The Mercer's House (Northern Gothic Book 1) (10 page)

‘You
were
,’ he corrected. ‘You said yourself you’re much better now, and I believe you. I just wondered whether it might be better to take things a bit more slowly.’

‘I’m only doing what the doctor said.’

‘But how well does the doctor know you?’ said Garrett. ‘Does he really know whether it’s the right time for you to be coming off the happy pills?’

‘He is a she, actually. And I wanted to come off them myself. I don’t like what they did to me. They made me feel empty and stupid.’

‘Well, you know best,’ he said. ‘I don’t mean to offend. I’m only saying these things because I love you. In a totally non-sexual way, obviously.’

‘Obviously.’

‘Go and get ready, and we’ll go out,’ he said, and she went off to do as he said. Upstairs, she gazed at herself in the bathroom mirror. Garrett’s words had disturbed her more than she wanted to admit.
Was
she ready to get back to normal? She’d relied on the medication for almost two years now, but had always intended to stop as soon as she could, and she’d been feeling so much better lately that it had seemed the right time. But could she live without the tablets when her life was still in such a state of upheaval? She still didn’t have a job, and had no significant other to support her through any hiccups in her recovery, although she knew Garrett would be only too ready to step into the breach. Perhaps he was right: perhaps it
was
still a bit too early to be stepping out without a crutch.

Anyway, whether she’d missed Tuesday’s dose or not, she definitely needed to take one today. She felt in her washbag, then frowned. Where were they? She pulled everything out onto the bathroom shelf and peered into the bag, but they were certainly not there. A search of her handbag and her pockets turned up nothing either. It looked as if she’d left them at home, and she let out a sound of impatience. It would be Saturday before she got back and could take another one. It was risky to be without them for this long, but she would just have to trust that she could cope for another few days. She was feeling so well now that she was ready to test her own strength—or she hoped she was, at least.

T
HE PINK house at the end of the High Street had been an artists’ retreat for many years, Alexander Devereux had told her, but Zanna had no idea what to expect when she knocked on the door, since she’d never stayed in one herself. Alexander had described it as a sort of commune, and Zanna pictured something disorganized and relaxed, where people came and went as they pleased—just the sort of thing Helen would have liked, if what they knew of her was true.

‘Maybe they’ll invite you to do a residency,’ said Garrett, as they waited for someone to answer, but Zanna had no time to reply before the door was answered by a woman of perhaps thirty-five, holding a vase of flowers, who looked at them enquiringly. Garrett gave her his most engaging smile.

‘Hi, we’re looking for Alison Maudsley,’ he said.

‘Ma!’ the woman called up the stairs, which were just inside the door. ‘Hang on,’ she said, then put down the vase of flowers and went upstairs. They waited. After a minute or two she came down again. ‘She’s just coming,’ she said, and went off.

It was another five minutes before they heard someone else approaching down the stairs. The newcomer was a large woman of sixty or so, with a mass of grey, wiry hair. She was wearing a comfortable top and trousers which looked as if they had come from a discount clothes shop, and which were covered in dust.

‘Hello,’ she said, in a breathless, well-educated voice. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting. I’ve been clearing out the attic. I’m Alison. How can I help you?’

‘I’m Zanna Chambers,’ said Zanna. ‘This is my friend, Garrett Price. I’m sorry to bother you, but I understand you were once friendly with an aunt of mine who used to stay here. I’ve been trying to find her. Her name’s Helen Devereux.’

‘Oh, Helen!’ said Alison Maudsley in surprise. ‘Yes, of course I remember her. She and her little boy ran off and didn’t come back. About ten years ago, I think.’

‘It was twenty-five years ago,’ said Garrett.

‘Twenty-five years! Isn’t that the oddest thing,’ said Alison. ‘Is it really that long? Now, that’s a sign of getting old.’ She regarded Zanna with interest. ‘And so you’re her niece? Yes, I think I can see a resemblance. Come in.’

