House of Shadows Read online

I stood in the shelter of Tom’s arms, and we both stared at the painting and then at each other.

  ‘I think I’m falling in love with you, Riana,’ he said softly.

  ‘I hardly dare believe you.’

  He sighed heavily. ‘I really mean it, honey.’

  I sensed a hesitation in his voice. ‘Then what’s wrong?’

  ‘It can’t come to anything.’

  He released me, and I stood back away from him. ‘Did you lie to me, Tom? Are you married after all?’

  He shook his head, and a shock of hair fell over his forehead. ‘It’s not that… but you have a bright future here in England, while I… Well, I have my life in America and I’ll have to go home soon, we both know that.’

  His reference to America as ‘home’ upset me, but he was right – there was no future for us together. He was a pilot, he had his career to think of,  and I… Well, I had Aberglasney. It would take all my strength and ingenuity to bring it back to its former glory.

  I wanted the house and I wanted to succeed at my painting. There was no way I could abandon everything and go away with Tom, even if he asked me to – and he hadn’t.

  I led the way down the stairs and into the vast, half restored kitchen, gestured for Tom to sit down, and then made us both a cup of coffee. I made it hot and strong and black, just as I knew Tom liked it.

  ‘You are so talented, Riana.’ Tom smiled and my heart melted. I wanted to fling myself at him, tell him to love me, make love to me, but young ladies didn’t do anything as forward as throw themselves at a man. The war was over; those days when young people grasped at life in case there was no tomorrow had gone. Times had changed now, and women were more circumspect.

  I had seen the sad results of abandoned love affairs. Men gone back to their respectable lives after the danger of war was over. Weeping British girls left behind, sometimes with child, when their American and Canadian lovers went home.

  ‘Drink up,’ I said, unintentionally brisk. ‘It’s about time I got myself to bed. I’ve got a long day tomorrow.’

  Tom stood. ‘Going to London?’

  ‘I might,’ I prevaricated. ‘I’ll have to do a small study of the painting to show the gallery owner, I suppose. I can hardly transport a large canvas all that way without the certainty of a sale.’ I led the way to the door. ‘Night, Tom.’

  I stood watching his tall figure stride away along the drive towards the barracks, and then I slowly climbed the stairs with tears running down my face, not knowing what I was crying for.

  Chapter Eight

  The morning sun slanted across the gallery from the big window; the light was why I’d chosen this room for my studio. A sheet hung across the large canvas, and I frowned when I noticed it. I didn’t remember putting it there; for all I knew the paint was still tacky.

  Carefully, I lifted the cloth and stood back with a cry of dismay. The canvas had been slashed from edge to edge so that a gaping hole hung in the middle of the painting, completely destroying the ghostly mist and the faint image of the dead girls.

  I sat on my little stool near the window and stared out at the garden without seeing the cloisters, cleared now of bushes, or the garden, made neat by the Americans, or the clear sky. All I felt was despair and the pain of loss.

  I had put my heart into that painting. I could almost say I’d been inspired. I could try to paint it again for I had the little study I’d done, but I knew it would never be the same work; it would never have the same ghostly atmosphere of the original.

  I went to look for Tom. It seemed the natural thing to do because Tom would know a little of how I was feeling.

  Tom wasn’t there, he was flying, and my heart missed a beat. I knew Tom was still a working American airman, but I’d never thought of him facing danger – not now the war was over.

  ‘It’s only a training mission,’ his second in command, Carl Jenkins, assured me. Disconsolately, I walked back to the mansion. I must get to work, I thought. I need paintings to make more money if I intend to get my ghost weekends under way.

  I squeezed out the paints on to the palette, but for once I had no idea what to paint. The sunlight streamed into the room, hurting my eyes. I looked at the unused mounds of oil and knew they would dry and harden and be wasted and I couldn’t afford to waste anything.

  I began to paint, but nothing was going right. In my frustration, I threw down my brush. I wandered out into the garden again and sat in the shadow of the cloisters. I closed my eyes, dazzled by the sunlight that suddenly burst into my little nest beneath the arch. I think I slept, because next thing I knew Tom was sitting at my side.

