I
I am not a femme fatale. Crime does not dog my footsteps, as one garrulous friend assured me. It was she who applied the first loathsome sobriquet. Neither am I one of those sleuths for whom corpses crop up conveniently. Such individuals should, in the interests of public safety, be marooned on a desert island. Their presence in the community is an incentive to murder.
No claim is being made to the ranks of amateur detection. I am merely a police officer’s wife who has certain reasons in recording impressions of a homicide case. One is to defend myself against further attacks by friends. The affair was bound to happen some time, and therefore it was just a coincidence that it synchronized with our arrival in Middleburn. Crime waits for no man, least of all for the super-sleuth.
It is strange to remember that it happened at that particular time of the year. One associates murder with a winter’s wind whining in the trees, or with the electrically charged atmosphere that precedes a summer storm; indeed, our treacherous spring days would have been a more suitable setting. But the violence and mystery which emanated from the Hall, their breeding place, were played against a background of serene days and nights. The leaves of deciduous trees were yellow and starting to fall, and the smoke from chimney stacks rose as straight plumes through the unruffled air. Autumn was the backdrop.
Such days of glorious weather might bring a poignant nostalgia to some; to others happy memories. To me they are the reminder of the most terrifying experiences of my life.
One of those nightmare incidents becomes particularly vivid whenever I watch Tony playing in the sandpit John constructed. My heart will thud with a sudden fear of what might have been. I snatch his rotund little body hard against me to beat off the phantom. Then Tony complains plaintively of the uncomfortable grip, and the picture fades.
Tony makes me forget, but only temporarily. Often during the night I will waken sharply and think I hear his terrified baby call. I will slip quickly and quietly from bed and pad down the hall in my bare feet to the nursery. Each time I fully expect to see that dark-draped figure leaning over his cot once more. But the light from the passage shines on nothing more sinister than the black-stocking golliwog, clasped firmly in one striped-pyjama arm. Only after I lean over the high rail of the cot and listen for his quick breathing, with my own held, and take another look at the double screen on the nursery window, am I satisfied to leave him. I creep back to bed rather sheepishly, confident that I have not disturbed John with my midnight prowlings, until his voice comes deeply through the darkness.
“Well? No masked kidnappers?”
“Did I waken you? I thought I heard Tony call.”
John rolled over. “Now listen, Maggie! It’s high time you stopped this nonsense. Haven’t you heard that lightning never strikes twice in the same place? Forgive the trite phrase, but it is about the best security I can offer you. I do wish you’d stop fidgeting and let us get some sleep.”
I stopped thumping my pillow into shape and said meekly: “Sorry, darling. I won’t offend again. Good night.”
John gave a grunt of forgiveness and rolled back. The Holland case was closed as far as he was concerned. Such a prosaic attitude to the recent events which occurred in Middleburn could only be found in one to whom crime was an everyday affair to combat.
I lay straight and still in the darkness. Sleep was far away.
“I’ll remember it all for the last time and then put it out of my head for good. I’ll go over every fact, every little incident. That should cure me.”
II
Tony had been with us for nearly two years when I decided that flat life was no longer bearable. We must have a house and plenty of yard space in which Tony could indulge his ever-increasing vitality without complaints from the neighbours.
John looked dubious when I told him of my decision. I would find it difficult to secure a place in these times, he said. The housing problem was acute, and so on. However, I had his permission to go ahead in the search; only make sure before doing anything final that there was an extra room he could use as a study. He wished me luck, with a pessimistic shake of his head.
“I’ll find a house,” I declared firmly, “even if I die in the attempt.” Which, on the whole, was a rather ironic statement to make. Fortunately I did not know that then.
As usual John was right. But after many weeks of weary searching I triumphed.
“Middleburn,” said my sceptical husband, poring over the rough diagram I had made of the house I had inspected that afternoon. “Where the devil is Middleburn?”
“And you a policeman! Give me that paper for a moment.”
On the back I sketched a clumsy map showing two of the main highways leading from town which run through a couple of well-known outer suburbs. Between them, marked by large crosses, I made a smaller one.
“That is Middleburn.”
