House of Malice

TWO

Mandy smiled even more widely when she saw the name ‘Summer Cottage’ on the carved wooden plaque on the gate. This is really happening, she thought to herself.

Beyond the gate, a stone path wound its way between rose gardens on one side and a clipped lawn on the other, all the way up to the front steps of the house. Despite its diminutive-sounding name, it was quite a large, sprawling property: the only true, traditionally cottagey features it possessed were the thatched roof and the smallness of the leaded windows, many of which were charmingly surrounded with creeping ivy. Mandy couldn’t wait to get inside and revisit the rambling interior.

She knew the place’s history well. Built around 1682 and extensively restored from a near-ruin in modern times by its former owner, it was in stunning condition. What fortunes must have been lavished on it, she wondered for the hundredth time. And how simply incredible that she’d been able to afford the asking price, swapping a completely unremarkable one-bedroomed apartment in a featureless, increasingly run-down and crime-ridden suburb of London for this! The divorce settlement from James had conveniently paid off the mortgage on the apartment just in time; at which point six years of deeply unhappy marriage, and the betrayal of his infidelity, had suddenly paid off by turning her into a woman of property and very soon afterwards the owner of what had to be one of England’s most desirable period homes. Especially for her. The connection with the author Ellen Grace was an added bonus that Mandy was certain meant more to her than any other prospective buyer.

No, she definitely couldn’t believe her luck.

She took out the ring of old-fashioned keys Gideon Flowers had given her, and offered one of the largest pair of them up to the front door lock, a massive black iron affair cast in the shape of a lion’s head and held to the ancient oak door with flat-head rivets.

The lock turned. The heavy door swung open without a creak. Jittery with excitement, Mandy stepped through into the large entrance hall. Her footsteps rang off the stone floor tiles. The hall was empty apart from an antique dial telephone nestling in an alcove by the window. Buster trotted along in her wake, looking happy, even proud, as if he fully understood the importance of the moment.

The first thing Mandy noticed after she’d got her breath back was the bouquet of white roses that had been left for her, sitting in a pretty vase on the floor in a corner of the entrance hall. Going over to admire them, she saw there was a label attached to the neck of the vase, on which a note had been written. It was from Sarah, Ellen Grace’s daughter and only child, from whom Mandy had bought the place.

Mandy smiled sadly. The way people talked about Ellen Grace, even her own daughter, it was as if she was dead instead of…

Her thoughts were interrupted by the shrill and sudden jangling of the telephone in the hallway. She jumped at the sound, wondered who on earth could be calling — then remembered that she’d already given the number out to a few select people. She picked up the heavy receiver, but instead of a caller’s voice there was a tone alerting her of a new message. It might be Chester Durham, her London-based literary agent, calling with news about the new book deal he was in the middle of brokering with her publishers. Not quite sure the old phone could handle such modern sophistication, she dialled 1-5-7-1 to find out.

The phone worked, but the message wasn’t from Chester. Mandy sighed as she heard the familiar, pointed tone of voice.

‘This is your mother. Remember me? I’ve been trying to call you all morning. I take it that you just don’t want to pick up. I know you think it’s wonderful and all that that you’ve got the place you wanted. And you know I only want you to be happy. But I still think it’s a folly, dear. A complete and absolute folly. I mean, what if it turns out you’ve been sold it on false pretences? This Grace woman might suddenly turn up, you know. There was never any proof that she was dead. Probably just gone wandering off — she was a writer, after all, and everybody knows they’re all stark staring mad. Not you, darling. Not yet, anyway. I know you’ve done not too badly out of it. Though I wish you’d get yourself a proper—’

Mandy had heard enough. She deleted the message without listening to the rest of it and put down the receiver with a satisfied smile. ‘Bye, Mother.’ If only it were that easy to shut her up when you were face to face.

She turned to Buster, who was sitting in the middle of the hall watching her intently. ‘Time for the grand tour,’ she said.

The dog padded in Mandy’s wake around the empty living room, where she paused to gaze lovingly at the carved oak fireplace; then into the large slate-floored country kitchen with its deep, square Belfast sink, fitted reproduction-antique cupboards and worktops and a door leading out to the back garden. But when she left the kitchen and turned left into the winding passage to explore the rest of the ground floor, he began to whine and seemed not to want to accompany her.

‘What is it?’ she asked him. ‘Don’t you want to see the rest of your new home?’ Then, noticing the way he seemed to want to hang about the kitchen, she realised what was up. ‘I get it. You’re thirsty, aren’t you? Hold on, I’ll get you some water.’ She trotted out to the car and brought in the plastic bag in which she’d packed a selection of doggy essentials, among them his water dish. She filled it from the tap in the kitchen and laid it down on the slate for him to slurp at. Leaving him to his devices, she shut the kitchen door and went on exploring the house.

It was even more wonderful than she remembered, with beamed passageways and twisting corridors leading here and there to studded oak doors and beautiful little rooms, each with its own unique and delightful period features. When she’d finished admiring the ground floor she ran up the wooden staircase to check out the upstairs. Of the cottage’s three bedrooms, the one she’d already chosen for herself was an airy, secluded space at the end of a long, narrow passage. Mandy was certain that the bedroom, with its own tiny ensuite bathroom and a splendid view across the wildflower meadow to the rear of the cottage, had been Ellen Grace’s choice before her. The passage leading to it was dark and windowless, lit only by a series of quaint old-fashioned wall lamps designed like lanterns, each with its own clunky Bakelite switch. It was a joy to walk up the passage, clicking lights on as you went, then swinging open the heavy arched door into the brilliant sunlit space of the bedroom. Mandy’s heart thrilled at the idea that this was her very own.

Returning down the winding staircase, she found herself unable to resist the urge to go back into the room that was to be her writing study. The view from its twin windows was as beautiful as that from the bedroom: across the wavy fields, a line of beech trees were just beginning to turn golden.

This is it, she said to herself. I’m here. I’ve arrived. This place will be good for me.

And now it was time to begin the task of getting herself organised before the furniture arrived tomorrow. Running back out to the car, she fetched her travel bag, dumped it in the hallway and unzipped it. Inside was her first-night survival gear: basic foodstuff, her rolled up sleeping bag and inflatable pillow, pyjamas, toilet bag and other assorted items.

She’d also packed something completely non-essential but which she’d wanted to be the very first object to decorate her new home. It was the framed August 2002 Starstuck magazine cover, featuring a photo of Ellen Grace outside Summer Cottage, that had hung above Mandy’s writing desk in London; now it would take pride of place in her writing room here, having come back full circle to where the picture had been taken. It showed the famous author, with her trademark platinum-blond curls, beaming smile and the beautiful Victorian cameo pendant she always wore, posing in front of the cottage’s entrance shortly after the refurbishment work on the building had been completed. Around that time, Ellen had started work on her novel, One Night in December.

Mandy carried the picture through to the writing study like a holy relic. There was a hook on the wall that was perfectly positioned to hang it between the twin windows overlooking the meadow, almost as if it had been put there on purpose.

She hung the picture up and stood back, shaking her head in wonder. ‘This is weird,’ she breathed aloud. Gazing at it, she could almost sense the presence of Ellen Grace in the house. It was so real, it was virtually tangible.

Her mother’s words came back to her. She might just turn up, you know. There was never any proof that she was dead.

And Mandy wondered for a moment. Just for a moment. Might Ellen Grace ever return?