  ‘You were looking for me?’ His honey-sweet voice washed over me like a balm. He was safely home from flying, and suddenly I wanted to hug him. Instead, I told him about the painting.

  ‘Show me,’ he said. He took my hand and led me upstairs; he knew the house as well as I did. It was shady now in the gallery, the sun slanting away to the west where it would sink behind the hills and illuminate them with brushes of gold.

  I lifted the cloth over the canvas and stared in disbelief. The painting was intact, no terrible slashes, no holes in the fabric… Was I dreaming?

  ‘What’s this, Riana?’ Tom asked. ‘If you’re trying to lure me upstairs there’s no need for dramas.’

  ‘The painting was cut to pieces!’ I was indignant, chagrin making me blush to the roots of my hair.

  ‘A trick of the light,’ Tom said soothingly, but I could see he didn’t believe me. I didn’t blame him. I couldn’t believe the evidence of my own eyes. Wonderingly, I touched the painting. It was nearly dry.

  ‘It’s one of your best,’ Tom said. ‘You were sleeping in the garden there; it must have all been a dream, the cuts in the canvas. A horrible dream, that’s all.’

  ‘No, Tom, I could feel the slashes in the painting. I touched it, it wasn’t a dream.’

  ‘A nightmare then.’ Tom smiled. ‘A daytime nightmare, that’s all it was, Riana. Who is here to do such a thing? Who would want to destroy your work?’

  ‘Someone who doesn’t want the house done up,’ I suggested.

  ‘That would hold water if the painting was really damaged, but it’s not, Riana. The whole thing doesn’t make any sense.’

  I capitulated. ‘I know. Let’s go and get a drink. A stiff gin or something.’

  We took our drinks out into the garden while I tried to fathom the whole thing out. The work on the easel was mine all right, so the cut-up canvas was a fake. But who would go to all that trouble and why? I wished now I’d looked closer at the destroyed canvas, but I’d been too horrified and baffled to examine it properly.

  ‘Penny for them? Isn’t that what you British folk say?’

  I shook my head, not wanting to seem more foolish than I was. ‘My thoughts are just a jumble, Tom. Someone tried to run me off the road when I first came here, and now this. What am I supposed to make of it all – except that someone doesn’t want me here?’

  ‘The ghosts?’

  ‘Are you mocking me?’

  ‘Trying to lighten the gloom a bit, Riana. Forget all this. Enjoy the warmth and the drink and, hopefully, the company.’

  I looked at him as I sipped my drink. Could he be doing all this to get me out? Was he my enemy, not my friend? But why would he do such a thing? What could he hope to gain?

  It was as if he read my thoughts. ‘I wouldn’t hurt you for the world, Riana. I hope you know that, honey.’

  He took my glass out of my hand and put it on the floor, then he deliberately kissed me. My arms crept around him, my dear safe Tom. He was the one who had rescued me on the roadway; what was I thinking of being suspicious of the only friend I had in the world?

  I pulled away just before I became swamped with passion, for I didn’t want a lover, not just now. In any case, Tom’s life was in America. What was the point in getting involved with him?

  ‘I’ll going indoors now, it’s getting dark—’ I shivered ‘—and c
hilly. Goodnight, Tom, and thanks for being a friend.’

  He stood up straight away and strode into the darkness. I supposed I’d offended him, but that was just too bad. I could do without an involvement of any kind I had a living to make and a career to forge and a grand scheme to work out. My house would be ready for visitors any day now.

  Chapter Nine

  It was the end of July, and it was my opening night in more ways than one. My paintings had gone on display in the London gallery – just a small selection – and my house was open for the first ‘ghost-haunting’ night.

  The local newspaper reporter had turned up with a camera and with an assistant who impressed me by writing shorthand when she interviewed me. ‘This story will be circulated around the press all over Britain,’ the assistant said proudly.

  Granger, the chief reporter, pushed his way towards me. ‘You have a good crowd, Miss Evans. About forty, would you say?’

  I nodded, pleased and yet alarmed at the crowd of noisy people sitting round the big dining table in the newly refurbished dining room. Still, I didn’t have to do all the work myself. I’d brought Rosie and her mother, Mrs Ward – the same Mrs Ward who had spoken up against Mr Edwin at the time of the murder. But she was the only one who would agree to work for me. The rest of the villagers were too superstitious about the ghosts.

