Gossamer Cord

Death in the House

SUMMER WAS ALMOST WITH us. Richard wrote now and then, but he did not suggest paying another visit to Cornwall. My mother also wrote. She wondered whether there was any hope of my coming to Caddington. I could travel with the baby and Nanny Crabtree quite easily now, she was sure. She herself was going to London frequently since the birth of Gretchen’s baby—a little girl whom they had called Hildegarde.

It was June. I had paid another visit to Mrs. Pardell. She seemed quite pleased to see me. She was obsessed by the belief that Dermot had murdered both his wives and nothing would shift her. She thought he had strangled them, carried them out of the house, and thrown them into the sea.

“There was no sign of strangulation on Annette’s body when they found her,” I protested. “If there had been, it would have been quickly noticed.”

“She had been in the sea all those days, hadn’t she?” insisted Mrs. Pardell.

“I think the evidence would still be there.”

Nothing would convince her, but she said it was nice to talk to somebody about it. “And you lost your sister, I lost my daughter. It links us…if you know what I mean.”

I felt faintly depressed after my visit to her.

I was seeing Jowan more frequently. He introduced me to Joe Tregarth who was his manager. He was clearly devoted to Jowan. He told me it was a pity Jowan had not come into the property before and that it was a pleasure to work for someone who knew what he was about.

Whenever I went into the town I was aware of the looks which came my way. True, there was slightly less interest than there had been because the mystery of Dorabella’s disappearance was becoming stale news, yet I was still part of one of those old legends which would be revived every now and then.

I found a morbid fascination in the gardens. I used to sit there in the afternoons and look over the beach thinking of Dorabella. I pictured her again and again, going down there that morning, plunging into the cold water and being lost forever. But I could not believe it happened like that.

It was late afternoon. I had been sitting there for about half an hour when I heard footsteps descending and, to my surprise, I saw Gordon Lewyth coming toward me.

“Good afternoon,” he said. “You come here often, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I replied.

“May I sit with you?”

The seat was a stone ledge cut out of the rock. There was room for about four people on it.

He sat down. “It doesn’t make you happy, does it, sitting here?” he said. “It brings it all back.”

“Yes. I suppose you are right.”

“And yet…you find it irresistible.”

“I cannot understand it at all,” I told him. “That my sister should suddenly start bathing in the morning. It would be decidedly chilly, and she was never the Spartan type.”

“People have strange fancies.”

“I cannot believe that she is dead.”

“But she has gone, hasn’t she?”

“Her body has never been washed up.”

“That does not mean she is alive. Some are never seen again. She could have been washed out to sea…or lying on the ocean bed.”

I shivered.

He said: “I’m sorry. But I reckon the sooner you face up to the fact that she has gone, the better. You’ll start to get over it then. You’d be better away from here.”

“Yes, I think so. But I could not go without Tristan.”

“I don’t think he will be allowed to go.”

“I understand that he belongs to this place, but Dermot would not stop his going.”

“Dermot is in a mood to be indifferent about everything at the moment.”

“It was such a tragedy for him.”

“As for you. I think you would be happier with your parents. You’re brooding here. You can’t escape from it.”

“If only I could take Tristan…”

“The child has to stay here. His grandfather insists on that.”

“And I have promised my sister to look after him if she were not here to do so.”

“Did she have a premonition that she might not be?”

“She must have had.”

“That’s very strange.”

“So many strange things have happened.”

“It is the interpretation which is put on them. We Cornish are by nature superstitious. I wonder why. Perhaps because we have had a harder life than some. The population is made up of fishermen and miners—both hazardous occupations. When there are fatal accidents at sea or in the mines these legends are born. They will tell you that the knackers who live underground are the ghosts of those who murdered Jesus Christ. There have been many who have said they have seen them. ‘The size of a sixpenny doll,’ one man told me. I imagine a sixpenny doll in the old days might have been about six inches high—dressed like an old tinner, which is what they call miners in these parts. Miners had to leave what they called a ‘didjan,’ which was part of their lunch for the knackers, otherwise they could expect trouble. Imagine the hardship for those who found difficulty in providing their own frugal meal.”

“You know a great deal about the old legends and customs.”

“One picks it up over the years, and I have lived here all my life…though not in this house, of course. I am not one of the family.”

