Joss Stirling - The Silence

‘Then start at the beginning. Tell us what your relationship with her was like.’

‘I wouldn’t say we had a relationship.’ He gave it the double meaning that the inspector hadn’t, mainly to stall while he considered the lawyer question some more.

‘Help us to see what went on in Gallant House, Jonah. At the moment, I have to say, things aren’t looking that good for you. We’ve got your call, there’ll be forensics, so dodging these questions is not going to help.’

‘I’m not sure anything is going to help.’ Jonah said this under his breath.

‘Sorry, I didn’t catch that.’

He gave the inspector a bleak smile. ‘Nothing. I’m just really tired. Not thinking straight. Gallant House? That all goes back to Bridget.’

Bridget Whittingham was exactly as Kris had described when he rang Jenny to say that he’d fixed up the interview. Tall, thin, with fine-boned neck, wrists and ankles, Bridget moved like the dancer she had once been, her arm unconsciously leading her as she swept from room to room. Her auburn hair – Jenny assumed this was dyed – twisted into a soft peak on top of her head like a Mr Whippy cone. Not that Bridget looked the sort to buy that kind from street vans with blaring tunes. Jenny imagined Bridget’s ice cream came from hushed artisan shops that made flavours that included elderflowers or Madagascan vanilla pods.

‘And this is the drawing room.’ Bridget opened the door onto a high-ceilinged chamber. The walls were covered in an astounding plum flock wallpaper patterned with stylised peonies tumbling from urns. It was only saved from being overpowering by the white panelling that reached waist height. Chairs and sofas with well-turned wooden arms competed for attention in dusky pink upholstery like Victorian children come down from the nursery for their daily parental inspection. Family portraits hung in heavy gold frames; those pictured looked either faintly amused or terribly bored to be gazing down on a room that appeared not to have changed for a century. It was like walking into Schmann’s Symphony No. 1, thought Jenny. She’d played it recently with its nineteenth century lush inner tensions somehow resolving into harmony.

‘It’s still as Admiral Jack intended – the first owner. I redid it on my marriage to freshen it up and I have to say it’s held its colours quite well. North-facing – I suppose that accounts for it.’ Bridget’s tone was very BBC Radio Three, gently refined and pitched low for a woman, fit for commentating on the Proms. She would’ve been shocked by Jenny’s Estuary English if they’d met before Jenny lost her voice.

Jenny didn’t know if she should be appalled or impressed by the room. She was certain she would be too afraid to use it in case she damaged one of the vases on the side tables. Where were the ropes and reverential guide steering a party past a glimpse of historical old England?

‘Of course, we don’t use this much – just high days and holidays.’ Bridget adjusted a blind. With a tilt of her head catching the light just so, Jenny was suddenly aware of the skull beneath the skin, the high cheeks, eye sockets. She disliked these moments when her brain went x-ray on her. Bones, we’re just a collection of fragile bones. ‘We prefer to gather in the snug,’ continued Bridget.

Jenny shook off the disturbing vision. She was quickly learning that posh people had a different language. Drawing room, she’d met before in nineteenth century literature but snug was a new one. She decided to wait to see what it meant rather than show ignorance.

Bridget took her towards the back of the house through a generous hallway tiled in geometric patterns and into a room half the size of the first. This one looked out on the garden; south-facing French windows were partly shaded by a vine that clambered over the wrought iron balcony. New leaves were just unfurling.

‘That’s a Black Hamburg vine, sister plant to the famous one at Hampton Court, or so my husband claimed.’ Bridget opened a window to let in the sound of birdsong. ‘How anyone would know is beyond me as I’ve not found anything about it in the family archive but it does bear some passable black grapes in good years.’ Seeing Jenny approach, she added swiftly. ‘Don’t go out on the balcony, please, dear: I can’t swear to the soundness of the structure. The wretched thing is listed but far too expensive to repair. I’m afraid I’ll just have to let it moulder elegantly until it rusts entirely to nothing.’ Her gesture indicated the intricate wrought iron structure that ran across the back of the house. ‘It’s debatable if it’s the vine keeping it up or the other way around.’

Jenny smiled politely as if she understood the headaches in keeping a listed house going. Bridget was quite something, like a dinosaur left over from an earlier age found unexpectedly still roaming the earth.

‘You see that it’s much more comfortable in here compared to the drawing room.’ Bridget patted the top of the old television set. It looked like an antique rather than something capable of streaming Netflix. ‘The sofas I admit are a bit lumpy but I hate to throw anything out.’

The grey couches with winged armrests did indeed look like warty Indian elephants reclining on sisal matting. Bridget had attempted to liven them up with ruby red scatter cushions but they still looked a little sad, their best circus days over. The walls too had once been white but now had faded to a buttercream colour.

‘There’s nothing that you need worry about harming in here,’ said Bridget. ‘You can put your feet up on the sofa and no one will tell you off. That’s why it’s called the snug: it’s the place you come to feel comfortable. Now let’s go into the kitchen. I’ll make us some tea and you can tell me about yourself.’ She led the way past a console table with its black Bakelite telephone. It looked like it was expecting to receive a call from an earl or a duke, certainly not some telephone marketer sitting in Swansea or Bangalore. Jenny had to hope Bridget bent enough to the modern world to have a mobile as she didn’t do calls, only messages.

Bridget put a kettle on the hot plate of the Aga. The kitchen was surprisingly rustic for London: a long dresser displaying willow pattern china and lace-edged creamwear plates; scrubbed oak table; blue and white Delft tiles. Jenny had been awed by the drawing room, not sure about the snug, but the kitchen was a case of love at first sight. She could be very happy here, its neatness keeping the chaos of life at bay. She waved to the room and gave Bridget a broad smile.

‘I know what you mean, dear: this is the heart of the house. Now, tell me about yourself. Kris said you’re a violinist with the London Philharmonic, is that right? And he also said you don’t talk?’

Jenny nodded to both questions.

‘Is that can’t or won’t?’

People rarely asked her that. Jenny pointed to her throat. There was a white scar across her larynx that should answer for her.

‘What, no sound at all?’

Jenny shook her head. Long ago, when she was recovering, they’d tried to make her talk. All that had come out were ugly grunts and Jenny had freaked out; she’d felt like her voice had been eaten by a monster. She’d felt safer with silence.

‘You poor dear. An accident, was it?’

Jenny shook her head.

‘Illness then. I’m sorry. Does it still pain you?’

Jenny nodded. She let Bridget keep her assumption that illness had taken her voice; it was easier than the full explanation. That particular horror was better left locked away, her ugly Jack-in-the-box.

‘How terrible for you. You’re getting good treatment, I hope?’