tower, Elizabeth the first married her lover in secret and Hitler never intended to start a world war. That kind of reasoning might get you a book deal but it didn’t exactly engender trust. The next candidate travelled the length of Britain uncovering historical secrets for a documentary, but his delivery was so monotonous she became bored before she had finished watching the trailer.
Maybe this wasn’t going to be as easy as she’d first hoped.
That was when she found Marcus. It absolutely wasn’t just his good looks that drew her to him or the fact that she recognized that noble, seemingly sculptured face, having once caught a late-night re-run of one of his populist history documentaries. Handsome, yes, but knowledgeable too, she told herself several times, after viewing him on his YouTube channel. Here you could see clips of Marcus Fernsby’s ‘greatest hits’, as one female admirer had dubbed them. There were other, equally direct comments from women beneath each video, including, ‘He can besiege me any time!’ In one of the clips, Marcus strode manfully along a castle’s ramparts. In another, he wore an old-fashioned white cotton nightshirt in a dimly lit Tudor bedroom as he talked breathlessly of Henry the Eighth’s all-powerful lust for Anne Boleyn. It was all a little bit distracting, but he knew his stuff.
The clincher was the clip in which he declared his fascination for priest holes. ‘The craftsmen who built these hidden rooms were driven men,’ he explained, ‘who had to mask the noise of their labours or hide them behind the cloak of normal renovations. They were the secret agents of their time, operating behind enemy lines, placing their very lives at risk!’
Sarah decided she could listen to this bloke all day. On his website she learned that he was a scholar of Latin, which would be useful, since she was limited to online translation tools that failed to fully explain the meaning of the Latin mottos inside the house. He was still based in the north-east, guest-lectured to college students between filming engagements and could be contacted via an email address or through his television agent.
Sarah decided to cut out the middle man and write to Marcus directly. She then spent far too long on an email to him. She wanted it to sound like an invitation rather than a plea for help. Would he perhaps like to come and look around the house, as she was sure he would find it interesting? She dangled the mystery of the fourth priest hole as a tantalizing incentive.
She read and re-read the email, hesitated, then hit send.
Sarah told herself it would be fine. He probably wouldn’t even bother to reply, so where was the harm?
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
It wasn’t the most ethical thing she had ever done, but her ploy with the retired detective, Edward Crozier, worked. He finally called Sarah back, hoping to solicit a further donation to the community centre he was raising funds for. He was friendly at first until he learned the true motive behind her donation and sounded far from happy about it. She feared he might immediately hang up on her. ‘Hear me out,’ she urged. ‘I’m a friend of the family, sort of.’ This at least kept him on the line, while she explained her connection to Evelyn Moore and her aunt’s friendship with Lucy Woodfell, leading to her own, more recent interest in the case.
‘You should have just asked me about it then,’ he chastised her. ‘Not pretended to be a donor.’
‘I know,’ she admitted, ‘but I thought you might not have responded to that approach and I was more than happy to donate to such a worthy cause.’
‘It’s to stop all the anti-social behaviour,’ he said then. ‘Give the kids something to do.’
‘That’s commendable,’ she said. ‘And since I did give you a donation, I was hoping you might be able to spare just a few moments of your time, to discuss the Lucy Woodfell case.’
‘Not interested,’ he growled at her and hung up.
Great, she thought. I can’t even get the police to speak to me, let alone the suspects.
That night, Sarah heard what sounded like whispering. She had been lying in bed, entirely alone in the house, and had reached the point where she was struggling to keep her eyes open, when she heard the voices and sat up in a panic.
At first, she couldn’t work out what it was. Had that really been whispering? Who was in the house with her? Had somebody broken in? Were they looking for something or did they want to hurt her? And what, if anything, could she do about it?
Or perhaps she was simply hearing things. She was quite still, straining her ears to listen, but there was nothing now. No sound, no voices and no whispers, no one moving around.
Just when she thought she must have imagined the whole thing or that it was simply an unfamiliar sound from outside carried on a breeze, the sounds came again. Whispers that somehow reached her from the floors below.
What should she do? Call the police? She wanted to, but what if it was a false alarm? She’d never dare call them again. Sarah’s instincts were telling her someone was downstairs but her brain was saying this couldn’t be. She had locked every door then checked them all again before going to bed.
Maybe she should investigate the sound on her own. It would put her mind at rest if she found no one downstairs, but it was a terrifying prospect.
Sarah climbed out of bed and went to her door, then pressed her head against it to listen. Was someone on the landing? Perhaps they were already outside her door, about to turn the handle and burst in? Why was there no lock on this bloody door anyway? She resolved to get one fitted. For now, though, despite telling herself that there really was no one there, she couldn’t bring herself to open it and go down the stairs to check for intruders.
