Rye royal, p.7
Rye Royal, page 7
But Peter could not sleep. The day had been long and exciting and she was not used to the sounds of a small town at night. At home, in the heart of the Shropshire hills, all that she heard through her open window was the cry of the hunting owl and the sigh of the wind, but now she was disturbed by the sound of voices in the street and footsteps on the cobbles. Then, just as she turned over and closed her eyes tightly and tried to concentrate on sleep, she heard the quarter boys strike from the church tower. Next, although there was no traffic in Trader's Street, she was aware of the rattle and roar of motor cycles, presumably racing each other round the town. She turned on her back and put her hands over her ears, wondering how anybody could live peacefully in a town - even a town as exciting as Rye. Then her thoughts turned, as they so often did, to David, because she knew that one day she would live wherever he had to be and be happy to do so, and while she was still contemplating this agreeable prospect she heard the creaking of a floor-board just outside the door. She felt under her pillow for the torch which David had given her and sat up in bed with a thumping heart. Slowly the door opened and Mary whispered, "I can't get to sleep, Penny and Peter. I hate not going to sleep but I think it's because this place is so quiet after London."
Peter slipped out of her warm bed and put on her dressing-gown.
"Go back to bed, Mary. I'll come and tuck you up. Don't you dare to wake Penny."
Mary, who had always been devoted to Peter, did as she was told, and after embracing Macbeth who was half under her eiderdown, she kept a firm hold on Peter's hand as she snuggled between the sheets again.
"Sorry, Petah - I used to call you Petah when I was young, didn't I? I know I shouldn't have done that but this is a peculiar house and I'm sure I heard someone creeping about downstairs."
"I expect it was Mrs. Flowerdew going to bed. I couldn't sleep either so I'll stay here for five minutes. I'm glad you called me. Silly not to when you're a bit scared."
"Don't tell the others," Mary whispered. "And please keep your bedroom door open just a crack and then I shan't worry... Stay for a little while."
She was asleep in five minutes and Peter tip-toed back to her own bed feeling wider awake than ever. Penny, with her copper-coloured hair all over her pillow and a gentle smile on her lips, slept on peacefully.
Peter tried again and for a few minutes she must have drowsed off until she was awakened by the church clock striking eleven. As the last stroke died away she heard, without any doubt, the sound of a woman crying bitterly somewhere in the house. She remembered that the bedroom door was now ajar. For a moment or two there was silence and then, from somewhere below, the sobbing broke out again and Peter had never heard anyone in such distress. She realized that if Mary heard this she would be very frightened and if the dog was disturbed he would probably bark and wake the boys.
She got out of bed again and woke Penny as gently as she could with a hand over her mouth.
"Wake up, Penny. Please wake up. Somebody is crying downstairs. It must be Mrs. Flowerdew and something awful must have happened..."
Penny grunted, pushed her hand away and muttered something which sounded like, "Don't be ridiculous," and then sat up.
"Sorry, Penny," Peter whispered. "Don't wake Mary or Mackie but get up and listen with me at the door. I can hear Mrs. Flowerdew crying."
Penny nodded, got out of bed and fumbled for her dressing-gown. Gently Peter opened their door wider and the two girls stepped barefoot into the passage. For a few moments they could only hear each other's breathing and then the silence was broken by the terrifying sound of a woman's sobs. "Oh!" Penny whispered. "She must be ill. Come quickly, Peter."
"What about David?"
"No. He'll wake Dickie. We must see for ourselves."
A crack of light showed that the library door was ajar and the sobs were coming from inside. Gently they pushed back the door and stood for a horrified moment on the threshold of the forbidden room.
Mrs. Flowerdew was sitting behind her husband's desk with her head resting on her outstretched arms. Between her hands was an old book open at the last page.
5. The Message
When the Lone Piners had gone to bed and the house was quiet again, Mrs. Flowerdew sat for a time by the dying fire in the kitchen. She had slept badly since her husband died, but tonight she was unusually excited.
She stretched her hands to the feeble flames and thought about the youngsters, who only half an hour ago had been sitting round this table, chattering as if they had known her for years. How nice they were and how remarkable that this was the first time she had ever entertained such guests. Not even the young Warrenders who lived next door had even been in this room. And how pretty, in their different ways, were the two older girls, and how kind they had been.
Mrs. Warrender had told her that she must find some other interests and that her husband would have wished her to do so. She had not told her kind friend that it was unlikely that Charles Flowerdew would have wished any such thing. Only she knew how self-centred and secretive he had been. Nobody else - for they had no family and no close relations - knew how completely he had lived in the past. But she had remained devoted to him. At the beginning of his illness he had told her that everything he had, including the house, would be hers when he had gone. Only once after that, on the day before he died, had he mentioned his will again, and even then he had been sharp in his instructions not to be in a hurry to sell the house and not to sell his books. Timidly she had asked him why, and whether he had something else to tell her but he had become angry. She had calmed him down a little but had not dared to question him again. The lawyer, when he had told her that there were no bequests to anyone else, had asked if he had left any other messages and she had said "No".
