The Haunting of Mount Cod Page 3

  ‘There’s Angela, I suppose. She’s living with a group of friends in Woldham at the moment. Actually I almost forgot, she calls herself Angel now. Perhaps I should ask her; she will inherit Mount Cod after all.’

  ‘Angela?’

  ‘Angel.’

  ‘Will inherit Mount Cod?’

  ‘Angel and I are his only surviving relatives.’

  ‘But this puts a very different light on the situation.’ Laura let go of Venetia’s hand and got out of bed. ‘How old is Angela – Angel now?’

  ‘Goodness, she must be in her sixties, but will you think about it then? He really does need help.’ Venetia checked her watch. ‘Look at the time,’ she said. ‘Can I turn on the telly?’

  While Venetia went into the sitting room, Laura got dressed.

  She put on a blue cotton shirt from the drawer. ‘You know Parker, perhaps a few days away would be a good idea,’ she said, as the dog lay snoring on her bed. ‘There’s something very odd about Sir Repton and his ghost. A hint of corsetry, I ask you.’ She opened the cupboard and took her lightweight Cameron Hunting Tartan shift dress from its hanger.

  ‘Battle gear in order,’ she said, pulling it over her head. ‘We need to scotch his pack of lies once and for all before he gets Gladys or any other prospective wife hooked.’ She walked to the bathroom and ruffled her short blonde hair in front of the mirror. ‘Then all he has to do is orchestrate a fake exorcism and Bob’s your uncle, ghost gone. New wife in and bang goes Angela’s long awaited prospects.’

  Laura took a new contact lens from its sealed pouch and, looking in the mirror, lifted the lid of one eye and placed it on her eyeball. ‘That poor dear child – she must be a bishop by now.’ She put in the second lens. ‘Bishop Angel, funny that doesn’t sound quite right.’ She opened her compact and dabbed some powder on her nose. ‘And Venetia, bless her, she just hasn’t the mental agility to safeguard her daughter’s inheritance.’ She applied some lipstick and stared at her image squarely in the glass. ‘And what if Angel was right? What if he had killed Matilda? Why would a bishop make that kind of thing up?’

  Laura returned to the bedroom, picked up her silver and turquoise Navajo bracelet from the dressing table and called for Parker.

  The dog woke with a start.

  ‘This is a matter for urgent investigation. Perhaps he is short of money. Mind you he’s barking up the wrong tree with Gladys there.’

  Like Venetia, Gladys often worried she’d live too long and wouldn’t have enough money to pay the care home fees.

  ‘Barking up the wrong tree…’ Laura thought back to the first evening Sir Repton had arrived at Wellworth Lawns and Gladys’ book club choice.

  She was reminded of Gladys and the tomato soup.

  “Out, out, damn spot.” Those were Repton’s words. Was he, like Lady Macbeth, racked by guilt as Venetia had first intimated?

  Chapter four

  As Laura drove Venetia and Sir Repton through the dappled shade and over the bridge leading to the gates of Mount Cod, she noticed the lodge on their left. Outside it, the old Land Rover that had brought Sir Repton to Wellworth Lawns was parked untidily at an angle by the front door, the tailgate down.

  ‘Who lives there?’ she asked.

  ‘My general factotum, Lance Wilkes.’ Sir Repton turned to Laura. ‘A man of inestimable value; absolutely indispensable.’

  ‘General Factotum,’ Venetia said, from the back seat where she was acting as a barrier between Parker and Sybil Thorndike. ‘That could be an excellent title for a reality show. I can see it now. A knockout competition based on valeting skills; starching collars; boot polishing; wet shaving… that sort of thing.’

  ‘Lance is more of an all-rounder; some household chores to be sure, but gardening too and general outdoor maintenance. He keeps the chickens in the back garden at the lodge. Wonderful fresh eggs when they are laying. But really there’s not much for him to do these days,’ Sir Repton continued. ‘Kevin and the other gardeners employed by the wedding team have all but taken over, what with creating photo opportunities and suchlike. I mean just look at that.’ He pointed one stick like finger at the parkland to his left.

  Amidst the majestic oak trees dotted around the landscape, a balloon basket sat empty, the canopy spread out beside it like a small crimson lake.