“I thought there was a distant connection.”

He hesitated for a moment, then smiled wryly.

“Oh, there might be. I was telling you about the legends. It is the dangerous occupations. People think of ill luck that could befall them. They talk of black dogs and white hares seen at the mineshafts which are a warning of approaching evil. You must understand that people who are often facing danger look for signs. Now they say that Jermyns and Tregarlands should never have become friendly and, because they have, there will be disaster.”

“Do they really think that my sister’s death is due to that?”

“I am sure they do. They will say that someone brought about this evil.”

“Myself!” I cried.

He nodded and looked at me in an odd sort of way.

“They say it is not right that foreigners should come here and meddle with something that has been going on for generations.”

“Foreigners!”

“Born the wrong side of the Tamar,” he said with a smile.

“That is all ridiculous.”

“Of course. But it is what they believe.”

“But that feud, it’s so absurd. You think so. Everyone with any sense would. Mr. Jermyn does, too.”

“But there are many who don’t. They love their old superstitions. They don’t want them changed. The miners and fishermen don’t. They fear the mines and the sea. Look at the sea now. Do you see that ruffling of the waves? There are a number of what we call white horses. It’s quite rough down there.”

“The wind has sprung up while I have been sitting here.”

“It is very treacherous…unpredictable.” He moved slightly toward me. “It can be smooth, inviting, and then suddenly the wind arises. You haven’t seen what a real storm can be like yet. You haven’t seen fearsome waves…forty-…fifty-feet-high waves. They can lash against the rocks. It is like an enraged monster. Oh, yes, you must be very careful of the sea.”

I felt his eyes on me as he went on: “There is danger down there. Even in this garden. Just imagine if you should lose your footing—a loose stone, a shifting of the earth. It happens. You could go hurtling down…down onto those black rocks.”

I felt a sudden fear as I fancied he moved even closer to me.

I said: “It didn’t occur to me.”

“Well, it wouldn’t. But you must take care. It looks so peaceful now, but things are not always what they seem. Always remember…the dangers of the sea.”

“Mr. Lewyth, Mr. Lewyth, are you there?” One of the maids was coming down the slope toward us. It was as though a spell was broken. I gave an involuntary gasp of relief.

“A terrible thing have happened, sir,” said the maid. “Mr. Dermot has had an accident. He have been took to the hospital.”

“Accident!” cried Gordon.

“Fell from his horse, sir. Mrs. Lewyth did send me to come and fetch you.”

Gordon was already striding up the slope to the house. I followed.

Gordon, Matilda, and I drove to the hospital in Plymouth to which they had taken Dermot. We were not allowed to see him immediately, but we did see the doctor.

“He is badly injured,” we were told.

“He’s not…?” began Matilda.

“He’ll recover, but it is going to be a long time and then, perhaps…”

“Oh, my God,” murmured Matilda.

Gordon said: “You mean it is a permanent injury?”

“It is possible. It involves the spine. It was a very bad fall. It could have killed him.”

“Do they know how it happened?”

“He was apparently galloping too fast and…er …it seems that he was, well, not exactly intoxicated, but…er…not entirely sober either.”

I said: “He has suffered a great grief recently. He lost his wife.”

The doctor nodded.

“You may be able to see him when he comes out of the anesthetic. We had to do an operation—a minor one—but we can see that there is little that can be done.”

“Does it mean he must stay here?”

“Oh, no. He’ll be out of here in a few days…if there is nothing further we can do. A little therapy perhaps. But that is for later. We’ll have to see.”

We were left in a waiting room and told that we should be called when we could see Dermot.

“This is terrible,” said Matilda. “What is happening…? Things haven’t really been right since Annette’s death. It all seems so bewildering.”

“Life is sometimes like that,” said Gordon, glancing at his mother. “This was an accident. No one can be blamed for it.”

“I expect the evil forces will be blamed,” I said.

Gordon nodded. “He might recover,” he said. “Doctors don’t always know.”

It was some time before a nurse came to us. She told us we could see Dermot now, but must not stay too long.

Dermot was lying in a bed in a ward occupied by several others. The curtains about his bed were drawn back by the nurse.

He looked pale and very ill. He smiled at us faintly.

