Chapter ELEVEN
It was Friday morning and Sylvia had arranged to pick me up and take me over to Riverbend Hall.
I’d decorated venues for numerous Hallowe’en parties during my career, although never for a Hallowe’en wedding – but I always relished a challenge.
We were chatting and laughing about something as Sylvia turned off the main road and onto the winding drive that led to the house. But at the first glimpse of the hall, we both fell silent.
Riverbend Hall looked to me like something from the ol.
‘Hammer House of Horrors’
movies, its distinctively Gothic style giving it a dark and rather brooding appearance, as threatening rainclouds loomed over the rooftop spires.
I’d thought the hall would have guests staying during the week and maybe more arriving for the weekend. But owner Sarah Frobisher had told Sylvia we could virtually pick our day and time to come over. She’d had a party in that week. A couple celebrating their silver wedding anniversary with their friends and family had rented the hall for three nights. But they were leaving by eleven on Friday, and after that there were no more bookings in the diary until New Year.
Sylvia parked on the gravelled drive by the main door and we got out. She rang the bell, and a woman with an orange duster, a can of polish and a warm smile answered the door and introduced herself as Linda. She ushered us in, saying Miss Frobisher was upstairs but that she’d go and tell her we’d arrived.
We stood in the imposing entrance hall, staring around us in awe.
I’d seen some beautiful big houses during my career, but this place was something else! It was rather run-down but it had a sort of faded charm – and it was the perfect venue for a Hallowe’en wedding.
Linda had disappeared and everything was silent.
Spookily silent.
Then suddenly, the floor seemed to shake beneath us and a low rumble could be heard in the distance.
‘What on earth’s that?’
I asked, looking at Sylvia in alarm.
‘No idea. It sounds like a train rumbling past. But there isn’t a station for miles.’
‘Maybe it’s the heating cranking up?’
I was feeling genuinely unsettled, which wasn’t like me at all. (I was usually the practical one, settling other people’s nerves.) It must be the atmosphere in this eerie old house.
And I’d agreed to spend the night here!
Linda appeared on the stairs, running down and opening a door off the hall.
‘Sorry about the noise in here. I’m doing the towels, but it’s a really old washing machine and it practically marches across the floor to the other side of the room when it’s spinning.’
I glanced at Sylvia and I saw my relief reflected in the way she laughed, just as I did.
‘Not the phantom of Riverbend Hall, then,’
she said.
‘Just a bog-standard washing machine. How very disappointing.’
‘I know.’
I smiled at her.
‘I was starting to think the rumours of ghosts and ghouls must be true.’
Linda, having fetched a mop propped just inside the kitchen door, smiled and said.
‘Lots of people do believe this place is haunted. I’ve been cleaning for Sarah – Miss Frobisher – for the past six months, ever since she started renting the hall out to holidaymakers, and I have to say, I’m on the fence at to whether or not it has a resident spook. Have you booked a stay here?’
‘We’re preparing for a Hallowe’en wedding,’
Sylvia explained.
‘Mine, actually.’
‘Oh, congratulations.’
Her eyes widened and she looked genuinely pleased for Sylvia.
‘Thank you. Yes, so a ghost or two might actually add to the atmosphere.’
I laughed.
‘It would make it memorable, that’s for sure.’
Linda leaned on her mop.
‘You know . . . I think you might be in luck on the haunted front.’
Glancing furtively around as if she was expecting to see a headless man or a ghostly woman in black behind her, she lowered her voice to a whisper.
‘Sometimes, when I’m alone in a room, I do think I can feel a presence. Like someone’s watching me? People say it’s the ghost of Lady Annabel Fortescue, who died here a hundred years ago. The poor woman had a terrible life, according to the history books. Her husband was brutally murdered when she was still quite young and she never remarried.’
Linda shivered.
‘I know it’s probably just my imagination working overtime, thinking I hear her pacing about upstairs in the late afternoon when it’s starting to get dark outside, but I still wouldn’t fancy spending a whole night here. Well, not on my own, anyway,’
she amended hastily.
‘I’m sure it would be fine if there were lots of other people about.’
‘Now I’m a bit worried,’
laughed Sylvia, who actually didn’t seem worried in the slightest.
‘Well, ghosts or no ghosts, you really have chosen the perfect setting for your Hallowe’en wedding.’
Linda closed the kitchen door behind her and the rumbling died right down.
‘Okay. Bedrooms!’
Heading for the main staircase with her bucket and mop, she called back.
‘Miss Frobisher said to explore the downstairs rooms and she’ll be with you soon. Nice to meet you. Have a lovely wedding if I don’t see you again.’
‘Thank you!’
We lingered in the hall after Linda disappeared, staring up at an enormous painting of a young woman in Victorian dress reclining on a sofa, apparently in a vineyard of all places.
