Chapter 43
Jake stood there for some minutes, staring at the painting – staring at the little boy, convinced it was Aubrey. His features resembled that of his father, and there was no denying the similarity between Aubrey, now a similar age, and the older man in the painting.
Jake turned from the painting, realising that for the first time in his life, he actually knew something real about Aubrey Jones – Aubrey, or rather Ralph, had a connection with this house. Perhaps he had grown up there. It didn’t appear that he’d inherited the house from his father, from what Lawrence had said. Angus Delaney, the last of the family to live there, had left the property in a charitable trust.
Jake had always wondered why Aubrey refused to return with them for the family get-togethers in Scotland. Perhaps it was because of this house, and his father. Jake could only surmise that they’d had a falling-out of some sort, and that was why the house hadn’t been left to him.
Perhaps Lawrence knew more about the benefactor of this hospice. He’d noticed that Lawrence had walked down a corridor. He decided to follow.
He made his way cautiously along the hallway, conscious of the fact that he should probably not be wandering around back there. There could be patients in their rooms or having treatment. Jake didn’t want the big guy to chuck him out, because he really should get his hands looked at by a professional – and besides, he had questions about the painting.
Jake could hear sounds coming from a room a little further down the hall. The door was ajar. Jake looked in. The room was immediately familiar; two filing cabinets stood against the back wall, and there was the old desk where the woman in the pencil skirt and razor-thin heels had been sitting the day before. ‘Oh, my god. This is the room, and it’s exactly the same!’ Jake blurted before he could stop himself.
Lawrence turned around with a tube of antiseptic cream. Jake expected him to say, what are you doing? You shouldn’t be here.
What he did say surprised Jake. ‘I shouldn’t be here,’ he grumbled.
‘This is the reception room,’ Jake said slowly, looking around the familiar room.
‘And don’t I know it,’ said Lawrence ruefully. ‘I’m forever forgetting myself and walking down to the old supply room only to remember when I get here that it’s now the other reception.’
‘The other reception?’
‘Lucky there’s a first aid kit in here.’ He walked past Jake, hovering in the doorway. ‘Have to do this at the reception desk, I’m afraid.’ He held up the antiseptic cream. ‘I can’t leave my post for too long.’
Jake hovered by the door a moment longer, staring into the room, before heading back to the front desk. All this was freaking him out. ‘What do you mean the old supply room ?’
‘Yes, like I said, that used to be the old supply room, way back when, where they kept spare sheets and blankets, and medical supplies locked in a cabinet. But then someone, don’t ask me who, had the bright idea to turn a wing of the house over to self- contained apartments, obviously for people who could afford them. I think the trust had to find ways to bring in some money to do some repairs to the building, and this is what they came up with. They’ve got their own entrance to the building, and even a receptionist who doesn’t dress like this …’
He indicated the starched white, clinical uniform he wore. ‘So their relatives, when they visit, aren’t reminded that it’s really a hospice, and their apartments are really very sheltered accommodation. That entrance just a short way down the road. It takes them around the side of the house, which, with the main entrance door, and Georgian bay windows, looks remarkably similar to the front of the house. That’s where they’ll find the receptionist in her own little office. That’s what I was going to explain to you when I realised I hadn’t got this cream.’
‘Grey pencil skirt, high heels, hair in a bun?’ Jake asked, wanting to be absolutely sure.
‘Yes, that’s her.’
‘Oh, thank god!’ Jake exhaled in relief as he followed Lawrence back down the hallway. ‘I’m not losing my mind.’
‘I should hope not, at your age. Mind you, things have been known to happen to people – it’s not uncommon to suffer stress, anxiety, depression – stuff that plays with your mind.’
Jake nodded, staring at Lawrence. He got the feeling that the man was talking from experience. ‘I walked in that entrance last time I was here.’ Jake frowned at the thought of Marcus with the envelope full of photos. If he hadn’t been constantly distracted as he drove, chances are he wouldn’t have missed the first entrance, which would have taken him around the side of the house to where the apartments were – where Martha was.
That reminded Jake of something. ‘I really haven’t got time to get my hands looked at. I’ve got to see someone here.’
Lawrence grabbed his arm. ‘They can wait. These can’t. You don’t want to get septic shock, do you?’
Jake shook his head, even though he had no idea what that was, apart from the fact that it sounded bad.
