Castle of Secrets (10 page)

Quicker and
quicker, down the stairs, through the hall, into the kitchen, where sanity was
restored. Candles filled the space with light. The hearty fire added its glow.
Mrs Beal was brewing a pot of tea, a beacon of homeliness in the brooding
atmosphere of the castle.

‘It’s colder
this morning,’ said Mrs Beal cheerily, as she put the finishing touches to the
table, adding a pot of honey to the rolls and butter that were already there.
‘There was frost on the inside of the window when I came downstairs. It’s still
there, look, even now.’

‘Yes,’ said
Helena
, relieved to be talking
about something so ordinary after her disturbed night.

She blew out
her candle and put it on the dresser.

‘There now,
we’re ready,’ said Mrs Beal, looking at her handiwork with pleasure.

Helena
sat on one side of the
table, and Mrs Beal sat opposite her.

‘Tell me, Mrs
Beal, do you have a key to the east wing of the attic?’
Helena
asked, for she knew she
must unravel its secrets soon, or say goodbye to sleep. ‘I would like to air
it, but the door is locked and there isn’t a key on my ring.’

‘No, I don’t
have any keys for upstairs. Now if you find you’re missing a key to the wine
cellar or the dairy, I can help you there. I’ve the keys for all the rooms
below stairs.’

‘No, thank
you, it’s only the attic key I need. Do you know if Mrs Carlisle kept any spare
keys anywhere?’

Effie dropped
a handful of cutlery, which clattered against the flags.

Mrs Beal shook
her head and tut tutted as the girl picked up the kitchen utensils.

‘Sorry, Mrs
Beal,’ gasped Effie.

‘Just you make
sure you clean everything properly,’ said Mrs Beal.

‘Yes, Mrs
Beal.’

‘Now what were
we talking about?’ asked Mrs Beal.

‘The key to
the attic. I wanted to know if Mrs Carlisle had a spare set.’

‘Not that I
know of. She was a very organised lady, though, and I’m surprised there’s a key
missing. Are you sure it’s not on the ring?’

‘Quite sure.’

‘It’s possible
she never had one. Some of the rooms are never used. They probably haven’t been
opened since her ladyship was alive.’

‘Her ladyship?
Did his lordship have a wife?’ asked
Helena
, thinking that here was the answer to the mystery of him
crying over a grave.

‘Lor' bless
you, no, his lordship’s never been married,’ said Mrs Beal. ‘I meant her old
ladyship, his mother. Ah, a wonderful woman she was. A great lady. Always had a
kind word for everyone. “That was a very good stew you served us up yesterday,
Mrs Beal” or “I want to thank you for all your hard work, Mrs Beal. The banquet
was a great success.’

‘So his
lordship never married,’ mused
Helena
.

‘He never
needed to, not with his brother —’

She stopped
suddenly.

‘I didn’t know
he had a brother,’ said
Helena
.

‘Oh, yes. But
you don’t want to hear about all that,’ said Mrs Beal. She took the kettle from
the fire and made the tea.

‘On the
contrary, I’m interested in the family,’ said
Helena
, and waited for the cook to go on.

Mrs Beal
looked to be weakening, but there was another clatter as Effie dropped a pan
and Mrs Beal’s attention was distracted.

‘What are you
doing?’ asked Mrs Beal, going over to the young girl.

‘Sorry, Mrs
Beal,’ gasped Effie.

‘That pan’s
given years of good service, and if it’s properly looked after it’ll give years
more,’ said Mrs Beal admonishingly.

‘Yes, Mrs
Beal,’ said Effie, picking up the pan and putting it back into the sink.

Mrs Beal
returned to the table, grumbling about the difficulty of finding good help in
such an isolated spot.
Helena
tried to induce her to talk about his lordship’s family
again, but Mrs Beal had evidently decided that discretion was called for, and
Helena
could not persuade her to
say more.