  Mrs Ward turned out to be a first-class cook, and she and Rosie would serve and wait on table and I had to be very grateful to them both. Supper and breakfast was all a part of the ghost night, and already on this first event I could tell the weekend was going to not only pay for itself but also make me a good profit.

  The female guests were to stay in the bedrooms I’d already turned into dormitories. I could fit the sixteen women of various ages in three of the dorms. I expected the men, being men, wouldn’t mind roughing it a bit and would prefer to ghost hunt all night rather than sleep. Indeed, even as they filed out of the dining room they looked around as if expecting to see apparitions floating around the house.

  I had my sketch book at the ready and unobtrusively began to draw. One gentleman was an old army man, Colonel Fred, and he hugged his bottle of brandy close to him like a baby. He was affable and keen, with shrewd eyes and a sun-wrinkled face, and I liked him on sight.

  ‘I mean to spend the whole night in the house,’ he said. ‘I’ll sleep in the hall if I have to.’

  ‘So will I,’ Jim from Aberdeen said firmly. ‘I’m determined to see this ghost of yours.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ I said, quickly amending my plan. ‘You men can have the rooms at the back of the house on the ground floor.’

  Tom appeared at my side. Startled, I stared at him. ‘I didn’t hear you coming in,’ I whispered.

  ‘Perhaps I’m a ghost too!’ He put his arm around my shoulders and hugged me, and I laughed at him.

  ‘You’re a bit solid to be a ghost.’ I had my arm around his slim waist, and I could feel the rough material of his uniform under my hand. ‘Thank goodness,’ I added with a mischievous wink.

  ‘Hey, don’t get fast with me, honey.’ He playfully kissed my cheek, and then I noticed the guests were spreading out examining the rooms, some carrying glasses of wine or spirits they’d brought along to the ‘party’ themselves. Next time I would include the drinks in the price, I decided. A little ‘cheer’ would help things along nicely.

  Later, as Tom and I walked in the garden, we could hear the ghost hunters singing some sort of chant which they all seemed to know. I smiled up at Tom. ‘Something’s keeping them happy.’

  ‘It’s the spirits,’ Tom said, laughing. ‘The ones in the bottles.’

  I leaned against him, weak with laughter, and then I froze as I heard a blood-curdling scream from the hallway of the house.

  I was running then, across the lawn with Tom just ahead of me. In the hall, everyone was on their feet, their white faces turned up to the top of the stairs. One of the younger girls was pointing, her hand shaking.

  ‘Betty—’ I touched her shoulder ‘—don’t be scared. It’s only—’ I broke off as Tom caught my arm and made a shushing noise.

  ‘Young lady—’ his voice was stern ‘—pull yourself together. It’s exactly what you came to see, wasn’t it? A ghost from the past.’

  Betty nodded her blonde head. ‘I know, but this is the first time I’ve seen anything supernatural at one of these weekends! Usually, it’s just a laugh and a drink and the chance to meet—’ She stopped and looked around at the faces of the other guests.

  ‘Come along now, dearie.’ Colonel Fred shook his head reprovingly. ‘This is not a dating club. This is a serious ghost hunt. She’s gone now, frightened off by all that screaming. You’ve spoilt the night for us all, so please don’t come here again.’

  I started up the stairs. Beatrice must be frightened and confused by all the noise, I thought. I must reassure her. I got almost to the top before I realised the ghost hunters were following me.

  One young gent stopped me and held out his hand. ‘I’m William,’ he said. ‘And I’d like to use the description of your ghost in my report to Spirit News, the magazine for believers, if that’s all right.’ He shook my nerveless hand. ‘This is the first time the whole thing hasn’t been a charade, a set-up, an act! Your ghost is real enough, for my sensors picked up something strange, some unfamiliar vibrations, and I will certainly book your next weekend of ghost hunting,’ he said, gesturing to the other silent guests, ‘and so will most of the people here, I feel sure.’