She was too proud to tell anyone - particularly Mrs. Warrender - that, in spite of her devotion to her husband, he had rarely confided in her. What would he have thought of these young people growing up in an age that he had not even recognized? All his life, and particularly the last few years, he had lived in a past age with his books and his musty old records while she had done what she could to look after him.
And now it was nearly Christmas which had always passed virtually unnoticed in this house. But she had noticed when the church bells had rung out and the carol singers had sung again on the cobbles of Trader's Street. Charles had never cared. He was not against Christmas but it had never meant anything to him.
It was at this moment, when Mrs. Flowerdew remembered the Christmases of her childhood, that she made up her mind that this one, with the young people, was going to be different. And so was she. Mrs. Warrender was right when she told her that she must learn to live again - a new life that only now was beginning.
As she wondered what she could do to strengthen this resolution she remembered that her husband's bedroom next to her own, and in which he had died quite peacefully two months ago, was still locked. None of his things had been moved and she had never found the courage to go back there.
Now, then, was the time. Now, before she went to bed and before this new-found resolve left her to the old despair. Now was the time.
From a drawer in the dresser she took a bunch of keys and went upstairs. On the first landing she stood still and listened, but there was no sound from her visitors on the floor above. She passed her room and quietly unlocked the next door, pushed it back, switched on the light and stepped over the threshold. The room was as it had been left - cold, clean and tidy. She closed the door and stood for a long minute in silence. What was there here to remind her of the one she had cared for with devotion for so long? Not much - only perhaps the books on his bedside table. Rather surprisingly there was a Bible, an old book of the sayings of the Roman Emperor, Marcus Aurelius, and a thick, red volume which she had seen more than once on his desk. It was called The History and Antiquities of the Ancient Town and Port of Rye and was written by William Holloway.
As she picked them up she remembered that, in the early days of his illness, Charles had asked her to fetch the History from his library. Even then she had not been surprised that when he was seriously ill he had wanted as his bedside reading one of the few standard books on Rye.
She shivered as she looked round. Deep down, perhaps, she had been wondering whether the room in which he had died would have any sort of message for her. It had not, but perhaps the books would have, so she carried them downstairs after locking the door behind her.
Instead of going into the kitchen she unlocked the library door. The room was cold and smelled musty, so she switched on the electric fire and sat in the old leather chair behind the desk as he had done for a large part of his life. Nothing had changed here. The books still stretched from floor to ceiling. On the floor under the shelves were box files and parcels of old prints. In one corner a steel filing cabinet seemed out of place and a table was piled with old magazines, scholarly reviews, and cuttings from newspapers, many of which were yellow with age. On the desk in front of her were more labelled files containing loose sheets of notes and cuttings, a pile of lined foolscap, a pen tray of pencil stumps, unused stamps and a few ball-point pens.
She had already looked through the drawers with her lawyer and found nothing which could help her or anybody else to know why he did not want the house sold or anyone, at any time, to come into this room. She knew how he hoarded anything to do with Rye and the other Cinque Ports, and his favourite period, which was the 16th century and the reign of the first Queen Elizabeth. No particular instructions had been left with his bank and there was no safe in the house, and yet Mrs. Flowerdew was sure that the lawyer thought he had a secret and wondered why she knew nothing about it.
So, looking small and frail in the big chair, she turned on the reading lamp and examined the books she had brought down from his bedside. She held the Bible by its covers over the desk and shook it to see if anything fell out. Nothing did and there was no indication that he had read it regularly. The front fly-leaf was inscribed with his name in spidery writing, "From his Affect. Mother, Emily Flowerdew, April 6, 1897."
Next she looked at the sayings of the pagan Emperor, the pages of which were much more worn. Some of the passages were marked, but none seemed of any particular significance. The History of Rye was, as she expected, well marked with pencil notes in the margins. She also shook this book upside down, but nothing fell out except a faded snapshot of Trader's Street taken from outside the Dolphin. There was no inscription on the back of this.
She closed the book and sat for a few moments with her head in her hands. The house was quiet but for the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall and she realized that she had left the door ajar. What could she have expected to find? Why had she suddenly hoped for just one sign that she had meant something to him? Surely somewhere there was a message for her apart from the cold, legal phrasing of the will?
A Bible, the thoughts of a Roman philosopher and a dull history book were not much comfort to a lonely widow who wanted only a few kind words. She pushed back the chair and as she stood up the heavy, red book crashed to the floor. As it fell it turned over and when she picked it up it was open on the last page. And this usually blank page was covered with the shaky scrawl of a ball-point pen.
Here was the message for which she had been praying. She sat down again and saw that it was indeed in her husband's writing - weak, distorted, and after a few words trailing away as his will and brain could no longer guide his fingers. It was difficult to read, but the first four words were the clearest and meant the most to her:
That was all, but it was enough that he did think of her at the end; called her "his dear wife". As the words of this pathetic, unfinished message swam before her eyes, she was overcome by the pent-up emotions of two dreadful months.
Until she felt the arms of Penny round her, time had no meaning. At first she did not even hear what the two girls were saying to her.
