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Distant Voices

The lock was stiff and the door swollen. It was several seconds before Jan could force it open and peer at last from the bright sunlight of the porch into the darkness of the house.

As she had climbed out of the car, which was parked on the overgrown gravel of the drive, and looked up at the grey stone façade, she had felt a strange nervousness.

‘Go and have a look round, my dear. Take as long as you like.’ David Seymour had pressed the large iron key into her hand the day before, when she had met him for the first time. ‘I want you to get a feel of how it was.’ He smiled at her, his gentle face dissolving into a network of deep wrinkles, contradicting his initial wariness. ‘Then we’ll talk. Later.’

His grandson, Simon, had been with him. ‘Simon’s an architect. Clever chap.’ The old man had introduced him fondly. The young man was tall and fair with his grandfather’s piercing eyes. Where the older man had the look of a buzzard, hunched, predatory, the younger version was an eagle, right down to the aquiline nose. He had held out his hand to Jan, but his appraisal of her was anything but friendly. Clever he may be, she decided instantly, but also hostile, defensive, and summoned, she suspected, to guard his grandfather’s privacy.

Of all the people there on that fatal night fifty years ago, David Seymour had been the hardest to approach. And without him she would get nowhere. He had been, after all, the husband.

She had looked forward so much to this part of her research. Interviewing the people concerned; comparing their memories; putting the pieces of the jigsaw together. But it was harder than she had imagined. Some of the people there had suppressed what had happened for over fifty years. The memories were painful, even after so long. To have an inquisitive journalist raking over the past was the last thing many of them wanted.

She took a step into the darkness of the house and paused. It smelled damp and musty. The floors were dusty and cobwebs hung festooned across the landing window. She peered along the corridor towards the staircase which swept uncarpeted up towards the light and then round and out of sight.

That must have been where she fell.

Behind her the door creaked. A wind was getting up. She could hear the rustling of the leaves on the oaks which grew on either side of the long driveway and she shivered, half wishing now that she had brought someone with her. ‘This is silly.’ The sound of her voice in the intense silence was an intrusion, but a necessary one. She reached into her soft leather shoulder bag and brought out her micro cassette recorder.

‘Monday the fourth,’ she said firmly, holding the machine close to her mouth. ‘I have just arrived at The Laurels. I am standing in the front hall. The house is empty and has obviously been closed for a long time. No one lives here now and there is, as far as I can see, no furniture or anything here.’

She moved to a door on her left and put her hand out to push it open. The room inside was empty; pale light filtered through round the edges of the shutters, diffused green by the ivy which clung to the outside wall. The parquet floor was scuffed and criss-crossed with old, long-dried muddy footprints.

‘This must have been the drawing room. It’s large. Beautiful. Ceiling mouldings; candelabra, lovely carved mantelpiece,’ she murmured into the machine in her hand. She sounded, she thought with sudden wry amusement, like a house agent preparing particulars for the sale of an especially desirable property.

The silence was intense. She turned off her little machine and walked slowly around the room, trying to feel the atmosphere. Had they all been in here, talking, drinking, smoking, when it had happened? Dinner was over, they were all agreed on that. And the ladies had withdrawn. But what had happened after that? John Milton said they had all gathered in the drawing room and that someone had agreed to sing. Sarah Courtney said the men were sitting over their port whilst the ladies were still upstairs, powdering their noses. Stella had finished and had gone on down alone …

Walking back to the foot of the stairs, Jan peered up. ‘The staircase is shallow, graceful, curved elegantly around the wall,’ she murmured into her machine. The banister, polished and smooth, was almost warm beneath the light touch of her fingers. ‘Stella Seymour’s body was found crumpled at the bottom by the other guests who ran from the dining room, and presumably from the bedroom, when they heard her scream. At the time her death was widely thought to be suicide. It was only four years later, after the war had ended, at the instigation of the man who claimed to have been her lover, that the first accusation of murder was heard.’

Slowly Jan began to climb. Half-way up she stopped suddenly. She could hear something. The intense silence of the house had gone and instead, she realised, she could hear a gentle murmur of conversation coming from somewhere quite near her. She was almost at the bend in the staircase. Frozen with embarrassment she looked up and then back. David Seymour had promised her the house was empty. She could feel her heart beating fast. This was ridiculous. She had permission to be here.

Squatters? Was that it? Could there be squatters in the house? Uncertain what to do, she clutched her tape recorder more tightly as she tiptoed on up the stairs and peered along the upper landing. Several doors stood open up there; all the rooms were empty of furniture.