‘Take a seat.’
It sounded like an order.
Jake sat silently on a padded office chair, his right hand resting on the counter, his eyes fixed on the painting on the wall, on the boy in the painting. ‘So, you know Martha?’
‘Not at all. Although the nurses do their rounds, including the private wing, as a receptionist on this desk, I’m not meant to cross over to the other side.’
Jake raised his eyebrows, wondering what he meant.
Lawrence chuckled. ‘I meant not crossing to the other side of the house – obviously unless something in particular warranted it, or in emergencies.’
Jake looked at his old bandages as Lawrence unfurled them. ‘Am I an emergency?’
Lawrence whistled. Jake glanced at him, then down at his hand as the last of the bandages gave way to a pretty ugly sight. ‘Do I need stitches?’ Jake was not in the mood for a visit to a hospital.
‘No – they’re clotting nicely. It looks worse than it is.’ He cleaned the wounds. ‘Looks like you went a few rounds with a pit bull, though.’ He chuckled.
Jake offered a weak smile, his attention drawn back to the painting. ‘What can you tell me about the child?’ Jake’s gaze was riveted on those fierce blue eyes.
‘Swap seats.’ Lawrence got up, and they exchanged seats. Jake placed his left hand on the counter. He held his newly bandaged hand up for inspection. A light bandage neatly covered his hand, extending around his wrist. His fingers were completely free.
‘The kid in the painting?’ His eyes roved to the painting on the wall behind Jake. ‘Ralph Delaney – the son.’ He returned his attention to Jake’s hand. ‘That’s a sad story.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘Apparently, his mother wasn’t well – it was her nerves.’
‘Her nerves?’ Jake didn’t understand.
‘People with what we now recognise as mental health conditions like severe anxiety, depression, post-natal depression, were little understood. They would be diagnosed with a nervous disorder. Some were sent to psychiatric hospitals for a considerable time. They were institutionalised. Sent away.’
‘His mother was sent away?’
Lawrence nodded. ‘I’m afraid so. Soon after she went, when the boy was still very young, his father sent him away to boarding school. It was not long after that portrait was taken, I believe. And that’s the last anyone heard of him.’
‘But he was so young to be sent away from his home.’
‘Yes, he was just a wee little thing.’
‘What happened to him?’ What Jake was wondering, which he knew Lawrence couldn’t answer, was why he had changed his name.
‘We can only presume that he couldn’t forgive his father for sending his mother away, sending them both away, and that was why he never returned to this place. That was how all this came about. With no son and heir to claim his inheritance, the hall was left to a charitable trust as a hospice to accommodate elderly people with certain mental health conditions. There was a caveat. The daughter could remain living in part of the property if she so wished.’ He paused, the bandaging not quite complete, and looked at Jake. ‘Rumour has it,’ he said in a hushed voice, ‘that his younger sister, who inherited a substantial sum herself, used the money to bribe the doctors to deem her mother fit to return home.’
‘Is that true?’ Jake said.
‘I don’t know about that.’ He resumed dressing Jake’s hand. ‘But I do know that after Mr Delaney died, when his son was in his teens, the newly appointed executors of the will went to see Ralph Delaney at school, before they made any decisions with respect to the will, only to find he was no longer there. They say he was afraid of his father.’
‘Why?’
‘One can only speculate. He’d seen his mother sent away to a psychiatric hospital. Perhaps he was afraid his father would send him away, like he did his mother.’
Jake looked at him, shocked. ‘Why would he do that to his son? Are you saying he has … had … mental health issues?’
‘Not at all. Perhaps he was a shy, introspective child, and his father couldn’t understand him. Rumour has it the boy was very close to his mother and he was afraid his father might look for traits in him that his mother had. But we were never sure where those rumours came from.’
Jake stared at Lawrence as he continued telling the story. ‘When the executors discovered that the son had disappeared, they waited, with the assurance that no rational person would not turn up to claim what was rightfully theirs. But he didn’t reappear, and they got on with the job of redirecting some of the assets, namely the house, to a new charitable foundation which they set up as per Angus Delaney’s wishes. That’s when the executors took on their new role as trustees looking after the place.’
‘How do you know all this?’