“I’ve made a mess of things,” he said with a weak smile.

“My dear Dermot,” said Matilda, “we are all so concerned for you.”

“I’m still here,” he said almost regretfully.

“What happened?” asked Gordon.

“I don’t know. One moment I was galloping along, and the next I hit the ground. Poor old Sable just went on.”

“I know,” said Gordon. “She came back to the house.”

“I must have been careless,” said Dermot.

“Well, rest now,” soothed Matilda. “You will be all right. But it will take time.”

“Time,” he said, and closed his eyes.

A nurse came to us and signaled that we should leave.

We looked at Dermot. His eyes were closed and he seemed unaware of our departure.

As was expected, there was a buzz of speculation. What was happening up at Tregarland’s? It was clear enough, wasn’t it? Something was wrong. It was one trouble after another. Death for the first Mrs. Tregarland; then the young woman from foreign parts starts meddling, bringing a Jermyn to Tregarland’s. It stood to reason that the ghost was not going to stand by and allow that to happen. The trouble with foreigners was that they did not know anything about the spirit world. This would show them.

There were two young women taken by the sea—though the first was before the meddlesome creature arrived and was just a warning that the quarrel was as fierce as it always had been. Then the master fell off his horse and it was reckoned that it would be a long time before he would be in the saddle again. It was a warning. It was saying clear as the nose on your face: Don’t meddle with what you don’t know.

I felt a great desire to get away from the place. I could, of course, pack and go home tomorrow, but what of Tristan? As Richard would have said, the nanny was quite capable of looking after the child. If only I could take him with me.

There was something else. I should not see Jowan Jermyn, and I should not want that. During this time, my encounters with him had seemed to bring a sort of sanity into my life. He gave the impression that he was concerned for me. He helped me to laugh at the whispering voices; he understood my need to look after Tristan. He took my fears and frustrations and my indecision seriously. He seemed to understand as no one else did.

Dermot came home from the hospital. It was clear that he was badly injured. He walked with great difficulty and he went straight to his bed, for the journey from the hospital had exhausted him.

There was gloom throughout the house. It was the first time old Mr. Tregarland lacked that air of suppressed amusement. He looked really shaken. This was, after all, his only son.

During the days that followed it was brought home to us how incapacitated Dermot was. We had been told that there was little hope that he would regain his full vigor, although the doctors hoped for some improvement. We were warned that it would take a long time.

James Tregarland entered into the discussion as to what was to be done. A wheelchair must be acquired for Dermot and a room on the ground floor prepared. That was easy enough to arrange. Jack, from the stables, was a man to be trusted. He was strong, and if need be they could call in Seth, whose physical strength made up for what he lacked mentally.

The great task would be to keep Dermot cheerful. This following on the death of Dorabella had been too much for him. In fact, the fall was attributed to his grief.

Everyone was eager to do what they could for him. A beautiful ground floor room, its mullioned windows overlooking the sea, was made ready. He had his chair in which he could wheel himself about. He was often in pain and had strong pills to alleviate it. The doctor would come once a week unless called in between times; and everything that could be done would be.

No one could have had more care. There was a constant stream of visitors; we made sure that he was hardly ever alone. Jack was his devoted slave. He liked me to go to see him, and invariably he would talk of Dorabella—how wonderful she had been, how he had loved her from the moment he saw her. And then…he had lost her.

I had to keep him from talking too much about her.

He would sit in his chair, freshly shaved and washed, wearing a Paisley dressing gown, and I thought how changed he was from the young man who had sat outside the café with us—so bright, so merry, a young man in love with life and Dorabella. How sad it had turned out to be!

I used to talk to him about Tristan, telling him how he was growing, how bright he was, how he smiled at Nanny Crabtree and me…what a blessing he was.

He would nod and smile, but I knew his thoughts were with Dorabella.

The weeks began to pass. There was tension in the air. The great topic of conversation was again what was happening in Europe. There was a sense of uneasiness. People talked of the possibility of war.

Hitler was causing trouble again. Everywhere one went the subject was that of the Sudetenland areas and Czechoslovakia. Would Hitler invade? And if he did, what would England and France do? Would they stand aside again? Would they passively allow him to go in and get on with his demands for Lebensraum for the German nation?