Her beautiful dress – sprigged with blowsy pink and purple roses – was cinched into a tiny waist, and she was wearing a magnificent hat over dark ringlets. A hint of a smile played on her rosy red lips and she had what looked like a beauty spot, fashionable at the time, painted onto her cheek. But when I looked into her eyes, they struck me as being filled with a strange melancholy.
‘Lady Annabel Fortescue,’
said Sylvia.
‘She lived here during the late 1800s with her husband the Honourable Lord Alfred Fortescue, enjoying all the trappings of wealth and power. But sadly, her happiness wasn’t to last. When she was just in her thirties, her husband died in suspicious circumstances.’
‘Oh, my goodness. What happened?’
‘Well, according to newspaper reports at the time, it was high summer and he either fell or was pushed from an open upstairs window and cracked his head on the patio below. Death was instant. Next day, police arrested one of the young footmen working at Riverbend House – one Harold Sowerby – and they charged him with his master’s murder. He was found guilty and sentenced to hang.’
‘Oh, my goodness. How grim. And poor Lady Annabel.’
Sylvia nodded.
‘She wore her widow’s weeds, as they called them back then, for the rest of her solitary life.’
‘Oh, that’s awful.’
I looked up at the picture.
‘This was obviously painted before the tragedy happened, then.’
‘I suppose it must have been. Sarah – Miss Frobisher – was telling me that the picture has remained in exactly the same place since Lord Alfred Fortescue commissioned it in the nineteenth century. Apparently, soon after Lady Annabel died, a couple of workmen were tasked with moving the painting to a less prominent position in the library. But just as they were about to start work, a bolt of lightning struck the hall and all the lights went out.’
‘How dramatic. Were the workmen all right?’
‘Yes, but they fled from the scene, thinking I suppose that it was some sort of evil at work and the picture wasn’t meant to be moved. People were more superstitious in those days.’
‘Goodness me. So it’s been in exactly the same position in the hall here for the past hundred years or so.’
‘Apparently.’
I gave a convulsive shiver.
‘Oh, someone walked over my grave just then. So Lady Annabel is said to walk the upstairs corridors at night?’
‘So they say.’
Sylvia smiled.
‘Although it has been pointed out that guests on their way to bed may well have been hallucinating after a dinner when the wine was flowing generously.’
‘So the jury’s still out, then?’
‘I must say, I’d like to believe that it’s Lady Annabel, refusing to leave her lovely house and scaring away anyone who might dare to try and remove the painting of her from the hall.’
‘Oh, dear. Can I change my mind about doing the flowers for your wedding? I’m not sure my nerves will cope if this place really is haunted.’
‘Safety in numbers, dear. Safety in numbers.’
Sylvia patted my arm, a mischievous glint in her eye.
‘We can all be terrified together. There’s a big group of us gathering for the dinner on Hallowe’en night. Hopefully there won’t be a spectre at the feast!’
Chuckling, we opened another door and peeked into what was a darkly Gothic dining room with a long table, dramatic candelabra in the centre and more dusty portraits of long-dead aristocrats. This room had the effect of making us whisper for some reason. Then we realised what we were doing and started to laugh and talk in normal voices.
Riverbend Hall was certainly a house full of character, I mused to myself. My imagination was already running free with ideas on how to enhance the atmosphere of the place with my carefully-placed floral arrangements.
Sylvia wanted me to concentrate on the magnificent entrance hall and the dining room, as well as the smaller morning room and the well-proportioned drawing room where the wedding ceremony would take place. This room would also be the setting for the tea dance afterwards, and with my imagination fired up, I was already looking forward to arriving home and starting to sketch out ideas . . .
‘Hello, ladies,’
said a voice, and an older woman with short, grey hair appeared, who I assumed was Sarah Frobisher. Sylvia had said she was in her seventies, and she currently looked every one of those years. As if life was dragging her down . . .
‘I’m making coffee,’
she announced.
‘Would you like some?’
‘Lovely,’
said Sylvia, and we followed her into the kitchen where thankfully the washing machine had now stopped spinning.
It was a surprisingly cosy room, with a scrubbed wooden table and chairs in the centre, and a cheerful fire burning in the grate. An old but comfy-looking sofa had been placed near the fire, along with a coffee table on which stood a floral-patterned mug, a book and a pair of spectacles.
‘Do sit down.’
Miss Frobisher indicated the table, so we thanked her and sat down at one end, watching her boil a white plastic kettle that looked oddly out of place against the faded elegance of the grand setting. I was almost disappointed not to see Miss Frobisher light the hob using a tinder box and spills, and heave an enormous copper kettle on to boil!
We sipped our coffee, although Sarah Frobisher didn’t join us. Instead, she moved around the kitchen rather distractedly, folding a tea towel here and checking a window lock there.
