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Authors: Jan Siegel
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much haunted, she decided, as
inhabited:
she always had the impression there were more people around than was actually the case.
After she returned from the post office Fern had to drive into Whitby to sort out a problem with the caterers. “Do you want to come?” she asked, but Gaynor declined. Will was out painting somewhere and she welcomed the idea of some time to herself. She stood in the room gazing in the mirror—Alison’s mirror—willing it to show her something, part fanciful, part skeptical, seeing only herself. A long pale face, faintly medieval, or so she liked to think, since medieval was better than plain. Brown eyes set deep under serious eyebrows. A thin, sad mouth, though why it should be sad she did not know, only that this was what she had been told. And the hair that was her glory, very long and very dark, falling like a cloak about her shoulders. Alison Redmond had had suchhair, Maggie had said, though for some reason Gaynor pictured it as fairer than her own, the color of dust and shadows.
“You stare much harder at t’glass you’ll crack it,” came a voice from the doorway. Gaynor had forgotten Mrs. Wick-low. She jumped and flushed, stammering something incoherent, but the housekeeper interrupted. “You want to be careful. Mirrors remember, or so my mother used to say. You never know what it might show you. That was the one used to hang in
her
room. I’ve cleaned it and polished it up many a time, but the reflection never looks right to me.”
“What was she like?” asked Gaynor, seizing the opportunity. “Alison, I mean.”
“Out for what she could get,” Mrs. Wicklow stated. “This house is full of old things antiques and stuff that the Captain brought back from his travels. Her eyes had a sort of glistening look when she saw them. Greedy. Wouldn’t have surprised me if she were mixed up with real criminals. She didn’t like anyone in t’bedroom when she was away. We didn’t have no key then but she did something to the doorknob something with electricity. Funny, that.” She turned toward the stairs. “You come down now and have a bite of lunch. You young girls, you’re all too thin. You worry too much about your figures.”
Gaynor followed her obediently. “I gather Alison drowned,” she continued cautiously. “In some kind of freak flood?”
“That’s what they
say
,” said Mrs. Wicklow. “Must have been an underground spring, though I never heard of one round here. Swept most of the barn away, it did; they pulled down t’rest. She’d had the builders in there, ‘doing it up’ she said. Happen they tapped into something.”
“I didn’t know there was a barn,” said Gaynor.
“The Captain used to keep some of his stuff in there. Rubbish mostly, if you ask me. He’d got half a boat he’d picked up somewhere, part of a wreck he said, with a woman on the front baring her all. Fern insisted they give it to a museum. Will wanted to keep it, but it wasn’t healthy for a young man. There’s trouble enough him messing around with Art.”
“Alison worked for an art gallery, didn’t she?” Gaynor persisted, resisting diversion.
“Aye,” said the housekeeper. “She and that man with thewhite hair. I didn’t like
him
at all, for all his greasy manners. Oily as a tinned sardine, he was. They never found out what happened to him.”
“What do you mean?” Gaynor had never heard of a man with white hair.
“Done a bunk, so they said. Left his car here, too: a flash white car to match the hair. Happen that’s why he bought it: he was the type. A proper mystery, that was. He walked into t’drawing room and never walked out. Mind, that was the same time Fern got lost, so we thought she might have gone with him, though not willing, I was sure of that. They were bad days for all of us, and bad to remember, but she came back all right. They said she’d been sick, some fancy name they gave it, one of these newfangled things you hear about on t’telly. She
inhabited:
she always had the impression there were more people around than was actually the case.
After she returned from the post office Fern had to drive into Whitby to sort out a problem with the caterers. “Do you want to come?” she asked, but Gaynor declined. Will was out painting somewhere and she welcomed the idea of some time to herself. She stood in the room gazing in the mirror—Alison’s mirror—willing it to show her something, part fanciful, part skeptical, seeing only herself. A long pale face, faintly medieval, or so she liked to think, since medieval was better than plain. Brown eyes set deep under serious eyebrows. A thin, sad mouth, though why it should be sad she did not know, only that this was what she had been told. And the hair that was her glory, very long and very dark, falling like a cloak about her shoulders. Alison Redmond had had suchhair, Maggie had said, though for some reason Gaynor pictured it as fairer than her own, the color of dust and shadows.
“You stare much harder at t’glass you’ll crack it,” came a voice from the doorway. Gaynor had forgotten Mrs. Wick-low. She jumped and flushed, stammering something incoherent, but the housekeeper interrupted. “You want to be careful. Mirrors remember, or so my mother used to say. You never know what it might show you. That was the one used to hang in
her
room. I’ve cleaned it and polished it up many a time, but the reflection never looks right to me.”
“What was she like?” asked Gaynor, seizing the opportunity. “Alison, I mean.”
“Out for what she could get,” Mrs. Wicklow stated. “This house is full of old things antiques and stuff that the Captain brought back from his travels. Her eyes had a sort of glistening look when she saw them. Greedy. Wouldn’t have surprised me if she were mixed up with real criminals. She didn’t like anyone in t’bedroom when she was away. We didn’t have no key then but she did something to the doorknob something with electricity. Funny, that.” She turned toward the stairs. “You come down now and have a bite of lunch. You young girls, you’re all too thin. You worry too much about your figures.”
Gaynor followed her obediently. “I gather Alison drowned,” she continued cautiously. “In some kind of freak flood?”
“That’s what they
say
,” said Mrs. Wicklow. “Must have been an underground spring, though I never heard of one round here. Swept most of the barn away, it did; they pulled down t’rest. She’d had the builders in there, ‘doing it up’ she said. Happen they tapped into something.”
“I didn’t know there was a barn,” said Gaynor.
“The Captain used to keep some of his stuff in there. Rubbish mostly, if you ask me. He’d got half a boat he’d picked up somewhere, part of a wreck he said, with a woman on the front baring her all. Fern insisted they give it to a museum. Will wanted to keep it, but it wasn’t healthy for a young man. There’s trouble enough him messing around with Art.”
“Alison worked for an art gallery, didn’t she?” Gaynor persisted, resisting diversion.
“Aye,” said the housekeeper. “She and that man with thewhite hair. I didn’t like
him
at all, for all his greasy manners. Oily as a tinned sardine, he was. They never found out what happened to him.”
“What do you mean?” Gaynor had never heard of a man with white hair.
“Done a bunk, so they said. Left his car here, too: a flash white car to match the hair. Happen that’s why he bought it: he was the type. A proper mystery, that was. He walked into t’drawing room and never walked out. Mind, that was the same time Fern got lost, so we thought she might have gone with him, though not willing, I was sure of that. They were bad days for all of us, and bad to remember, but she came back all right. They said she’d been sick, some fancy name they gave it, one of these newfangled things you hear about on t’telly. She
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