The Body at Auercliff (29 page)

Chapter Fifty-
Five

“Esmerelda,” I mutter, turning the faded old scrap of paper over and taking a look at the other side, where the same name has been scrawled several more times in my aunt's messy handwriting. “Who the hell was Esmerelda?”

I can't make sense of half the sentences on this pieces of paper, and given my aunt's dementia it's quite clear that there's little sense to be made at all. Sitting here on the edge of her bed, I feel as if I have all the pieces of a vast puzzle, but no clue as to how to put them together.

But Esmerelda seems to be the key. She seems to have been almost obsessively writing notes about someone named Esmerelda, as if the matter occupied her every waking moment. I've spent enough time around dementia patients to know that there was quite likely a grain of truth trapped somewhere within her thought processes, but I've never heard the name Esmerelda mentioned in my family. If I can find out who she was, I can use that as a way in.

Sighing, I realize that there's something else I have to do.

I have to go down and find my mother, and I have to apologize. She's just lost her sister, and I should be more supportive, even if the thought makes my skin crawl. This isn't the right moment to bear grudges.

Feeling my phone starting to buzz, I slip it out of my pocket, desperately hoping that it's Scott calling to let me know he's on his way. Instead, I feel a flash of concern as soon as I see Detective Johnson's details flashing on the screen.

“Hi,” I say cautiously as I answer the call. “Is there any news?”

“Where are you right now?” he asks, rather abruptly. “Are you at Auercliff?”

“Yes, I'm in my -”

“I'll be over soon.”

“But -”

“I need to speak to you about something,” he continues, “and I think it should be in person. I'll be there in about half an hour.”

“My mother's here too,” I tell him. “She arrived about an hour ago.”

As if to underline that point, there's a loud bump from downstairs. I don't know what the woman is up to, but she certainly seems to be keeping herself busy.

“My aunt died last night,” I add.

“I heard. I'll be there soon.”

“Can't you just tell me what's wrong over the phone?” I ask.

I wait.

No reply.

“Detective?” I say after a moment, realizing that he seems to have fallen silent on the other end of the line. “Are you still there?”

“I am,” he replies, but now there's an edge of concern in his voice. “I'll be there as quickly as possible. I need to talk to you about a matter of some urgency.”

I pause, feeling as if something might be wrong. “Please, can't you tell me over the -”

Before I can finish, I spot a few wisps of smoke curling past the window. I freeze for a moment, telling myself that there's no reason to be concerned, but the smoke seems to be getting thicker as it rises up into the clear blue sky.

“I'll see you when you get here,” I stammer, before cutting the call and hurrying over to the window.

Sure enough, more and more smoke is filling the air, although from this angle I can't quite see the source. Opening the window, I lean out and look along the side of the building, and I quickly realize that something seems to be burning around the next corner, out on the lawn.

And there are tiny fragments of charred paper caught in the smoke.

“What the hell?” I whisper, turning and hurrying out of the room, and then scrambling down the stairs. “Mum!” I call out, trying not to panic but filled with the sense that something must be very wrong. “There's smoke outside! I think maybe -”

Stopping suddenly, I see that the door to the study is wide open, and that the place looks to have been ransacked. Making my way over, I look through and realize to my horror that not only have the drawers been pulled out of the desk and emptied, but books have also been taken from the shelves. In fact, it's almost as if every item from Uncle Martin's study has been removed. All the notebooks, all the photos, all the journals.

In the distance, flames are starting to roar.

***

“What the hell are you doing?” I shout, racing across the lawn as I see the bonfire up ahead. “Stop! You can't destroy those!”

By the time I get closer, however, I can see that it's already too late. All the notebooks, letters and other documents from the study have been piled up on the grass, and now they're burning fast, sending plumes of ever-thicker, ever-blacker smoke high into the morning sky. I stare in horror for a moment at the awful sight, before slowly turning and seeing my mother standing nearby, watching the flames with a calm, almost relieved look in her eyes.

“What are you doing?” I stammer, my heart pounding as I step closer to her. I can feel the heat from the bonfire on my face. “Those were Uncle Martin's notes about the history of the family!”

“History is a crutch,” she replies, still watching the flames, “for people who are too timid or too stupid to make their own way forward in life. Nobody cares about the history of these weak-blooded aristocratic toffs. I should probably burn those horrible paintings in the hallway, too, although perhaps some of them are worth a bob or two.”

