Chapter Ten
Chapter Ten
There was a strange atmosphere in the house, as if it was holding its breath. Tabitha and Zach lingered in the hall, not knowing what to do with themselves. ‘I wish I could watch Pixie getting rid of the spirit,’ said Tabitha, gazing longingly up the stairs. ‘I wonder how she’s going to do it.’
‘There are no such things as spirits,’ Zach scoffed, putting his hands in his pockets. ‘Dad thinks they’re fakes.’
‘Did he say that?’ Tabitha asked, offended; she knew that Pixie wasn’t a fake.
‘He called them charlatans.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘That they’re full of shit.’
‘He’s wrong.’
‘And you know.’ Zach grinned at her in that superior way of his that made her blood boil.
‘Actually, I do.’ She went to the cupboard for her coat and hat.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Into the garden.’ She didn’t want her brother to come with her. ‘I’m going to explore on my own.’
‘Suit yourself,’ Zach replied, sauntering off to the library, which was his favourite room in the house.
Tabitha slipped into her red coat and pulled her bobble hat over her head. She ran out into the frosted garden with a rising sense of exhilaration. It felt good to be outside in the sunshine and away from her cynical brother and the tense mood in the house. It was bitterly cold, but the light was dazzling, shining onto the hoary grass and causing it to sparkle like glitter on an advent calendar. Her breath turned the air to fog and she pretended she was a dragon, exhaling fire as she skipped over the lawn, leaving a trail of footprints behind her. Her joy overflowed and she laughed out loud with the sheer delight of being in the midst of such loveliness.
She adored the gardens and, unlike her mother, did not find fault in the weeds that had taken over the borders or in the bushes that had grown into each other. In Tabitha’s eyes nature was beautiful just as it was, in its wonderfully chaotic and uninhibited way. Just then a robin alighted on the ground in front of her and pecked at the frozen earth. Finding it barren, it flapped its wings and flew off to try its luck elsewhere. Tabitha followed it through the trees, wandering deeper into the wood. Shortly, the bird landed again and thrust its beak into the grass. Tabitha stood very still and observed it. The robin seemed to notice her and lifted its little head to observe her back. Tabitha inched closer but the bird fluttered off, only to land once more a few hundred yards away, as if it wanted to entice her into a game. Tabitha was only too happy to oblige and ran in pursuit, stopping each time the robin came down to land.
Eventually, the robin flew out of the trees into a clearing and dropped onto the remains of a post-and-rail fence that surrounded a quaint little cottage. Tabitha was astonished and delighted to have stumbled across this unexpected treasure. St Sidwell Manor was full of surprises. The building was obviously abandoned for the windows were opaque with dust, glass panes were missing or broken, and there was a hole in the pitched roof where the tiles had fallen in. It looked like a dinosaur had taken a bite out of it, then thought better of the tasteless meal and stomped off. The entire edifice was being slowly swallowed by ivy, which had crept upon it with its greedy green tentacles. It wouldn’t be long before the cottage became a part of the wood. Maybe one day no one would know that it had ever been here.
Tabitha was thrilled. She loved to explore, and this was more exciting than anything she had explored before, even the house. It was like something out of a fairy tale – the cottage in Hansel and Gretel where the witch is pushed into the oven. Tabitha wondered who had lived here and why it had been deserted.
She was about to venture inside when she noticed a little boy standing in the doorway. She jumped, for she hadn’t seen him standing there and was taken by surprise. He was watching her warily, unmoving, as if he were a statue. ‘Hello,’ she said.
The boy blinked then and stepped out of the shadows. He was wearing what looked like a white sailor suit. Tabitha noticed that he had nothing on his feet. Her first thought was that he must be freezing. Her second thought was that his mother must surely be nearby, for he couldn’t have been more than six years old. Of course, he didn’t live here, in this cottage, did he?
‘Who are you?’ he asked at last.
‘I’m Tabitha,’ Tabitha replied. ‘Aren’t you cold?’
‘Cold?’
‘You’re not wearing any shoes.’
The boy looked at his feet. ‘No.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t feel the cold.’
‘Lucky you,’ she said. ‘I do. It’s freezing. Look.’ She blew a cloud of smoke into the air. ‘I’m like a dragon.’
He laughed as if she’d performed a magic trick. ‘Do that again,’ he said.
She blew out another smoky puff and laughed with him. ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked.
‘Playing,’ he replied casually.
‘Who are you playing with?’
‘No one, there aren’t many children who live around here.’ Tabitha’s heart sank. She was used to having lots of friends nearby in London.
‘Do you live near here?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
‘We’ve just moved into the big house. I wonder who used to live in this cottage.’
‘They’ve gone,’ he replied. ‘There is no one here now.’
‘Have you been inside?’
‘Yes.’
