The Grey Girl (3 page)

The whole encounter with Nate had only lasted a couple of minutes, but it had been enough to completely throw me off-kilter. There was no way I was going to befriend the first motorbike-riding, leather-jacket-wearing, cocky cliché with a nice smile that strolled into the kitchen. And I made a mental note to complain to Aunt Meredith about the lack of security at Dudley Hall. If anyone was free to walk up to the house and let themselves in through the back door then it was a miracle no one'd been murdered in their sleep yet.

It took me ages to make myself breakfast, I was so flustered. I couldn't find a pan to boil eggs in. And then I burnt my toast and had to start again. Meeting Old Nell and her biker teenage nephew in the space of half an hour had not been the start to the day I had expected. No surprise that they were related – if the rest of the village were half as rude then it was going to be a long few weeks at Dudley Hall. And I couldn't help but feel betrayed by Aunt Meredith. Nate knew I'd been in hospital. She'd clearly blabbed about me being in Warren House to anyone who'd listen. By the time I had finally cooked my breakfast and eaten it, I'd already resolved to ignore Nell, Nate and any other boorish villager I might be unfortunate enough to meet whilst I stayed at Dudley Hall. I couldn't afford to feel so distracted. I had to focus on getting better and writing my screenplay.

It was late morning by the time I finally made it outside into the sunshine with my notepad and a stack of pens. I needed to find a few good writing spots. I needed shade and I needed somewhere I wouldn't be easily disturbed, somewhere far enough away from the house. I briefly considered sitting underneath the old weeping willow by the stream, but it was still in view of the house. I wanted to be somewhere I knew no one would find me straight away. I followed the small brook as it wound its way through my new garden. Sure enough, after following the stream for a few minutes I saw the old wooden boathouse perched on the riverbank that I'd spotted from my bedroom window the night before. My face widened with a grin – a boathouse would be a perfect place to write.

The door bolt was rusted but unlocked, and after a few frustrating minutes of struggling I managed to pull it open and swing back the boathouse door. Inside was cool and damp and smelt of stale river water. One ancient-looking boat lay on the wooden decking of the boathouse. The boat was rotten and filled with holes, its paintwork long chipped away. I walked around the small vessel slowly. On its helm was the name
The Lady of Shalott
.

‘Named after the poem,' I whispered to myself. ‘“
The curse is come upon me,” cried the Lady of Shalott.
' I sat down on the boathouse floor, the wooden boards creaking as I leant against the rickety old wall and made myself comfortable. The gentle sound of water splashing against the boathouse gave me the perfect soundtrack to sit and write. I opened my notepad, clicked a biro into action and began to put pen to paper.

I sat and wrote for hours. There, on the floor of the rotting old boathouse, I began to stitch together the threads of my story. I decided not to set it at Warren House. I heard once that you should write about the things that you know best. And other than ‘head hospitals' the one thing I knew best was boarding schools. I'd lived in a boarding school for most of my life – instead of parents I'd had housemistresses and matrons, and instead of home-cooked meals I'd had cold, stodgy school food to nourish me. So I started to write a story set in a boarding school – a school that had once been a grand country home. I created a set of characters based on girls I'd met during my time at school – orphans, spoilt rich kids and those other girls who'd just been put into school and then forgotten about until the holidays rolled around. I didn't get around to writing any proper scenes, I just jotted down my ideas about the characters that would appear in my screenplay.

By the time I re-emerged from the boathouse and headed back to the main house the murder mystery guests were beginning to arrive. The driveway was steadily filling up with cars, and the sound of feet scrunching down on gravel and car boots slamming filled the air as I came into the back of the house through the kitchen door. I'd been in Dudley Hall for less than a day, and I'd taken an instant dislike to the draughty halls and dramatic history of the place, but I suddenly felt uneasy at the thought of sharing the old house with strangers.

I suppressed the uneasy feeling in my chest as I walked further into the kitchen. Nell was sweating over a boiling pot at the stove. She'd ditched the colourful clothes she'd been wearing earlier and was now in what looked like a Victorian peddler-woman's outfit.

‘Mmm, what's for dinner?' I asked her.

