The silence was intense. She turned off her little machine and walked slowly around the room, trying to feel the atmosphere. Had they all been in here, talking, drinking, smoking, when it had happened? Dinner was over, they were all agreed on that. And the ladies had withdrawn. But what had happened after that? John Milton said they had all gathered in the drawing room and that someone had agreed to sing. Sarah Courtney said the men were sitting over their port whilst the ladies were still upstairs, powdering their noses. Stella had finished and had gone on down alone
Walking back to the foot of the stairs, Jan peered up. The staircase is shallow, graceful, curved elegantly around the wall, she murmured into her machine. The banister, polished and smooth, was almost warm beneath the light touch of her fingers. Stella Seymours body was found crumpled at the bottom by the other guests who ran from the dining room, and presumably from the bedroom, when they heard her scream. At the time her death was widely thought to be suicide. It was only four years later, after the war had ended, at the instigation of the man who claimed to have been her lover, that the first accusation of murder was heard.
Slowly Jan began to climb. Half-way up she stopped suddenly. She could hear something. The intense silence of the house had gone and instead, she realised, she could hear a gentle murmur of conversation coming from somewhere quite near her. She was almost at the bend in the staircase. Frozen with embarrassment she looked up and then back. David Seymour had promised her the house was empty. She could feel her heart beating fast. This was ridiculous. She had permission to be here.
Squatters? Was that it? Could there be squatters in the house? Uncertain what to do, she clutched her tape recorder more tightly as she tiptoed on up the stairs and peered along the upper landing. Several doors stood open up there; all the rooms were empty of furniture.
The sound of voices was louder now. She could hear the occasional chink of glass, of cutlery on china. It sounded as if a dinner party were in progress. Flattening herself against the wall she squinted back down the stairs where she could just see the door opposite the drawing room. It was closed. Why hadnt she looked in there? Had she not noticed it in her anxiety to see the staircase? Whatever the reason, she thanked God she had not gone barging in, for that seemed to be where the noise was coming from. Get out. That was what she must do. Get out now, without anyone seeing her.
Taking a deep breath she crept back down the stairs, intensely aware that this was where Stella Seymour had died.
The sounds were quieter again now that she was nearly down. Gradually the hall fell silent. The front door was still ajar as she had left it. She could see the wedge of sunlight thrown across the dusty floor. How strange that the noises had been louder from upstairs.
She stopped. She could smell cigars. Then, quite near her, she heard a man laugh. Spinning round, she faced the sound. There was no one to be seen. Her mouth dry, she switched off her tape recorder. Pushing it into her shoulder bag, she tiptoed towards the dining room door, holding her breath as she edged closer. She could see now that it was not quite shut. Cautiously she moved forward. She could hear the voices again. And subdued laughter. Smell the tobacco. There was a sudden crescendo in the noise and a shout of laughter as she brought her eye to the crack in the door.
They were sitting around an oblong table some dozen people no, she saw suddenly, just men, all at one end of the table. The air was wreathed in smoke. They were all wearing dinner jackets.
A sudden sound behind her brought her upright swiftly, her heart pounding. She could hear footsteps on the landing.
David, darling The voice was clear and high. Excited. There was a rustle of skirts, the quick patter of feet and then suddenly horribly a high-pitched scream.
Jan froze, her hand still clenched on the door-frame behind her back. She could hear it. The sound of a body falling, but there was nothing there. Nothing at all. The dust was untouched on the steps save for the scuff marks where her own shoes had been.
Whirling, she stared behind her at the door. Beyond it there was total silence. Her heart was hammering so loudly in her ears she felt sure it must echo all round the house as she pulled the door-handle and swung the door open. The dining room was empty. There was no table. No scent of tobacco. The room smelled merely of damp.
Only when she was sitting at last in her car peering back at the house did she start to breathe again. She flung her bag onto the passenger seat beside her and slammed down the door lock, then she sat for a moment, her forehead resting against the rim of the steering wheel. She was shaking all over.