After a while, to break the rather tense silence, I remarked.
‘It must be quite a responsibility, owning a beautiful house like this?’
‘Yes.’
Her shoulders seemed to slump as she turned to reply.
‘Yes, it is. My brother Giles and I inherited Riverbend Hall from my mother when she died last year. But we’ve no money to keep up with the running costs and we’re reluctant to sell as it’s been in our family for generations. But to be honest, I wouldn’t be that unhappy if a potential buyer came along.’
‘But you’re renting it out? Does that not help with the costs?’
asked Sylvia.
‘Well, yes. But as you can see, the place is in desperate need of refurbishment. My brother wants to turn it into a wedding venue but it’s still just pie-in-the-sky until we can get an investor who’s interested in coming on board. And because Giles is currently working abroad, the task of caretaker and booking agent has fallen to me.’
She shook her head in despair.
‘Living here all by myself isn’t something I’d ever have chosen to do.’
‘Oh, dear.’
Sylvia frowned.
‘Yes, I can understand that.’
‘It must be lonely sometimes,’
I said.
‘I guess you just use a few of the rooms here?’
‘Yes. I mostly live in the kitchen when there aren’t any guests, keeping the fire going. And I use the bedroom at the far end of the west wing corridor.’
She nodded upstairs.
‘It has the best view over the lawns to the river. I dream of renting a little flat in Sunnybrook, but without the ready capital, it’s impossible. Sometimes I think I should just walk away from the house and sell the contents at auction but I’ve no one to advise me about that so I have a terrible fear I’d get ripped off. I’ve never married, you see. So there’s never been anyone there to share the burden. She sighed.
‘If it wasn’t for my brother being so determined to keep it in the family, I’d be tempted to sell the contents and burn the whole damn ridiculous pile to the ground!’
A shocked few seconds of silence greeted this unexpected outpouring.
Then I said.
‘I think that’s a good idea. Selling furniture and paintings at auction. It would at least give you some breathing space while you decided on a plan for the house.’
She nodded.
‘We definitely can’t rely on the holiday let market. Not with the house in the state it’s in now. All we’ve had in the last six months is a couple of ghost-hunting parties, the golden wedding anniversary celebration this week and your wedding, Sylvia. Barely enough to keep food in the fridge and heat a few rooms.’
She plopped down in a chair with a sigh.
‘Sorry. I shouldn’t be unburdening myself on you. You’re guests, for heaven’s sake.’
Sylvia dismissed this with a shake of her head.
‘Don’t worry. It’ll work out, one way or the other. I’m sure of it.’
She reached over and patting Sarah Frobisher’s hand.
‘Your brother’s right. It would make an absolutely marvellous wedding venue. It’s such a lovely house and someone is sure to want to invest in it.’
Sarah nodded gloomily but she didn’t look convinced.
‘It’s knowing how to procure that investment that’s the problem. Barely anyone knows we’re here. A run-down Gothic pile, hidden away in the countryside.’
The sound of a car crunching onto the gravel outside interrupted our thoughts and she turned with a hopeful look, maybe wondering if it could be a potential customer.
‘Oh, that will be the wedding photographer,’
said Sylvia suddenly.
‘I asked him to meet us here. Is that okay?’
Sarah nodded.
‘Of course.’
‘Great. He wants to look around . . . scope out the place for the wedding photos.’
She looked at me.
‘I’ll just go and greet him then I’ll be back.’
‘Fine.’
I smiled up at her and took another sip from the mug, trying not to wince. I was spoilt, I knew, being able to afford to buy myself good ground coffee. Sarah wasn’t quite so lucky – at least, not when it came to her financial situation. One thing we did have in common, apparently, was having never married. We’d both been living a solitary kind of existence, although I had a feeling I was a little more content with this state of affairs than she was.
Sylvia was greeting a man at the door. His voice was deep and rich and . . . familiar?
The wedding photographer.
I felt my heart swoop with horror. And then Sarah was leaning forwards, staring at me intently.
‘Are you all right, Celia? You’ve gone really quite pale. Can I get you a glass of water?’
‘Er, no. No, I’m fine, thanks.’
Forcing a wobbly smile, I got to my feet. I could hear Sylvia ushering him into the drawing room where the ceremony and the tea dance were to take place, talking all the time.
If I was quick, I could escape into the grounds . . . grab some fresh air . . . before Sylvia decided to show him the kitchen . . .
‘Nice to meet you,’
I said.
‘I hope things work out for you. I really do. But I’ll see you soon. On Sylvia and Mick’s wedding day.’
Giving her a swift smile and hoping I didn’t seem too rude, I slipped out into the hall – just as Sylvia emerged from the drawing room. With the photographer.
Mark.
Fen