The House of Vandekar

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The House of Vandekar

Evelyn Anthony

For my husband

with my love

1

The child opened her bedroom door: it was easy to unlatch and made no sound. There was a light in the long corridor outside and the massive clock at the foot of the stairs struck two. A woman was coming down the corridor, floating dreamlike on the surface, her red hair gleaming under the light. The child heard a whisper. ‘Diana – in here, darling,' in a voice she didn't know. The man was always in shadow, while the woman's face was clear and the negligée drifted round her slight body like a cloud. There was a smile on her face and her eyes were bright, but her look was furtive. Once she paused, one hand pressed to her mouth in fear, as if she heard something. It was a long, long corridor, with no end in sight, as in all nightmares; there were deep patches of shadow where the lights did not penetrate.

The child drew back, watching unseen, and the woman passed by. She did not see the one who followed her, but the child did. Only a shadow, moving out of the radius of the light, a blur of menace that frightened the child so that she wanted to cry out a warning, but no sound came.

Nancy woke, shocked out of sleep by the terror of that old childhood nightmare. Her heart beat too fast; fear made it difficult to breathe for a few seconds. The man beside her didn't notice. He was concentrating on driving through the rain storm. She hadn't dreamed of it for years. Why now? It never varied. She used to wake screaming when she was little, terrified by the shadow without a face that haunted her since she was eight years old. A shadow that was as real as the woman it pursued that night.

Over the years it happened less and less. Time and distance kept it at bay and she herself repressed it, as she had repressed her name and her past life.

It was all over now, nothing left but the nightmare, if and when it came. But the fear and the guilt were still there, lying in wait for her. She hadn't cried out in real life; she had cowered behind the door and crept back into bed, a little girl afraid because she had seen what wasn't meant to be seen by anyone that night.

‘David,' she said, ‘are we nearly there? I wish you'd tell me where we're going.'

‘No chance,' he said, and squeezed her hand for a moment. ‘You'll have to wait and see. You were asleep for a bit. It won't be long now, about half an hour.'

It was her birthday and her lover had planned a surprise. ‘I'm taking you away for the weekend. Somewhere really special,' he had said, ‘No, I'm not telling you where. Just pack a few nice clothes and I'll pick you up at six.'

They had been together for six months. It was the first serious love affair for Nancy since a disastrous episode with a married man in New York which had left her hurt and disillusioned. From that time on she had concentrated on her career and, until David Renwick came into her life, that career was all-important. He wasn't typical of the kind of men she met. Their worlds were very different. Her friends were in antiques, the art world, the auction houses, part of the wide circle of interior designers. Renwick was a self-made millionaire with interests in development and property. Renwick's Estate Agents had expanded into a big public company from the tiny agency he had set up with borrowed capital. At thirty-five he was a well-known subject for the gossip columnists, something of an enigma in a world where self-promotion was part of the business.

She had met him at a dinner party given by a rival colleague who was also a friend. Renwick had engaged his company to decorate his new house in Holland Park. She hadn't expected to like him. Her friend said he was demanding and cost-conscious, but the order was enormous and he had to be kept happy. Nancy was prepared for an arrogant money man with an inflated opinion of himself. Instead she found him charming, intelligent and very attractive. Power and great wealth could endow a man with spurious sex appeal. There was nothing phoney about David Renwick.

The attraction was mutual and he made no secret of it. He didn't waste time: he insisted on driving her home and took her out every night until she asked him to stay. He was so good to her, she thought, and good for her. There were no complications. No wife or ex-wives. They were lovers because they wanted to be, and she knew how important their relationship had become when he said for the first time that he loved her. They'd been together for nearly three months before it happened. Marriage wasn't mentioned. Nancy resisted his suggestion that she give up her flat and move into the new Holland Park house. She teased him by saying she couldn't live with someone else's decor, and he accepted her refusal. She wasn't ready to make the commitment even though he was. He knew how to be patient. He looked at her and smiled.

Not his usual type at all. He liked brunettes, he liked them petite and not very clever. She was tall, had bright red hair and was decidedly intelligent.

