Sixteen
‘It’s best sometimes to leave certain people alone and that includes Mrs Rawling, trust me.’ It was the advice Dorrie had given to Verity when her niece had brought up her idea of calling in on Pauline Rawling.
‘If you think it’s best, Aunt Dor, then I won’t,’ Verity had replied. ‘Mrs Rawling doesn’t welcome callers, I take it?’
‘Not even those with the best of intentions, dear.’
Dorrie would never forget her time on Pauline Rawling’s doorstep soon after the grisly discovery of her daughter Mary and her lover Neville Stevens’ bloodied bodies. Dorrie had taken a posy of white roses tied with black ribbon, and a basket of provisions, sure the bereaved mother would not feel like shopping for some time. She had already sent a letter of condolence, but she had been nervous at facing the long-term elderly widow who had lost her only child. Pauline Rawling was a curt, bluff-voiced woman, never given to socializing. It was never easy to gauge when to call on the bereaved if you were not close to them, and it was unlikely Pauline Rawling would welcome callers.
Dorrie had knocked on the front door of the shabby small cottage, waited a minute then tried again. All the curtains were drawn over including the small square of cheap glass in the top half of the door. The single curtain in the door was lifted back at the corner and Pauline Rawling’s face, slightly distorted behind the flawed glass, looked out. She opened the door an inch. ‘Mrs Resterick, I was more or less expecting you to show up. You’re the main do-gooder in this village. Your sentiments are kind but not needed here. I can manage, thank you.’
‘Well, I’m sure you can manage, Mrs Rawling,’ Dorrie had said, trying not to sound embarrassed or hesitant. ‘Would you at least like to accept the flowers?’
‘I don’t need or want the usual stuff that goes with a death. What good would they do? Won’t bring Mary back. Won’t alter the fact she reaped what she sowed after all she did. She was a disobedient child, a liar and a thief, who thought nothing of stealing from her own mother’s purse, and she grew up to be a whore. I don’t know what she was up to but she gloated that she and Stevens were soon to come into a hefty sum of money and would be clearing off and living the high life. Well, in reality she chose the low life and met an end that was her due.
‘There’s no use beating about the bush: she hated me and I grew to despise her. I couldn’t wait for the day when she would leave me in peace. But rather than just slinking off she’s left me in the never-ending misery of her disgrace and I’ll never forgive her. I’ll pay for her funeral when they release her body but I won’t go to it. The time of the funeral won’t be announced. There will be no tolling of the bell, no hymns, no flowers and no headstone. She lived like an alley cat. Now she’s dead, but she’ll never be forgotten because her wickedness will feed the gossips for years and years. She’s cursed me for the rest of my life and for it I curse her memory. It was good of you to call, Mrs Resterick, but I won’t keep you. Good day to you.’
Dorrie had left feeling chilled to the crevices of her bones. For a long time the horrific double murders had cast a macabre gloom over Nanviscoe, edged with the fear that there might yet be new victims. The horror of Pauline Rawling’s coldness towards her unfortunate dead daughter had never left Dorrie. Much later, when she had found out the true reason behind the murders – Mary and Neville’s bid at blackmail – Dorrie had wondered if the mother knew about it. If so, she could either be a dangerous person herself or lead anyone curious about the tragedy to the same dreadful fate.
‘Promise me you’ll never go to see Mrs Rawling. You’re very kind to think of her, a stranger to you, but believe me, it would be a terrible intrusion in her case.’
Verity had been intrigued by her Aunt Dorrie’s dour emphasis but she had promised her she would never set foot on Pauline Rawling’s doorstep. As she began work for the second week in Meadows House, Verity mused that Nanviscoe had experienced quite a few tantalizingly mysterious events.
Unpacking Squire Randall Newton’s boxes and crates of tomes, maps and even some artefacts from around the world was as thrilling to Verity as opening her presents as a child at Christmas. The cargo had travelled all the way from various countries in Europe, South America and the Middle East. Excitedly, when first looking over the stack of unopened treasures, Verity had thought that Hitler might have sent his cohorts to kill and steal them if he had known about them, but then she decided they were probably too small-fry for that maniac’s interest. Objects worth hundreds, perhaps thousands of pounds, hidden from sight for over twenty-five years could be languishing inside all this packaging, and it was her job to bring them out to the daylight. She was transported back to her childhood when she had played explorer games with her siblings and cousins. Aunt Dorrie and Uncle Greg had joined in and she and the others had learned the exciting remarkable facts about famous pioneers, pirates and buccaneers. She must be careful not to unleash dangerous creepy-crawlies, spiders and beetles – not because she was afraid of them, but because they could leap out and strike her down with poison or a nasty skin disease. And curses! She would say a quick prayer before she opened each box in case an ancient curse had been uttered over something inside. She had laughed at herself about that, but as Aunt Dorrie might say, ‘You never know . . .’