“Looks very much out of the way to me. Is there a decent train service to the city?”
I assured him that there was, and went on to describe Middleburn itself.
Although classed as a suburb, it had more the aspect of a country village, so isolated was it from its neighbours. The homes and gardens were delightful, set in pretty, rolling country which from many parts commanded fine views of the city in the west and the hills in the east. The houses were small, modern and smart, and inhabited for the most part by young married couples. The tiny shopping centre, set in the main road on the crest of a hill, teemed with smartly dressed young matrons wheeling baby carriages. Strolling along High Street I had to sidestep now and then to dodge groups of young mothers chatting together gaily. My town suit and hat were glanced at curiously. I presented a rather incongruous figure among the tailored slacks and careless bare heads.
I had gone to Middleburn on the advice of a city estate agency, which had given me the address of a Mr Cruikshank.
This gentleman appeared to have many irons in the commercial fire of the village. His address was scribbled on the back of one of John’s official cards. As I stood outside a shop in High Street comparing the numbers, I saw that not only was Mr Cruikshank the local estate agent, he also ran a lending library, managed several agencies for insurance, and was a depôt for a dry-cleaning establishment.
Looking back now, I cannot understand how I opened Mr Cruikshank’s screen door, which was and still is badly in need of oil, without feeling some other emotion than a weary speculation as to whether he could assist me in my house-hunting. My feet were sore from tramping city and suburbs. If there is anything likely to break the spirit it is blisters on the heels.
Cruikshank was a short, stout man. When I saw him that afternoon he was in his shirt-sleeves with an immense black sateen apron tied around his protruding middle. This was his usual mode of apparel in the shop. He looked up from his job of rebinding battered library books when I entered. A keen, inquisitive look was cast at me.
“Ah, yes! Margetsons wrote to me about a Mrs Matheson,” he remarked, after I had stated my business. He then added, a trifle patronizingly: “You’re after a house. Well, now. That is rather a problem nowadays.”
As I considered he was liable to start commenting at length on the housing position, a dissertation I had already heard many times, I cut him short by demanding if he had any vacancies on his books.
Mr Cruikshank put his head on one side.
“Yes and no,” he replied, in an irritating fashion. “When I say yes, there is a vacant place in this district. On the other hand, it is doubtful whether the owner will sell it to you.”
He stressed the last word, and I felt my irritation rising. But house-hunters cannot afford to offend estate agents. I asked for the owner’s address, so that I could see him for myself. Mr Cruikshank gave a small derisive laugh.
“You had better wait for a while until I can take you along. Maud!” he yelled into a door leading from behind his counter.
I remained where I was, idly glancing through a pile of uncatalogued books. Mr Cruikshank’s maiden sister appeared.
“I have got to go out,” he told her. “Are you taking that one, Mrs Ames? Here, Maud, fix up Mrs Ames.”
I had not noticed the young woman standing beside me until Mr Cruikshank spoke. She handed a book over the counter in silence, and then turned slightly towards me.
“You are looking for a house, are you?” she asked. Her voice was flat and toneless. She kept one hand on the turned-up collar of her coat, trying to hide the port-wine stain which disfigured one side of her face.
“That’s right!” I said eagerly. “Do you know—”
The young woman shook her head disinterestedly. She turned back to the counter and picked up her book. The estate agent came bustling through the counter pulling on a coat.
“Yes, looking for a house. Hopeful, isn’t she, Mrs Ames? I thought we’d try Holland again, but I don’t like her chances. Are you ready, Mrs Matheson?”
I followed him through the shop.
“Do you mean to say there has been a vacant house in this district for some time and the owner won’t sell?” I demanded, trying to shorten my stride to suit his. We became separated by a baby carriage, but not before I heard him start: “Yes and no—”
When I came within earshot again he was still talking.
“—many’s the time I’ve taken hopeful young ladies like yourself to see the owner. Occasionally he has permitted them to look over the Dower House, but when it came to talking terms—a most uncompromising man. However, we’ll see what happens today.” Mr Cruikshank gave a little skip and started to hum a tune.
We followed the main road out of the village and up a steep incline. Houses had become more infrequent and soon gave way altogether to open paddocks. Now and then Cruikshank nodded to a stray pedestrian or waved his hand at a passing car.