The sound of voices was louder now. She could hear the occasional chink of glass, of cutlery on china. It sounded as if a dinner party were in progress. Flattening herself against the wall she squinted back down the stairs where she could just see the door opposite the drawing room. It was closed. Why hadn’t she looked in there? Had she not noticed it in her anxiety to see the staircase? Whatever the reason, she thanked God she had not gone barging in, for that seemed to be where the noise was coming from. Get out. That was what she must do. Get out now, without anyone seeing her.

Taking a deep breath she crept back down the stairs, intensely aware that this was where Stella Seymour had died.

The sounds were quieter again now that she was nearly down. Gradually the hall fell silent. The front door was still ajar as she had left it. She could see the wedge of sunlight thrown across the dusty floor. How strange that the noises had been louder from upstairs.

She stopped. She could smell cigars. Then, quite near her, she heard a man laugh. Spinning round, she faced the sound. There was no one to be seen. Her mouth dry, she switched off her tape recorder. Pushing it into her shoulder bag, she tiptoed towards the dining room door, holding her breath as she edged closer. She could see now that it was not quite shut. Cautiously she moved forward. She could hear the voices again. And subdued laughter. Smell the tobacco. There was a sudden crescendo in the noise and a shout of laughter as she brought her eye to the crack in the door.

They were sitting around an oblong table – some dozen people – no, she saw suddenly, just men, all at one end of the table. The air was wreathed in smoke. They were all wearing dinner jackets.

A sudden sound behind her brought her upright swiftly, her heart pounding. She could hear footsteps on the landing.

‘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.’

‘If there are squatters something must be done about it,’ he replied. Engaging gear smoothly he swung the car out into the traffic. ‘How long were you in the house?’

‘Only a few minutes.’

‘But you saw no one?’

She hesitated. How could she tell him what she saw? ‘No.’

‘And the door was locked?’

She nodded. ‘It didn’t seem to have been opened for ages.’

‘I have the back door key. I imagine that if there are intruders, they too have gone in that way. Only Grandfather still has the front door key, as far as I know.’

‘Do you remember your grandmother?’ Jan glanced at him curiously.

He gave a short laugh. ‘Hardly. She died long before I was born.’

‘I’m sorry. Of course.’

‘You’ve seen her self portrait? The one in the town gallery?’

Jan nodded. ‘She was very beautiful.’

‘Yes.’ He turned onto the bypass and accelerated away from the traffic. ‘I suppose the idea is to bring your book out in time for the exhibition they’re planning for next year to mark the fiftieth anniversary of her death.’

‘It will be wonderful to have so many of her paintings together.’

‘Even the ones in the States. Quite.’ His voice was dry. ‘We’re almost there.’

He pulled the car around the back of the house and they climbed out, looking round. The house seemed as deserted as before. There was no sign of life at all as Simon pulled out his key and opened the back door.

‘No one in here, anyway.’ He walked ahead of her into the kitchen.

Jan looked round. Oak dresser, table, chairs, deep sink, rusty range. It was obvious that no one had cooked here since that day in the war when David Seymour had walked out of the house after his wife’s funeral, locked the door and gone back to his squadron.

She could feel her stomach clenching with nerves. ‘Perhaps they are camping in some other part of the house.’

‘Perhaps.’ Simon reached into his pocket and produced a torch. He did not switch it on however. Enough sunlight filtered through blind and shutter for them to see clearly as they walked slowly through the ground floor. Outside the dining room door he stopped. ‘You heard them in here?’ He had his hand on the knob.

She nodded. She knew what they would find. Only dust and cobwebs decorated the room which had glittered with such life. ‘I suppose you think I’m going mad?’

He grinned. It made him look suddenly and unexpectedly approachable. ‘No more than dozens of other people who have seen and heard it too.’

She stared at him. ‘You mean you know about it – what I saw? You knew! Your grandfather knew?’

He nodded. ‘Ghosts. Memories trapped in the walls. Who knows. None of the people in the village will come near this house. Which suits us fine.’ He pulled the door closed. ‘Come and see Stella’s studio.’

He gave her no chance to say anything as he strode back to the kitchen and out of the house. She followed him, almost running, over the long grass of what had once been the lawn and through an overgrown shrubbery to a low, thatch-roofed building which overlooked a reedy pond. He reached for the key which was hidden beneath a moss-covered stone. ‘I can’t think why this place hasn’t been vandalised. But it seems Stella’s secrets are still her secrets,’ he said shortly. He stood back and let Jan go in ahead of him. ‘Did my grandfather not tell you about this place?’

