In Her Shadow (36 page)

She picked up one of the documents, read it, and tossed it aside. She picked up the next.

‘Oh God,’ she whispered. ‘Everything he said was true. Mama did make him trustee.’

I picked up a sheaf of papers, clipped together, which were the deeds to Thornfield House.

‘Your grandma left the house to you, Ellen,’ I said.

‘I don’t want the house. I hate the house. What good is it to me?’

‘You could sell it.’

‘But that takes ages, doesn’t it? Jago and I need the money now! How can I sell the house if I’m in America?’ Her voice was panicky, verging on hysterical. ‘What else is there?’

We looked through the other documents: several remortgages, loans taken out against the house, records of
shares sold, deposit accounts emptied, overdraft agreements, credit bills.

I had a pain inside me. I felt sick. Ellen was white as a sheet.

‘What is all this?’ Ellen asked. ‘What does it mean?’

I read a snippet of a document:
the charge taken out against Thornfield House to the value of £40,000
…
as yet unpaid
…
further interest
…
fees incurred
.

‘I don’t know what it means,’ I said, although I did know, it was obvious. ‘You’ll have to ask someone who understands these things.’

Ellen frowned. She bit her knuckles.

‘None of these papers says anything about any money coming to me.’

‘No.’

Ellen stared up at me. She looked very young, a child who has just understood something important about the world.

‘There
is
no fortune, is there, Hannah?’ she asked. ‘There is no money. Even if I sold the house, there would be nothing. It’s all debt. He’s taken it all.’

I reached out my hand and touched her shoulder. She flinched away.

‘Oh God!’ she said. ‘What are we going to do? What will Jago say? I’ve been telling him all this time that we were going to have thousands of pounds, and now … I don’t want us to end up in some poky little apartment.’

‘It’s OK,’ I said. ‘Jago doesn’t care about the money. He doesn’t! Just keep calm, Ellen. Don’t let your father see you’re upset. As long as you keep your head, you can still go away. Nothing has really changed.’

‘But—’

Mrs Todd called us from the front door.

‘Just act normal,’ I said. ‘Don’t do anything to rile him. Just get through this party and it will all be over. You’ll be away. OK?’

Ellen nodded. She had been completely wrongfooted. She had thought she was directing the last scene in the last act of the story of her life there at Thornfield House, but suddenly the rules had been changed. She was looking to me for direction. Ellen Brecht had lost control entirely.

We went into the house and said goodbye to my mother, who had finished her cleaning. I ate some cold meat and salad Mrs Todd had prepared for lunch, although Ellen said her mouth was too dry to eat, and after that, for a while, I sat beside Ellen as she lay on her bed. She was exhausted but she would not sleep; she stared at the light from the sun reflected on the ceiling and her eyes were glassy and, for the first time ever, without passion.

‘Just a few more hours,’ I told her again. ‘Just keep going for a few more hours, Ellen, and you’ll be away from here. Don’t give in now.’

As the afternoon wore on, Mrs Todd called us into the back garden to help decorate the marquee. Trestle tables had been laid along the back edge, and a smaller round table, which I thought must be for a cake, stood in the centre.

‘Are we having a buffet?’ I asked.

‘Something’s wrong,’ Ellen said, and I thought, Everything is wrong. She bit her nails and looked around her. ‘Something’s terribly wrong!’ she said again, and her voice was distressed. I took a step towards her and, at that moment, the canvas flap that was the door to the marquee flew back and Mr Brecht appeared with his arms full of white ribbons and yellow roses and lilies.

‘The decorations have arrived,’ he said. ‘Aren’t they beautiful!’

‘But, Papa, we never have flowers.’

‘It’s your birthday! Every girl deserves flowers on her special day. Now don’t turn your nose up at them, Ellen, they
cost a fortune. I had to pay by credit card, but hey, what’s a few more pounds in the red between family?’

He laid the flowers down on one of the tables.

‘There are lanterns too,’ said Mr Brecht. ‘And candles. Make the garden beautiful, Ellen. Turn it into a backdrop that nobody who’s here tonight will ever forget.’

Ellen’s arms hung at her side.

‘A backdrop for what, Papa?’ she asked, without raising her eyes.

‘Your birthday, of course!’