His people were fanatically behind him.

So that uneasy summer began to pass.

I heard from Richard.

He wrote: “I cannot understand why you stay there. Are you never coming home? You seem to have this really rather mad obsession. The child has a perfectly good nurse. Your mother says she is utterly trustworthy. Why do you have to stay there?”

I could sense his impatience and veiled criticism. He thought I was foolish—or perhaps had some other reason for wishing to stay.

It was clear that we were breaking away from each other. I was sorry to have hurt him, but I knew now that I had been only momentarily attracted by him and my feelings were not really deep enough for a stronger relationship. Nor, I believed, were his.

I did go to see Mrs. Pardell again. She was quite welcoming in her rather grim way. She took me to her sitting room where I sat looking at the silver-framed picture of Annette.

“And how are things up there?” she asked.

“Sad,” I said.

“And there he is…well, it’s just retribution, I reckon. That’s what the Bible says. The Lord has seen fit to punish him for his misdeeds.”

“Oh, Mrs. Pardell, you must not judge him.”

She shook her head. “He killed my girl. I know he did. I’ve always known it. And your sister. There are men like that. I suppose he has the utmost comfort.”

“He is well looked after.”

“H’m. Well, serve him right, I say. Goodness knows who’d have been the next. Wife number three, I suppose.”

It was no use trying to reason with her. She had made up her mind to that. Dermot had murdered her daughter and my sister, and he had now what she called his “come-uppance.” She was not going to let her opinion be shifted.

After I left her, I felt vaguely depressed. Everything was so uncertain. Nobody knew what was going to happen next. There might be war. That was what was in everyone’s mind, and I suppose my problems were as nothing compared with the catastrophe that would be.

I often thought of Gretchen with Edward and their little girl. My mother wrote of them from time to time.

We are delighted and Edward is ecstatic. Gretchen is overjoyed about the child in spite of her worries. Alas, she gets more anxious about her parents every day. Your father thinks the situation is rather grim and he is very suspicious of what Hitler will do next if they let him get into Czechoslovakia. What a nuisance that man Hitler is! I wish they could get rid of him.

How are you getting on down there? I do think they are foolish to make all that fuss about Tristan’s staying there. After all, it is you and Nanny Crabtree who are looking after him.

I can’t see why you couldn’t come home…for a visit, anyway. You must come up for Christmas and bring Tristan and Nanny with you. I’m sure he’d be all right to travel now. He must be getting to be quite a person. I’d love to see him. Come for a long visit. Your father misses you…as I do.

How is Dermot? It was a terrible thing to happen. You say he gets about in a wheelchair. Well, that’s something, and I expect he will eventually improve. Poor boy. Let’s hope that one day they can do something for him.

Don’t forget, dear, we want you home…with Tristan. I think they will come round to letting us have him in due course.

I did not think they would, but perhaps in a few months I should be able to take the baby home for a visit.

I often took out the miniature of Dorabella. I would hold it in my hands and look back over the years. It was a foolish habit and could only plunge me into melancholy. Dorabella herself had once said that brooding on what couldn’t be changed was like taking your sorrows out to swim instead of drowning them. She had heard that somewhere and liked it.

If only she could come back to me.

Then it occurred to me that she had once said she would always have the miniature of me with her. She kept it in her room, the dressing room in that bedroom she had shared with Dermot.

The room was not occupied now that Dermot had one downstairs. I wanted to see the miniature. The pair should be side by side.

I went up to the room, with its four-poster bed, the large and heavily draped windows.

I had seen the miniature on a little table in the dressing room. It was not there now. I remembered that she had said she would put it away in a drawer because she did not want to be continually reminded of my desertion.

I had once seen her take it from a particular drawer. It would be there now, I guessed, because I had not been in the house when she had gone down to take that fatal bathe.

I opened the drawer. There were a few things in it—some gloves and handkerchiefs and a belt, but no miniature. I took out everything and felt round the inside of the drawer. Nothing.

Where was the miniature, then? Perhaps in another drawer? There were three others. I searched them all, but the miniature was not there.

Puzzled, I looked round the room. I went into the bedroom. In the wardrobe there was a shelf and another drawer. But the picture was not there, either.

I wondered where it could be.