‘Suzy!' Aunt Meredith stepped in front of me. She was dressed like a Victorian aristocrat. Her hair was pinned up elegantly on the top of her head and she wore a stiff cream dress with pearls sewn down the front of it. Her skirt pooled out like a lampshade and hovered just above the floor. She did not look pleased to see me at all. She spoke quickly, without a pause for me to interrupt. ‘How are you? I've been looking for you everywhere. What have you done to your hair? Well, no time to worry about that now. You need to go upstairs and change please. And make sure you cover up that red hair. We can't have the guests seeing you like that, it's important that we all stay in character the whole time guests are here. Helps create a bit more atmosphere.'

I grimaced. This did not sound like fun. ‘I told you, I don't want to take part in the party.'

‘Well, I'm afraid there's no one else to play the part,' Aunt Meredith said bluntly, ignoring the daggers I was shooting at her with my eyes. ‘As long as you're staying here then you need to pull your weight. Be thankful I don't have you scrubbing the toilets.' As if I'd let anyone make me scrub a toilet! ‘Besides,' she sighed. ‘The distraction might be good for you.'

Aunt Meredith was the second person that day to suggest I needed distracting. First Nate and now her. However, the thought of having something to take my mind off an evening alone in my stark white room with nothing but my haunted thoughts for company did seem appealing.

‘I don't have anything to wear,' I pointed out.

‘I've put a scullery maid outfit on your bed,' she said. ‘Quickly go upstairs and change and meet us all in the library in half an hour so we can introduce all the characters to the guests.'

‘A scullery maid?' I said with obvious disgust. ‘Can't I at least have a nice dress like yours?' I complained.

‘The scullery maid is the murder victim,' Aunt Meredith said with a smile. ‘I know you said you didn't want a part to play, that you had too much to do. But all you'll need to do is come down for the meet and greet in half an hour and then do your best blood-curdling scream towards the end of dinner. Then I'll need you to act dead for twenty minutes or so whilst the guests inspect your body. Then you'll be free for the rest of the weekend. Although I'd prefer it if you could stay in costume for as long as the guests are here – just in case one of them sees you.'

There was no way I'd be spending the weekend in a scullery maid's costume. I'd sooner spend every waking minute locked away in the boathouse so no one saw me. But the opportunity to scream the house down and play a murder victim sounded too good to be true. However, I wasn't about to admit that to Aunt Meredith.

I rolled my eyes and stomped out of the kitchen. ‘Fine! But just for this weekend. I won't do it again.' I slammed the kitchen door behind me for added effect and then allowed myself a small smile once I was out of sight. Spending an evening as a murder victim in Dudley Hall was going to be fun.

The costume was slightly too big for me, but it would have to do. At least there was a white maid's cap for me to hide my bright red hair under so I looked a bit more authentic. I quickly dabbed some concealer under my tired eyes and half an hour later I was standing in the grand library amongst a room full of excited weekend guests.

There must have been twenty strangers in total, all of them dressed up as Victorian aristocrats and wearing grins of anticipation. But the spectacle of the murder mystery party guests was not what drew my attention. It was the first time I'd been in the Dudley Hall library, and it was incredible. Dusty old books lined the walls from floor to ceiling, and a rickety old ladder was propped against the far wall so you could reach whatever volume you wanted to read. Aunt Meredith had told me the night before that some books belonged to the house – throwbacks from the days the house belonged to the Dudley family, and the time that it was a school. But some of the books Richard had had someone buy from second-hand shops so they all looked old and well read. I found it slightly hollow that Richard didn't have books of his own to fill the empty shelves with. I was determined to collect a library's worth of books by the time I got to his age. I wanted a room that looked just like the Dudley Hall library, full of books I'd actually read. I'd already been warned that Dudley Hall's library would be out of bounds at weekends – it was one of the rooms that the guests used. But I made a promise to myself to spend at least a day in there writing the next week, once all the guests had gone.

Aunt Meredith tugged on my arm and pulled me beside her so that I lined up with the other ‘staff'. My eyes quickly cast over the gaggle of excited guests as they chatted away to one another, casting frequent glances in our direction for a sign that the drama was about to begin. Disappointingly, they were all roughly the same age as Aunt Meredith.

Aunt Meredith turned around and struck a huge gong that I hadn't previously noticed standing behind me. Silence descended upon the room and Aunt Meredith began to speak. ‘My Lords, Ladies and gentlemen,' she said dramatically. ‘Welcome to Dudley Hall. The year is 1885. Queen Victoria is on the throne. The first public train has just chugged along British train tracks, the Statue of Liberty has just arrived in New York, professional football has just been legalised and the Spanish King has just died. The British Empire is at its height and you are all fabulously wealthy. You have come to spend the weekend with the debauched aristocrat, Viscount Thomas Cavendish.'