Jack had brought her here to his home the first day. ‘You know the farm well, Verity, but did you ever see the house?’ he had asked, after he had handed her out of his motor car. ‘It was built roughly about the same time as Sunny Corner. When you come to think of it, it’s strange that a Newton and a Barnicoat have never entered into marriage. The house is not very impressive but rather it strives for comfort. It’s what my forebears plumped for after first establishing the land and trotting off to explore the world and enduring similar deprivations to the natives. So, no extravagant front steps, just the doorstep, granite, of course, and good and wide. Plain front porch but the windows give a good view of the stream garden. You must wander about outside at will, Verity, you’ll find it very tranquil. My family, and that includes me, have never spent a lot of time here really but it’s always been the perfect place to retreat to.’
‘I’ve only caught glimpses of the house while playing or out riding. I always thought it looked cosy and sheltered among the trees and the usual exotic tall bushes found around big houses.’ Verity had clutched her hands together at her chest. ‘I can’t wait to see inside the house and especially inside all your father’s boxes.’
‘Where would Cornwall be without its gentleman’s glut of rhododendrons and camellias?’ Jack answered, as if thinking about it for the first time. ‘My great-grandfather fretted about the lack of late-summer colour so he was responsible for the borders of hydrangea, hypericum and heathers and the rest. My favourites are the heathers, all types and colours. I’ve added many of them myself. As for inside, there’s a downstairs cloakroom so I’ll ask you to keep to the ground floor, but do make use of the drawing room for your comfort. Cathy, the maid, will bring you meals and tea trays but feel free to ring for anything you want at any time.’
So I’m not allowed to wander upstairs, Verity had thought, that is a bit mysterious. Has he anything to hide? Then she told herself not to be so daft. It was his house, his private domain. No one wanted others to intrude on their bedrooms. ‘You didn’t mention what you’ve hired me for, Jack. Aren’t you at all curious about your father’s finds?’
‘I was years ago. I made to open a box once and my father lashed out at me and ordered me to never touch them again. Since then I’ve never really cared about what is in those boxes.’ Jack had shrugged his shoulders, but Verity had seen that he was still upset by the incident. ‘You may have heard my father was a very hard man.’
‘Aunt Dorrie has mentioned Mr Randall was famous for his quick temper.’
‘That’s an understatement, but anyway, he died before he’d opened his stuff and I suppose it’s time it was unpacked. I don’t want to leave it to the next generation. I’ll show you to the library in a while, but first come with me.’
Verity had pondered those words: ‘the next generation’. Unless he married again and produced children Jack wouldn’t be heralding in the next generation. He had a sister somewhere. Apparently, she had run away from her finishing school and had since been disinherited. Jack’s younger brother had taken himself off long before the war and was said to have drunk himself to death in some foreign land. Presumably Jack was alone because of his father’s brutal behaviour.
Jack had taken her to the huge impeccable kitchen, where copper pans and blue and white china were arranged like crack troops on parade, but the room was made homely by the smiley presence of his husband and wife house steward and cook, Sidney and Coral Kelland, a chatty, lumpy-bumpy couple, who had been in service in Randall Newton’s day. Verity was becoming more interested in the Newton family history by the minute and she was hopeful the Kellands would tell her much about it. With them was the housemaid, Cathy Vercoe, a niece of Denny. Denny had taken orphaned Cathy in along with her sister Tilly, who was a maid at Petherton. Cathy was an agreeable young woman of straight figure, discreet and loyal. The company drank tea and ate slices of delicious sponge cake. Verity felt very welcome here and was amused by how the staff kept gazing from her to their master as if seeking to ascertain if there was anything deeper between them than an official capacity. It was obvious the Kellands held Jack in some affection as well as respect and were probably hoping their master would marry again and live a happy settled life.