The roses were strongly scented, almost garish in colour against the pristine white of the tablecloth, and already the lilies were staining it with their brown pollen. I went into the house and returned with as many glass vases as I could carry in my arms. Inside I was panicking, but all I could think was that we had to carry on acting normally. It was the only way to make sure Ellen got away.

Ellen was quiet, biting at her lip.

‘What now?’ I asked. It seemed to me that things could hardly be any worse than they already were.

‘Lilies are funeral flowers and yellow roses mean betrayal,’ she said.

‘They’re only flowers.’

‘He didn’t choose them by accident, Hannah. Don’t you see? Nothing he does is accidental. He’s planning to kill someone!’

I tried to reassure her, but she wouldn’t be reassured, and as the afternoon faded into evening her edginess began to infect me too. Neither of us knew what Mr Brecht was planning. We were afraid.

By late afternoon the garden and house were decorated, the caterers were busy in the food tent, the wine was chilling. Mr Brecht clapped his hands and told Ellen to go and change while Mrs Todd lit the candles and the lanterns.

Ellen’s silver-grey evening dress, the one her father had given her the previous year, was hanging from the picture rail in her bedroom. The two of us went upstairs and I looked out of the window.

‘Nobody’s arrived yet.’

‘I don’t know what time he told them to come.’

‘Maybe they’re all going to come together in one great big convoy.’

‘Or they might have hired a coach. Don’t look.’

I turned my back while Ellen changed. When she was ready, I noticed how the dress clung to her. She had filled out, grown up. She did not look like a coltish young girl any longer. She looked like a woman. I helped her fasten her hair up and then she reached out and took hold of my hands.

‘This is our last evening together,’ she said. ‘This is the end of you and me.’

‘It’s not the end,’ I said. ‘It’s the beginning of a new phase.’

‘I’ll never have another friend like you, Hannah.’

‘Me neither.’

We smiled at one another.

‘I’m sorry,’ we both said at exactly the same time, and I don’t think either of us quite understood why we were apologizing, or why we were both so close to tears.

‘You look beautiful,’ I said, and it was true.

‘I hate this dress.’

‘You’ll never have to wear it again.’

‘I suppose we ought to go down,’ she said, ‘before any of the guests arrive.’

Outside, the light of day was fading and the candles were twinkling in their jars.

Mrs Todd, who had been given the evening off, kissed Ellen goodbye, and I told Ellen to stand in the rose bower so I could take her picture.

After that, we wandered around the garden. The smells
coming from the kitchen were mouthwatering. Music coiled from the marquee. Piano music. I recognized it, with a shudder, as the
Raindrop Prelude
, Mrs Brecht’s death music.

Ellen looked around.

‘Where is everyone?’ she asked. She laughed nervously. ‘Where are all my guests?’

‘Perhaps they’re hiding in the marquee?’

We crossed the lawn, the grass already dampening with dew. Ellen opened the canvas flap, and I followed her inside.

The air in the marquee was heady with the scent of the lilies and citronella candles. Flowers and ribbons and yellow and white balloons were strung from its canvas walls. A huge banner said:
Happy Birthday Ellen
. A pile of presents, all wrapped in gold paper and ribbon, was heaped on the trestle tables at the back and the music was being piped from somewhere. It filled the space; it was all around.

The small table in the centre of the marquee had been laid for two. There were two fancy red-and-gold antique chairs and a long-legged wine cooler, full of ice. An ornate chandelier hung above it. Apart from that, the marquee was empty.

‘I don’t understand,’ said Ellen. She looked around her. ‘Where is everyone else going to eat? Where
is
everyone?’

Her father had been waiting for us. Now he came through the entrance. He was wearing a morning suit, but it was not clean, and his hair was long and he hadn’t shaved for a while. He looked creepy, like a character in a masque. He had a strange, wide smile on his face and the gun was in his hand. He propped it against the little round table, then stepped forward and took Ellen’s hands in his.

‘I know you weren’t keen on having a party with lots of people and fuss,’ he said. ‘So I thought I’d give you what you wanted,
Schatzi
. A special dinner. Just the two of us.’

Ellen was trembling. She glanced over to me, panic in her eyes.

‘What about Hannah? Where’s Hannah going to sit?’