“You seem to know everyone,” I remarked pleasantly.
He gave another little skip. “I,” he announced, turning his head towards me confidentially, “I am the most dangerous man in Middleburn.”
“Indeed?”
“Ah, yes!” continued Cruikshank. “Not much that has gone on in Middleburn over the last thirty years has escaped my notice. I know such a lot about everyone. Why even you now—” He looked sideways. “You look a comfortably-off young lady. Not wealthy, but nice and secure. Am I right?”
“I suppose so,” I answered, my dislike growing stronger.
“Well, now! That’s good hearing. Let us suppose that I can use my influence with Mr Holland and secure the Dower House for you, perhaps there might be some little extra in it for me. Eh? What do you say?”
“There might be,” I answered shortly.
Mr Cruikshank gave three consecutive skips. “We’ll just see what happens today,” he promised again.
III
Holland Hall was an immense estate, set on the rise of a hill and overlooking the village. The house, except for its square white tower, was rendered invisible from the road by the tall Lombardy poplars lining either side of the gravelled driveway. It was the length of this drive and the fact that just inside the elaborate iron gates was a small dwelling labelled “THE LODGE” that gave the whole property a pretentious appearance. The Hall was either an imitation or the manifestation of an ideal. An odd place to find in Middleburn, cheek by jowl, as it were, with five-roomed modern houses.
The agent Cruikshank swung open the path gate with a fussy gallantry, standing aside to let me pass through. Perhaps that was another time when I should have felt some overwhelming emotion that would warn me of the web of mystery into which I was to be dragged. But I didn’t. Mentally I was girding my loins for battle. Although I understood that for some reason he was reluctant to do so, Mr Holland had a house to sell, and I was very, very weary of house-hunting.
The drive curved into an open oval area in front of the house. In the centre of the oval a marble female figure revealed her knees to the goldfish with one hand, while the other held aloft a spraying fountain. Beyond the lily pond, stone steps led down to a sunken garden. I turned my attention to the house itself as we mounted more stone steps to the surrounding terrace. It had had several years in which to became mellowed, but not enough to disguise its crudity. Gabled and gargoyled at every conceivable point, it presented a baroque example of mixed architecture.
“‘The style is the man,’” Cruikshank quoted smugly. “Quite a showplace, isn’t it?”
He pressed his broad-tipped finger on the bell for the second time.
A weak, fretful wail came from the side of the house.
“Surely that is not a baby I can hear crying?” I asked, surveying this fantastic dwelling in wonderment.
“That will be Mr Holland’s grandson,” Cruikshank nodded. “We’ll go round and see if there is anyone there.”
A middle-aged man dressed in baggy tweeds straightened up from bending over a perambulator which was parked at the far end of the terrace. He turned quickly at the sound of footsteps and slipped one hand into a shapeless pocket. The other clumsily readjusted the pale pink mosquito netting over the hood. The eyes that met mine held a certain expression of embarrassment, if not furtiveness.
“Well!” breathed Mr Cruikshank in my ear. “Well! I am surprised to see him at Holland Hall.”
Before I could speak one of the French windows overlooking the terrace was pulled up with a jerk and a girl stepped over quickly. She did not notice us standing at the corner of the house. I was unable to observe the expression on her face, but her voice was charged with a cold loathing.
“What are you doing here? I did not call you. Why have you been looking at my baby?”
“Mr Holland’s daughter-in-law,” Cruikshank breathed again in explanation. “His son’s widow.”
The stranger smiled at the girl gently in a conciliatory way. His mild eyes came once more to rest on my face beyond her.
The girl wheeled around and gasped in such a frightened way that I retreated a step. I murmured something about ringing at the front door and no one answering.
She tried to disguise her agitation. Her face, though quite young, was lined and harassed. Her small hands fiddled incessantly with the belt of her green wool dress as though it was too tight about her slender waist.
“I didn’t hear the bell. Baby was crying. Teeth, you know.” She smiled in a tired fashion.
