Читать книгу The Emerald Comb - Kathleen McGurl, Kathleen McGurl - Страница 11

Chapter One: Hampshire, November 2012

The weather matched my mood. A dark, low sky with a constant drizzle falling meant I needed both headlights and wipers on as I drove up the M3. Whenever I’d pictured myself making this trip I’d imagined myself singing along to the car radio beneath blue skies and sunshine. The reality, thanks to a row with my husband Simon, couldn’t have been more different. All I’d asked of him was to look after our kids for a single Saturday afternoon, while I went to take some photos of Kingsley House, where my ancestors had once lived. Not much to ask, was it? I’d planned it for weeks but of course he hadn’t listened, and had made his own plans to go to rugby training. Then when it was time for me to leave, he’d made such a fuss. I’d ended up grabbing my bag and storming out, leaving him no choice but to stay and be a parent for once, while the kids watched, wide-eyed. Perhaps that’s unfair of me. He’s a wonderful parent, and we have a strong marriage. Most of the time.

It was a half-hour drive from our home in Southampton to North Kingsley, a tiny village north of Winchester. Just enough time to calm myself down. Funny thing was, if I’d wanted to do something girly like go shopping or get my nails done, Simon would have happily minded the kids. But because I was indulging my hobby, my passion for genealogy, he made things difficult. I loved researching the past, finding out where my family came from. Simon’s adopted. He’s never even bothered to trace his biological parents. God, if I was adopted, I’d have done that long ago. I can’t understand why you wouldn’t want to know your ancestry. It’s what makes you who you are.

The rain had eased off; I’d calmed down and was buzzing with excitement when I finally drove up the narrow lane from the village and got my first glimpse of Kingsley House. Wet leaves lay clumped together on its mossy gravel driveway. Paint peeled from the windowsills, and the brickwork was in need of repointing. An overgrown creeper grew up one wall almost obscuring a window, and broken iron guttering hung crookedly, spoiling the house’s Georgian symmetry.

Kingsley House was definitely in need of some serious renovation. I fell instantly and overwhelmingly in love with it. It felt like home.

Gathering my courage, I approached the front door. It was dark green and panelled, with a leaded fan-light set into the brickwork above. There was no bell-push or knocker, so I rapped with my knuckles, wondering if it would be heard inside. Was there even anyone at home to hear it? There were no cars outside, and no lights shone from any window despite the deepening afternoon gloom. Maybe the house was uninhabited, left to rot until some developer got his hands on it. Or perhaps the owners were away. I’d checked the house out on Google street view before coming, and had the idea it was occupied.

I knocked again, and waited a couple of minutes. Still no response. But now that I was here, I thought I might as well get a good look at the place. After all, my ancestors had lived here for a hundred years. That gave me some sort of claim to the house, didn’t it? The windows either side of the front door had curtains drawn across. No chance of a peek inside from the front, then.

To the left of the house there was a gate in the fence. One hinge was broken so that the gate hung lopsided and partially open. I only needed to push it a tiny bit more to squeeze through. Beyond, a paved path led past a rotting wooden shed to a patio area at the back of the house. I tiptoed round. A huge beech tree dominated the garden, its auburn autumn leaves adding a splash of colour to the dull grey day.

French windows overlooked the patio, and the room beyond was in darkness. Cupping my hands around my eyes I pressed my nose to the glass. It was a formal dining room, with ornately moulded cornices and a fine-looking marble fireplace. Had my great-great-great-grandfather Bartholomew and his wife dined in this very room, back in the early Victorian era? It sent shivers down my spine as I imagined their history playing out right here, in this faded old house.

‘You there! What do you think you’re up to?’

I jumped away from the window and turned to see a gaunt old man in a floppy cardigan approaching from the other side of the building, waving his walking stick at me. Behind him was a neatly-dressed elderly lady. She was holding tightly onto his arm, more to steady him than for her own benefit. The owners were not on holiday, then. I silently cursed myself. Today was really not going according to plan. First the row with Simon and now being caught trespassing.

The man waved his stick again. ‘I said, what do you think you’re up to, snooping around the back of our house?’

‘I’m…er…I was just…’ I stuttered.