After showing Verity the downstairs rooms Jack opened the double doors of the library. The smells of leather and beeswax polish hit Verity’s nose. The long room of heavy-curtained windows was warm from a wood and coal fire. Dominating the room was the custom-made table and brown leather chairs. There were many smaller tables and upholstered chairs. Set down on the floor near the door, in a neat row, were containers of various sizes.
‘There’s eight wooden boxes and one crate. I’ve brought in a caddy of tools and opened them all. I don’t want you hurting yourself, Verity, so be very sure to ask Kelland for any help that you need. Don’t lift anything heavy. Your task will be to lay all the items in their categories on the table and to make lists. I don’t require you to do anything complicated. If anything is damaged or fragile put it down one end. Take your time, there’s no hurry at all. There are some cotton gloves on the shelf there. I don’t want you hurting your hands or getting grubby. Anything that’s really heavy or you are not sure about please just leave it where it is. Nothing is urgent. I’ll pop in next week and see how you are getting on. Following that I’ll have more work for you in the farm office, if you’re happy to continue working for me.’
‘I’m sure I’ll be perfectly happy to, Jack. I think I’m going to be fascinated to get stuck in to those boxes.’
‘That’s obvious,’ Jack said. ‘Your eyes are lit up like Christmas lights.’ Verity noticed he was getting restless, even uncomfortable. She went on to learn from Mrs Kelland that he never stayed in any place for long. ‘I’m off to play golf with friends at Mounts Bay. Settle yourself in slowly, Verity, and thank you. Don’t forget that the Kellands and Cathy will be only too happy to wait on you. They prefer it when someone is in the house.’
He left the room, and Verity had watched him as he had halted and heaved a sigh and lit a cigarette. It came to her then that despite Jack’s caddish reputation he was probably actually a lonely man dragged down by bad experiences he couldn’t forget, and the fast life he led might merely be his way of filling in time. That saddened her.
Now, she was expecting Jack to show up to see how her work was progressing. She had enjoyed every moment of her time spent at Meadows House, watching the piles of books and maps grow as she delivered them out of their dark solitude. Her lists were long for there were books on every subject, in every language, including Latin, by authors and illustrators of every nation and walk of life. Some were originally from Britain. Judging by the editions on the Newtons’ shelves, Verity believed Randall was a seeker and collector and had lost interest in his finds after that. Why else leave his collections unpacked and nailed down? While Verity was sure Randall had been a bully, who had found most things in his life unsatisfactory and grown intent on destroying it – hence the dejection of his three children – she felt there was no mystery about him, but she was still curious about the tragic fate that had befallen Jack’s young wife, Lucinda. And Verity was puzzled, like all of Nanviscoe, over another tragedy, one that had cast a gloom over the highly successful Summer Fair, the deaths of Delia Newton and Lorna Barbary. Aunt Dorrie and Uncle Greg were attending the coroner’s court today to hear the official verdicts of the deaths, accidental everyone assumed, although most were only really sorry about the long-suffering Lorna’s untimely end.
For now Verity contented herself with the sad death of Lucinda Newton. She had got all the facts that her aunt knew about the unfortunate woman.
‘No one locally knew the poor woman and few of us even caught a glimpse of her. Jack met and married her in Italy, brought her home without announcement and she never left Meadows House unless with him in the car. Jack spoke of Lucinda warmly but offered little information about her. I went over to the house to welcome her to Nanviscoe and was shown into the conservatory. She told me she liked to be there with the vines and greenery, and preferred to be out of doors as much as possible. Apparently, she spent most of her time out in the grounds, with her little white poodle. Jack found her body hanging from a beech tree, the dog howling up at her from the ground. The poor thing pined to death soon afterwards and was buried in Lucinda’s grave.’
‘So what was Lucinda like, Aunt Dor? What did she look like?’ Verity had demanded excitedly. ‘Were she and Jack madly in love?’
