19. Clara
19
The key turned smoothly in the lock and the door swung open. Behind it lay a narrow wooden staircase leading up into darkness.
‘These must have been the backstairs for the servants,’ said Clara, her heart pounding.
‘I guess so,’ said River, peering over her shoulder, his breath hot on her neck. ‘Are you quite sure about this, Clara?’
‘Yes, absolutely,’ she replied, though she wasn’t sure at all. Who knew what lay above their heads? ‘You don’t have to come if you don’t want to.’
She waited for his reply, praying that he wouldn’t back out. Having him here made her feel braver but, whatever his decision, it was too late to turn back. She would go alone, if she had to.
River groaned quietly. ‘I’m not going to let you go up there on your own, am I?’ He glanced back at the grand staircase that led from the hall. Someone was walking upstairs, their feet a dull thud on the carpet. ‘Just get a move on before someone sees us.’
Clara stepped through the door, waited for River to follow, and closed it behind them. She couldn’t see him in the darkness but she could hear him gently breathing and sense his body close to hers as the footsteps outside got closer.
The sound of River’s breathing stopped, and Clara held her breath too. How could she explain the two of them being alone together in the dark? A secret rendezvous, perhaps, so they could kiss each other senseless in private? She swallowed, aware of the heat coming from River’s body. This had been a terrible, terrible idea. Geoffrey would be furious and her mother would kill her.
She only started to relax when the footsteps receded, and she blinked when River turned on the torch on his mobile phone.
‘That was close.’ His face loomed ghost-like in the light. ‘Come on, let’s get this over with.’
He began to climb the stairs and Clara followed, her hand gripping the smooth bannister. Her grandmother, Violet, must have used these stairs when she was needed on the third floor – and when fleeing from Audrey’s bedroom with her diary.
Clara stopped climbing as a wave of grief for the grandmother she’d lost washed over her. If only Violet had talked to her about what had gone on that night. If only she’d felt able to share her secrets.
‘Are you all right down there?’ River asked over his shoulder.
‘Yes, I’m fine. I’m right behind you.’
Clara sniffed back tears and kept on climbing until the gloom lessened and the stairs opened out onto a wide landing.
‘Wow!’ she murmured, overcome by the sight in front of her.
Daylight, filtering through half-open curtains, dappled on a thick, blue carpet that was covered in cream swirls. It looked retro, opulent and untrodden. Gilt-framed oil paintings of moorland hung on the walls and a large grandfather clock stood in a corner, its hands not moving. Time seemed to stand still up here, in this place which had been under lock and key for almost seventy years.
‘Should we take off our shoes?’ Clara whispered to River, who was gazing around him.
‘Maybe we should,’ he whispered back, ‘seeing as we’re not supposed to be up here. We don’t want to leave dirty footprints for Glenda to find.’
Together, they slipped off their shoes and padded along the plush carpet.
‘It’s amazing, isn’t it?’ said Clara, her voice a little louder.
‘It is, though I still can’t believe you managed to get me up here.’ River stopped to peep out of a window that overlooked the gardens and the sea.
‘Think of it as revenge. It was you who encouraged me to climb the tallest tree in the garden when I was ten.’
‘I didn’t realise you’d get stuck and my father would have to call out the fire service to get you down.’ River grinned. ‘Do you remember how angry he was?’
‘There was steam coming out of his ears. He thought I was a bad influence on you.’
River waved an arm at their surroundings. ‘I think you still are, Clarissa.’
‘Hey! Don’t call me that.’
When Clara punched him on the arm, River laughed. ‘You might have grown up but you still hit like a girl.’
‘And you’re still a sexist pain in the backside.’
‘Nice. Always ready with an insult. That hasn’t changed either.’
‘You and Bartie always deserved it.’
Clara had said something wrong because the smile slipped from River’s face.
‘Anyway,’ he muttered, moving away from the window, ‘we shouldn’t be up here, so let’s have a quick look and get the hell out.’
They walked on in silence, past closed doors, until their way was blocked by a floor-to-ceiling brick wall.
‘I think the main staircase must be behind here,’ said River, knocking on the bricks. ‘My grandfather sealed them off completely after Audrey died.’
‘Even if he was grief-stricken, you have to admit that’s odd behaviour.’