David Seymour had poured her a cup of coffee himself, from hands which were considerably less shaky than hers, despite his ninety-four years. Youve just come from The Laurels now? He stood looking down at her, his expression curiously neutral. My dear Miss Haydon, I am so sorry you should have been so frightened. There is no one there, I can assure you. My grandson keeps an eye on the place for me. He went over there only a couple of days ago.
I shouldnt have come straight to you like this. The black coffee was taking effect. This was an old man and his memories of the house must be bad enough without her adding to them with wild stories about ghosts!
He shook his head, sitting down opposite her. Im glad you did. Who else would you go to? He reached for the phone from the table beside him. Im calling my grandson now. He can go over there straightaway to check that there are no intruders. His voice was strong and alert, like the rest of him, Jan thought, as she leaned back against the cushions and sipped her coffee gratefully.
She realised he was watching her intently as he replaced the receiver. Simon is coming over here first. He reached for his own cup. He paused. You are irrevocably set upon writing my wifes biography?
Jan frowned. There are a great many people who would love to read it. She was a very great painter. Shes been a heroine of mine for as long as I can remember.
And that is a reason for raking over her bones?
The sharpness of the words brought Jan up with a shock.
Im sorry. I understood you had no objection to the book.
Would it matter if I had? His gaze was suddenly piercing.
Well She hesitated.
No. Of course it wouldnt. In fact my opposition would whet your appetite. It would make you curious. You would want to know what the old buzzard was hiding! He glared at her.
She smiled shame-facedly. I expect it would, if Im honest.
He nodded, seemingly satisfied with her answer. Good. Youll do. Now, do you believe that I murdered her? The directness of the question was shocking.
I no of course not. She was embarrassed.
There is no of course not about it, my dear. You must search the evidence. You must be a thorough and honest investigator.
But they never charged you.
No.
You loved her.
The old face softened. Indeed I did. I worshipped her.
And she didnt have an affair
Didnt she? He seemed suddenly to be looking inside himself, searching for pictures which had long ago grown fuzzy and out of focus. She was a vibrant, sociable, lovely person and she was lonely. I had been away so long. It was the war.
Didnt she? He seemed suddenly to be looking inside himself, searching for pictures which had long ago grown fuzzy and out of focus. She was a vibrant, sociable, lovely person and she was lonely. I had been away so long. It was the war.
Jan bit her lip. Then the article in the American paper was true? It had appeared only a few months ago, reviving old memories, claiming that the baby Stella had been expecting was the result of an affair.
I did not say that. She could see his pain. I didnt know if I could father more children; I had been wounded. But the American had long gone and Stella was above all honest. She said he had meant nothing and I believed her. I did not know he had taken so many of her pictures away
Surely the pictures didnt mean anything. Obscurely she felt she had to comfort him. He could have been going to sell them or exhibit them for her
Perhaps. He sighed. The fall was an accident. A catastrophic, disastrous, tragic accident. She would not have killed herself. Im sure she wouldnt. And yet how can I be sure? And how will I ever know about the child? He took a deep breath and looked up at her again, suddenly almost pleading. You will make your own mind up as to the truth of all this, and I think you will make the right decision.
Was he asking her to decide? To find out the truth for him? Jan bit her lip as the old man sighed again, a bone-weary sound which tore at her heartstrings.
In a way Im glad all this has happened, he went on after a moment. Simon has been trying to make me face the rumours and think about that house for years. Its an albatross; a Pandoras box. If there are people squatting there, which I doubt, then its time to let it go. I hope Simon will get married, then he could live there, but its too big for one person alone. There was another short silence. Stella wouldnt have liked squatters. She loved that house, you know. All her best painting was done there. He levered himself to his feet. Did you see her studio?
Jan shook her head. Im afraid I left rather quickly.
The old man grinned. Ran away, did you? Cant blame you. Ive always thought the house was rather spooky, myself, but Stella always filled it with people. There was never any silence. Only when she was painting, or when she said she was painting He turned away sharply. For a moment Jan wondered if he were sobbing silently. She could see the movement of his shoulders and she ached to comfort him. But as she watched he straightened himself and with a visible effort he turned and went over to the window.