Instead, Mrs
Beal recounted the troubles of her position, talking about the likelihood of
the fishmonger retiring, and the scandalous way the dairymaids flirted with the
farm hands instead of keeping their minds on churning butter.

As she talked,
Helena
listened with only half
an ear as she wondered about Lord Torkrow’s brother. He must be a younger brother,
otherwise he would have inherited the title. Where was he? At school, perhaps.
That would explain why he was not living at
Stormcrow
Castle
.

Why did Mrs
Beal not want to talk about him? Was he the black sheep of the family? Was it
just boyhood mischief, or was it something more? Was he . . . dangerous? Had he
attacked, or even killed, her aunt? And had Lord Torkrow buried her aunt,
saying nothing, so that his brother would not be sent to Bedlam? Was that why
he had been crying in the graveyard? And was that the meaning of her nightmare?

Such fantastic
ideas were ridiculous, she told herself, looking round the cosy warmth of the
kitchen and she resolutely banished them from her mind. But once she left its
safety and comfort, the ideas returned to haunt her. In the cold stone
corridors they did not seem so far-fetched. The castle was dark and mysterious.
It was also very old. It must have seen some terrible things. And the
graveyard? What had it seen?

She knew she
would have no peace until she had visited it again. She decided to go past it
on her way to the village, in order to see Mrs Willis about appointing some
maids, and read the inscription on the tombstone. If it bore the inscription
Mrs
Carlisle
. . . she could think no further. First, she must find out who it
belonged to, then she could worry.

There were
some tasks that she needed to complete first, but she resolved to go after
lunch.

True to her
resolve, she set out as the clock on the stables chimed one. She paused at the
threshold. A light rain was falling. Lifting her hood, she made sure it covered
her head, tucking in a stray wisp of hair, then she set out across the
courtyard. From the direction of the stables she could hear the muffled sound
of horses snorting, but there was no other sound in the stillness.

It was cold
and wet underfoot, and she was glad of her stout boots. The drizzle was
dispiriting. The clammy air made her face damp, and her cloak was soon beaded
with water. She went under the arch and then across the moor until she reached
the low wall she had struggled over the night before. She saw the gap and went through,
trying to remember the direction she had taken. She had walked forward until
she had tripped over a fallen headstone . . . she saw it . . . and then she had
moved forward again.

She walked
more slowly, hoping to find the exact spot, but the rows of graves all looked
the same. She stopped when she thought she had reached the right place and
examined the tombs and headstones. There was nothing remarkable about them.
Some were simple and some were ornate. Some told of long lives, and some of
short. John Taylor, Bella Watson and Henry Carter had all lived for more than
ninety years. Richard and Lucinda Pargeter had died before they were
twenty-two. But she could see nothing that would account for Lord Torkrow’s grief,
nor could she see anything bearing the name
Carlisle
.

She walked
slowly through the graveyard, looking for any signs of a recent burial, but she
could not see any disturbed earth. The graves were all at least a year old, and
most of them were much older.

She began to
feel more easy, knowing that her aunt had not been consigned to the ground. She
felt ridiculous for having pictured Lord Torkrow as a murderer who had visited
the grave of his victim, overwhelmed by remorse, when instead he was simply a taciturn
man, who was at that very moment probably doing nothing more alarming than
taking breakfast and starting his business for the day. As for the grave he had
been crying over, it was a private matter, and she should not meddle in it.

Leaving the
graveyard behind, she continued on her way to the village. She walked briskly,
enjoying the warmth her movement brought her. She had need of it, for the
drizzle had intensified and she bent her head against it. She only hoped it
would not rain until she reached her destination.

She was not to
be so fortunate. Before long it was raining steadily. The rain came down more
and more heavily, and she was just wondering whether she had better turn back
when she heard an ‘Urgh!’ and raising her head she saw a woman hurrying along
the road towards her. The woman was wrapped in a cloak and wore a bonnet on her
head.