She didn’t want to go back to bed either, with only a door that couldn’t be secured between herself and any threat. How could she sleep like that? Sarah scanned the room for a suitable object. The bedside cabinet was a solid piece of furniture. She removed a lamp from it and found the cabinet was heavy, but she managed to drag it along the floor until it was right up against the door. Crucially, it was the right height to fit snugly below the door handle. If anyone turned it from the outside, they would meet resistance when the handle caught against the top of the cabinet and Sarah would hear them. She wished she had brought a knife from the kitchen but wasn’t about to go downstairs and get one now.
She went back to her bed and lay there for a while. There was no sound at first, then that bloody whispering started up again, or was it actually a crackling sound, like an electrical item that had been left on somewhere? A radio perhaps? Maybe it was the water tank bubbling away or a breeze whistling through the roof tiles. They were all more rational explanations than whispering burglars? She felt a little calmer now that she had secured the room, but still couldn’t sleep. Instead, she lay there listening, her mind restlessly turning over every sound she heard. A creak was a foot pressing on a stair; the north-east wind that battered the house and seemed to shake it, was really the sound of someone up on the roof, trying to find a way in.
And then there was that damn whispering, which absolutely could not be human voices, surely? It continued for so long that it could only have been caused by something else from within the house – but what? In the end, she was so exhausted she finally fell asleep until she was woken by what sounded like another sound from downstairs. Light was pouring into the room from outside and she realized it was morning.
Sarah kept perfectly still in order to hear the sound more clearly if it came again. There was no repeat and she put it down to one of the many natural noises the ancient manor house made, as it expanded and contracted when the plumbing system forced hot water through cold pipes.
Satisfied that there was no one there and knowing that Mrs Jenkins was not due in again for a couple of days, Sarah got up and took a shower. As she was drying off, she heard a light thud from downstairs that sounded as if the mail had been delivered. She hadn’t thought to bring a dressing gown with her, so she wrapped the towel around herself and went down the stairs, planning to make a cup of tea then return to her bedroom with it.
But not only was there no post on the mat by the door, there was no letter box. This confused Sarah. If the noise had not been the post landing on the mat, what was it? A worrying thought hit her then. What if it was a door closing with a thud – which meant it had to have been opened by someone?
Just as that thought struck her, Sarah heard another sound and the kitchen door opened behind her. She spun round to find a startled-looking man staring right at her.
‘What the hell?’ she cried out in alarm. ‘Who are you?’
Christ, was this man an intruder or more ‘staff’ she wasn’t aware of? He seemed at least as surprised to walk in on her as she was to see him. He continued to gaze at her as she clutched the towel tightly to herself but gave no immediate answer. He didn’t look threatening, but why wasn’t he explaining himself? The towel was short. She hunched forward slightly, the better to fully cover herself.
‘Gardener,’ was all he managed in answer to her question.
‘Niece,’ she told him in reply, losing all eloquence now. ‘Evie’s niece. I …’ how to explain her presence? ‘… live here now,’ she settled on.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘No one told me.’
‘No one told me about you either.’ It was good to know he hadn’t just broken into the place, but she did feel vulnerable standing there wearing only a towel, in front of an admittedly good-looking man around her own age. She wondered when he would notice her discomfort and go back out to the garden.
‘I thought I’d seen a ghost.’ And when she frowned at this over-reaction, he said, ‘You look just like her.’
He clearly meant Evie. ‘Do I?’ This can’t have been a compliment. Evie was seventy when she died.
‘In her old photos,’ he explained, ‘… for a second there I thought she’d come back from the grave.’ He shook his head. ‘I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m sorry for your loss. Your aunt was a lovely lady.’
She almost blurted out, ‘Was she?’ but managed not to. I liked her, she thought, but I was never sure if anyone else did. Sarah was relieved to hear that her aunt’s rather combative personality did not prevent others from appreciating her in the way that Sarah had.
‘I’ll leave you to it, then.’
He turned to go and she said, ‘Er …’
He turned back to face her. ‘What’s your name?’ she asked.
‘Sorry, Patrick,’ he said.
‘I’m Sarah. And how many days a week do you work here, Patrick?’
‘Two in the gardens.’
‘Which ones?’
‘Tuesday and Thursday.’
‘Right, thank you.’ And she made a mental note to ensure she was properly dressed on the days when he was due to be gardening.
‘But I do other days around the house,’ he explained. ‘That’s if you still want me to?’ He had assumed she’d inherited the manor and was now probably worried about his job here.
‘Absolutely,’ she said. ‘No changes.’ She could have added, ‘As long as you don’t burst in on me again when I’m almost naked.’ But she knew it wasn’t his fault Mrs Jenkins hadn’t bothered to tell him she was moving in.
He smiled at her, nodded in agreement and she watched him go before padding back up the stairs to get dressed. It seemed you got a lot less privacy when you were the lady of the manor.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
After spending several hours trying and largely failing to write her own book, Sarah gave up. Months before, a lifetime ago now, she had considered the idea behind this novel to be the best she had ever come up with and couldn’t wait to get started on it. Now, she was genuinely worried it might possibly be the most ludicrous plot anyone had ever dreamed up. It was slim consolation to Sarah that, at some point in the writing process, in every novel she’d ever written, she always felt like this.