  The others surged around me, and then I felt a push and I was falling downwards, hitting stair after stair, landing in a heap in the hall. My head narrowly missed hitting the huge sideboard that stood near the foot of the stairs.

  Tom picked me up and held me gently in his arms. ‘Riana, are you all right?’ His face was pale, anxious.

  I puffed out my breath and rested against him for a minute. ‘I’m just winded that’s all.’ I tried to smile though I knew I’d have some bruises in the morning.

  Betty brought me a cup of tea and, though she was fluffy and flirtatious, she was very concerned and very kind.

  Young William, his camera swinging around his neck, enquired anxiously after my health, and when he had assured himself I wasn’t really hurt he smiled. ‘Dear Miss Evans, you will have to furnish other rooms because your fame will grow once this news gets out.’ He leaned closer, smelling of brandy. ‘Your ghost must have become irritated with the disturbance and used her force to project you back down the stairs. Tell me, Miss Evans, what do you call her? Your ghost, I mean.’

  Weak and wanting to laugh hysterically, but restrained by Tom’s warning hand on my shoulder, I told him, ‘Well, we just call her Beatrice.’

  ‘And,’ Tom added, ‘you are privileged to see her. She rarely comes out of her room. It is the blue room, the one that’s haunted.’

  I dug him in the side with my elbow.

  ‘And are we likely to see the five maidens who died there so mysteriously?’ the colonel asked.

  I had no time to reply, which was just as well.

  A young business-suited man stood in front of me. ‘Jack Winford.’ He held out his hand and I took it. Suddenly, I was surrounded by enthusiastic ghost hunters, each determined to ask questions concerning the murder story and the haunting and how often the ghosts were seen and my head was filled with the babble of voices.

  Tom rescued me, taking me outside into the cool air of the cloisters. ‘I don’t think I can stand too much of this,’ I said, sitting down abruptly in the shadows.

  Tom sat beside me, his body warm as he rested his arm around my shoulder. ‘You can and will put up with it until you make enough money to refurbish the entire house,’ he said firmly, ‘and then you can bring in a manager to run the ghost hunts and hide yourself away and do your wonderful painting.’

  I remembered then how my painting, or what I thought was my painting, was slashed to shreds, and as I listened to the voices of my guests from insi
de the house I shivered. What was I doing having strangers in my house, and who had pushed me down the stairs? Because I had been pushed by a human hand, not moved by some supernatural force. I shivered, suddenly scared.

  ‘Can you sleep with me?’ I asked before I realised what I’d said.

  Tom understood me, however and kissed me lightly on the cheek. ‘Yes, if that’s what you want. I’ll come and stay in your house. There are plenty of rooms and several comfortable sofas.’

  ‘Thank you, Tom.’ I felt myself blush, and I bent so that my hair covered my face.

  Tom took my arm and led me inside to the comparative quiet of the library. The ghost hunters were all in the hall, watching the stairs, with Brownie cameras at the ready and flashlight and sensors and all sorts of equipment I didn’t begin to understand.

  Tom and I drank some wine and then fell asleep alongside each other on the sofa. I woke to find his arms around me. He had taken off his jacket and my face was against the smooth material of his shirt. I pretended to sleep a little while longer enjoying the closeness and warmth of him, but at last he stirred, and I sat up, rubbing my eyes.

  There was a bustling noise in the hallway and the ghost hunters were coming back to life. I heard Mrs Ward in the kitchen, the smell of bacon permeated the air and I breathed a sigh of relief; after breakfast I would have the place to myself again. I could start to paint more pictures, work on the sketches I’d drawn last night.

  William – ‘young William’ as the other guests called him – seemed to have formed a truce with Betty, who in spite of her plumpness was very pretty, and together they went outside to wait for the taxi taking them into town.

  ‘Perhaps I should arrange a bus,’ I murmured, and Tom, who had come outside after me, rested a friendly arm on my shoulder.

  ‘I think that would be a very good idea. It would mean the visitors would have to keep to a time schedule and leave promptly at whatever time you decided.’

  ‘I’d have to charge a small fee, or put up the price of the visit by a few shillings, otherwise I’d lose out,’ I said and burst out laughing. ‘I’m becoming quite mercenary, aren’t I?’