I nodded wisely, and watched the stranger trying to sidle past us unobtrusively. One hand remained in his pocket. He stepped off the terrace and walked unhurriedly down the drive. I glanced at Cruikshank. His gaze had been darting from the girl to the stranger with a bright curiosity.
“Yvonne,” a voice called from the house. The girl started and went back to the French window at once.
“Yes, Mr Holland?”
I turned to survey this man who built himself pseudo-manor houses and was not disappointed. In appearance and bearing he was all that he should have been.
“Come nearer, Yvonne.” Holland’s voice was quiet, yet harsh and high-pitched. It demanded obedience. The girl advanced closer, her fingers entwined tightly. James Holland put out one hand and gripped her thin wrists. She stumbled to her knees over the sill of the window.
“That fellow was here! Haven’t I told you I will not have him in the house? My wishes must be respected!”
The girl looked up at Holland with a sort of weak defiance.
“I didn’t want him here. Perhaps you can explain why he came,” she said.
The old man held her gaze pitilessly until her eyes dropped. He released his grip on Yvonne’s wrists so suddenly that she sprawled at his feet. I hated him most for the smile he gave when he saw the girl so. She moved away to her child, her shoulders rounded as though manifesting her beaten spirit. Holland turned to deal with the other two persons on his terrace.
He addressed the agent haughtily. “You’ve seen fit to answer my summons at last, Cruikshank. You will pay for your tardiness. Young woman with the inquisitive eyes, would you kindly leave my house?”
I gasped with indignation, conscious of the aptness of his description. Cruikshank, evidently accustomed to the vagaries of clients, completely disregarded the dismissal by ushering me through the window.
The room was James Holland’s study; large, red-carpeted and impressive. There were two or three immense leathern caverns of armchairs. The bookshelves were packed with massive tomes of a variety that immediately make one wonder who would read them and why. Mr Holland’s mahogany desk was of corresponding proportions. It lay angle-wise in one corner so that the light from the French window shone over his left shoulder. A beam from the late afternoon sun caught that side of his face, illuminating one eye, the tiny criss-cross veins on his cheekbone and the brown-marked hand tapping impatiently on the polished surface of the desk. I realized that unless my reluctant host was cross-eyed I was the object of his gaze and the cause of his tattooing fingers. I dropped my eyes meekly, thinking it might be pleasing, and swallowed my further indignation at being left standing.
At last Cruikshank drew up a chair and introduced me. I received a brief nod.
“Well, young woman, what is it? If you’ve come about my house, you’re wasting your time. It is not on the market, and that is final.”
I felt my heart sink, and cast an inquiring glance at the estate agent. He made no attempt to get up from his chair so I stayed put, ready to fight if the need arose. He merely put the tips of his fingers together and sucked in his breath through his teeth. He appeared to be enjoying some secret situation.
“Mrs Matheson is the wife of a distinguished Russell Street officer,” Cruikshank told Holland. “You may have heard of him.”
The old man shot the agent a startled glance. “What are you driving at, Cruikshank? Are you trying to intimidate me? You are scarcely in the position—”
“No one is in a position to intimidate the police,” Cruikshank retorted ambiguously.
Holland was silent. He looked me over frowningly. The old man seemed to be debating some point in his head. I found it a tense moment.
“Very well,” he said abruptly. “You may look over the house. But I promise nothing, you understand that?”
As the estate agent rose with me, Mr Holland added quickly: “A word with you, Cruikshank. My sister will show you through the Dower House, Mrs Matheson. Go along the passage to the east wing. You’ll find Mrs Mulqueen there. Tell her I sent you.”
IV
Dismissed as though I was a prospective housemaid he had been interviewing and then sent to the kitchen for further instructions, I wondered at the airy way in which James Holland permitted a strange female to wander unescorted through his immense home. Either he presumed that I was not the type to steal the spoons, or else his revenge would be so dire in any such instance that the punishment would more than fit the crime and therefore afford him greater gratification.
It was not to be the last time that I made a solitary journey through the Hall. Each one was to bring a stronger feeling that all was not well there. On every occasion there was some incident to support the feeling. That day it was a door ever so slightly ajar.