The uneasy weeks were passing quickly. There were long summer days when I met Jowan, perhaps three or four times a week. I met a number of the farmers on his estate; he was always busy and would invite me to accompany him on the calls he was making.

I was getting to know his grandmother. There was a very strong bond between them; she doted on him and I liked his attitude toward her which gave an impression of light-hearted affection, but I sensed it went deep.

Those meetings with him were the highlights of those long summer days. There was an aura of unreality about everything…my life…the world itself. There were war clouds on the horizon, and I often felt that I was seeing the end of an era. I was drifting along without the ability to exert my will. It was as though everything was being decided for me.

I continued to be baffled by the disappearance of the miniature. I mentioned it to Matilda.

“I’ve looked in the dressing room and bedroom. That was where she kept it. I can’t think of anywhere else she might have put it.”

“I expect she put it away somewhere.”

“I wonder where? You know I have one of her and they are a pair of frames so would look well together.”

“She was very fond of it. It’ll turn up one day, no doubt.”

Once when I was sitting with Dermot I asked him if he knew where the miniature was.

“It’s in the dressing room, I think,” he said. “She kept it in a drawer there and took it out when you were there. She didn’t want to look at it often when you weren’t there. She said you were a beast to stay away and she was hurt by your desertion. She didn’t want to think of you. You know what she was like.”

“Yes. She said that to me.”

“It will be somewhere about.”

He was sad and I wished I had not raised the subject because it had set him thinking of her afresh. Not that she was ever far from his thoughts.

“They were beautiful, those miniatures,” he mused. “The painter had caught the likeness of you both. It was just like her, wasn’t it?”

I said: “Yes, Dermot.”

“She had something on her mind…at the end. It used to worry me.”

“What was that?”

“I didn’t know. I just had the feeling that things weren’t right somehow.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sometimes…she was too merry…a little…well, not spontaneous, but as though she were pretending everything was all right, as though she were planning something. She had some secret. I think she didn’t like it much here. It was too dull for her. Sometimes, I used to think…”

“What did you think?” I asked sharply.

“I wondered if she were planning…to leave me.”

“No.”

“It was just a fancy.”

“That could have been so. She was happy. She had always been the restless sort. She would have told me if anything were wrong.”

“Would, she?”

“She always did.”

“But you weren’t here.”

“No, but she would have written. She used to talk to me…always. I was her confidante from the time we were two years old. If she had a problem she always brought it to me to solve.”

“I just had this impression. It worried me.”

“No, Dermot, everything was all right.”

A tortured look came onto his face and once more I blamed myself for bringing up the subject of the miniature.

“She was everything, Violetta,” he said. “You understand.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Life without her is empty.”

“Dermot, do you ever have a feeling that she is not dead?”

“What?”

“They haven’t found her body, have they?”

“They wouldn’t. She’s out there…lying at the bottom of the sea. I can’t bear to think of her. She was so full of life. That’s why I felt she wouldn’t stay here. She always wanted to have the best in life. She reveled in living. She was able to enjoy it so much…when she had what she wanted. I was worried about her. I thought she would leave me…and she did.”

“Not of her own free will,” I said.

We were doing no good to each other, Dermot and I.

I thought of something else to talk about. The political situation. That was not going to cheer him, though I imagined at that moment he felt as indifferent as I did about the troubles of Europe. I talked about the farm I had visited with Jowan the day before. He pretended to listen, but I knew his thoughts were in the past with Dorabella.

It was September. My mother wrote complaining that she had not seen me for so long. “It is like the old days when you were away at school, but this is even longer than a term. Your father and I are coming down to see you and we are going to try and persuade them to let you and Tristan come to us for Christmas.”

They arrived in mid-September. Matilda made them very welcome. It was wonderful to see them. I heard that Hildegarde was the perfect child and that my mother went to London often to see them and they came to Caddington.

“We all miss you so much, Violetta,” my mother told me. “It’s such a pity that you are shut away down here, particularly as…”

I knew she meant that they had lost Dorabella, too.

Gordon took my father off to see something of the estate and it was a pleasant visit; but Matilda made it clear to my parents that old Mr. Tregarland was very loath to let Tristan go away just yet.