‘Just wondering if the place was empty and had anything worth stealing, I’ll bet,’ said the lady.

‘No, not at all, I was only…’

‘Vera, call the police,’ said the old man. His voice was cracked with age. His wife hesitated, as if unsure about letting go of his arm to go to the phone.

I held out my hands. ‘No, please don’t do that, let me explain.’

‘Yes, I think you had better explain yourself, young lady,’ said Vera. ‘Harold dear, sit yourself down before you topple over.’ She pulled a shabby metal garden chair across the patio and gently pushed him into it.

He held his stick in front of him like a shotgun. ‘Don’t you come any closer.’

God, the embarrassment. I felt myself redden from the chest up. They looked genuinely scared of me.

‘I’m sorry. I did knock at the door but I guess you didn’t hear.’

‘There’s a perfectly serviceable bell, if you’d only pulled on the bell-rope,’ said Vera.

Bell-rope? Presumably part of an original bell system. I shrugged. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t notice the rope.’

Vera shook her immaculate grey perm and folded her arms. ‘In any case, you had no answer, so why did you come around to the back?’

I gaped like a goldfish for a moment as I searched for the right words. I’d imagined meeting the current inhabitants of my ancestors’ house so many times, but I had never once thought it would happen like this. We really had got off on the wrong footing. I could see my chances of getting a look inside vanishing like smoke on the wind.

‘The thing is, I was interested in the house because’ – I broke off for a moment as they both glared at me, then the words all came out in a rush – ‘my ancestors used to live here. I’ve researched my family tree, you see, and found my four-greats grandfather William St Clair built this house, then his son Bartholomew inherited it and lived here after he got married, then his son, another Bartholomew but known as Barty lived here right up until –’

‘1923!’ To my utter astonishment both the old people chorused the date.

‘You’re a St Clair then, are you?’ said Vera, looking less fierce but still a little suspicious.

‘I was Catherine St Clair before I got married. Plain old Katie Smith now.’

I put out my hand and thankfully she took a tentative step forward and shook it. The atmosphere instantly felt less frosty.

‘Vera Delamere. And this is my husband, Harold.’

I shook his gnarled and liver-spotted hand too, while he stayed sitting in his chair. ‘I’m so sorry to have frightened you. I shouldn’t have come around the back. I was just so desperate for a glimpse inside. And I wasn’t even sure if the house was occupied at all…’ Oops, was I implying it looked derelict? I felt myself blushing again. I thought quickly, and changed the subject. ‘You know about the St Clairs?’

‘Not all of them, but we’ve heard of Barty St Clair,’ said Harold. ‘When we moved here in 1959 a lot of people hereabouts remembered him still. He was quite a character, by all accounts.’

‘Really? What do you know about him? He was my great-great-great-uncle, I think.’ I counted off the ‘greats’ on my fingers.

Vera sat down beside Harold and gestured to me to take a seat as well. ‘I remember old Mrs Hodgkins from the Post Office telling me about him. Apparently he wouldn’t ever let anyone in the house or garden. He wasn’t a recluse – he’d go out and about in the village every day and was a regular in the pub every night. But he had this great big house and let not a soul over the threshold – no cook or cleaner, no gardener, no tradesmen. Mrs Hodgkins thought he must have had something to hide.’

‘Ooh, intriguing!’ I said. ‘Perhaps he had a mad wife in the attic or something like that.’

Vera laughed. I smiled. Thank goodness we’d broken the ice now. ‘Well, by the time we moved in there was no evidence of any secrets. Mind you, that was many years after Barty St Clair’s day. It was a probate sale when we bought it. It had been empty for a few years and was in dire need of modernising.’ She sighed, and gazed at the peeling paint on the patio doors. ‘And now it’s in dire need of modernising again, but we don’t have the energy to do it.’

She stood up, suddenly. ‘Why are we sitting out here in the damp? Come on. Let’s go inside. I’ll make us all a cup of tea, and then give you a tour, Katie.’

Harold chuckled. ‘Then you’ll see for certain we have nothing worth stealing, young lady.’

I grinned as I watched Vera help him to his feet, then followed them around to the kitchen door on the side of the house. I felt a tingle of excitement. Whatever secrets the house still held, I longed to discover them.