‘My father was a local history enthusiast. When my late mother came here with late-stage dementia, my father saw that painting and wanted to know more. Of course, some of it is fact, about the house, and a little of what happened to Mr Delaney’s wife, but we can only surmise why Ralph Delaney disappeared from his school and never returned. Perhaps he met with some unfortunate accident, and died when he was at school, and the school covered it up.’
‘Your father thought otherwise?’ Jake asked.
‘Yes, until his dying day he was convinced that the boy was out there somewhere.’
They both paused to look at the portrait – Jake turning in his chair to look at that innocent, blond-haired child. It dawned on him that this child had his existing life cruelly stripped from him when his mother had been committed. He would have faced a monumental dilemma: if he returned to his home to claim what was rightfully his, he might have faced the possibility that it would happen to him. Perhaps because his father had told the trustees he was just like his mother – who knew? But what Jake did know was the day Ralph Delaney disappeared, Aubrey Jones was born.
‘My father speculated that he may have travelled abroad to make his fortune.’ He cut off the bandage on Jake’s left hand. ‘I often wonder what became of him.’
The bandaging was finished off in silence.
Jake’s lightly bandaged hands felt a lot less restricted than before and looked a lot less eye-catching.
‘Where’s his sister now?’ Jake asked. Aubrey had never mentioned another living relative, let alone that he had a sister.
‘In the other wing, in one of those apartments,’ Lawrence replied nonchalantly.
‘What!?’ said Jake with a start. Jake slapped his forehead. Of course she was Aubrey’s sister. The trouble was that Jake had had so much on his mind, he’d missed the obvious.
‘I’m surprised you didn’t guess,’ said Lawrence.
‘Jake – are you ok?’
Jake turned at the sound of Marcus’s voice, surprised to see his silhouette in the doorway. ‘Come over here,’ he said. He had something to show him.
‘You with him?’ Lawrence pointed at Marcus. I told him I didn’t know Mr and Mrs Wright. I looked it up on my computer screen, just to be sure, and I can tell you that they most definitely are not patients here.’ A businesslike tone had replaced the friendly banter.
‘Never mind that,’ Jake waved that comment away. ‘Can I see Aub … Ralph’s sister?’
Marcus arrived at the counter. ‘What’s up?’
He eyed Jake warily. ‘You’re not from the press, are you?’
Jake shook his head vehemently.
‘It’s just we have had some instances of the local press snooping around for a story on the poor woman.’
Lawrence looked at Marcus.
‘Me? From the press?’ said Marcus, adopting an air of superiority that made Jake inwardly groan.
‘Do I look like a hack to you?’ He put his arm on the counter, flashing his Cartier watch. ‘For your information, I head a multi-million dollar …’
‘Shut it, will you.’ Jake had heard enough. ‘Nobody wants to hear you blowing your own trumpet – least of all me.’
Marcus – his mouth wide open – to Jake’s surprise, actually shut up without protest.
‘No – you carry on.’ Lawrence pointed at Marcus. ‘I want to hear this.’ He rested an elbow on the countertop and his chin in the cup of his hand in an attentive, thoughtful pose.
Marcus looked at Jake.
Jake sighed. ‘Well go on then, you’ve got your audience. What are you waiting for?’
Marcus, who had been on a self-congratulatory roll before, seemed to run out of steam. He turned to Jake. ‘Where was I?’
Jake said in a deadpan tone of voice, ‘I head a multi-million dollar …’
‘Construction company,’ Marcus nodded, taking over the story, ‘and we build business premises and private homes for some of the most powerful individuals and business players in …’
Jake zoned out as Marcus trumpeted on … and on …
‘This company was started by my father – William Ross. Perhaps you’ve heard of us.’ Marcus gave a sardonic grin. ‘The Ross Corporation?’
Jake rolled his eyes. The Ross Corporation may be on everybody’s lips from London to Chicago, but here, in Scotland?
‘Of course I’ve heard of you,’ Lawrence said nonchalantly, making Marcus’s chest puff out in pride, Jake noticed. Well, he had a lot to be proud of. William certainly was an amazing businessman; he was to construction what Soros was to the stock-market or Gates was to computers.
‘You’re building something on that land, where the old diner used to be.’
This was news to Jake. He recalled meeting Mr Addison in the clearing where it had stood before being pulled down, but he hadn’t mentioned the Ross Corporation. Although Jake recalled that he hadn’t asked the name of the company that the young man worked for.