Someone had eased it a crack so as to peer into the passage, and then at my approach had fled, not willing to risk their surveillance being discovered by the sound of the latch going into place. It could have been one of the servants, curious as to who I was, yet timid in case I was an important visitor. But I know now that I had been watched right from the start.
I pushed the door wider and walked in. There was no one there. I paused, not knowing what to do next. I had hoped to find someone who could direct me to Mrs Mulqueen. I had been walking in an easterly direction for some time, but the lady remained elusive. I moved across the room to an inner door, and looked into a bedroom. Beyond it, through an archway, was a tiled bathroom. A tidy little suite. Then the thought struck me that this must be the east wing.
I cleared my throat loudly.
“Is there anyone in?” I called. “Mrs Mulqueen?”
There was no reply. I retreated to the passage and hesitated on the threshold. Time was passing, and I had no desire to view what might prove to be my future home in the half-dark. My abstracted gaze wandered over the sitting-room.
It was a deeply carpeted and luxurious room, fitted with many fine pieces of furniture. There was perhaps a propensity to over-decoration. Dresden figures and Lalique vases stood daintily on the dado above the countless paintings and portraits hanging at frequent intervals along the satin-striped walls.
One of these pictures caught my wandering gaze. At first glance it looked like a framed newspaper cutting. Then I realized that the picture proper was facing inwards. I went forward with what John described later as my inexcusable meddling to straighten it. The desire was far from me to start interfering where it was none of my concern, but I was curious to see why that picture was deliberately turned to face the wall.
Something flickered in the glass of a neighbouring portrait. I swung round, my arm dropping stupidly to my side, embarrassed and more than half annoyed at being caught so.
A girl of about my own age stood in the doorway. I surprised a rather speculative look before she smiled, baring an expanse of pale pink gum above her small teeth. She seemed disposed to be friendly, although she must have seen my abortive movement to the picture on the wall.
“Mrs Matheson? I am Ursula Mulqueen. Uncle James told me to find you. Mother is out, so I am to show you over the Dower House.”
My mind took in this precise little speech while my eyes were noting the dark hair wound into cylindrical curls over the shoulders and the complete lack of make-up. With these went a sweet girlish manner that was as out of date as Miss Mulqueen’s dress. It was a shade saccharine, and girlishness never did sit well on a mature figure.
“This is the east wing, isn’t it?” I asked lamely. “I couldn’t find anyone to direct me.”
Again that considering look behind the wholesome façade.
“Yes, these are Mother’s rooms. This used to be my bedroom next door until recently. Uncle James permitted me to furnish one upstairs. It’s all in vieux rose. I love pink, don’t you?”
Ursula Mulqueen tripped down the passage ahead of me.
“We can go through the conservatory door. It will be quicker. Just follow me, Mrs Matheson, and you won’t get lost again.” A playful laugh accompanied this, but I was sensitive enough to catch a certain significance in her words.
“Are you looking for some place to live, Mrs Matheson? But of course you are. What a silly question to ask! You’re lucky Uncle James is letting you visit the Dower. He doesn’t often do that. But he won’t let you have it, you know. He never does. He was keeping it for Jim. I don’t think poor Uncle James realizes yet about him. It was so sudden. Flying his plane and then crashing for no reason at all. It was terribly sad. Poor, dear Yvonne—mind the path, Mrs Matheson. Flags are pretty, aren’t they? Especially with the sweet little flowers popping up here and there between them. But they can be slippery.”
Ursula Mulqueen chatted on aimlessly as she led the way. The flagged path from the house developed presently into a narrow track which wandered in and out of thickly growing beech, poplar and oak trees. The effect of this artificial spinney was pretty, but the going was rather tedious. More than once I stumbled over a stunted growth from a gum tree which had been cut down to make way for James Holland’s arboretum.
After a lot of unnecessary meandering of the path, we came out of the wood on a slight rise.
“There!” said my guide, pointing to the house below us. It was placed well back from the road amid a thousand shrubs. “Isn’t it enchanting? Uncle James copied it from an Elizabethan cottage in England. Do say it is perfectly sweet. They all do. I wish it was mine. It might be too, if—” she broke off, and ran down the hill, blushing like the mid-Victorian maiden she aped.