‘That's me!' waved a fat man from the crowd, pushing his way to the front.

‘Would you like to stand here, sir?' Aunt Meredith ushered him to her side.

‘Viscount Cavendish and his wife, Lady Charlotte …' a woman shuffled away from the crowd and stood by the man's side,‘will host a spectacular weekend of feasting, dancing and relaxing. But keep your eyes and ears open, as Dudley Hall has a fair few secrets that it is struggling to keep hidden.'

The crowd of party goers made a few ‘Ooh, ahh' sounds. I tried desperately not to roll my eyes at how embarrassing the whole affair was.

‘I am Mrs Jones, your housekeeper,' Aunt Meredith said, straightening her back and getting into character. She pointed at me next. ‘This is Suzanne, our scullery maid.' I instinctively fell into character and sank into a deep curtsey. ‘This is Old Nell, our cook and resident physic.' Nell took a step forward and gave the crowd a solemn nod. Her heavy jewellery was jingling away like some kind of Romany Gypsy, and under one arm she held the crystal ball that Nate had brought to the house for her earlier. Aunt Meredith then pointed to a thin woman who must have been in her thirties. I hadn't noticed her before. She was dressed like me – like a servant. ‘This here is Katie, she'll be the maid who will serve you dinner and empty your bedchamber pots.' Poor Katie, I thought, she must be the part-time cleaner Aunt Meredith had told me about. ‘And this here,' Aunt Meredith gestured at Toby, ‘is the local county sheriff. On hand should any of you need any help at all.'

Toby stepped forward and sucked proudly on his new plastic pipe. The crowd gave him a patronising clap.

Thank God Katie was there to serve everyone dinner. I am many things but I am not a servant, even in the name of my art. Whilst the guests gorged themselves on the feast that Nell had prepared for them, I hid away in the kitchen and made myself a ham sandwich for supper. ‘Suzy,' Aunt Meredith tutted as she came into the kitchen. A strand of greying hair had fallen out of her smart up-do and she pushed it back from her face with a sigh. ‘If you'd waited half an hour you could have eaten what was left of the guests' food – there's always enough left to feed a small army .'

‘I was hungry.' I shrugged.

‘Well, they're halfway through their dessert course now. I should think you're good to go.'

‘Good to go?' I raised a confused eyebrow.

‘Scream. Die.' She smiled at me. ‘At the bottom of the stairs please.' I rose to my feet. ‘Oh, and make sure you're loud enough. We want them to be able to hear you through the dining room door.'

I obediently stood and walked into the grand hallway, made my way to the bottom of the staircase and cleared my throat. At the top of my lungs I gave my best, most blood-curdling scream. I then sank dramatically to the floor and quickly arranged myself in a graceful dead-person pose by the foot of the stairs, right next to the suit of armour.

There was a clatter of excited footsteps rushing out of the dining room and into the grand hall. ‘The scullery maid has been murdered!' I heard one woman gasp with joy. They quickly gathered around me and began to speculate on how I might have died. I tried not to flutter my eyelids or sneeze in anyone's face as the guests stood over my ‘dead' body exchanging their theories. ‘Perhaps she was strangled?' one man said. ‘Or bludgeoned to death?' said another. ‘But there's no blood, and no murder weapon,' someone replied. I could feel their hot breath on my cheek as they bent down to study me, and could smell their perfume as they wafted about around me. The group must have been standing over me for half an hour, but it felt like days. ‘I say she fell down the stairs and broke her neck,' said one man. ‘I say she was pushed,' said a woman. This seemed to be met with a chorus of agreement, and gradually I felt the guests moving away from me and heading back towards the dining room. I lay there for a while longer, in case anyone was still watching. My arm was twisted beneath me in an awkward position, and I longed to roll over and free it.

Gradually, I heard the guests' voices grow softer as the dining room door was pulled shut behind them. Aunt Meredith hadn't told me when I'd be able to get up – I'd just assumed I'd play dead at the foot of the stairs until she told me otherwise. But my arm was killing me, and I was beginning to need the loo. Just as I was about to sit up I felt a swish of movement down by my feet.