He wanted this birthday to be special for her, because he had something special in mind for them both. That was why he had chosen this particular hotel. He was enjoying keeping the destination a secret. He wanted to surprise and delight her. It would be her sort of place. She was that sort of woman. Although he didn't know much about her personal life, he could tell that at a glance. He had had a lot of girlfriends. He liked beautiful girls and beautiful girls liked him. Not just because he was rich, as one indiscreet young lady put it, but he was a fantastic screw as well. The remark ended their affair. Since meeting Nancy he had dropped his other women friends.

The gossipmongers had got bored and stopped watching him. Other men had the headlines now. David didn't mind. He hadn't cared about the publicity when it was directed at tarts calling themselves models and socialites who were both. But Nancy was different. He didn't want the muckrakers getting after her. He slowed in the driving rain – there was a signpost nearby and he didn't want to miss the turning. ‘Light me a cigarette, darling, will you?' he said, to distract Nancy's attention. She missed the notice and he turned the car through a blur of wrought-iron gates. There were speed bumps along the drive and he slowed to 20 miles an hour. Great trees arched overhead, dripping silver rain. The headlights searched the way ahead, twisting and turning for over a mile. She was peering through the whirring wipers, trying to see out. And then they rounded the last corner and the house rose up before them bathed in floodlights. Two wide wings embraced the central building. Its grace and symmetry had thrilled him the first time he saw it in a photograph. The reality was far more splendid.

‘Here we are, darling,' he announced. ‘Ashton! Quite a place?' The car had drawn up in front of the steps leading to the portico.

‘Yes,' Nancy answered.

Someone opened her door, holding an umbrella. She got out. She heard a man say, ‘We'll put the car in the garage, sir, and bring up your luggage. This way, please.'

They walked up the steps and through the open double doors into the hall.

‘If you'd like to sign the register, sir?'

She took a few steps forward while David went to the desk. The lighting was subdued in the enormous hall. A room, not a hall, with a big open fire blazing at one end. The tapestries still moved as if there was a draught, and at each side were suits of armour, oiled and gleaming. The one nearest the stairs had a grotesque German animal helmet that used to frighten the children. And there, by the fireplace, was the portrait.

David came hurrying back to her, taking her arm. ‘Like it? Fantastic isn't it?'

‘You're in the Fern Suite.' A young man in footman's livery preceded them to the main staircase, massive and dark, with carved sentinel figures on each newel post. For a moment Nancy touched the banisters. She didn't mean to, but she moved ahead, passing them both, leading the way.

‘It's here,' she said, and turned to the right a few yards down the corridor.

‘Yes, madam.' The footman sounded surprised. He opened the door and stood aside.

They were in a high-ceilinged room, lavishly decorated, with a handsome half-tester bed facing the windows. There were flowers and an ice bucket with champagne. David had thought of everything. He tipped the young man, who thanked him and said, ‘Your luggage will be brought up in a moment, sir.'

Nancy went to the window and drew back the curtains. There, in the distance, was the shimmer of the man-made lake and the famous Bologna group of Cupid and Psyche embracing in the driving rain, haloed in a single spotlight.

Behind her she heard him say, ‘You've been here before.' She turned away, letting the curtain fall.

He was standing, staring at her. He looked angry and disappointed. ‘You
have
been here before. It's only been open for four months. Who brought you here?'

‘No one.' Nancy said quietly. ‘No one, David. I was born here. This was my Aunt Fern's bedroom. My real name is Vandekar. Alice Vandekar was my grandmother.'

The day had begun well. Her office was in Culver Place. When she arrived that morning her personal assistant had brought in a handsome potted plant with best wishes for her birthday from the staff.

She had engaged a young man. She liked him and so far there had been no clash of personalities between them. He didn't mind taking orders from a woman. She had gathered a good team of designers around her and a small but dynamic sales force. She kept the tradename Becker because it was prestigious and added the one she had adopted for herself. Percival. Becker & Percival Interior Designers.

‘Tim,' she said to her secretary, ‘Get Mr Rowland on the line, will you? I want to talk to him about the Grosvenor order – and I'd love a cup of coffee.'

The morning had passed quickly; the plant looked very well on her desk. How nice of them to remember, she thought. Lunch with two French buyers, both new clients with some very big companies on their books. An order for exclusive Becker & Percival designs would expand her European business into something really serious. So far the company had only nibbled at the French and German textile industries. If it went well over lunch and during the afternoon, she might end up with a head start over some of her larger competitors.