‘What’s it like?’
‘Messy. Do you want to play hide-and-seek?’ he asked suddenly.
‘If you like.’
‘I’ll hide,’ he declared, and before Tabitha could discuss the rules of the game, he scampered off, the sound of his bare feet soft on the frosted ground.
Tabitha started to count to one hundred.
Olivia and Antoinette drove into town to do some research in the local library. There were sure to be records. If a child had gone missing, it would have got into the newspapers. The whole county would have known about it.
‘It really is very beautiful here,’ said Antoinette, looking out of the frosted window at the undulating white fields and old drystone walls that separated them. Wheeling gulls surfed the wind, their wide wings a dazzling white in the glare. ‘You wait until spring when the flowers come out and the leaves are on the trees. It’ll be glorious.’
‘And the house will warm up,’ said Olivia hopefully.
‘The house will warm up when Pixie gets rid of the spirit,’ Antoinette reminded her.
‘Do you really think she can?’
‘I know she can. I saw her in action once. I was working at a house in Burnley. It wasn’t a big house like yours, but it was quite old. I was painting the sitting room, which required an expert dragger. Pixie was called in to get rid of a nasty earthbound spirit who refused to budge because he didn’t want anyone in his house. There was no trauma around his death, he just refused to leave. Pixie sorted him out.’
‘She didn’t slide back in time, did she?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Do you think she really does that? I mean, time travelling sounds like science fiction to me.’
‘It does, and this is the first I’ve heard about it, to be honest. I don’t think it’s something she advertises. Most people would think her batty. But I trust Pixie. She wouldn’t lie about anything. She’s not capable of it. Bad karma.’ Antoinette looked across at her niece and grinned. ‘What you sow, so shall ye reap. That’s a good one to remember. Whatever you put out will come back, good and bad, like a boomerang.’
‘Look, I have no problem with ghosts,’ Olivia said. ‘I believe we live on after the body dies and some of us hang around, for whatever reason, but the past is in the past – gone – how on earth can a person slide back there? And if Pixie can slide back, then surely she can slide forward too, which means that the future has already happened. If the future has already happened, what about free will? Is any of it our choice? Do you see what I’m trying to say? It doesn’t make sense.’
‘That’s because you’re trying to understand it with your limited mind, Liv. The mind cannot grasp infinity because there’s nothing infinite in our experience. Try telling a frog who lives in a pond about a fish tank in your local pet shop. It’s beyond his experience. We’re like frogs. So just go with it and don’t try to get your head around it, because you’ll simply make yourself dizzy.’
They arrived in town and parked the car against the kerb. The library was easy to find for it was clearly marked, just off the high street. ‘I love the smell of books,’ Antoinette gushed when they entered. ‘Don’t you just love the smell of books, Liv?’ she repeated, smacking her lips with pleasure.
‘I love being in the warmth,’ Olivia replied. ‘The smell of books is a bonus.’
They walked up to the desk where a young woman with glasses, lank brown hair and no make-up sat staring at a computer and typing at speed. Antoinette did not wait for her to look up. ‘Good morning,’ she said.
The girl stopped typing and reluctantly lifted her eyes off the screen. Her lack of interest did not bode well for their mission. Antoinette explained what they were after. ‘There must be newspaper articles from that time or perhaps a book on the history of the house.’
The girl looked bored. ‘I think you’d better talk to the manager. He’ll know,’ she said. She got up from her chair with a sigh and moved slowly into a back room. A moment later she came out and plonked herself down on the chair again. ‘He’ll be with you in a minute,’ she said and then returned her attention to the screen. Her expression enlivened and her fingers began tap-tapping once more over the keyboard.
Antoinette caught Olivia’s eye and pulled a face.
They didn’t have to wait long. The door flew open and a small man with an eager expression, round glasses, and wiry grey hair curling beneath a bald lid, sprung out with a vivacious bounce. He looked incongruous in a three-piece tweed suit and tie. Smiling enthusiastically, he introduced himself. ‘Victor Pollard at your service. What can I do you for?’ His eyes were large and brown behind the magnifying glass of his spectacles.
Antoinette and Olivia introduced themselves and then Antoinette explained once again while Olivia cut in when she had the chance, which wasn’t often.
Victor turned his bright eyes onto Olivia. ‘So you and your husband have moved into the manor, have you?’ he asked.
‘That’s right,’ she replied.
‘And how are you getting on?’
‘Good so far.’
He looked sceptical for a second. ‘Well, that is good. Very good.’ He chuckled. ‘Most people are too frightened to even set foot in the front door. But it’s good so far.’
‘I can’t imagine what they’re frightened of,’ said Antoinette briskly.
‘We just want to learn something of the house’s history,’ said Olivia.