The track continued alongside a hedge which served as a boundary for one side of the Dower House garden, and from thence to the road via a stile. Ursula Mulqueen waited for me on the top step.
“I love running, don’t you?” she asked breathlessly.
“Sometimes,” I replied shortly. I was in no mood to be challenged to a race to the gate of the Dower House. My companion was just as likely to offer it. I felt I was being led up the garden path both literally and metaphorically, and tried to stem the girlish prattle.
“See here, Miss Mulqueen. If what you say is correct and your uncle has no intention of selling this house, there is not much point in your wasting your time taking me over it.”
“Oh, but you must see it,” she insisted. “Uncle James doesn’t often permit people through the Dower.”
I said rather tartly: “I suppose it doesn’t matter wasting my time.”
Ursula Mulqueen widened her ingenuous stare.
“But you wouldn’t be, dear Mrs Matheson. I can assure you that everyone who has seen it has come away quite thrilled. I remember a leading city architect describing it to Mother as an architect’s dream come to life. Come along in.”
“There are such things as nightmares,” I murmured, following.
The interior of the Dower House was as pretentious and artificial as its name and my first glimpse of it had promised. All the more so because of its newness and unlived-in atmosphere. At least Holland Hall had had some years in which to lose its raw appearance. There were black beams and diamond-paned casement windows galore. The attempt at an Elizabethan aura clashed absurdly with various up-to-the-minute fittings.
I moved around the house, mentally adjusting our modern furniture within this Elizabethan solecism. I still had hopes, despite Ursula Mulqueen’s parroted opinion on the matter, that Uncle James and I would do business together.
“The garden is in remarkably good order.” I was surveying the terraced slope and row of golden poplars from the room I had visualized as John’s study.
“It is mostly my father’s work,” Ursula Mulqueen told me. “Gardening is his hobby when he is not managing the home farm for Uncle James. He and Ames are always planning new landscapes. Not that Ames gets much time either.”
“I should think that in running a big place like the Hall no one would have any free time.”
“We all have our own little jobs to do,” she replied tritely.
“What do you do?” I asked, before I could stop myself.
“I help Mother. Arrange the flowers and things like that. I am always busy.”
“Incredible!” I murmured. “I didn’t believe there was such a person left. Don’t you ever want to get out into the big world? Carve yourself a career or do something?”
“Uncle James says that the only career for a woman in our station of life is marriage,” Ursula Mulqueen stated in all seriousness.
“But how are you to achieve that sublime state if you don’t get out?”
“Uncle James arranges everything. He always does. He has remarkable executive powers. I have heard Mother say so.”
“He seems to be a remarkable man,” I said, losing interest. The girl hadn’t an original idea in her head. Every word she spoke seemed to be quoted from someone else.
I followed my guide back to the Hall, lending but half an ear to her prattle on the manifold remarkable qualities of her Uncle James.
Perhaps my slight attention was enough to absorb what Ursula Mulqueen told me that late afternoon last autumn. I was to hear and form many opinions on the character of James Holland, but Ursula’s reading of him as a romantic figure has stuck in my mind to this day. She may have been sincere when she described him as such. I cannot yet be sure. The girl was and still is a complete enigma to me.
As far as I can remember, separating the facts from the loquacious mist in which Ursula Mulqueen shrouded her remarks, it was James Holland’s own uncle who first settled in Australia. Like some of the other piratical pioneers of his time, he obtained vast areas of property for the proverbial song. These he bequeathed to his nephew and heir together with his own ruthlessness and sublime snobbery. I gathered, from certain reverent hints Ursula let drop, that the family was descended from a famous English house. It was considered an established fact that the cynical, brilliant Charles James Fox held an important place in the family tree.
James Holland’s way of life was based on the ambition to establish a class parallel to, if not the same as, the landed gentry of the home country. Hence the size of Holland Hall, out of all proportion to his needs and those who lived with him. The lodge and the crouching lions on the stone pillars flanking the gates were a typical manifestation of his ambition. Then there was the picture gallery in the house itself, containing some very bad specimens of portrait painting. I learned later that ironically enough the only picture worth looking at was a small water-colour of an Australian bush scene. There had also been some attempts to form a local hunt, but without success. The foxes which had been imported for this pastime now raided the poultry farm, much to the disgust of Ursula’s father.
