The Black Opal (24 page)

Go back to the town, I told myself. Have a meal in the Bald-Faced Stag and ask them to arrange for some conveyance to get you back to the station. Then, forget about the past and Commonwood House. It is over for ever.

But the impulse to go on was irresistible. Just a step into the hall.

Just a few more moments to recapture the ambiance of the old days . the feeling of being not as the others, the outsider who was there on sufferance because the doctor had a soft heart, to savour once more the feelings of that unwanted girl, soon to be loved and cherished by the most wonderful of men.

I made my way across the tattered carpet. It had once been brown with a blue pattern on it; now it was damp and torn and the blue was barely visible. An insect scuttling across it startled me.

I opened the door of a room and looked in. My mind flashed back to one of the last occasions when I had seen it. Adeline . frantic with fear, and Mrs. Marline shouting at her. Miss Carson coming in.

1 had not realized how vividly those scenes had impressed themselves on my memory.

The door to the garden was shut. Through the glass

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panels I could see how neglected it was. I remembered how I had listened to conversations and tried to piece together what was happening in the grim household.

I turned away and looked up at the staircase and, before I could warn myself that a house in such condition might be unsafe, I started to ascend them. I was on the landing, close to that room which had been shared by Dr. and Mrs. Marline before her accident. Empty now. I glanced up the stairs. How quiet it was. How different. I kept thinking I heard whispering voices. Nanny Gilroy, Mrs. Barton and the district nurse . shutting the kitchen door, drinking tea and talking secrets.

Then suddenly I heard a sound. I could hear my heart beating. A sibilant whisper. It was coming from the room below. Voices down there. Ghostly voices in an empty house.

I do not think I was particularly fanciful, but from the moment I had come into the house I had thought there was something eerie about it.

Perhaps there is about most derelict houses. They seem to preserve something, some character of the people who have lived in them over the years; and when one has known them, and been aware of some mysterious happenings, it is not surprising that one’s imagination is stirred.

When I heard a light footfall I was no longer in doubt. 1 was not alone in the house.

There it was again . that sibilant whisper.

I was in the room which had been the Marlines’ bed room. I stood very still, waiting. I was not sure what 1 expected. Did I think the ghost of Mrs. Marline was going to appear and ask me what I was doing there?

What right had I to be here . of ever having been here? Yes, 1 was her brother’s child, and that was the reason why I had been allowed to stay. But Mrs. Marline would say that people had no right to beget children out of wedlock and the children had to suffer for that.

It was a light step on the stairs. There was no doubt now. I was not alone in this house.

I stood cowering in the room as the steps came nearer. I had pushed the door to so that it was half closed. Whoever was there was very close now. There was a pause. I could hear the sound of light breathing and then the door was slowly pushed open.

I caught my breath. I was not sure what I had been expecting, but the sight of a small boy was reassuring. He was not alone. There was another, slightly smaller boy behind him.

We stared at each other. I gathered he was as astonished to see me as I was to see him.

He said in a frightened voice: “Are you a ghost?”

“No,” I said.

“Are you?”

He lifted his shoulders in silent mirth and the other boy came to stand beside him and stare at me.

Then he went on: “What are you doing here?”

“What are you?” I retaliated.

“Looking.”

“So am I.”

“It’s haunted, you know.”

“This house … ?”

“All of it. The garden as well. It’s a real haunted house, en’t it.

Will? “

Will nodded.

“Do you live near here?” I asked.

He nodded and pointed vaguely in the direction of the common.

“Why is this house falling down like this?” I asked him.

“Cos it’s haunted.”

“Why is it haunted?”

“Cos there’s a ghost. That’s why.”

“Why are there ghosts here?”

“They came to do the haunting, of course.”

I calculated how old they were. The elder looked about i95

eight, the other a year or so younger. They would have been babies or as yet unborn when I had left here.

“Did you know the people who lived here?” I asked.

“Only ghosts.”

I could see I was not going to learn much from them.

“We’re not supposed to come here,” volunteered the younger one.

“He dared me to,” said the elder.

“My mother says the house could fall down on you. Then you’d be buried with the ghosts.”

“It’s unsafe,” said the other.

“They’re always saying they’re going to pull it down.”

“And build another house?” I asked.

“Who’d want to live here?”

“Why not?”

The boys looked at me in amazement, and the elder said:

“It’s haunted, that’s why.”

I felt I owed them a reason for my being here, and I said:

“I was passing … and it looked interesting.”

“We’ve got to go home now. It’s dinner-time and our mum don’t half go off if we’re late.” He gave me a disappointed look.

“I thought you’d be a ghost, not just an ordinary person.”

“You’re not sorry,” said the other.

“You’re glad. You wasn’t half frightened.”

“I wasn’t!”

“Yes, you were.”

They started downstairs, their voices echoing through the house.

“I wasn’t.”

“Yes, you were.”

I looked out of the window and saw them running across the lawn.

Then slowly I made my way downstairs and out of the house.

I stood looking over the common. No one was about.

The experience had disturbed me. I could not rid myself of the feeling that there was something eerie and menacing about the place. I was glad to be out of it. I did not want to go there again. I wanted to get right away and forget it all.

I should probe no more. I expected the Grange was still there but I was not going to look.

I made my way back down the hill into the town. I would have a light meal at the Bald-Faced Stag, and then go to the station and back to London.

I was about to cross the road to the inn when a rider came along. His horse was rather frisky and, as I was about to step out into the road, it reared up on its hind legs, whinnying. A man, who was also about to cross, halted and stood beside me. We both watched the horse and rider.

“Rather tricky,” said the man to me. There was something familiar about his voice.

I turned to look at him and I knew at once. It was Lucian Crompton.

“Lucian!” I cried.

