Barbara Erskine - Distant Voices

‘David, darling –’ The voice was clear and high. Excited. There was a rustle of skirts, the quick patter of feet and then suddenly – horribly – a high-pitched scream.

Jan froze, her hand still clenched on the door-frame behind her back. She could hear it. The sound of a body falling, but there was nothing there. Nothing at all. The dust was untouched on the steps save for the scuff marks where her own shoes had been.

Whirling, she stared behind her at the door. Beyond it there was total silence. Her heart was hammering so loudly in her ears she felt sure it must echo all round the house as she pulled the door-handle and swung the door open. The dining room was empty. There was no table. No scent of tobacco. The room smelled merely of damp.

Only when she was sitting at last in her car peering back at the house did she start to breathe again. She flung her bag onto the passenger seat beside her and slammed down the door lock, then she sat for a moment, her forehead resting against the rim of the steering wheel. She was shaking all over.

David Seymour had poured her a cup of coffee himself, from hands which were considerably less shaky than hers, despite his ninety-four years. ‘You’ve just come from The Laurels now?’ He stood looking down at her, his expression curiously neutral. ‘My dear Miss Haydon, I am so sorry you should have been so frightened. There is no one there, I can assure you. My grandson keeps an eye on the place for me. He went over there only a couple of days ago.’

‘I shouldn’t have come straight to you like this.’ The black coffee was taking effect. This was an old man and his memories of the house must be bad enough without her adding to them with wild stories about ghosts!

He shook his head, sitting down opposite her. ‘I’m glad you did. Who else would you go to?’ He reached for the phone from the table beside him. ‘I’m calling my grandson now. He can go over there straightaway to check that there are no intruders.’ His voice was strong and alert, like the rest of him, Jan thought, as she leaned back against the cushions and sipped her coffee gratefully.

She realised he was watching her intently as he replaced the receiver. ‘Simon is coming over here first.’ He reached for his own cup. He paused. ‘You are irrevocably set upon writing my wife’s biography?’

Jan frowned. ‘There are a great many people who would love to read it. She was a very great painter. She’s been a heroine of mine for as long as I can remember.’

‘And that is a reason for raking over her bones?’

The sharpness of the words brought Jan up with a shock.

‘I’m sorry. I understood you had no objection to the book.’

‘Would it matter if I had?’ His gaze was suddenly piercing.

‘Well …’ She hesitated.

‘No. Of course it wouldn’t. In fact my opposition would whet your appetite. It would make you curious. You would want to know what the old buzzard was hiding!’ He glared at her.

She smiled shame-facedly. ‘I expect it would, if I’m honest.’

He nodded, seemingly satisfied with her answer. ‘Good. You’ll do. Now, do you believe that I murdered her?’ The directness of the question was shocking.

‘I – no – of course not.’ She was embarrassed.

‘There is no of course not about it, my dear. You must search the evidence. You must be a thorough and honest investigator.’

‘But they never charged you.’

‘No.’

‘You loved her.’

The old face softened. ‘Indeed I did. I worshipped her.’

‘And she didn’t have an affair –’

‘Didn’t she?’ He seemed suddenly to be looking inside himself, searching for pictures which had long ago grown fuzzy and out of focus. ‘She was a vibrant, sociable, lovely person and she was lonely. I had been away so long. It was the war.’

Jan bit her lip. ‘Then the article in the American paper was true?’ It had appeared only a few months ago, reviving old memories, claiming that the baby Stella had been expecting was the result of an affair.

‘I did not say that.’ She could see his pain. ‘I didn’t know if I could father more children; I had been wounded. But the American had long gone and Stella was above all honest. She said he had meant nothing and I believed her. I did not know he had taken so many of her pictures away …’

‘Surely the pictures didn’t mean anything.’ Obscurely she felt she had to comfort him. ‘He could have been going to sell them or exhibit them for her –’

‘Perhaps.’ He sighed. ‘The fall was an accident. A catastrophic, disastrous, tragic accident. She would not have killed herself. I’m sure she wouldn’t. And yet how can I be sure? And how will I ever know about the child?’ He took a deep breath and looked up at her again, suddenly almost pleading. ‘You will make your own mind up as to the truth of all this, and I think you will make the right decision.’

Was he asking her to decide? To find out the truth for him? Jan bit her lip as the old man sighed again, a bone-weary sound which tore at her heartstrings.

‘In a way I’m glad all this has happened,’ he went on after a moment. ‘Simon has been trying to make me face the rumours and think about that house for years. It’s an albatross; a Pandora’s box. If there are people squatting there, which I doubt, then it’s time to let it go. I hope Simon will get married, then he could live there, but it’s too big for one person alone.’ There was another short silence. ‘Stella wouldn’t have liked squatters. She loved that house, you know. All her best painting was done there.’ He levered himself to his feet. ‘Did you see her studio?’

Jan shook her head. ‘I’m afraid I left rather quickly.’

The old man grinned. ‘Ran away, did you? Can’t blame you. I’ve always thought the house was rather spooky, myself, but Stella always filled it with people. There was never any silence. Only when she was painting, or when she said she was painting …’ He turned away sharply. For a moment Jan wondered if he were sobbing silently. She could see the movement of his shoulders and she ached to comfort him. But as she watched he straightened himself and with a visible effort he turned and went over to the window.

Jan too had heard the car draw up outside. She waited, watching, as David Seymour turned to face the door.

Simon’s first words were to the point. ‘If you have been upsetting Grandfather –’

‘No, Simon!’ The old man’s interruption was peremptory. ‘She has been doing nothing of the kind. I gave the girl permission to go to The Laurels. And I want her to write Stella’s story. It’s all so long ago now. No one is going to be hurt …’

Simon swung round. ‘But Grandfather –’

‘Enough.’ David threw himself back on the chair with a groan. ‘I want you to tell her everything she wants to know. And go with her to check out the house.’ He gave a short laugh which after a moment changed into a cough. ‘She thinks someone is squatting there. She heard people in the dining room.’

They went in Simon’s car. Jan had followed him out of the house reluctantly, sensing his hostility. ‘I’m sorry to inflict this on you,’ she said as she slotted her seatbelt into place. ‘I’m sure you have better things to do than chase out to the country at a moment’s notice.’