Jan too had heard the car draw up outside. She waited, watching, as David Seymour turned to face the door.
Simons first words were to the point. If you have been upsetting Grandfather
No, Simon! The old mans interruption was peremptory. She has been doing nothing of the kind. I gave the girl permission to go to The Laurels. And I want her to write Stellas story. Its all so long ago now. No one is going to be hurt
Simon swung round. But Grandfather
Enough. David threw himself back on the chair with a groan. I want you to tell her everything she wants to know. And go with her to check out the house. He gave a short laugh which after a moment changed into a cough. She thinks someone is squatting there. She heard people in the dining room.
They went in Simons car. Jan had followed him out of the house reluctantly, sensing his hostility. Im sorry to inflict this on you, she said as she slotted her seatbelt into place. Im sure you have better things to do than chase out to the country at a moments notice.
If there are squatters something must be done about it, he replied. Engaging gear smoothly he swung the car out into the traffic. How long were you in the house?
Only a few minutes.
But you saw no one?
She hesitated. How could she tell him what she saw? No.
And the door was locked?
She nodded. It didnt seem to have been opened for ages.
I have the back door key. I imagine that if there are intruders, they too have gone in that way. Only Grandfather still has the front door key, as far as I know.
Do you remember your grandmother? Jan glanced at him curiously.
He gave a short laugh. Hardly. She died long before I was born.
Im sorry. Of course.
Youve seen her self portrait? The one in the town gallery?
Jan nodded. She was very beautiful.
Yes. He turned onto the bypass and accelerated away from the traffic. I suppose the idea is to bring your book out in time for the exhibition theyre planning for next year to mark the fiftieth anniversary of her death.
It will be wonderful to have so many of her paintings together.
Even the ones in the States. Quite. His voice was dry. Were almost there.
He pulled the car around the back of the house and they climbed out, looking round. The house seemed as deserted as before. There was no sign of life at all as Simon pulled out his key and opened the back door.
No one in here, anyway. He walked ahead of her into the kitchen.
Jan looked round. Oak dresser, table, chairs, deep sink, rusty range. It was obvious that no one had cooked here since that day in the war when David Seymour had walked out of the house after his wifes funeral, locked the door and gone back to his squadron.
She could feel her stomach clenching with nerves. Perhaps they are camping in some other part of the house.
Perhaps. Simon reached into his pocket and produced a torch. He did not switch it on however. Enough sunlight filtered through blind and shutter for them to see clearly as they walked slowly through the ground floor. Outside the dining room door he stopped. You heard them in here? He had his hand on the knob.
She nodded. She knew what they would find. Only dust and cobwebs decorated the room which had glittered with such life. I suppose you think Im going mad?
He grinned. It made him look suddenly and unexpectedly approachable. No more than dozens of other people who have seen and heard it too.
She stared at him. You mean you know about it what I saw? You knew! Your grandfather knew?
He nodded. Ghosts. Memories trapped in the walls. Who knows. None of the people in the village will come near this house. Which suits us fine. He pulled the door closed. Come and see Stellas studio.
He gave her no chance to say anything as he strode back to the kitchen and out of the house. She followed him, almost running, over the long grass of what had once been the lawn and through an overgrown shrubbery to a low, thatch-roofed building which overlooked a reedy pond. He reached for the key which was hidden beneath a moss-covered stone. I cant think why this place hasnt been vandalised. But it seems Stellas secrets are still her secrets, he said shortly. He stood back and let Jan go in ahead of him. Did my grandfather not tell you about this place?
Jan shook her head. She stared round.
The studio stood on the edge of the water, its large windows allowing the sky and the willows and the glittering ripples to explode into the room, filling it with light. All Stellas painting equipment was still here: easels, canvases, paints, sketchbooks curled with damp, the pages stuck together, an ancient sofa, draped in a green silk shawl, the fringe trailing on the ground, black with mildew, vases of flowers, long dried and faded beyond recognition, on the table a straw sun hat amongst the scattered brushes and pencils and dried-up tubes of paint.