Mrs Morningwood began to smile for real, shaking her head.
‘Imagine the scene an hour or so later when Monty and his ward are strolling around the tower, perhaps planning to take in the famous dovecote, and Jane says, “Why’s that stone sticking out, Uncle Monty?” and Monty gets down on his hands and knees, the stone pops out and so does … a very old and grimy whistle.’
‘Oh … cool.’
‘Nothing engraved on it, of course, but you can imagine the look on Monty’s face. Perhaps, after the initial shock, he has an inkling that he’s been set up, but he’s very fond of Jane, realizes all the trouble the girl’s taken over this, and goes along with it.’
‘Did he blow it?’
‘My mother, watching from behind a gravestone, reported it as follows: Better not blow it, Monty says. Who knows what might happen? And young Jane’s hopping up and down. Oh do blow it, Uncle Monty! Do! But Monty pockets the whistle, saying, Perhaps I’ll blow it later. Let’s continue with our exploration.’
‘And did he?’
‘Well my mother, despite having no idea what any of this was about, never having read the story, was fascinated to find out. And so she followed them, through the churchyard, along the footpaths, and all the time Jane McBryde’s pulling Monty’s arm and saying, When are you going to blow it? Please blow it now!’
‘My mother remembers Monty stopping at the top of a rise which is very well known to me, and he takes out the whistle. Should I? Gives it a good wipe with his handkerchief, puts it in his mouth, puffs out his cheeks … nothing happens. Takes it out of his mouth, bangs it on a stone to get the dried mud out of the hole at the end. Back in the mouth, young Jane jumping up and down, nothing happens at first and then … peeeeep!’
‘You’re like … not making this up, are you?’ Jane said, changing smoothly down through the gears.
‘I’m telling it to you exactly as it was told to me by my late mother. Monty blows the whistle once, pops it back in his pocket. Couple of minutes later a gust of wind comes in – probably from the White Rocks – and down comes the rain.’
‘You’re kidding …’
‘My personal theory is that Monty knew there was a good chance of a change in the weather and wanted to wait until it was imminent to blow the whistle – to turn the tables on Jane. However, it rains harder and harder, and they run to some trees. But, with the wind, the trees are offering precious little in the way of shelter, and Jane’s dress is getting soaked and Monty’s rather concerned now that she’ll catch cold. Her poor father, of course, having died very young. Possibly the last of his drawings being, in fact, the “Whistle” ghost with its intensely horrible face of crumpled linen.’
Jane stayed in second gear for the descent, the road like a tunnel through the trees. It wasn’t raining, but it was dark enough to put on the headlights, dipped.
‘Monty’s perhaps very concerned now that his own joke is going to backfire and Jane will catch pneumonia – usually fatal, remember, in those days, before antibiotics. And then, through the trees, he spots a house … grabs Jane by the hand and they go dashing down. Monty’s banging on the front door, shouting, “Hullo! Hullo!” but no answer. My mother follows them to the edge of the yard. She sees Monty turn the handle … and the door opens. My mother’s hand goes to her mouth because … well, because she knows what’s in there.’
‘What?’
‘The force of the wind … slams the door wide, exposing a dim room, with the curtains drawn across the small, high window. Monty calls out, the rain thrashing down behind them. No answer. A small lamp is burning. He sees a long trestle table with a sheet covering something, just as a sudden gust of wind from outside blows the sheet away. And there, awaiting its coffin, lies the corpse of Naomi Newton, above which the white sheet is dancing in the wind before collapsing to the floor in a twitching sort of heap.’
‘Oh my God,’ Jane said. ‘Newton. The Master House?’
So caught up in the story that she’d driven up one side of the treacherous Dorstone Hill and down the other, round a seriously nasty left-hand band and into the broad sweep of the Golden Valley, where the oddly graceful fibreglass steeple of Peterchurch church was embossed on the low cloud mass like some downmarket Salisbury Cathedral.
‘A year later,’ Mrs Morningwood was saying, ‘M. R. James returned alone to Garway and got into conversation with my grandmother, who had her own reasons to be fearful of the Master House. He was a touch embarrassed. As if my own imagination was punishing me, he said. Perhaps I’m haunted by my own ghastly creations.’
‘Right. Wow.’
Jane drove on, in silence, still not sure whether or not Mrs Morningwood had made the whole thing up.
But remembering something.
Before they’d left, taking the spare car keys from the rack in the key cupboard at the end of the hall, she’d noticed something missing. The outsize key to the Master House had been hung on the rack by Mum, who was probably fed up with the weight of it and the memories it evoked every time she opened the bag.
The fact that the key was no longer there could mean one of two things – that Mum had put it back into her bag in case she had to go there at short notice. Or …
56
Bevvie
WHAT WAS MOST unexpected was the aggression.
‘Oh, let’s not waste time,’ Beverley said. ‘All that false bonhomie. All this, “Let’s help old Teddy out of his fix.” You’re not a bonhomie sort of person, are you, Merrily?’
Under the halogen lights in the stainless steel kitchen. Beverley’s hair down around her shoulders. A Chardonnay bottle half full on the chopping board, with two glasses, Beverley rapidly draining one, a different woman.
One who wanted to talk. Had maybe wanted to talk for a long time, to somebody. Building up to this, flushed and brimming now.
Oh God, how you could miss the signs …
‘As if you didn’t know, Merrily, exactly why you couldn’t do that service.’
The dusk was dropping like a roller blind. Merrily had gone into The Ridge on her own, leaving Lol in the truck with her phone, in case Jane or somebody rang.
‘Well, I think,’ she said, ‘that he could’ve told me about it.’
‘Told you about it? He doesn’t even tell me about it. Lodge nights, out comes the black case. Off to the Boys’ Club, Bevvie, don’t wait up. Like an old-time gangster with a violin case. Never yet seen the inside of that little black case.’
‘That seems to be the way it goes,’ Merrily said. ‘Except on Ladies’ Evenings, of course.’
‘Never been to one. I’m going to sit there with a bunch of old biddies dripping jewellery, smiling fondly at my husband and listening to endless self-congratulatory speeches? All rise for the provincial grand almighty … whatever.’
‘Yes, that could be very trying.’
‘My first husband played golf. A golf bore. Golf Club social events. Merrily, is it something about me? Safe, practical, reliable … and, above all, blatantly incurious.’
Merrily said nothing. Beverley poured more wine. Merrily left hers alone, wondering how best to play this, remembering something.