She looked up
and their eyes met. They smiled briefly, two strangers acknowledging the
dreadful weather, and
Helena
was emboldened to ask: ‘How far is it to the village?’

‘It’s a tidy
step, and there’s more rain to come,’ said the woman, looking at the darkening
sky. She added: ‘If you would like to take shelter, my cottage is not far
away.’ She glanced to her left, where a track ran off from the road.

Helena
hesitated, but her cloak
was sodden and if she remained out of doors she would soon be soaked to the
skin.

‘Thank you,’
she said.

The two women
fell into step and turned off the road. The track was rutted, and they trod
carefully, trying to keep out of the mud and puddles. Before long they came to
the cottage. It was a sturdy building of stone, with small windows set deeply
into the thick walls. There was a  wall round the garden, and a gate was set
into it. The garden contained a few hardy shrubs which were looking as
bedraggled as
Helena
felt, and she was glad
when they reached the door. The woman opened it and they stepped inside.

The hall was
small, but it was clean and well cared for. The woman removed her pelisse,
bonnet and gloves and hung them on a peg, then turned to
Helena
.

‘I am Mary
Debbet,’ she said, laughing as she pushed her wet hair out of her eyes, ‘and I
am very pleased to make your acquaintance.’

‘I am . . .
Elizabeth Reynolds,’ said
Helena
, wishing that she did not have to lie. ‘I am the new
housekeeper at the castle.’

She thought
Mary might withdraw, and tell her she would be welcome to sit in the kitchen
until the rain stopped, but instead Mary said: ‘Here, let me help you off with
your wet things.’

She helped
Helena
remove her sodden cloak,
and hung it up to dry, then led the way to a door on their left. She paused
with her hand on the door knob.

‘You will meet
my brother in the sitting-room,’ Mary went on. ‘Please, do not be offended if
he does not get up. He was wounded at
Waterloo
, and his nerves have not recovered. The doctor
prescribed complete rest, and that is why we have taken a cottage on the
moors.’

‘I
understand,’ said
Helena
.

Mary opened
the door and they went into the sitting-room. It had rough walls painted in
shades of cream, and oak beams supported the ceiling. The small window was
latticed, and the window ledges were very deep. To the right was a large fire,
and in front of it sat a gentleman of perhaps five and thirty years.

‘We have a
visitor,’ said Mary.

He looked up,
but did not stand.

‘Mrs Reynolds
is the new housekeeper at the castle,’ she said.

‘I am pleased
to meet you,’ he said. His speech was slurred, but his words were polite and
sounded genuine. He held out his hand, but it trembled and he dropped it again.

‘Please, do
sit down,’ said Mary to
Helena
. She rang the bell, and a neat maid appeared. ‘Tea, Jane,
please. We are cold and wet and need something to cheer us.’

Jane bobbed a
curtsey and withdrew.

‘I hope your
business was not urgent,’ said Mary, glancing out of the window, where the rain
poured down. ‘I think you will be with us for some time.’

‘No, luckily
it can wait. It is very good of you to take me in.’

‘On the moors,
we help each other,’ said Mary. ‘We have to. It is very different to living in
a town. Out here, it is possible to freeze to death when the snow falls, and
whilst I don’t believe it’s possible to drown, it is certainly very unpleasant
when the heavens open.’

The maid
returned with a tray, and Mary poured the tea. She was a beautiful young woman.
Her dark hair  was sparkling with raindrops, which clung to it like diamonds.
It was drawn back from her face in a tight chignon, but the severity of the
style only served to enhance the beauty of her face. She had a creamy
complexion and dark eyes. Her cheek bones were high, and her nose and mouth
were well shaped. Her figure was good, and her well-cut gown suited her. She
must have had many suitors in town, and
Helena
found it admirable that she had
chosen to accompany her brother to an isolated spot for the good of his health,
rather than indulge in the frivolities that must have been her lot in a more
civilized location.