House of Silence

Linda Gillard

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 Linda Gillard

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored
in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means,
without the prior permission in writing of the author, nor be
otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than
that in which it is published and without a similar condition
including this condition being imposed on the subsequent
purchaser.

All characters and events in this publication are
fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is
purely coincidental.

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Cover design by Nicola Coffield

www.lindagillard.co.uk

Ebook Formatting by
www.ebooklaunch.com

For my mother, Margaret,

who loves a mystery.

A
Beginning

Chapter
One

Chapter
Two

Chapter
Three

Chapter
Four

Chapter
Five

Chapter
Six

Chapter
Seven

The
Truth

Chapter
Eight

Chapter
Nine

Chapter
Ten

Chapter
Eleven

Chapter
Twelve

Chapter
Thirteen

Chapter
Fourteen

Chapter
Fifteen

Chapter
Sixteen

The Whole
Truth

Chapter
Seventeen

Chapter
Eighteen

Nothing But The
Truth

Chapter
Nineteen

Chapter
Twenty

Chapter
Twenty-one

Chapter
Twenty-two

Chapter
Twenty-three

Endings and
Beginnings

Chapter
Twenty-four

About the
Author

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Also by Linda
Gillard

Connect With
Linda

Gwen

I used to wonder if Alfie chose me because I was an
orphan and an only child. Was that part of the attraction? I came
unencumbered, with no family.

We were kindred spirits in a way. Detached,
self-centred, yet both obsessed with the past.
Our
past. The
difference was, I had no family and Alfie did. He had a family - a
large one - but mostly he behaved as if he didn’t, as if he wanted
no part of them, however much they might want a piece of him.

As a lonely child, then a solitary
adolescent, I used to fantasise about having a family - a
proper
family, teeming with rowdy siblings, jolly aunts and
uncles and of course doting parents. Alfie had that. But I suspect
his fantasy was that they had all died, leaving him in peace as
sole owner and occupier of Creake Hall.

It was a macabre joke we shared: that he
lived on grim expectations. I used to chide him for his callousness
and he would get angry, which was unlike him. He’d say, ‘You have
no bloody idea, Gwen! You don’t know how much
they
expect of
me
.’

And it was true. I had absolutely no
idea.

It’s Gwen. Short for Guinevere.

Don’t ask.

I was conceived, so I was told, at
Glastonbury, foisted by father unknown on a semi-comatose mother.
Sasha (she always insisted I call her that) must have done one line
of coke too many. Sasha always said she had little recollection of
my father but claimed my conception had been historic in all
senses, that she had felt a deep,
deep
connection to the
past (if not my father, whom she never saw again.)

To my eternal embarrassment, she named me
Guinevere which was mercifully shortened to Gwen and sometimes,
when she was having a stab at being maternal, Gwenny. But never
Ginny. Ginny was the pet name (I use the term advisedly) of one of
my dipsomaniac aunt’s monstrous and much-loved Persian cats. There
were three: Whisky, Vodka and Gin. Aunt Samantha had a quirky sense
of humour when she was sober, which wasn’t often.

Aunt Sam did booze, Sasha did drugs and my
Uncle Frank did men - boys, if he could get them. This unholy
trinity went down like ninepins in the ‘90s, martyrs to
over-indulgence. All three died tragically young of, respectively,
cirrhosis of the liver, a drug overdose and AIDS.

As for me, I’m allergic to alcohol and worry
a lot about my pension. If she were alive, Sasha would have said
this was unnatural in one so young. (Twenty-six, but people say I
look older. I certainly feel older.) My mother, fond as she was of
clichés, would have said, “Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we
die!” And Sasha did. I wouldn’t describe myself as the ambitious
type, but I do aim to live longer than my mother. If I make it to
thirty-five, I’ll have achieved that modest goal.

So it’s Gwen, not Guinevere. That’s one of
the few things my mother and I agreed about. Names are destiny. So
you might be surprised to learn that, despite the name and a
genetic pre-disposition to excess, my friends describe me as
frighteningly sensible, not at all the sort of woman who’d fall for
an actor. And his home. And his family.

But Sasha would have understood. So, bless
them, would Aunt Sam and Uncle Frank. They would all have cheered
me on from the sidelines, for it would appear family is destiny
too.

Even when you haven’t got one.

Alfie Donovan wasn’t my type. Given my
limited experience with the opposite sex, I’m not sure I can
presume to say I
have
a type.
Male, sober, solvent and
heterosexual
would be at the top of my wish-list, with
tall,
dark and handsome
not far behind. I don’t claim to be original.
At five feet nine myself, I think I can be forgiven for giving
short-arses a wide berth. Uncle Frank used to claim, “It’s all the
same when you’re lying down, sweetheart,” but his powers of
discrimination declined in later years. (Or, as he liked to put it,
he developed “more catholic tastes”.)

Alfie was no taller than me. He was blond
and funny-looking. Literally. His face made me laugh. His letterbox
grin made a grey day suddenly sunny. Old ladies smiled at him for
no reason and babies in buggies would crane their necks and stare,
fascinated. Alfie’s face was so mobile, so expressive, he could
talk with it without opening his mouth. A roll of his eloquent
brown eyes spoke volumes. He could crack you up with a look, hint
at filthy
double entendres
with the hoist of an eyebrow. But
handsome? No, never. His was a striking face, a memorable face, and
- though I didn’t realise it at first - it was also a familiar
face.

I’m talking about Alfie as if he’s dead...
He isn’t, of course. Not exactly.

But something died. Some
body
.

~~~

A man dressed in breeches, topcoat and elaborate
cravat strode along the gravel path. He came to a halt in front of
a wooden bench and addressed its occupant, a young woman in jeans
and a man’s linen shirt, her head bent over a spiral-bound
notebook.

‘Excuse me.’

She peered up at him, shielding her eyes
against the sun, and cast a professional eye over his appearance,
from carefully arranged blond curls to immaculate riding boots -
only a size eight by her estimation. He was slender and pale and
looked very hot. Smiling, he said, ‘You’re Wardrobe, aren’t
you?’

She didn’t return the smile. ‘Well, I don’t
actually have a pair of wooden doors, but thanks to an exhaustive
training and a couple of years in the rag trade, I have been known
to work wonders with a safety pin.’

His large brown eyes rolled heavenwards.
‘Music to my ears! You see, I’ve got a problem with my
breeches.’

She turned back to her notebook. ‘They’re
meant to be tight. Caroline’s a stickler for authenticity - didn’t
they warn you? Don’t expect to breathe and don’t even think about
sitting down. If you get tired, you have to lean against the
fireplace. Decoratively.’

‘Oh, absolutely! Understood. No, this is
more serious than breathing problems. Especially from Caroline’s
point of view. My breeches are falling down.’

She looked up. ‘What do you mean, falling
down?’

‘Travelling earthwards. I think I might have
lost a button—’ He flicked the cascade of lace at his throat. ‘But
I can’t see past this sodding cravat. I can feel them slipping
down. I know I’m not imagining it. One of the extras - who’s
already shown an unhealthy interest in my arse - referred to me as
“droopy drawers” when he thought I was out of earshot. One of your
safety pins might just save the day. And my face. Or rather
arse.’

Suppressing a smile, the girl shut her
notebook, stood up and said, ‘Follow me.’ She led him away from the
mêlée of actors and technicians to a secluded part of the
shrubbery. Turning to face him, she said, ‘Undo your waistcoat. And
please try not to destroy your cravat!’ She bent down and examined
his costume. ‘Oh, I see your problem. You’ve lost a button at the
waist. Have you put on weight since you were fitted for these?’