  ‘The vintage car has had its day.’ Sir Repton shook his head. ‘Now, every bride and groom must be transported away by some form of aerial device. Helicopters are quite the norm.’

  As they continued up the short incline and parked outside Mount Cod, he explained that he had phoned the live-in housekeeper to expect their arrival. ‘Mrs Varley, Cheryl, came as the cook but latterly she also cared for Matilda,’ he said. ‘Such a nice woman, I don’t know what we’d have done without her. But here we are, home at last.’ He looked up at the house. ‘How I adore the perpendicular.’

  It was not a piece of architecture that one would automatically associate with romance. The mock-Gothic monstrosity had a distinct air of dilapidation. Laura wondered why anyone would want to get married there. A pillared porch with steps splayed out to meet the gravel. Huge Edwardian sash windows dominated either side and overhead four stone eagles perched menacingly on the battlements, above which, roofs steepled into the cloudless sky.

  From the back seat Venetia let out a small shriek. ‘I saw a figure at the upstairs window. I think it could have been Rosalind.’

  ‘Don’t be silly; it was most likely what’s her name? Cheryl.’ Laura said.

  ‘With a veil over her head?’

  ‘Probably a duster.’ Laura got out of the car.

  ‘Your psychic powers are indeed acute cousin, for I have never actually seen “her”. I knew it was a good idea to bring you here.’ Sir Repton helped Venetia out of the car. ‘I have taken the precaution of asking Cheryl to make up beds in adjacent rooms for you ladies. There is an interconnecting door between the two. But I’m sure it is only me that Rosalind is seeking.’

  ‘Is Cheryl not bothered by the ghost?’ Laura asked.

  ‘She has not to date been a recipient of Rosalind’s presence, besides which Cheryl has a self-contained apartment with its own entrance.’

  ‘Why should that make a difference?’

  ‘I don’t believe Rosalind can be aware of it.’

  ‘That’s a relief for Cheryl then,’ Laura said.

  They walked from the warm sunshine into the cool shade of the porch and waited as Sir Repton staggered back from the car with their bags.

  ‘He looks like he’s going to have a seizure,’ Laura said, and went to help him. Together they put the bags and assorted dog beds down outside the front door and as Sir Repton was putting one hand out to turn the great brass handle, it opened. From the deeper gloom within, a middle- aged woman with dyed blonde hair wearing jeans and a grey sweatshirt appeared.

  ‘Hiya Repton. Got your reinforcements with you?’ she said with surprising familiarity as she tied back her hair with an elastic band. The roots had obviously not been attended to for some time and the result was that she now looked as if she had dark hair.

  ‘Hello Cheryl, meet my friends, Lady Boxford and my cousin, Mrs Hobbs. Would you be so good as to take their cases up and show them where they are staying.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Show them their rooms.’

  ‘Sure, this way ladies.’ Cheryl bent down and took the umbrella Laura had put beside her case and shoved it in the stand beside the door. ‘You won’t be needing that upstairs will you?’

  Laura said she’d carry their cases if Venetia brought the dog bed and so they followed Cheryl across the dusty marble hallway and up a dark oak staircase.

  Venetia nodded her head at various portraits of red-faced “Willowby” ancestors lining the staircase. ‘All quite bogus,’ she whispered. ‘Probably a job lot from that London auction house I’ve seen featured on Channel Four.’ She stopped and held the bannister rail for a moment. ‘I wonder if there’s a telly
in my room?’

  At the top of the stairs, they turned right and walked along a landing strewn with misshapen threadbare Persian runners until Cheryl halted between two open doorways and pointed up at the names painted in black-edged plaques above them. ‘You’re in Bridlington and Grimsby. Bridlington’s got a better bed but Grimsby’s got more room, what with only having Matilda’s single in it. And of course, it’s got the en suite.’

  ‘Matilda’s bedroom?’ Laura was faintly shocked.

  ‘Don’t worry I’ve been over it with a fine toothcomb. Not a trace of her left in there.’

  ‘I didn’t mean…’ Laura started to say.

  ‘Perhaps as you’ve got Parker you’ll need the extra space,’ Venetia said. ‘But then again I wouldn’t want you to be uncomfortable in Grimsby. There’s nothing worse than a lumpy bed.’

  Cheryl coughed. ‘I’ll leave you to sort yourselves out.’ She turned and retraced her steps back down the landing.