Victor rubbed his hands together. ‘Well, you have come to the right place, Olivia Talwyn,’ he said. ‘You have, indeed. Just the right place. You see,’ he beamed proudly, looking from Olivia to Antoinette and back again, ‘I’m an amateur but avid local historian. There’s not much that I don’t know about the history of St Sidwell and the surrounding area.’
‘That’s very encouraging,’ said Olivia.
‘Let’s go and sit down over there, shall we?’ he suggested, pointing to a circle of soft chairs arranged around a table by the window. ‘Would you like some tea or coffee?’ They declined. ‘Very well, let’s cut to the chase.’
They sat down.
Victor Pollard put his hands on the table and knitted his short fingers. ‘Before I direct you to newspaper articles that will give you more detail,’ he began, ‘I can tell you what I know about Ivan and Cordelia Pengower. It’s been a thrilling mystery in these parts for over a century, but I have my own theories. I’ll share them with you. It’ll be my pleasure. It’s not often that I get to talk to people who are really interested in local history. It’ll be a veritable pleasure, to be sure.’
Victor Pollard took a breath, clearly savouring this moment to show off his knowledge. ‘You are indeed right, little Felix Pengower disappeared on the night of the twenty-eighth of June eighteen ninety-five. His body was never found. His mother, Cordelia Pengower, was married to a man called Ivan and they had another child, older than Felix, called Robert. Now Ivan was a hard and pompous man, and not well liked in the town. Not well liked at all. But Cordelia, being a charitable and graceful woman, was loved and admired by everyone she met.’ Olivia caught Antoinette’s eye. Victor Pollard was now running with the ball.
‘The newspapers were full of the story. Indeed, the whole of St Sidwell was buzzing with it. No one could believe that a child had been abducted. St Sidwell was a relatively peaceful little town. The police reports show that they searched the house and the grounds of the manor and found nothing. The windows and doors, which had all been locked for the night by Ivan Pengower himself, had not been broken or disturbed in any way. The only people to have the keys were Ivan Pengower and the butler, Mr Symons. Mr Symons was questioned and released. The nursemaid, a certain Gwen Blight, was also taken in for questioning, as was Ivan, the child’s father. But there was no motive, you see, and no body. Nothing. There was no reason whatsoever why any of those characters would have wanted to be rid of the boy. Suspicion then fell on the travellers. They had settled onto land the other side of the estuary. Some of the men had been caught stealing and there had been the odd brawl outside the public house here in town, so they weren’t popular. Travellers had a bad time of it in those days and it was natural that the finger of suspicion was pointed at them. Their campsite was searched, people were taken in for questioning, some were kept for a few days. But again, there was no evidence and no motive. Why would the travellers want to take a boy? They had no dispute with Mr Pengower or the family. None at all. No motive, you see. That’s important.’ Victor rubbed his hands, relishing his captivated audience. ‘There has to be a motive to fit a crime.’
‘But you have a theory, don’t you, Victor?’ said Antoinette, indulging him.
Victor smiled the smile of an amateur sleuth who believed he had solved the crime. ‘It was a miner,’ he declared confidently.
‘A miner?’ Olivia repeated. ‘Was there a mine?’
‘There was, indeed,’ he said. ‘Indeed, there was.’ He took a long breath through his nose. ‘Ivan Pengower’s father, James, had bought a tin mine back in the middle of the century, which Ivan inherited upon his death. Ivan was not a benevolent man. He was ambitious. He didn’t treat the men well. In fact’ – and now Victor wagged his finger at the women – ‘there had been a nasty accident up at the mine the year before. In the winter of ninety-four. Seven men were killed, among them a young lad of fifteen, Billy Tonkin. As a result of this accident, there was a riot and Ivan and his brother Cavill were called up to assist. It wasn’t pretty. The manager, Pascoe Bray, had warned Ivan not a few months before that the tunnels of the mine were unsafe. That they were digging too fast, without the necessary precautions. But Ivan Pengower didn’t listen. He wanted more and more tin, and quickly. Now it’s my belief, and I have looked into this very carefully, that Billy Tonkin’s father, Frank Tonkin, did away with Felix Pengower in an act of revenge and buried his body in the mine. In the part of the mine that had collapsed, you see, where his son was killed. No one was going to look in there. In fact …’ Again Victor wagged his finger, his eyes taking on a feverish sheen. ‘No one bothered to look in the mine at all. They simply didn’t connect the two events. Is that not strange? Can you not hear alarm bells? To me it’s simple, but then everything is simple with hindsight, isn’t it?’
‘Frank Tonkin was never questioned?’ Antoinette asked.
‘He was not, but Pascoe Bray left some months after and was never heard of again. That is suspicious, is it not? I suspect he’d had enough of working with Ivan Pengower and left St Sidwell altogether. I wonder whether Pascoe suspected Ivan knew what had become of his son, but somehow diverted the police’s attention away from the mine because he didn’t want to be blamed for the boy’s death – and he didn’t want the men to stop mining.’