Jan shook her head. She stared round.

The studio stood on the edge of the water, its large windows allowing the sky and the willows and the glittering ripples to explode into the room, filling it with light. All Stella’s painting equipment was still here: easels, canvases, paints, sketchbooks curled with damp, the pages stuck together, an ancient sofa, draped in a green silk shawl, the fringe trailing on the ground, black with mildew, vases of flowers, long dried and faded beyond recognition, on the table a straw sun hat amongst the scattered brushes and pencils and dried-up tubes of paint.

Jan bit her lip, fighting the lump in her throat. ‘It’s as though she only left a few minutes ago.’

‘He would never let it be touched.’

She picked up a palette knife from the table. The lump of paint dried on its tip matched exactly the colour in the foreground of the painting on the easel.

‘What do you think really happened that night?’ She was staring out at the water. A pair of mallard swam into view, the pond rippling into diamond rings around their gently paddling feet.

‘No one knows for sure.’

‘The article in the American magazine said that she was pushed. That it was murder.’ She turned and looked at him. He was very handsome, Stella’s grandson, with her colouring, if the portrait in the gallery was anything to go by, even if he had inherited his grandfather’s nose. ‘It said that she was pregnant by another man. An American.’

Simon’s eyes narrowed. ‘Grandfather should have sued them. But he didn’t want to. He didn’t want anything to do with the article. He thought everyone would forget, and her memory would be left in peace.’

‘Instead of which I come along.’

‘Instead of which you come along.’

‘He told you –’

‘To tell you everything. I know.’ He had strolled over to the windows and was looking out, his shadow falling across the floor to the green shawl. He sighed. ‘I expect you know about the letters. To the GI. And that he had sent so many of her drawings and paintings back to the States. That rather supports the gossip in a way.’ He turned and faced her. ‘What do you think you heard in there? In the house?’

‘People? A tape? A radio? Echoes? Ghosts?’ She could feel her skin beginning to shiver even though it was warm in the studio. The air was heavy suddenly with the scent of oil paint and linseed and turpentine.

‘Did you hear a woman laughing?’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘And she sounded happy?’

‘I heard her calling him. Your grandfather. She sounded ecstatic. And then I heard her fall.’ She paused. She had heard the voice, but where had David Seymour been? Downstairs in the dining room with the others, or had he appeared suddenly on the landing next to her? She bit her lip. No. Surely it had been a happy voice. ‘I think it was an accident. I think she wanted me to know that. You’ve heard her too?’

He nodded. ‘I think at that last dinner party they were enjoying themselves. They were all deliriously happy. Stella and Grandfather and John and Sarah and the Daniels and Peter Cockcroft. It was wartime. There was rationing. So many of the fit young people were gone, so many of their friends had died, but Grandfather had been invalided out after being terribly wounded. He was safe. He had recovered. They were all there and they were happy. After my father was born Stella had hoped and hoped for another child but none came. Then suddenly Grandfather was back and she was pregnant again. They were, celebrating. It was the happiest moment of her life.’ Simon turned away from the window and looked at Jan. ‘I’m guessing. No, it’s more than that. I’m almost certain that’s what happened. Grandfather trusts you. He likes you and I think that when he heard that you had seen something – heard something – in the house, he knew that she trusted you too. Only nice people hear her laugh –’ He stopped abruptly as Jan’s eyes flooded with tears. ‘Oh Miss Haydon – Jan – I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.’ He delved into the pocket of his jacket and produced a handkerchief. It was slightly painty.

Jan wiped her eyes. ‘You are an artist too?’ She was feeling rather silly.

‘A bit. If I’ve inherited half her talent I count myself a very lucky man.’ Gently he steered her to the sofa. ‘Sit down a minute. Get your breath back.’

‘How could he bear to think of selling the house?’

‘He can’t. Not really. He’d have done it years ago if he were going to. After the inquest he went back to the war even though he wasn’t really fit – I don’t suppose they asked too many questions – they needed all the men they could get. As far as I know he never came back here, but I think he must still love the house in a way. And the house must have happy memories as well as sad ones. They shared so much here. Besides, don’t you feel it? She’s still here –’ He gestured at the easel. It was another self portrait, this time in Edwardian dress, unfinished, a few details completed: the face, which was vibrant, happy, glowing with life; the sparkling jewels around her throat and wrists; her hands, the ostrich feather fan …