“Nobody gave you permission to do this!” I shout, stepping over to her and barely suppressing the urge to push her away. “You have no right!”

“Oh, who gives a fuck?” she mutters, rolling her eyes. “Nobody's here to stop me, either. Face it, Rebecca, there was nothing interesting in those notebooks anyway. Martin was always a dull man, nobody else could possibly have cared about the history of -”

“I cared!” I shout, filled with rage. “I told you I was going to go through them all!”

“Well, then,” she replies calmly, with a hint of a smile, “it looks like you were too late, doesn't it?”

Turning, I stare at the flames and see that they're already starting to die down. Soon there'll be nothing left except a pile of charred paper, and everything Uncle Martin wrote has already been lost.

“There's no point getting sentimental,” Mum announces suddenly, as she steps around me and heads back toward the house. “I'm sure there's plenty more garbage where that came from. Besides, I doubt very much that your aunt ever bothered to get a last will and testament made, so more than likely the entire house passes to her next of kin, which would be me. So you see, I rather think I
do
have the right after all.”

I watch the dying flames for a moment longer, before turning and seeing that Mum is almost at the house's back door.

“You can't do this,” I whisper, although I doubt very much that she can hear me. “You just...”

My voice trails off as I realize that there's absolutely no point arguing with her. Instead, I step closer to the fire and start searching the remains, hoping that I might still be able to preserve a few scraps that escaped the worst of the flames. Unfortunately I find nothing at all, and soon the fire has burned out entirely, leaving just a pile of ash. Dropping to my knees, I reach down and run my fingers through what's left of the papers, and I can't shake a feeling of immense loss. I've never been someone who believes very much in intuition, but I feel as if there was plenty in those papers that deserved to be known. I was going to go through it all and learn the truth about the family. I was going to finish the work that my uncle started.

“Rebecca?”

Turning, I see Detective Johnson making his way across the lawn, having parked his car in the driveway.

“Are you okay?” he asks as he gets closer. “I'm very sorry about your aunt, I heard the news this morning. Are you having a clear-out of her things already?”

“My mother did this,” I whisper, feeling as if I might throw up at any moment. I can't believe I felt sorry for her earlier. “She burned my uncle's papers.”

“Is that a fact?” he replies, pausing for a moment as he looks down at the ash. “Well, maybe she has her reasons for wanting to keep the past hidden.”

I stare at the pile of ash for a moment longer, before turning to him.

“I got the results of some tests back this morning,” he continues. “The guys in the lab did a very thorough job with the body you found in your aunt's house. Thanks to a combination of DNA tests and hospital records, we're now more or less certain that we know the identity of the dead woman.”

“Who was she?” I ask, getting to my feet.

He hesitates for a moment, and I can see the concern in his eyes.

“Who was she?” I ask again.

“Her name was...” He pauses. “Her name was Rebecca Wallace.”

I stare at him, trying to make sense of what he just said. “I...” I take a deep breath. “I think there's been a mistake,” I tell him cautiously. “
I'm
Rebecca Wallace.”

“Right,” he replies. “Well, yes, I expected you might say that.” Reaching into his pocket, he slips out a folded piece of paper and holds it out toward me. “I've got a feeling you're going to want to see this.”

Chapter Fifty-S
ix

“I know what you did.”

Stopping in the reception room as she's about to examine another of the silver candlesticks, my mother – or rather, the woman I've thought of as my mother for all these years – hesitates for a moment before slowly turning to me.

I swear, I've always seen guilt and fear in her eyes, but it's only now that I understand.

“I know what you did,” I say again, “and I guess I know why you were so quick to build that little bonfire out on the lawn. You were trying to get rid of the evidence.”

“Well,” she replies, forcing an extremely unconvincing smile, “I honestly have no idea what you're -”

“Esmerelda Switherington,” I add, interrupting her.

She visibly flinches as soon as she hears those words.

“That's my real name, isn't it?” I continue, taking another look at the birth certificate that Johnson gave me a few minutes ago. “Esmerelda Mary Switherington. Mary, I assume, after my father's mother.”

I wait for a reply, but finally – after so long – I seem to have actually shut her up.

Suddenly she hurries over and tries to snatch the paper from my hand, although I pull it away just in time.

“Gonna burn that too?” I ask. “Burn anything you like, but it won't change the truth. Not unless you want to shove me on the bonfire with it.”