‘He can’t have been grief-stricken for long because he married again very quickly afterwards. Though she died a few years later and he moved on to wife number four.’ River groaned. ‘Don’t look at me like that, Clara. Just because three of his wives died, it doesn’t mean he did away with them. Edwin, who, don’t forget, was a close relative of mine, was not a serial killer.’
‘Of course not,’ said Clara, hoping she sounded convincing. It was time to change the subject. ‘Let’s see what’s in here,’ she said, opening the door nearest to the blank brick wall.
The door opened onto a large bedroom. Charcoal curtains were pulled almost fully across the window, allowing in a thin shaft of sunlight that fell across the floorboards.
There was no furniture apart from a double bed draped in a midnight-blue eiderdown, a bedside table, and a desk with a green leather inlay. No possessions. No hint of the person who’d once slept here.
‘Do you think this was Edwin’s bedroom?’ whispered Clara. ‘It’s got a masculine feel to it.’
‘Probably. The Brellashams tend to have separate bedrooms, including my mother and father when they were married. Personally, I prefer to sleep with my partner.’
Clara blinked as an image of River sleeping next to his girlfriend, his tanned arm draped across her bare shoulders, popped into her mind. Why was she thinking of River’s love life? A door banging downstairs drove the image away.
‘Come on,’ said River. ‘Let’s make this quick before we’re missed.’
The next door off the landing opened onto an opulent bathroom, the likes of which Clara had never seen. At the centre of the room stood an enormous claw-footed bath with gold taps. The walls were covered from floor to ceiling in white tiles edged in black and gold, and a double basin had been placed beneath the curtained window. The brass towel rails were gleaming but empty.
‘I think you could fit my bedroom into this bath,’ said Clara, stepping into the room and running her fingers along its rolled edge. She had an urge to clamber in and try it out for size, but River was tapping his watch, so she grudgingly left the amazing bathroom behind and walked to the only door left on the landing that was yet to be opened. This had to be Audrey’s bedroom.
Taking a deep breath, she pushed down the handle and the door swung open to reveal a bedroom which was, presumably, still as Audrey had seen it, on the night that she disappeared.
‘Woah!’ said River beside her. ‘Now, this really is amazing.’
Clara went inside, crossed to the window and, after peeping outside to make sure she wouldn’t be seen, pulled back the cream curtains. When light flooded into the room, it was easy to imagine that Audrey had stepped away for a moment and would soon be back.
In stark contrast to the minimalism of Edwin’s room, all surfaces here were covered with Audrey’s personal possessions. Framed photos of her, Edwin, and Geoffrey as a boy were displayed on a tall wooden chest of drawers. A cerise silk scarf was draped over the back of a chair, and a silver-backed hairbrush, blonde hairs tangled in its bristles, sat on her dressing table, along with a gold necklace and a glass perfume bottle.
Glenda was doing a good job of cleaning up here because there was barely a speck of dust in sight.
Clara picked up the heavy bottle and sniffed in a rich, musky scent. She closed her eyes for a moment, picturing the woman who had stood in this spot and sprayed herself with this perfume.
‘Come and look at this,’ said River, who was standing next to a door, by a floor lamp with a green fabric shade. ‘There’s a whole dressing room in here.’
Clara followed him into the small room which was lined with wardrobes, all painted white. She opened one and gasped at the treasure trove of 1950s fashion that greeted her. The wardrobe was crammed with dresses: striking dresses in jewel colours, made from satin and silk, with nipped-in waists and full skirts.
She pulled one out – a blue short-sleeved dress with a white collar – and held it against her. Audrey must have been about the same height but, judging by this dress, her shoulders and waist were tiny. Clara was quite slim but she would never fit into Audrey’s clothes.
She put the blue dress back and began to rifle through the other wardrobes – through skirt suits in pastel hues, Capri trousers, pedal pushers, and sleeveless cotton tops – until she reached a rack of long dresses and spied the dress she was looking for.
The lemon-yellow gown that Audrey was wearing in her portrait – the one she wore to the ball – felt soft when Clara ran her fingers across the satin and chiffon. It was a beautiful dress for a beautiful woman, whose ending still remained a mystery.
Clara carefully closed the wardrobes and went back into the bedroom. Then she sat on the four-poster bed before swinging her legs up onto the silk eiderdown and lying down.