“He is afraid something might happen to him,” she explained. “You see, there has been this terrible accident to Dermot following close on the other tragedy. You understand what I mean. You know that you are welcome here at any time. You must come to us for Christmas.”

My mother said they would be delighted to do that.

“We must see Violetta and our little grandson,” she added.

Concern about the world situation increased during that September.

I said to Jowan, when he and I were riding together, that I was weary of the names of Adolf Hitler and the Sudetenland.

“That is how we all feel,” he replied. “But the situation is grave. War could break out at any time.”

“There are many people who think we ought to keep out of trouble.”

“You will always have the ostrich types who think that if they bury their heads in the sand and do not look, the trouble will go away.”

“Do you think there is going to be war?”

“It is difficult to see how it can be avoided.”

This matter was constantly discussed over meals. Gordon and my father could not stop talking about it. James Tregarland listened intently and now and then offered an opinion. He had changed since Dermot’s accident. That old, rather cynical amused expression had gone. He seemed older, more serious. He must care for Dermot in his way. He rarely saw Tristan. I supposed babies had little interest for him. He sometimes asked me about him, because I suppose he knew that I, with Nanny Crabtree, was with the baby more than anyone else. He had done this since the time Tristan had come near to having pneumonia.

It was while my parents were at Tregarland’s that September that there were significant moves on the Continent.

Germany’s recalcitrance over Czechoslovakia was coming to a head and we were on the brink of war. The Prime Minister, Neville Chamberlain, flew to Munich in order to confer with Hitler. And after that there was a certain relief.

Chamberlain and Daladier of France had made a pact with Hitler. He was to have the Sudetenland which he so coveted, and there would be no interference over this. For this concession, peace was to be ensured in our time.

Chamberlain flew back from Munich. There were many pictures of him at the airport. He was surrounded by reporters eager to know the results of the conference.

The Prime Minister was depicted waving a piece of paper in his hands, while quoting the well-known words of Disraeli. He told the waiting reporters that this was “Peace in our Time. Peace with Honour.”

There was general rejoicing throughout the country.

My parents went home with promises that they would come down for Christmas.

“And perhaps,” my mother said to me on parting, “by that time old Mr. Tregarland will have decided that Tristan is old enough to make a railway journey to see his grandparents.”

Jowan was not optimistic about the pact with Hitler.

“I don’t trust him,” he said. “He wants the whole of Czechoslovakia, not merely the Sudeten territory. And after Czechoslovakia…what next?”

“If he tries to take more, what then?”

“I don’t know. We have delayed too long already, but there will have to be a halt somewhere. I had heard that as soon as Chamberlain returned he went into conference with the Cabinet and made plans for rearmament.”

“That means…”

“That he does not trust Hitler.”

“Do you think he has made this pact…?”

“To give us time? Maybe. Hitler is armed to the teeth for war. We are far from that. But we shall see. Germany is thriving. She has come a long way from the privation which followed 1918. It may be that they will be content with what they have. I think if they are wise they will settle for that. They have got away with it so far. England and France have stood by, but, of course, they cannot do that indefinitely, and another step might change the picture.”

“So much…to depend on one man!”

“There is some magic in him. He has bewitched his people. They stand firmly beside him.”

“He has done terrible things to the Jews.”

“He is a monster, but a monster with a mission.”

“I think of Edward’s wife, Gretchen. She is beset by anxieties.”

“I know, and well she might be.”

“How I wish that she had brought her family here!”

“It is what is called the eleventh hour now, I believe. But cheer up. It may not happen. Don’t you find that in life something we fear never comes to pass and all our anxiety has been for nothing? When you went away, I thought I would never see you again, and look, here you are, and we have our meetings.”

He looked at me earnestly. “That was an unnecessary fear. At least, I hope so.”

“I like to think that these meetings will continue,” I said.

“You mean that…sincerely?”

“But of course. Sometimes I feel they are an escape to sanity.”

“I’m glad,” he said.

I believed that he understood what was in my mind. He knew that I should never accept the fact that I had lost Dorabella until I had proof that she was dead.

Christmas came and went. I was pleased to see my parents again. I had a letter from Richard. He had ceased to suggest that I return. I think any prospect of a serious relationship between us was fading away. He was disappointed in me and I think I was in him. It had, in a way, been a choice between him and Tristan. I had given my word to Dorabella and I supposed that, even in death, she was closer to me than anyone else.