‘Hannah hasn’t been invited to this party,’ said Mr Brecht. He led Ellen to one of the fancy chairs beside the table; dreamlike, she sat. ‘It’s exclusive. You and me, Ellen. Just you and me.’

‘But—’

Mr Brecht looked at me. ‘You’re going home now, aren’t you, Hannah?’

I nodded.

Mr Brecht smiled. He unfolded Ellen’s napkin, shook it out and placed it on her lap. He sat in the other chair, beside her. He took the wine from the ice bucket and filled both Ellen’s glass and his own.

‘
Prost!
’ he said. ‘
Zum Wohl!
’

‘
Prost
,’ Ellen repeated dully.

‘Still here, Hannah?’ Mr Brecht asked. He reached for the gun. I moved towards the door.

‘Don’t worry about us,’ he said. ‘We’re perfectly safe. If anyone else should turn up – that half-naked burglar, for example – I’ll be ready for him. And I won’t mess about this time. Tonight,’ he said, patting the gun, ‘I’m in the mood for the kill.’

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

AT THE CAR
park at the bottom of the hill that overlooked Magdeburg, we got into the car and John drove back along the winding road, pulling up at the entrance to Schloss Marien. The stone boar lay on their plinths and watched us with their stone eyes.

John leaned out and pressed the intercom button. There were a few moments’ silence and then a friendly woman’s voice came through the speaker.

‘
Hallo?
’

‘It’s Karla,’ I said. I leaned over John. ‘Karla, hello! This is Hannah, Ellen’s friend from Cornwall.’ There was a rustle and slight commotion at the other end of the intercom.

‘Hannah? Little Hannah Brown?’

‘Yes.’

‘
Mein Gott!
Hannah, welcome, come in, come in!’

John smiled at me. I smiled back. The gates purred into life and slid back into their frames. John moved the car slowly into the drive.

I had been so bowled over by emotion when I saw Ellen, that now I felt almost empty, vertiginous. It had been too much, back there on the hilltop – too much emotion and
too much confusion. I understood nothing. I didn’t know how Ellen could be alive, I didn’t know what had brought me here, to her, I didn’t know how I should feel in this situation. It was too much for me and my cold, lonely heart. I was light and insubstantial, not made of flesh and blood, but pure spirit. Once more I thought: I’ve been given another chance. After all these years, I can make things right.

As the car wound along the narrow drive, in and out of the dappling sunlight, I thought not only of Ellen, but also of Jago and the loneliness in which he’d been mired for the past twenty years, and I wondered how I could ever explain all this to him. Could we be friends again, he and I? Was there the possibility of reconciliation? Was there any way back to how we used to be?

The drive seemed to go on for ever, through the lush parkland that surrounded the Schloss. At last it opened out into a wide, gravelled area in front of the grand facade of the house. Karla was standing at the top of a rank of wide stone steps. She was wearing a long-sleeved kaftan over a swimsuit, flip-flops and a large-brimmed sunhat.

She waved as I climbed out of the car, and then she came trotting down the steps and embraced me thoroughly. She must have been in her early sixties but she was still youthful in appearance and behaviour.

‘My darling girl, how did you find us? How did you track us down?’ she asked, holding onto my shoulders with both hands and looking me up and down.

‘Ellen once sent a postcard from here.’

‘And this?’ Karla asked, beaming at John who was hovering just behind me. ‘Who is this?’

‘This is John.’

‘What a handsome man. Your husband?’

‘No, no.’ I hid my embarrassment with a nervous laugh. ‘Not my husband. We work together.’

‘Her chauffeur,’ John said.

‘My friend.’

He and Karla shook hands. Then Karla kissed him on both cheeks anyway. ‘It’s the German way,’ she explained. ‘Come in, come through; the girls and I are sitting on the terrace. It’s a sun-trap.’

We followed her into the cool gloom of the building. It was as I had expected it to be, high-ceilinged, with exposed beams and lots of stonework, but it had a friendly, welcoming feel to it. I would have liked to stop time, there and then, to hold onto the moment for ever, but I didn’t. I kept walking, through a grand hallway and into an airy drawing room – the same room, I realized, where Anne Brecht had been photographed for the magazine – and out onto the terrace. There was the stone hart that Mr Brecht had been standing beside in the photograph. There was the fountain. And there, standing behind the fountain, smiling, waiting – was Ellen.