‘We don’t have time for you to have a rest,’ said River, a hint of anxiety in his voice. ‘We really need to get out of here.’
‘I’m just trying to get into Audrey’s head, to understand what she might have been thinking before she left this house for good.’
River pulled the curtains back across the window, to erase any sign of their visit, before sitting down on the bed beside her. ‘Do you think it’s a good idea to try and get into the head of a woman who was so troubled, she walked into the sea?’
‘Probably not,’ Clara admitted. Who could ever know what Audrey, whose mental health could have been adversely affected by a whole range of issues, was thinking that night?
‘I’m getting a bit worried about you, Clara,’ said River gently. ‘You do seem obsessed with a dead woman.’
Clara closed her eyes. It was beginning to feel as if her interest in Audrey was edging from curiosity towards unhealthy behaviour. But soon, any connection she felt to Audrey would be severed anyway, when the house was sold and she was no longer able to roam its rooms. Presumably, this forgotten ghost floor would be emptied and turned into a swish apartment for someone with far more money than she had.
She opened her eyes and swung her legs off the bed. ‘You’re right. We’ve had a look and there are no answers here.’
Her eyes fell on the book that was sitting on the bedside table. Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier, one of Clara’s favourite novels and the book which was by Audrey’s side in her portrait.
Clara picked it up and began to leaf through it. This was presumably the last book that Audrey had ever read: a story set in a grand country house, where a lonely young heroine lived in the shadow of a former wife whose death was cloaked in mystery.
Did it resonate with Audrey? This book that had sat for the last sixty-seven years next to her bed? Clara had to accept that she would never know.
Putting the book back in its place, she got to her feet and ran her hands across the eiderdown to smooth any creases. ‘OK, it’s time to go.’
She took a few steps before turning back and, on a whim, pulling open the drawer of the bedside table. Her grandmother had kept Audrey’s diary, something that was important to her, hidden in the drawer of her bedside table. What did Audrey keep in hers?
Unlike her grandmother’s drawer of tat, there was nothing in there except for another book – a large book bound in brown leather, which looked familiar. As she picked it up, Clara realised it was the ancient dictionary that Audrey was holding in her lap in her portrait.
Clara could understand why Audrey might want to re-read Rebecca at bedtime. But why take an old dictionary from the library and keep it close while she slept?
‘Come on, Clara. We’ve pushed our luck already,’ said River from the doorway. ‘If my father finds us up here, he’ll go absolutely bananas.’
‘Why do you think Audrey kept this old dictionary next to her bed?’ asked Clara, tracing the cracked binding with her fingers.
‘I have no idea.’
‘It’s not exactly bedtime reading, is it?’
‘It wouldn’t be my choice before I settle down to sleep. I’d prefer the latest Harlan Coben.’
‘So why keep it close, rather than in the library?’ asked Clara, but River had already gone.
‘Come on!’ she heard him call.
‘Right behind you,’ she called back.
There had to be a reason why this book was important to Audrey and she really wanted to know what that reason was. Clara made a snap decision. Her grandmother had taken a diary from this bedroom and she was about to take a dictionary. Tucking it under her arm, she pulled the bedroom door closed and hurried after River, down the narrow staircase.
After emerging onto the second floor, Clara closed and locked the door and dropped the key into her pocket.
‘What are you two doing, huddled at the end of the landing?’
Bartie had just appeared at the top of the grand staircase. He walked towards them, a frown creasing the skin between his dark eyebrows.
‘Nothing,’ said Clara, taking several steps away from River.
‘We were admiring the portrait of Audrey Brellasham,’ said River smoothly. ‘Have you seen it? She’s Geoffrey’s stepmother, who disappeared years ago.’
‘Yeah. Great,’ said Bartie on reaching them. He didn’t even glance at the portrait. ‘What are you carrying?’ He was staring at the book under Clara’s arm.
River glanced at Clara and rolled his eyes. ‘Yeah, Clara, what have you got there?’
‘Just an old book I found,’ said Clara brightly. ‘I’m going to return it to the library.’
Bartie stared at them both, suspicion etched across his face. But then his features relaxed and he smiled.
‘I’ve been looking for you both to let you know that my developer contact is coming to view the manor later this week. She’s very excited about this house and has lots of potential plans for it already. I think getting her to sign on the dotted line is going to be a slam dunk.’