"Don't, don't cry like that, Mrs. Flowerdew. Please tell us what we can do to help."
"Shall we go away? Shall I fetch my aunt? Will it help if you tell us what has happened?"
"We only want to help you, Mrs. Flowerdew... You're not alone in the house now..."
After a little she realized that Peter was on her knees beside her clasping one of her hands, and that Penny had one arm round her shoulders. Nobody had comforted her like this since her childhood... "You're not alone now," the pretty fair one whispered. "What's happened? Can you tell us?"
She tried to stifle her sobs and even attempted a smile, and as she looked from one girl to the other she saw that their faces too were wet with tears. So she nodded, felt in vain for a handkerchief and said:
"Don't go away, my dears. I'm so sorry I disturbed you. Please stay. I shall be better in a minute."
With her free hand Peter produced a handkerchief from the pocket of her dressing-gown and passed it to the old lady. After a little she said:
"I do hope that you will both understand, but I have just found in this old book, a message to me from my husband which I think he must have written just before he died. I cannot understand exactly what he means, but I am sure he wants me to share something that was extremely important to him."
Neither of the girls found anything to say until a familiar voice startled them.
"Excuse me," said Mary, standing just inside the door with Macbeth in her arms. "But there was rather a noise and Mackie and me woke up and if we don't close this door the boys will wake up too. Please forgive me, Mrs. Flowerdew, but I couldn't help hearing what you said and I am very, very sorry that you have been unhappy and all of us hope that we can help you. Get down, Mackie darling and go and comfort your hostess."
Macbeth, slowly wagging his tail as he recognized some more of his loved ones, wandered over towards the electric fire and settled down beside it.
Peter got up and Penny wiped her eyes with the back of her hand as she smiled at Mary who had quietly closed the door. She knew that Mary would behave sensibly.
"Of course I forgive you, Mary," Mrs. Flowerdew said. "I'm sorry you were disturbed but you really must go back to bed. We are all coming up now."
Mary, who was now at her brightest and had heard the old lady's explanation of what had happened, went on cheerfully:
"Of course, Mrs. Flowerdew, we don't want to know anything private, but it is only right for us to tell you that we are all quite good at helping people with mysteries. We hope that you will ask us if there is anything we can do. Not just my twin and me, although we've had a lot of practice, but the older ones too. Part of our Christmas is to cheer you up, you know, and that's something we're very keen to do and don't glare at me like that, Peter. I'm sick of glares when I'm talking."
"Thank you very much, Mary," Mrs. Flowerdew smiled. "I'm grateful to you all but you should be back in bed... I want to think all this over, but perhaps there is a mystery and perhaps you will all be able to help me."
With a paper-knife, she cut the page with her husband's message from the book and put the paper in her pocket. Then she got up. "You see, there is something my husband wanted me to know about. He began to write it down - but could not finish it. Please don't ask me what it is now. This evening has been a great shock to me but I am glad you are all here... Thank you all again and please go upstairs as quietly as you can."
She said no more but kissed Penny and Peter shyly, and then switched off the electric fire much to Mackie's disgust, and waited for them to go.
When the three girls looked down into the hall from the first landing, Mrs. Flowerdew was locking the library door behind her and did not look up.
6. Mary's Mistake
Dickie was the first of the Lone Piners to wake next morning. For a few moments the square of dim grey light which was the window did not seem to be in the right place. He turned over and heard a gentle, purring noise from the other corner of the room, and then remembered where he was and that his brother was snoring in the other bed.
They were at thirty-nine Trader's Street in the ancient town of Rye and here for Christmas with the peculiar Mrs. Flowerdew. She certainly was very odd. And sad. It was also obvious that this was not the sort of house in which it was going to be much fun to spend a lot of time. They might be able to decorate it with holly, but all these hints about locked rooms were depressing. He must talk to Mary about it. The two elder couples would be going off by themselves whenever they could and it would never do for the Morton twins to find themselves too involved with Mrs. Flowerdew.
Interesting if James Wilson really turned up at the Dolphin for Christmas. James was a good chap and even when on the job often had time to listen to what an intelligent, keen young journalist had to report. Being married to that nice Judith who understood twins, might make a difference to James, but Dickie was reasonably sure that he would be glad to see them. James would also be interested to know that Richard Morton had chosen his career and might be able to give him a few tips; so with this comforting thought Dickie decided to do some work.
He sat up, switched on his bedside light and reached for his sweater. David's purring continued. Dickie then brought out from under his pillow a shorthand notebook, a ballpoint pen and his watch., The latter told him that the time was twenty minutes past seven and he wondered whether his twin was awake. And that reminded him of something else. At some time in the night he believed he had been disturbed, and his impression was that it was something to do with Mary. This sort of thing still happened between them. When they were younger the link had been stronger, but there were still occasions when each of them knew what the other was thinking and often what the other was going to say before it was said. Sometimes, when one of them was in real trouble the other was disturbed. Such had not been the case last night, but as Dickie headed the first page of his notebook with the date - Tuesday, Dec. 19th - and then wrote "Events to Record" he decided that presently he must ask Mary what she had been thinking about in the night.