She stepped back and they followed her into a dim entrance-hall, illuminated only by the fanlight over the front door. The gloom was not relieved by the dark floorboards and ancient, red-flocked wallpaper. Alison led them down the passageway, past a door which revealed a glimpse of a large living-room full of squashed sofas and battered-looking armchairs, and strewn with books and magazines.

‘We sit there on the dark evenings,’ Alison explained, ‘but naturally artists tend to prefer the light, and so we spend most of the time at the back, where it’s much brighter.’

She stopped to move a pile of dustsheets which were blocking the hallway.

‘We had this extension built a few years ago,’ she said, as they entered the kitchen. It was a modern, airy space with a skylight and folding doors that gave onto the garden. At one side was an enormous dining-table, again spread with books and magazines. A tablet computer was propped up against a pile of chopping boards, and several unopened parcels marked with the names of art shops were stacked on a chair. The kitchen counters were also piled high with pots, dishes, papers, books and other assorted items, and Zanna wondered how anyone ever cooked in such a place. She went over to the window and saw that it gave out onto a long, narrow garden which was mostly laid to lawn, and was bordered by trees and flower beds.

‘It all starts going a bit straggly at this time of year,’ said Alison, following Zanna’s gaze. ‘To be perfectly truthful, I’d prefer something a bit less high maintenance, but we get quite a few water-colourists who like to do the delicate flower paintings, so we keep them and look after them as best we can.’

‘I used to do those,’ said Zanna. ‘But I found them a bit constraining after a while. I prefer to paint with big strokes, so in the end I switched to oils.’

‘Oh, so you’re an artist too, are you?’ said Alison. ‘You’ve followed in the family footsteps, then. Do the rest of your family paint?’

‘No. I’m the only one. Or I thought I was, until I heard about Helen. I never knew her at all. She d—she disappeared when I was very young.’

She had been going to say ‘died,’ but stopped herself just in time. How odd that the word had come into her mind like that. Garrett’s words, however joking, must have influenced her more than she thought. Nobody except he had ever suggested that Helen was dead, and even then that was only because his job made him a natural cynic.

‘And now you’re looking for her. Might I ask why?’

‘My father died last year. They were estranged but he wanted me to find her. It’s too late now, obviously, but I think she at least has the right to know that he’s dead.’

‘I see. I’m sorry about your father,’ said Alison. ‘I only wish I could help, but if it’s really true that I’ve forgotten the passage of time so thoroughly, and that she went away twenty-five years ago, I’m not sure what you think I can do. I told them at the time I had no idea where she’d gone.’

‘I’m just looking for clues as to where she might have been headed,’ said Zanna. ‘You knew her before anyone else here did. Did she stay with you long?’

‘A few months, I think.’

‘How does it work?’ said Garrett, who had been picking up objects and examining them curiously. ‘Do people pay to stay here?’

‘Mostly,’ said Alison. ‘We advertise in the
Guardian
and the
Telegraph
, and various other places, and people come up for a week or two at a time. We have guest artists who do talks, and we hold courses and suchlike. We’re very informal, as you can see. Much more conducive to tapping into one’s creative side, I find, than having a regimented routine. But occasionally we get people who can’t afford the fees and just want to escape for a while, and we might take them in if we have the room. Helen was like that. She was obviously escaping from some sort of troubled past, and had no money at all, but her talent was undeniable, and so I let her stay while she got herself together. I’m pleased to say she improved tremendously while she was here.’

‘Do you mean in her painting or her mood?’ said Garrett.

Alison gave a little wheeze of laughter.

‘Both, I should say. But I was referring to her state of mind. I don’t think anyone can come to this part of the world and remain unaffected by it. It’s so vast and deserted that there’s no shortage of space in which to just
think
, don’t you agree?’

‘Absolutely,’ said Garrett.

‘What happened to her paintings?’ said Zanna suddenly. ‘I don’t suppose she left them here?’