  ‘I sleep like a log wherever I am,’ Laura said. ‘So I’ll take Grimsby and hope it doesn’t live up to its name.’

  ‘Whatever you think best dear.’ Venetia disappeared into Bridlington.

  The single bed in Grimsby seemed out of place in such a large room. Around it Laura saw that the carpet had faded revealing that a much larger bed had previously been there. She pulled back the overly large beige candlewick bedspread and noticed with relief that the sheets appeared freshly laundered. Dangling down beside the pillow was an electric cable with a control attached. Laura pressed one of the buttons and the bed began to vibrate. She turned it off and sat down to test the springs. It was rock hard. She wandered round the room, peering at small oil paintings dotted about – mainly shipwrecks as far as she could tell. A writing desk, chair and an overbearing oak cupboard made up the rest of the furniture. The curtains at the window were of pale blue silk but had faded and frayed at the edges from the sun. At least the room faced south, she thought, as she looked out. The wedding venue made more sense from this side of the house; an ornamental pond stood as the centrepiece to the formal garden – more photo opportunities, no doubt.

  She tried the bathroom door but found for some reason it was locked, so she walked back out onto the landing and found another door that opened into the bathroom. The pink suite smacked of the 1970s except that it had been adapted with modern disability aids. A white rail had been attached to the wall beside the bath and a sort of plastic booster seat sat on the loo. She crossed the room and, finding the key in the door, unlocked it and re-entered the bedroom.

  Thinking she would go and find Venetia, she went to open the connecting door to Bridlington, but it was also locked with no key on her side so she returned out onto the landing again, knocked briefly and let herself in. Parker rushed ahead and started snuffling under the double bed on which Venetia lay on top of another beige candlewick bedspread.

  ‘Do look at that.’ Venetia motioned with her head.

  Laura’s attention was caught by a square protrusion in one corner of the room.

  ‘Do you suppose his eighteenth-century serving wench knows how to use a lift?’ Laura laughed.

  ‘Laura please don’t frighten me! But I didn’t mean the lift.’ Venetia waved one arm wanly in the direction of a mirror framed in a curious mix of seashells and shards of black jet. ‘Isn’t it wonderful; Matilda liked to remember her Whitby roots. Her father owned a fishing fleet.’

  ‘So that’s why the rooms are all named after ports.’

  ‘It’s what attracted Matilda to Mount Cod.’

  ‘They bought the house, for its name?’

  ‘One of the reasons.’ Venetia drew the bedspread around her. ‘Matilda was not only rich but also nostalgic. But Repton wasn’t keen on the north; he’d spent such a lot on elocution lessons. I do hope I’m going to be warm enough.’

  ‘Chip on his bony old shoulder?’ Laura walked over to the wall beside the lift and inspected a small watercolour of a sandy cove. ‘So he had a Yorkshire accent?’ She turned back to her friend but Venetia had fallen asleep.

  Laura thought it best not to disturb her so she went in search of Sir Repton. Despite the sound of clanging coming from downstairs, she was deep in thought. A lift for Matilda – she was obviously more incapacitated than Laura had suspected. This incapacity precipitates her need to be moved out of the matrimonial bedroom. Cheryl Varley, put in charge of caring for Matilda would need access to the bathroom at all times. Instinctively she felt for the warm silver of her bracelet. But why was the door locked from the wrong side?

  Chapter five

  As she reached the bottom of the stairs, Laura saw the reason for the clanging as Sir Repton, in his shirtsleeves, tossed another log of wood from a wheelbarrow at his side into a monumental copper tub. He was breathing heavily and one of the few strands of hair on his head had fallen over his damp brow. Beside him, a man in a checked shirt and combat trousers stood watching, his arms folded. Laura recognised him as the driver who had delivered Sir Repton to Wellworth Lawns.

  ‘Just a couple more to go now Repton,’ he said, scratching his untidy mop of matted straw-coloured hair.

  ‘That looks like hard work,’ Laura said.

  Sir Repton glanced up from the wheelbarrow. ‘There you are, Laura. Everything to your satisfaction upstairs, I hope?’ He put the final log in the tub.

  ‘Yes thank you, but should you be doing that?’