Lawrence leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘Can you tell an old man what it is? It’s the talk of the town, you know, but nobody can find out a thing – it’s all very hush-hush, isn’t it?’
Jake also recalled that Mr Addison hadn’t appeared to know what exactly was going to be built on that land either.
Jake looked at Marcus. He could tell by the look on his face that it was news to him too. He looked positively stunned. Nobody did anything without Marcus’s seal of approval. Although there were many projects simultaneously on the go all over the world, and Marcus couldn’t be in direct control of each one, he would certainly have been involved at the planning stage.
This meant only one thing; Marcus was losing his grip, and worse, somebody on the board of directors was aware of it. They had gone over his head on this one, and Jake wasn’t surprised in the least. The way Marcus had been behaving in his personal life of late had been bound to spill over into his work sooner or later. Something needed to give, and it just had.
Jake watched Marcus fish in his jacket pocket and take out his mobile phone. He flicked the lid, and a look of consternation crossed his face. He held the mobile high in the air and turned full circle. ‘I’ll be outside.’ Holding the mobile out in front, he walked out of the door.
Jake resisted the urge to tell him it would be a long walk to get a phone signal. Jake wasn’t interested in the company’s present ventures, and he certainly wasn’t interested in hearing Marcus’s inevitable rant about this unwelcome piece of news. Jake hoped he was some considerable time in his quest for that elusive mobile reception.
All Jake wanted to do was see Aubrey’s sister. He had an idea. He took the envelopes out of his pocket and leafed through the photos until he had the one he was looking for. He put it on the counter and slid it face down towards Lawrence. ‘You said you always wondered what became of him.’ Jake lifted his hand to reveal the name, Ralph .
He looked at Jake. ‘What’s this?’
‘Take a look.’ Jake watched as he picked up the photo and turned it over.
‘Is it him?’
‘I think so,’ said Jake. ‘It’s in the eyes.’
They both agreed. There was no mistake.
‘Where is he now?’
‘I don’t know,’ Jake lied. This was as far he was going to go with this in order to get access to Aubrey’s sister. Aubrey’s reasons for keeping his identity a secret all these years were his and his alone, and were not for Jake to blow wide open just out of curiosity. But Jake could only marvel at his own short-sightedness. It hadn’t occurred to Jake, when he’d shown Lawrence that photograph, that Aubrey had just lost his anonymity. Jake tried not to think about that.
Lawrence stood up. ‘You’d better come with me.’
Jake eyed him. ‘Where are we going?’ Jake could hear the waver in his voice. He didn’t fancy a tour of this place.
Lawrence turned to Jake, passing back the photo. ‘To see Ralph’s sister – Martha.’
Jake raised his eyebrows. He remembered what Lawrence had said about avoiding that part of the house unless it was an emergency, or a situation arose that warranted it. Jake guessed this was one of those situations.
Jake was about to follow Lawrence when he heard Marcus calling his name. He turned around to see Marcus rushing towards him, his face like thunder, and his mobile phone held high in the air. ‘I can’t get …’
‘I know,’ Jake cut in. ‘Look, I’m busy right now, so go wait in the car.’
‘Don’t you …’ Marcus pointed a finger at Jake, ‘order me around like I’m some kind of kid,’ he said petulantly. Then his eyes shifted to Lawrence, his interest aroused. ‘Where are you going?’
Jake sighed heavily and turned to Lawrence. ‘Can he come too?’ This wasn’t going the way he had planned it.
Lawrence seemed to be giving Marcus the once-over. Perhaps he was wondering whether there might be something in it for him – namely some information on that hush-hush project in the woods. He acquiesced.
‘Come on,’ said Jake, barely concealing his exasperation.
Jake followed Lawrence back down the hallway, past the other reception. Heavy footfalls behind signalled Marcus bringing up the rear. Jake stopped and turned, putting his finger to his lips for Marcus to tread quietly.
‘If I remember rightly,’ said Marcus, not making any effort to keep his voice down, ‘I’m not the one making the racket.’ He bounded along the hallway, past Jake and Lawrence, and up the other staircase that Jake remembered from the previous day.
Jake frowned at him. Where did he think he was going? He could see Marcus still had his phone to hand. He was still looking for a mobile phone signal.