‘I don’t think it was that sort of marriage. I think Lucinda was a troubled, fragile soul and Jack married her to protect her. He certainly doted on her. It was the one time he rarely left the house. But Lucinda liked to be alone with her dog, Polly. I think she lived mostly in her own make-believe world, a child’s world. She had lots of dolls displayed about the house and looked at them often, almost as if she was talking to them. I think she found comfort in them. Sadly, I wasn’t at all surprised when I learned she had killed herself. She didn’t seem to belong to this world. Her looks? She was tiny and delicate and gorgeous, beautiful in an old-fashioned way, like a doll herself. She had thick ebony hair and long eyelashes and eyes that were so dark they seemed pitch black. Her voice was soft and faraway. It was like being with a real-life fairy, but one that had had her wings stolen. She spoke only of Polly, whom she cuddled and cosseted incessantly, and the plants and trees and the stream. You couldn’t help being drawn to her, to want to protect her. When Cathy brought us high tea she fed all her cake to Polly and only took a sip of tea. She was a lost waif and I instinctively felt sorry for her. I sensed if she stepped outside of the grounds alone she would be very frightened.’
‘Golly, she sounds the complete opposite to me.’
‘She was, poor soul. Every time I called on her after that, Jack or Cathy said she wasn’t available, invariably out in the gardens or resting. I really felt for Jack. I could feel his sorrow and concern for her, and his devotion. Yes, he loved her very much and he was distraught when she died, yet somehow . . . relieved for her, I felt.’
‘Poor Lucinda, sounds like she had run away from something haunting her. Poor Jack too, I can understand why he plays the field now. After being attached to such an ethereal being, it would be hard to settle down with a woman in the normal way.’
‘I think you’ve hit the nail on the head there, Verity. I know Lucinda sounds fascinating.’ Dorrie had raised her brows purposefully. ‘But I think it would be most inappropriate to pry into her past . . . don’t you?’
‘Absolutely, Aunt Dorrie,’ Verity had replied, but she had meant it rather tongue in cheek.
She had not mentioned Lucinda to Cathy or the Kellands, but she had looked in every downstairs room and the conservatory for Lucinda’s dolls. None were to be found, but there was a photograph of her and Jack, holding hands, among the framed Newton family parade on the piano in the drawing room. Dorrie’s description of Lucinda was spot on. Lucinda was shown in a long white lace dress and pumps with a white ribbon threaded through her black hair. Only as tall as Jack’s upper arm, against which she was leaning. Yes, she had been like a very beautiful child and her most outstanding feature had been her large guarded eyes.
Verity brought herself back to the present, chiding herself for once again using her employer’s time to mull over his private life. After all, contemplating his wife’s life and death and making mysteries out of them was snooping and it was sort of a betrayal to Jack, who had not really needed to give her a job here. She had even searched for Lucinda’s grave, hoping to discover more about her character from its design and inscription. It was ghoulish and downright nosy and Jack did not deserve it. He was a good man and he had been kind to Verity.
Picking up the ledger and pencil in her gloved hands, she added the details of the final book she had taken out of the fifth box she had unpacked, which by its labels had been freighted across the seas from Cyprus. The book was ancient and well worn, as was about a third of the stuff, and Verity assumed Randall Newton had procured these curios out of fascination, perhaps finding interest only in the buying or bartering process. Many of the items had covers she thought of as having come from various animal hides and smelled pungent and she was glad of the gloves – a clean pair were provided for her every day – so she did not have to touch them. The thick tome she was holding was badly scuffed and had practically fallen apart, as was its predecessors, and she wondered if they were a job lot. The book cover was bare of inscription but Verity recognized the content as Arabic fables, and this was how she logged it in, then she laid it down carefully on the appropriate pile and wrote out a ticket for it.
Verity had meant to ask Jack what he intended to do with the stuff. While taking her first morning break, which she had in the kitchen, welcomed by the small staff, Mrs Kelland was able to tell her. ‘Mr Jack is going to sell them. He’s talked about it now and then, meant to get some auction house round to value it all and take it away, but he never did. We’re all glad he’s brought you here instead, Miss Verity. It’s lovely having someone in the house. The three of us work just as hard when Mr Jack is away but it’s not the same. We feel more valuable when we have someone to serve.’
Verity, who before had thrived only on lots of company, enjoyed it here in the quietness of Meadows House and strolling through the gardens and talking to the servants. Away from her old life she had put Julius Urquart and the hurt he had caused her firmly in the past. She wished she could work here forever.
The day wore on and Jack did not come. She finished for the day and said goodbye to Cathy when the maid brought her hat. Directly across from them in the spacious hall was the staircase. Of dark oak and uncarpeted, the stairs went straight up, and the landing divided to right and left and above the closed banisters were the tops of various doors, a very tantalizing sight to Verity. But she must forget the pull of those forbidden doors and break off wondering what might – just might – be secreted behind them.