“You don't know what you're talking about,” she replies, her eyes filled with fear now. “Rebecca, I insist that you -”

“That's not my name!” I say firmly, with tears in my eyes. “Rebecca Wallace is dead. She was the body I found alone in one of the house's abandoned rooms. According to the autopsy, she'd been dead for almost five years, and the cause was most likely some combination of malnourishment and neglect. She was basically left to starve.”

I wait for a reply, but now there are tears in Mum's eyes.

No.

Not
Mum's
eyes.

Barbara's
eyes. I have to get used to calling her that now. This lying, deceitful woman is not my mother, and never has been.

“
Emily
was my mother,” I continue, feeling a sense of tight shock in my chest. “She's dead too now. She died last night. I tried to save her, and I didn't even realize at the time that she was my...”

My voice trails off, and after a moment Barbara turns and makes her way back over to the candlestick.

“There's a police detective outside,” I tell her, struggling to hold back tears. “He has some questions for you.”

I wait for an answer, but she simply picks up the candlestick and examines it for a moment, before wiping a couple of stray tears from her cheeks.

“You know,” she says finally, her voice trembling with shock, “we'll need to get this assayed properly. They really might be worth something, perhaps we could even take it onto the
Antiques Roadshow
and -”

“What did you do?” I ask, feeling a sense of anger starting to rise through my body. “What in God's name did you do, and when?”

She pauses, still examining the candlestick for a moment as if, somehow,
that's
what matters here.

“It was for the best,” she says finally. “Rebecca was... not well. Oh, let's not beat around the bush, she was retarded. And she screamed and cried all the bloody time, and I couldn't handle it. Maybe that's wrong of me -”

“Maybe?” I ask, shocked by the suggestion. “You were her mother!”

“She hated me,” she continues, setting the candlestick back on the mantelpiece. She pauses, before wiping a tear from her cheek. “I was scared of what I'd do to her if she kept screaming like that. Meanwhile Emily had this sweet, beautiful little girl who was absolutely perfect, and yet she also had all the time in the world to look after her. There seemed to be a certain mismatch in terms of which child had been born to which of us.”

“So you decided to swap?” I ask.

“You were so much easier to raise,” she replies. “People complimented me on you. They thought I was such a good mother, and I was! Once I had a proper, normal girl to raise, I was the best mother imaginable!” She pauses, watching me with a hint of concern. “I did the right thing for both of you,” she continues finally. “You'll understand that one day. Your aunt would have understood, too, if she'd ever...”

I wait for her to continue.

“If she'd ever what?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “Never mind.”

“If she'd ever known?” I ask, stepping closer. I swear, my whole body is trembling with shock and anger now as I start to realize the truth. “But she
didn't
know, did she? Jesus Christ, did you actually swap us as babies, and not even tell Emily?”

“Her dementia was already quite bad,” she replies, “and she was easily...”

Again, her voice trails off.

“I thought,” she continues, taking a handkerchief from her pocket and wiping away more tears, “that Emily would be in a much better position to raise Rebecca here at Auercliff, where she could shower love and attention on her. Emily was always more patient, she was simply the best person to look after such a difficult girl.”

“When we came to visit that time,” I reply, “and Nathan and I both thought we heard someone in the abandoned part of the house...”

“I told Emily to keep the girl out of sight,” she admits. “I just didn't want the fuss of her being around. She was such a simple and stupid girl, and she barely even learned to talk. She just let out all these horrible grunts most of the time, and she constantly has mucus all over her nose and mouth.” She flinches, as if the memory is almost too much for her. “She was severely mentally handicapped,” she adds finally, “and it was better for all concerned if she remained in her room for the duration of our visit. But she got out of her room one day and stole the key to the mausoleum, and she was playing in there when you turned up.”

“So there
was
someone in there with me?”

“The little retard probably thought it was funny.”

“She was your daughter,” I point out, barely able to contain my anger.

“No,
you
were my daughter!” she snaps. “I mean, you
are
! I raised you, I looked after you and -”

“You stole me!”

She sighs. “If you're going to be melodramatic about it, then I think we -”

“You stole me from your own sister!”

Another sigh. “Rebecca, please -”

“Don't call me that!” I hiss.

“What
should
I call you, then?” she asks. “Esmerelda? Really? Esme-fucking-relda? For God's sake, it's the most ridiculous name one can imagine.” She pauses, and it's clear that some of her usual self-righteousness has returned. “You should
thank
me for taking you away from this awful place!” Another pause. “I didn't do anything wrong.”