Ursula’s story sounded absurd to me. Nevertheless it was quite true. James Holland had both the money and the influence with which to indulge his whims. Everything was on his side but one important factor. And that was time.
When Holland Hall was built as a pseudo-country residence, it had not been reckoned on the city spreading into such far-reaching suburbs. Bit by bit the distance between the Hall and town was being bridged by small, modern houses. Whether Mr Holland liked it or not Middleburn was just another suburb of Melbourne, in spite of its isolation and air of a country village.
So far James Holland had managed to keep Middleburn at bay. He owned acres of land on either side and opposite the Hall. By dint of turning part of these into public golf links and opening his artificial wood to the public at certain times for charitable purposes, he had managed to block the local Council’s demands that he should sell some of it. The vast open paddocks that isolated the Hall had been given over to pasture for cows (he owned the local dairy) and sheep from some of his drought-stricken properties in the north.
In Middleburn itself, he was landlord to the greater percentage of the shops and such houses as were not privately owned. Even the tradesmen bought their supplies from the home farm which was situated another mile along the road. Thus Mr Holland held a tight grip on the village and its inhabitants. He was the Squire. They were his tenants.
V
It was growing quite dark in the wood; and late, for I could feel that bite in the air which came as soon as the sun touched the horizon. Through the trees I caught a glimpse now and then of the white tower of the Hall. A splendid view of the whole countryside could be obtained from it, as I discovered later. It was an ideal position from which to follow a person’s movements around the estate.
The tower room suddenly flashed into light and was as abruptly darkened, as though someone had pressed the switch and then realized that they could be seen through the swiftly falling dusk for miles around.
I poked Ursula Mulqueen in the back.
“Did you see the light in the tower? Look! There it is again.”
“How extraordinary!” exclaimed my companion. “It makes the tower look like a lighthouse; as if it was signalling.”
I cast a sharp glance in Ursula’s direction, but her face was now only a white blur in the gloom. She had taken the words right out of my mouth.
Ursula went on a shade too quickly: “Are you going back to town by train? I’ll look up the timetable for you when we get in.”
Keeping one eye on the tower for any repetition of the signalling, I picked my way carefully along the flagged walk to the conservatory.
We entered the front hall from behind the stairs just as a woman dressed in trailing black lace was descending. She paused, leaning over the bannister.
“Is that you, Ursie? Where have you been? I have been looking all over the house for you.”
The voice was fond, playful, but I did not like it. There was an underlying tone of peevishness.
Ursula went to the foot of the stairs. “Uncle James asked me to take Mrs Matheson over to the Dower House. I’m afraid poor Mrs Matheson has fallen in love with it. I feel so sorry for her. Did you want me for something, Mother?”
Mrs Mulqueen turned her smile in my direction. It was not reflected in her wide, bland eyes. I received a gracious nod which made me feel like the prospective housemaid once more.
“I’ll take care of Mrs Matheson, dear. Run up and have your bath. I’ve laid out the white frock. I’ll be up later to tie your sash nicely. The Quirks are dining, you know. And dear—”
“Yes, Mother?”
“Don’t run off like that again, without telling me where you are going. I was quite worried.”
Ursula paused on the same step as her mother. Watching them from the foot of the stairs, I glimpsed a certain challenge in her stance.
She said quietly: “I couldn’t find you, Mother.”
They stared at each other for a moment. Mrs Mulqueen turned aside, laughing gently.
“These young girls, Mrs Matheson,” she said, throwing out her hands, “so independent! Come with me.” She drew me along the hall. “So you liked the Dower. Enchanting place, isn’t it? Quite a treat to see a house built in such good taste.” She patted my arm. “You shouldn’t have become so excited. I tell James he is quite cruel letting you young girls through it. But it really is frightfully amusing seeing you get thrilled with it and then James refusing to sell. You should hear James tell stories of the tearful interviews he has had. He has such a sense of humour.”