‘But the child might not have been killed. They never found a body, did they?’ said Olivia.
‘They never found a body,’ Victor repeated. ‘Cordelia Pengower, the child’s mother, died the following year of a broken heart.’
‘That’s terrible, considering she had another son to live for,’ said Antoinette.
‘She did, indeed. Indeed, she did. And, I must say, Robert Pengower turned out to be an interesting fellow.’
‘How so?’ asked Olivia.
‘He wanted sons. It was very important to him, as it had been to his own father, Ivan, to leave the estate to a son. But he only had a daughter, Emily.’
‘Mrs Delaware!’ said Antoinette.
‘Yes, and, sadly, when it came to continuing the Pengower line, Emily Delaware bore no children. A great misfortune for her, and then her husband passed away from cancer. She lived alone in that big place for years. A strange woman she was. A recluse.’
‘So, she finds the closest male relative, my husband, Bruce, and leaves the estate to him?’
‘Yes, indeed,’ said Victor.
‘But how is Bruce related to Mrs Delaware?’ Antoinette asked.
‘Now, that I haven’t been able to uncover, I’m afraid. You’ll need to find a family tree,’ said Victor. ‘If Emily Delaware found him, the information must be available somewhere.’
‘We’ve been looking for one in the house, but so far my husband has only found a book Robert wrote about his father,’ said Olivia.
‘There’s no mention of any Talwyns in there,’ Antoinette added.
‘As far as we know,’ Olivia interjected. ‘To be honest, we’ve only just moved in, so we haven’t had much time to look into it. We’d love to read any newspaper clippings from that time. The mystery of Felix Pengower is a compelling story. I’m much more interested in that than in finding out how my husband is related to Emily Delaware.’
Victor set up the microfilm so that Antoinette and Olivia could read the newspaper articles that came out in response to the child’s disappearance. The two women sat in front of the screen and scrolled through them. According to contemporary reports, there was no sign of a forced entry into the house. The doors and windows had been locked as usual the previous evening by Mr Pengower himself and were still secure when the butler came down to unlock them in the morning. They were intrigued to see a black-and-white photograph of Ivan and Cordelia Pengower. Ivan was dark-haired with a sweeping moustache and hard eyes staring out impassively beneath thick, forbidding eyebrows. Cordelia was beautiful at his side, her face long and soulful, but serious. There was a sketch of the child. His heart-shaped face cherubic, his eyes wide and innocent. There was an article about the travellers accompanied by a sketch of a man in a cap running away with a bundle, supposedly Felix, wrapped in a blanket in his arms. Olivia found the picture chilling, as well as unfair – if the travellers were innocent, the sketch made them look decidedly guilty.
‘To think this happened in our house,’ she murmured. ‘If I’d known, I might have persuaded Bruce to sell it. I don’t think I’d have wanted to move into a house with that sort of history.’
‘A terrible tragedy,’ Antoinette agreed. ‘But it happened a long time ago.’
‘It did, but if Pixie is to be believed, Cordelia Pengower is still in the house.’
‘Ninety-eight … ninety-nine … one hundred!’ Tabitha took her hands off her eyes and peered about looking for the boy. The sunshine was gradually melting the frost, but scatterings of white lingered in the shadows beneath the trees and the evergreen bushes where the light did not reach. The sun did little to warm the air, which was still bitterly cold. An icy wind whistled through the spindly branches that reached up to the sky, but down where she was, near the ground, all was still. She listened out for him, straining to hear the snap of a twig or the rustle of leaves underfoot. He was so little, she didn’t imagine he’d be very good at hiding. But she heard nothing besides the wind and the occasional cawing of a crow. After half an hour, she still hadn’t found him and was plodding about wearily. She was tired of the game. It wasn’t fun if someone was too good at hiding. She wanted to call out his name but then she remembered that she hadn’t asked him what he was called. ‘Hello?’ she shouted tentatively. Perhaps it had been unwise to play hide-and-seek in a wood like this, that stretched out for miles. He could be anywhere.
She called out again. ‘Hello!’
Nothing.
Tabitha hoped he hadn’t got lost. She was bored now and wanted to go back and explore the cottage, but she couldn’t just leave him.
‘I’m going to go now,’ she shouted. ‘I don’t know where you are, and you’re obviously in a very clever place, but I can’t find you. You have to come out, or I’ll just have to leave.’ She waited. Nothing. ‘Okay, I’m leaving now.’ Again, no answer.
Perhaps he’d already gone home. She thrust her hands into her coat pockets and turned back towards the cottage.
If the little boy was still hiding, hopefully he’d get bored soon and come to find her.