He stared at me in surprise and then I saw recognition in his eyes.

“Why … it’s Carmel!”

We stood gazing at each other for a few moments. Then he said: “Well, this is a surprise. Where have you sprung from, after all this time?”

“I’m here for the day … from London. In fact, from Australia.”

“Really! And we meet like this! What luck!”

It came flooding back again. This was the pleasant part of the memory.

I was remembering how he had found my pendant and had it repaired, how he had always been kind to the outsider.

Our pleasure in the encounter was undoubtedly mutual.

“We must have a talk,” he said.

“What are your plans? You are here for the day, you said.” He looked at his watch.

“It’s just about lunch-time for me. What about you?”

“I was going to have something light and then get the train back.”

“Why don’t we have lunch together? I want to hear what you’ve been doing all this time.”

The man with the horse had gone on now and we crossed the road. Lucian led the way to the Bald-Faced Stag.

He was well known there and a table for two was found for us.

Now that I was seated opposite him I could see that he had changed. He was no longer the lighthearted boy I had known. When he was not smiling, there was a vaguely strained look about him. I calculated he must be about twenty-five or -six years old. He looked older. He had certainly changed. I supposed I had too.

As though to follow my thoughts, he said: “You haven’t changed much, Carmel. Just grown taller. It was only for the first moment that I did not know you.”

“Tell me what has been happening to you.”

“My father died three years ago … unexpectedly. He had a heart attack. That meant I had to take over the estate.”

“I suppose that keeps you occupied.”

He nodded.

“I’m sorry about your father,” I said.

“It must have been a great shock. And your mother?”

“She’s well. Camilla married and went to live in the Midlands. She has a little boy now.” He paused and hurried on.

“I have a daughter. She is two years old.”

“Oh, so you are married.”

“Was,” he said.

“Oh … I’m sorry.”

“My wife died. It was when the child was born.”

I thought: No wonder he has changed, with the death of his father . the death of his wife.

“And you … are you married?” he asked.

“Oh no. 1 left school not very long ago.”

Tell me about yourself. You went away so suddenly. Everything broke up, didn’t it? “

“Did you know my father was Captain Sinclair?”

“I did hear a rumour of it.”

“I went away with him. His ship was based mainly in Australia and he thought it best, in the circumstances, for me to stay there.”

“Yes, I suppose it was.”

“So I stayed … and then … he was drowned. He went down with his ship.”

He did not know this and I told him as briefly as I could, but it was impossible to hide my emotion.

“You were very fond of him, I remember. It must have been terrible for you.” He smiled at me with a tenderness that was touching. These things happen. One has to accept them. There is nothing else to do, is there? “

He reminded me then so much of those days when he had understood how I felt as the one who did not belong.

“Everything happened so suddenly,” I said.

“It seems unreal now. I went to Australia with my father and on the way he told me I was his daughter. It was like a dream come true.”

“You were happy in Australia?”

“Oh yes, very.”

“And you have been there all these years? And now you’ve come to visit the old home.”

“I was horrified when I saw Commonwood House. It really was such a pleasant place. I thought they would have sold it.”

They tried to, but nobody would buy it. “

“Why not?”

“A house where a murder has been committed?”

“A murder?”

He looked at me incredulously.

“Didn’t you know? The papers were full of it. People could talk of little else at one i99

time. Even now, you hear an occasional reference to it. “

“Murder?” I repeated.

“Of course, you went away before it started to come out. Perhaps that was why your father … Oh yes, I expect that was the idea. It wouldn’t have been reported in the Australian papers.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“Well, there was the trial and things were revealed. Then they couldn’t sell the house. Everyone knew what had happened there.

People get superstitious. I’m not surprised they couldn’t sell it. Who wants to buy a house which belongs to a man who has been hanged for murder? “

I felt numb with shock.

Lucian went on: “So you did not know that Dr. Marline was found guilty?

The governess was deeply involved, but she got off. She was going to have a child. Some people thought that helped her. But there wasn’t enough evidence against her. There was some person . a writer or some thing . who took it up and campaigned for her release. “

I murmured: “Dr. Marline. Miss Carson. It’s hard to believe. Dr. Marline would never have murdered anyone … not even Mrs. Marline.”

“He had his supporters. He had a reputation for caring and great concern for his patients, and many of them thought highly of him.” He looked at me with an odd expression, and I thought for a moment he wanted me to accept the doctor’s guilt.

“He had a motive,” he went on.

“His wife was giving him a bad time and he wanted to marry Miss Carson who was to have his child. There couldn’t have been a stronger motive.”

“I still don’t believe it. Miss Carson was such a good person. We all loved her. She did more for Adeline than anyone. People like that can’t commit murder.”

“People can be goaded too far. That must have happened in the Marlines’ case. It must.”

“I wish I hadn’t discovered all this. I just thought the doctor died and the family dispersed. All these years, I have known nothing about this.”

“Your father obviously thought it better that you did not know.”

“You must have been here when it was all happening.”

“I was away at school. Henry left and went to his aunt. I didn’t know anything about it until it was all over. Then the doctor was dead, the house empty and the rest of them gone.”

We were silent for a while, after which he said: “I think it was wise of your father to do what he did. If you had not come back, you need never have known about it. I can see it has upset you. I am sure he would have realized how you would feel.”

“I really belong to the family,” I said.

“Mrs. Marline was my father’s sister … my aunt, in fact. My father must have thought it better that I should not know, as I was connected with them.”

“I am sure that is what he had in mind. I am sorry this has depressed you. This should have been a pleasant reunion of old friends.”

“I am so pleased to see you again, Lucian.”

“And I you. Tell me about Australia.”

Over sherry trifle and coffee we talked, but my thoughts were really with the Marline tragedy. I felt sure it was on Lucian’s mind too.