I open my mouth to ask if she's serious, but I quickly realize that she genuinely thinks she's in the right.

“I did what was best for all concerned,” she continues. “I know it's popular these days for young women to hate their mothers, but if you actually think for yourself for five seconds, you'll see that I made the right decision. The world would be a much better place if everyone was like me.”

I shake my head.

“Oh, spare me the sanctimony,” she adds, rolling her eyes again. “The last time I was here at Auercliff, almost five years ago now, I saw what a mess Emily had become. I dropped by unannounced, all alone, just a few days after you and I had argued.” She pauses. “That retarded girl was running amok, I had to lock her in the old part of the house just to get some peace and quiet while I checked on Emily.”

“You locked the real Rebecca away?”

She nods. “She was so noisy and annoying.”

“And then you left?”

“After talking to Emily. I realized then that -”

“She died!” I hiss, feeling a wave of shock in my chest.

“Emily? Yes, I know, but -”

“No, Rebecca” I shout, stepping toward her and pushing her back.

“What are you talking about?” she stammers.

“Rebecca is dead!”

“I know, but perhaps it's for the best. She was barely -”

“You locked her in the other side of the house!” I shout. “A mentally ill girl, with no means of getting out unless someone went and helped her!”

She opens her mouth to argue with me, but I can see that she's starting to understand.

“Emily was here,” she stammers. “I told Emily to let her out again.”

“Emily was sick,” I continue. “Emily's mind was going.”

Tears are running down Barbara's face now. “I told her,” she whispers. “I knew she was in a bad way, but...”

Too shocked to say another word, I take a step back as I realize what must have happened. Emily must have been in a particularly bad way after Barbara's last visit, and she didn't remember to let Rebecca out from the other side of the house. And if she heard the poor girl banging on the walls or calling for help, she probably just thought it was a ghost.

“She starved to death,” I whisper.

For a moment, I can't help imagining poor Rebecca trapped and alone in the house's western wing. She probably didn't understand what was happening. Meanwhile, Emily's mind was falling apart and she simply thought the ghost was making all the noises.

“She was left all alone,” I add, with tears running down my face, “and she starved.”

I wait, but after a moment Barbara turns and starts walking toward the chairs by the window. After just a few paces, however, her trembling legs give way and she drops down to her knees.

“You locked her away,” I continue, staring at the back of her head, “and Emily never let her out.”

Again I wait for an answer, but I can hear that Barbara has finally started sobbing. For a moment, I consider going over and comforting her, but then a wave of hatred washes over me and I realize I need to get out of here before I do or say something I'll regret.

Turning, I hurry to the door.

“I love you,” Barbara whimpers.

I glance back and see that she's crawling to the chairs. She turns to me and I see tears streaming down her face.

“I love you,” she says again. “You'll always be my daughter, no matter what you think. You'll realize that one day, I know you will. Please, come and sit with me. I don't want to be alone right now.”

I stare at her for a moment, before turning and walking out.

“Get back here!” she shouts, her voice filled with all the anger and fury that I remember from my childhood. “I'm ordering you, Rebecca! I'm your mother and I demand that you come back!”

“She's all yours,” I tell Detective Johnson as I hurry toward the front door. “Ask her about the time she locked a mentally ill girl away in the old side of the house.”

“I'll need a statement from you!” he calls after me.

“Later.”

“Rebecca, wait!” Barbara calls out from the reception room. “Come back! You have to think about this properly! Don't be a fucking idiot! Get back here right now!”

Ignoring her, I quicken my pace. All I know is that I have to get away from her, that I have to go somewhere and get my thoughts together. The air in the house suddenly seems very thin, and I can barely breathe. Detective Johnson has already told me that charges are unlikely, given the amount of time that has passed and the fact that there are no witnesses who can testify about what Barbara did, but right now I just need to be alone.

And I don't ever want to see that woman again. She was my aunt, not my mother, and she can go to hell.

Finally, once I'm outside, I lean against the wall and take a series of deep, gulping breaths. With tears running down my face, I sit on the gravel and try to get my thoughts together. All I can think about, however, is that poor girl trapped alone in the abandoned side of the house, left to starve to death. She must have been terrified, and in so much pain, and no-one went to help her. Poor Emily's mind was in tatters, and she didn't even realize what was happening.

Holding my head in my hands as more tears stream down my cheeks, I feel as if I might never stop crying again.