  ‘Needs must; Lance here, has most unfortunately sustained a spinal injury.’ Sir Repton gestured in the man’s direction then smoothed back his hair and slumped down on a small oak hall chair on the back of which his dark blue blazer hung. He loosened the silk paisley cravat around his neck.

  ‘Done my back in,’ Lance said. He arched at the waist in exaggerated discomfort. ‘Doctor says I mustn’t lift a thing. Lucky old Repton here’s still up to the job.’

  ‘That is most unfortunate.’ Absolutely indispensable; weren’t those Repton’s words? Laura didn’t care for Lance’s tone and now she was surprised to see him undo the button of one of the bulging pockets half way down the side of his baggy trouser legs and take out a pouch of tobacco and some cigarette papers.

  ‘Still I should think there are plenty of things to do that don’t require lifting. That copper could do with a good polish,’ she said.

  Lance frowned and shook his head. ‘Even the smallest wrong movement could tweak it. Shall we take the barrow back?’ He returned to the business of the roll-up.

  Sir Repton heaved himself up from the chair. ‘Laura, this is very dull for you. Where is Cousin Venetia?’

  ‘She’s having a nap. I thought I’d take her a cup of tea in a while.’

  ‘Of course. Now why don’t you make yourself comfortable in the sitting room while I get rid of this wheelbarrow.’

  ‘I’ll come with you. I’d like to see around the place.’

  ‘Sure.’ Lance struck a match and inhaled deeply on the cigarette. ‘Let’s show Laura the gaff.’ He sauntered on ahead and pushed through a green baize door in the far corner of the hall. Laura held the door open for Sir Repton and he pushed the barrow through.

  The first thing she noticed was the lift door to her left. She made a mental note as to the layout of this part of the house. They followed Lance down a long servants’ passage flanked by closed doors. Along one side, a row of tarnished brass bells hung like oversized quotation marks. The names of rooms were painted below them, a reminder of times gone by. At the far end they could hear music blaring from a radio. ‘Coming through,’ Lance shouted.

  Bright sunshine streamed in as he opened a door at the end of the passage. Before Laura and Sir Repton had reached it, Cheryl appeared from another door to the left. ‘There you are Repton,’ she said. ‘I was just coming to find you. Now listen, I’ve put a chilli con carne from the Co-op out for you. Just pop it in the Aga forty minutes before you want your tea. There’s a can of grapefruit segments in the fridge for afters.’

  ‘But I thought you might�
�’ Sir Repton stood holding the wheelbarrow.

  ‘Sorry, pub quiz night.’

  ‘I see. Well, could you make us some tea before you go? I thought we’d have it outside in the summerhouse.’

  ‘Honestly I would if I could but I haven’t a spare minute. I’ve got my “Sun-in” to do.’ Cheryl adjusted her hairband. ‘You know where the teabags live. I’ve got some more of the posh ones. Oh and that reminds me, you owe me fifty quid.’

  Sir Repton put the wheelbarrow down and they followed her into the kitchen. It was a huge old-fashioned room. In the middle of the black-flecked green linoleum stood a solid looking pine table with an assortment of chairs around it. Next to a high window hung with thin cotton curtains, a white painted dresser displayed a mass of mismatched plates and dishes. Whatever Venetia thought about her cousin’s finances, it seemed plain to Laura that the Willowby’s hadn’t had money for some time. Perhaps Matilda had a life insurance policy? She looked at the Belfast sink. An attempt had been made to ‘fit’ a stretch of Formica on either side of it but there had obviously not been enough to cover the washing-up machine.

  ‘I thought I had given you enough for the month?’ Sir Repton said.

  ‘Repton, Earl Grey’s not cheap you know,’ Cheryl admonished. ‘And you’ve no idea what it’s been like since Lance did his back in. I had to pay a man in the village to put the bins out while you were living it up with your mate Eddie Parrott at Wellworth Lawns.’ She flicked the radio off and folded a copy of the Daily Mail that was lying open on the kitchen surface. ‘I took the liberty of cancelling the Times while you were away. But I’m sure your guests would prefer the Mail, wouldn’t you Mrs Boxford? Matilda did.’

  ‘Lady…’ Sir Repton attempted to correct her.

  ‘There’s an article about fascinators on the fashion page,’ she said, handing Laura the paper. ‘Personally I’ve always thought they were stupid, but there you go.’