house from the
middle of Queen Victoria’s reign with all fittings intact. Perhaps the best example of such in all of England. And one filled with immaculate antiques and a million pounds’ worth of
Mason’s own work.
She couldn’t imagine
Glory
selling for less than two hundred thousand pounds at auction.
Gas Attack
would fetch half of that. And there were another two Great War
dioramas locked away on the ground floor of the house. There were the dolls too. His notorious puppets weren’t for sale, but she should at least see them and persuade Edith to exhibit if her
uncle’s skill in their creation was anything like his preservation of rats.
Again, she wondered why she was here, as if there had been a mistake and she had someone else’s identity and she should confess her status as imposter before it was all too late. She was
giddy and weightless from excitement or shock, but wasn’t sure which. Her clothes clung thin and cheap, everything about herself was inappropriate here. She was out of her depth. She
wasn’t a quick girl, she didn’t pounce on opportunities. She bit her lip. Stopped herself.
‘Ms Mason?’ she suddenly thought to ask, as she pushed the wheelchair through the dark passage to the reddish hue of the distant hall. ‘Who is the child?’
Edith stayed quiet for a while as if she hadn’t heard. ‘Child?’
‘Yes. At the window. I saw someone before I came inside.’
‘What?’ Beneath her in the heavy chair, the great powdered head turned to one side. ‘There is no child,’ she added as if Catherine had said something idiotic to someone
elderly and irritable, which she surmised she may have done. Particularly if it had been Edith at the window.
But it couldn’t have been
.
‘Climbing, I think—’
‘Climbing? What do you mean? There is only me here. And Maude. And as you can see . . .’ She opened the palms of her frail gloved hands as if to indicate the existence of the
wheelchair.
‘And in the room . . .’
‘What are you talking about? What room?’
They reached the hall. ‘The room with
Glory
. There was a noise. A sound. I thought—’
‘The bird? There are birds in all of our chimneys. We cannot get them out.’ Edith raised her little bell and began to shake it feebly.
Catherine reached down to help her.
‘Leave it!’
From deep inside the Red House a door opened and Catherine recognized the shuffle of Maude’s old, tired feet.
After Edith and her chair had been fitted into the stairlift by Maude, amidst protestations and much supervision that Catherine thought unnecessary, and once Edith and her
chair had begun a steady though noisy climb upwards, the ancient woman regarded Catherine one final time with her small red-rimmed eyes. ‘I will remind you not to mention what you have seen
inside this house. It is private. They are still our things. We do not want callers.’
Catherine couldn’t wait to get home and tell Mike. ‘Of course. The visit is confidential.’
Edith continued to stare at her with an unpleasant intensity. Catherine dropped her eyes to Maude who looked through Catherine. The housekeeper’s gaze was directed at the vestibule before
the front door.
‘Goodbye,’ Catherine called out to the diminutive figure of Edith Mason, trembling on its rattling ascent. There was no answer. ‘And thank you again.’
In silence, Maude showed Catherine to the front of the house. She’d wanted to flee for most of the time she had been inside the building, but now identified a frustrated desire to stay and
see more. She had been spoiled, but also teased.
At the threshold of the Red House, the housekeeper looked over her shoulder quickly, back towards the hall and the strained sounds of the stairlift. And without looking at Catherine, Maude
clutched one of her hands and pressed her mannish fingers into Catherine’s palm, to leave a piece of paper behind.
‘Oh no, you don’t have to . . .’ Catherine said to a closing, and then a
middle of Queen Victoria’s reign with all fittings intact. Perhaps the best example of such in all of England. And one filled with immaculate antiques and a million pounds’ worth of
Mason’s own work.
She couldn’t imagine
Glory
selling for less than two hundred thousand pounds at auction.
Gas Attack
would fetch half of that. And there were another two Great War
dioramas locked away on the ground floor of the house. There were the dolls too. His notorious puppets weren’t for sale, but she should at least see them and persuade Edith to exhibit if her
uncle’s skill in their creation was anything like his preservation of rats.
Again, she wondered why she was here, as if there had been a mistake and she had someone else’s identity and she should confess her status as imposter before it was all too late. She was
giddy and weightless from excitement or shock, but wasn’t sure which. Her clothes clung thin and cheap, everything about herself was inappropriate here. She was out of her depth. She
wasn’t a quick girl, she didn’t pounce on opportunities. She bit her lip. Stopped herself.
‘Ms Mason?’ she suddenly thought to ask, as she pushed the wheelchair through the dark passage to the reddish hue of the distant hall. ‘Who is the child?’
Edith stayed quiet for a while as if she hadn’t heard. ‘Child?’
‘Yes. At the window. I saw someone before I came inside.’
‘What?’ Beneath her in the heavy chair, the great powdered head turned to one side. ‘There is no child,’ she added as if Catherine had said something idiotic to someone
elderly and irritable, which she surmised she may have done. Particularly if it had been Edith at the window.
But it couldn’t have been
.
‘Climbing, I think—’
‘Climbing? What do you mean? There is only me here. And Maude. And as you can see . . .’ She opened the palms of her frail gloved hands as if to indicate the existence of the
wheelchair.
‘And in the room . . .’
‘What are you talking about? What room?’
They reached the hall. ‘The room with
Glory
. There was a noise. A sound. I thought—’
‘The bird? There are birds in all of our chimneys. We cannot get them out.’ Edith raised her little bell and began to shake it feebly.
Catherine reached down to help her.
‘Leave it!’
From deep inside the Red House a door opened and Catherine recognized the shuffle of Maude’s old, tired feet.
After Edith and her chair had been fitted into the stairlift by Maude, amidst protestations and much supervision that Catherine thought unnecessary, and once Edith and her
chair had begun a steady though noisy climb upwards, the ancient woman regarded Catherine one final time with her small red-rimmed eyes. ‘I will remind you not to mention what you have seen
inside this house. It is private. They are still our things. We do not want callers.’
Catherine couldn’t wait to get home and tell Mike. ‘Of course. The visit is confidential.’
Edith continued to stare at her with an unpleasant intensity. Catherine dropped her eyes to Maude who looked through Catherine. The housekeeper’s gaze was directed at the vestibule before
the front door.
‘Goodbye,’ Catherine called out to the diminutive figure of Edith Mason, trembling on its rattling ascent. There was no answer. ‘And thank you again.’
In silence, Maude showed Catherine to the front of the house. She’d wanted to flee for most of the time she had been inside the building, but now identified a frustrated desire to stay and
see more. She had been spoiled, but also teased.
At the threshold of the Red House, the housekeeper looked over her shoulder quickly, back towards the hall and the strained sounds of the stairlift. And without looking at Catherine, Maude
clutched one of her hands and pressed her mannish fingers into Catherine’s palm, to leave a piece of paper behind.
‘Oh no, you don’t have to . . .’ Catherine said to a closing, and then a
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