Someone was still in the hall, watching over me. Someone had stayed behind from the rest of the group and was silently observing me, looking for clues as to how I died. I forced myself to stay put, to ignore the throbbing pain in my arm for just a few more minutes.

Whoever was standing there began to move around me as I lay still on the floor. I couldn't hear their footsteps but I could feel them moving close to me. I felt a presence by the top of my head – they must have been standing right above me, looking down onto my face. I willed my eyes to stay closed as whoever was there bent down and came closer to me. Suddenly the air around me seemed to thin out, and I became more aware of the sound of my own breathing. There were no draughts there in the hall, but it suddenly felt like an ice-cold wind was sweeping all around me. As I felt the stranger move closer to me, a chill crept along my spine and I couldn't help but shudder. With the other guests I had felt their warm breath on my skin, but this was different. It felt like icy tentacles were creeping around me and squeezing the breath out of me. I forced myself to lie still a moment longer, but the sensation grew more intense. I felt the hairs on my body stand up and my heart began to thump furiously inside me. The silence was broken by the creaking of the old staircase and the wind rattling against the domed glass skylight overhead. On impulse my eyes shot open and I sat bolt upright. I spun around, searching the hallways for whoever had stood over me, but there was no one there. No one in the hallway, no one walking up the stairs. I was completely alone.

Another shudder ran through me. I'd imagined the whole thing. The sensation of someone standing over me, breathing their icy breath over my face. Eventually I stood up, brushed down my scullery-maid skirt and headed towards the kitchen. I rooted around in the fridge for some of the guests' dinner leftovers and washed it down with a glass of cold water. I was alone in the kitchen; I had no idea where my aunt or cousin, Nell or Katie were. I tried to shake off the feeling of unease that crept through my veins. I tried to convince myself that whatever had just happened to me whilst I lay in the hallway had been in my head.

I put my dirty plate and glass in the sink and headed out of the kitchen and up the stairs towards my room so that I could change into my own clothes. I put on a short blue cotton dress that I'd made the summer before. I'd spent hours sewing sequins onto the straps – a few of them had fallen off in the past year but it was comfortable and cool.

Desperate to distract myself from whatever had just happened, I picked up my notebook and pen and climbed onto my bed. The light outside was soft as I sat on my bed and read through what I'd written that day – notes about the girls who lived in the boarding school in my head. I began to make notes on the side of the page about things I should probably change when I began to write it properly – who was friends with who, who was the bitchy girl and who was the doormat. I invented lives for the girls on my page, personal histories and wishes for their future. Thinking about them was so much easier than thinking about myself and the disturbing sensation I'd had whilst playing dead in the hallway earlier.

After a while I had to turn my bedside light on to write as it was getting too dark outside. I think it must have been gone ten o'clock when I finally put my pen down.

I walked over to the window to pull my curtains shut. The curtains that someone else had opened for me that morning.

As I stared out into the darkness, movement on the ground below caught my eye. In the moonlight I could see a small, cloaked figure running away from the house towards the river. It was a girl, probably about twelve years old. Her long cloak billowed out around her as she ran. I assumed she must have been one of the murder mystery dinner guests, although I couldn't remember seeing her earlier. As I watched her move through the garden a cold shudder ran through me, and my mind took me back to the sensation of lying on the hallway floor and feeling someone watch over me.

I tried to shake it off as I watched the girl run up to the riverbank and untie a boat. I thought it strange as I couldn't remember seeing a post to tie a boat to as I'd walked along the river that day. And as I watched the girl hurriedly untie the boat, I realised I hadn't seen another boat on the river either. I briefly wondered if she'd rowed the boat from upstream somewhere, docking it by the house for some reason.

Curiously, I watched as the girl waded into the river and began to push the boat away from the bank in a hurry. Her heavy cloak spread out around her in the water, dragging her back towards the bank. She turned and looked back at the house, as if she was looking at it for the last time. The hood of her cloak shadowed her face and I couldn't see her features properly. Instead, the space where her face should have been just looked like a grey void. The girl quickly turned away again and began to clamber into the boat, struggling with her heavy cloak as she did so. Once she was in the boat she took hold of an oar. As the girl began to row herself down the river, away from the house, the moonlight bounced off the name written on the helm of the boat.

The Lady of Shalott
.