“The same sense of fun boys have when they pull flies’ wings off,” I agreed, pausing with her outside the door of James Holland’s study.
“Oh dear!” Mrs Mulqueen said. “I forgot Yvonne was with James. We will have to wait. It would never do to interrupt. Sit down, Mrs Matheson.”
I did so, but Mrs Mulqueen stood as near to the study door as she could.
“Tell me all about yourself,” she requested without interest. Voices rose and fell in the study. I could hear Yvonne Holland sobbing.
“I do wish dear Yvonne would learn to control herself. We Hollands know how to disguise our emotions. Lack of control is so ill-bred, don’t you think so, Mrs Matheson? But of course poor Yvonne hasn’t had a chance. Good breeding is innate, I always say.”
I stood up.
“What are you going to do?” Mrs Mulqueen asked sharply.
“Nothing,” I replied, and sat down again. “Couldn’t you stop your brother bullying that young girl?”
“You mustn’t worry about Yvonne. She just doesn’t understand James. She has no idea how to handle him. Not like Ursie, now. So sweet and pliable. James just dotes on my little girl.”
I sat helpless. Bits of incoherent conversation escaped. But only one sentence came clearly through the study door. Yvonne—on a high, hysterical note—sobbed out: “You child-murderer! I could kill you for it!”
There were some short ugly sounds and the sobbing terminated abruptly. I got up quickly. Mrs Mulqueen put her hand on my arm. When she smiled there was a sudden striking resemblance to her brother. The door of the study opened and Yvonne Holland rushed out, one hand across her face.
James Holland stood in the middle of the room. The heavy crimson hangings were drawn across the windows. A standard lamp was all that lighted the room.
“Come in, Mrs Matheson,” he said, and went back to his desk. “Sit down. You need not stay, Elizabeth.”
Mrs Mulqueen glanced along the hall before entering.
“James, why don’t you send her away? She doesn’t belong here. She never will be a Holland. Let her go.”
Holland picked up a letter from his desk and scanned it without expression. “She was my son’s wife. Her child is a Holland. One day he will take my place here. Yvonne has responsibilities. She must be taught to realize them.” He put the letter down and looked at me. “You saw the Dower and like it, Mrs Matheson?”
“I think your house would be most suitable for us. I suppose you wouldn’t consider—”
Mrs Mulqueen broke in with her soft laugh. It was an artificial sound, like an amateur on the stage. A series of descending “ha-has.”
“I warned you not to become fond of the Dower,” she said, wagging one finger at me. “My brother has no intention of selling it, have you, James?”
Holland spoke slowly without taking his eyes from the letter on his desk. “I’ll let the Dower House to you, Mrs Matheson.”
“Our idea is to buy a house, not to rent one,” I said, and got to my feet.
Holland surveyed me with surprise. “You refuse my offer?”
“I do,” I replied boldly. “Relations between landlord and tenant are always insecure. I wouldn’t trust you, Mr Holland.”
Mrs Mulqueen gasped.
“Well, really!” she began. Holland silenced her.
“You are a very forthright young woman,” he observed. “Suppose I offer you an option of buying the Dower in—shall we say—six months’ time?”
“James,” Elizabeth Mulqueen said in a plaintive voice. He glanced at her, an ironic gleam in his eye.
“You wouldn’t like to have the police for neighbours, Elizabeth? Or were you expecting me to give the Dower to you?”
“It is your house, James,” Mrs Mulqueen answered brightly.
“I accept your offer,” I said, adding with caution, “providing you put it in writing.”
He scribbled on a sheet of paper and pushed it across the desk. “My solicitors’ address. Your husband may contact them. Braithwaite will arrange the details of our agreement. Good night, Mrs Matheson.”
A thought occurred to me. “Mr Cruikshank. Will I let him know of your decision?”
There was a slight pause.
“You need not concern yourself with Cruikshank,” Holland said shortly. “Elizabeth, show Mrs Matheson out.”
Although he did not get up from his desk I felt moved to say: “Thank you for your generosity, Mr Holland. You cannot know what this means to us. Good night.”
I did not know then about the estate agent, Arthur Cruikshank. Even if I had, I doubt whether I would have cared.
I had found a house.