‘Oh, no, we never keep paintings here for long. We simply haven’t the space. We have a rule that if they’re not taken away or collected within three months, then we destroy them. But as a matter of fact, Helen used to destroy her own.’

‘Really?’ said Garrett. ‘What on earth for?’

‘She was never satisfied with them. There was something about everything she did that she disliked. She always said there was a shadow in her work. I tried to dissuade her, because some of her paintings were really very good, but ultimately I think art was like a sort of therapy for her rather than a means of expression. She poured out her darkest thoughts onto the canvas and then destroyed them. It was quite symbolic, really. She used to keep a diary as well, as I recall, although I don’t know whether she destroyed that too.’

‘Did she ever tell you what she was escaping from?’ said Zanna.

Alison hesitated.

‘I know she felt that she could only truly rely on herself, and that sooner or later everybody she loved would let her down,’ she said at last. ‘She trusted me for a while, but I don’t think it would have lasted.’

It was a vague answer, and Zanna wondered whether she didn’t want to repeat what Helen had said about her family, who, after all, were Zanna’s family too. But there was no sense in avoiding the issue.

‘Did she tell you she’d been abused?’ she said.

‘Yes, she did,’ said Alison, and something in her expression convinced Zanna that she knew more than she wanted to tell.

Garrett now glanced up.

‘By someone close to her, you mean?’ he said, and Alison nodded, still looking at Zanna, who met her eye.

‘There was more to it than that, though, wasn’t there?’ she said.

‘Perhaps,’ said Alison after a moment. ‘She was a lost soul, certainly, and I pitied her. But in the end she had to move on. She married Alexander Devereux, and as far as I know they were happy for a while. Then she took her son and left.’

‘Didn’t you worry about Rowan?’ said Zanna. ‘After all—’

She wanted to say, ‘you knew,’ but the words wouldn’t come out.

Alison looked away.

‘No,’ she said at last, and she sounded almost defiant. ‘She loved him, and she trusted me. I knew there was nothing to be concerned about.’

‘What did you tell Alexander? He must have been worried sick.’

Again came that wheezing laugh.

‘I don’t think Alexander is capable of being worried sick,’ she said. ‘I assume you’ve met him. He’s in a world of his own most of the time. Lovely man, but not the sort of person you’d trust to rescue you from a tight spot. He simply hasn’t the initiative. I expect he wouldn’t even have noticed she’d gone if Corbin hadn’t told him.’

‘He was away in New York at the time,’ said Zanna.

‘Yes, and that was another thing. What sort of husband leaves his beautiful young wife alone for weeks at a time? Corbin was in love with her, you know. Alexander would have done well to keep his eye on them.’

This last remark was so sudden and unexpected that Zanna couldn’t think of a reply for a moment. Garrett, however, perked up immediately.

‘Are you saying they were having an affair?’ he said.

‘I couldn’t tell you,’ said Alison. ‘Not necessarily. After all, it takes two to tango, and if she wasn’t interested then I don’t suppose anything happened. Besides, Corbin and Alexander are terribly close. I can’t imagine Corbin would deliberately betray his brother like that.’

‘You’d be surprised at what people will do for love,’ said Garrett. ‘I’ve seen it all in my job.’

Zanna threw him an amused glance at his world-weary air, which contrasted oddly with his boyish looks.

‘There’s more than one kind of love,’ said Alison. ‘Brotherly love can be every bit as strong as romantic love, don’t you think?’

Garrett gave an easy shrug.

‘At any rate, if anybody knows where Helen is, it’s probably Corbin,’ Alison went on. ‘And if he hasn’t said anything, then presumably it’s because she asked him not to.’

‘Divided loyalties,’ said Garrett. ‘It’s the stuff of soap operas.’

‘It must have been very hard for him in that case,’ said Zanna. ‘If he really does know where she went, I mean.’

‘I’m going to ask him,’ said Garrett.

‘No,’ said Zanna.

‘Don’t you want to know where she went?’