‘Really?’ Clara felt flutters of panic in her stomach because the sale suddenly felt very real. ‘Do you think she’ll be amenable to leaving our cottage intact and letting Mum stay on there?’
‘Clara told me about your great idea,’ said River, an unfamiliar edge to his voice.
‘Did she?’ Bartie laughed and caught hold of Clara’s hand. ‘I said I’d try to save your home, Clo, and I’d never renege on a promise, especially to you.’ He gave Clara a beaming, perfect-teeth smile. ‘But there are no guarantees, of course. All I can do is my best.’
Clara was surprised that hearing her nickname from Bartie’s mouth slightly put her teeth on edge. He’d never used it when they were teenagers together, though, thinking about it, he’d hardly ever spoken to her back then. He’d always made her feel like River’s annoying little friend who insisted on tagging along. But people could change.
‘Your best will be fantastic,’ she told him. ‘Thank you. I really appreciate it.’
‘You’re very welcome,’ said Bartie, dropping her hand.
‘What kind of development is your contact interested in pursuing with this house?’ asked River, frowning.
‘Nothing too radical. She’s very into preserving the history and heritage of these magnificent buildings.’
‘And the grounds around them?’
‘Yeah, absolutely. There’s nothing to fear. The house will be turned, tastefully and respectfully, into luxury apartments, and the grounds will be preserved as Geoffrey has stipulated.’ He looked at Clara and winked. ‘Maybe the Heaven’s Cove charity fete can still be held here every year.’
‘That would be amazing.’
Bartie hooked his arm through Clara’s. ‘Come on down with me and we can discuss this year’s fete.’
They walked to the staircase and Clara looked back but River hadn’t moved. He was still standing in front of the portrait, watching the two of them.
‘Come on, slowcoach,’ Bartie called, but River shook his head.
‘I’ll be down in a bit. You two go on without me.’
Once they reached the hall, Bartie unhooked his arm and, leaning forward, kissed Clara on the cheek and let his skin rest against hers for a few seconds before straightening up.
‘I hope my cousin hasn’t been boring you to death up there with fun facts about tedious ancestors.’
‘Not at all,’ said Clara. ‘He’s been great, and I find some of his ancestors fascinating.’
Bartie’s brows knitted together. ‘Really? Well, each to their own.’
This was the moment to tell Bartie about how interested she was in Audrey’s story and how much she wanted to solve the mystery of her disappearance, but something held Clara back. Probably anxiety that he wouldn’t understand her interest or, worse, would think she was weird. River already knew she was weird so it didn’t make much difference with him.
‘So, how are the arrangements for the charity fete going?’ asked Bartie, glancing at his phone that he’d just pulled from his pocket.
‘Really well. I think most things are in hand. I need to contact stallholders and make sure they know the fete is still going ahead in spite of the manor being up for sale.’
‘That’s good,’ said Bartie, swiping through emails on his phone screen.
‘Then, it’s just a case of erecting the stalls on the day before the fete.’
‘Yeah, cool,’ said Bartie, still swiping and not looking up from his phone. He didn’t appear to be listening.
‘Though I still need to book the talking llama, of course.’
‘Excellent,’ said Bartie, confirming Clara’s suspicions. ‘It sounds great. Hey. There’s an urgent email here and I need to make a call. Can we catch up about the fete some other time?’
‘Yeah, sure.’
Clara watched him walk away, disappointment blooming. Despite Bartie’s pre-picnic claim that he wanted to help with the fete, that didn’t appear to be the case. He wasn’t interested in the event or, it seemed, in her, particularly. In fact, he’d just been dismissive and quite rude.
Her mum suddenly bustled into the hall, her arms filled with freshly washed linen. ‘Don’t just stand there, Clara. Do something useful. Put that book down and help me to put these sheets away, will you?’
Clara was so focused on Bartie, she’d almost forgotten the dictionary under her arm. The book she’d stolen from Audrey’s bedroom. Not stolen, she told herself. She’d merely borrowed it and would soon return it to the library.
As her mother hurried upstairs, Clara shoved the dictionary into the coat cupboard, beneath a jumble of wellies. She would retrieve it later and try to work out why this unassuming, nothing-out-of-the-ordinary book had been so important to Audrey.