There were times when I was faintly regretful that I had lost Richard, but others when I felt relieved. If his affection had failed on that issue, it could not have been very firmly implanted. I was beginning to see that we should not have been well suited to each other.

Poor Dermot’s condition had not improved and the doctor had hinted that it could be permanent, although naturally Dermot had not been told this. He had changed. The carefree young man had become moody. I could understand that. He was not a man with inner resources. He had enjoyed an active life. He liked to travel, to be with people. I was sorry for him. He was often melancholy during those dark days of winter.

The climate in Cornwall is a little milder than elsewhere in England. Snow was rare but the rainfall was heavy, and sometimes the winds would blow at gale force from the southwest. There were sunny days now and then, and Jack would wheel Dermot out in his chair and take him to the gardens, help him from the chair, and he would sit for a while on one of the seats looking down on the beach. I always thought that was not a good spot to be, where he could see the rocks on which Dorabella’s bathrobe had been found.

His father would sometimes sit with him. That showed a change in the old man. I was glad and liked him better because I realized that he really cared for his son.

March had come and the first signs of spring were in the fields and hedgerows. The news suddenly grew more serious. The respite since those days when Neville Chamberlain had returned from Munich brandishing his little piece of paper and declaring there was to be peace in our time was over.

Hitler disregarded his promise and marched into Czechoslovakia.

This was alarming. It confirmed that which many people had thought possible and what must have been in the mind of the Prime Minister when he had returned from Munich and had immediately set about rearmament.

Now even those who had been opposing preparation for war realized the necessity of doing so.

Where would the German dictator turn next? The policy of appeasement was over. There could be no more standing aside. The Prime Minister had a meeting with the French premier and an agreement between the two countries was announced. They would support Poland, Rumania, and Greece if Hitler should attack them.

No longer could people run away from the truth. The storm clouds were gathering fast over Europe. How long would it be before Hitler decided to move into Poland?

He was already stating his claims to that country.

We waited for the news every day and there was a feeling of intense relief when nothing happened.

I rode often with Jowan. We loved to go onto the moors and, if the weather was warm enough, would tether our horses and sit close to an old disused mine while Jowan told me of some of the old legends of Cornwall. He would point out the prehistoric stones, so many of which had a story attached to them.

I arranged to meet him one day and when I went into the stables Seth was there.

He was always interested in me. I think it was because I was Dorabella’s sister and he believed she was one of the victims of the ghostly lady of the house of Jermyn.

Only the day before, I had walked down to the beach. I found a certain fascination there. I liked to stand close to the sea and watch the waves advance and recede, while I thought of Dorabella.

Seth had seen me there. I had looked up and there he was in the gardens looking down at me. I lifted my hand in greeting. He had returned the gesture, shaking his head at me. I think he must have meant it as a warning, telling me I should not be there.

I realized that afternoon in the stables that he was referring to this incident when he said: “Shouldn’t go down there, Miss. ’Tain’t good.”

“Do you mean the beach?” I asked. “I always make sure that the tide is not coming in and in any case I could get back into the garden. It was quite different on that day I was caught.”

He shook his head. “ ’Tain’t right. One day ’er’ll be after you. You was the one as brought him here.”

Knowing the way his mind worked, I realized that he was talking about Jowan and my breaking the feud between the houses of Tregarland and Jermyn.

“I’m all right, Seth,” I said.

He shook his head and I thought for a moment that he was going to burst into tears.

“ ’Tweren’t I,” he said. “I had naught to do with it. Not really like…”

I had lost the train of his thought, but he looked so worried that I wanted to pursue it.

“Didn’t do what, Seth?” I asked.

“I didn’t ’elp to get ’er in, like. Not really, only…”

Something was worrying him very much. This was a different turn to the conversation.

“Who, Seth?” I asked. “Who was the one you did not help?”

He was silent for a moment. Then he murmured: “Not to say. Not to tell. It’s a secret.”

“Do you mean….my sister…?”

“No. Don’t know naught about her. T’other.”

“The first Mrs. Tregarland?”

He looked at me and half nodded. “Not to say,” he went on. “ ’Er was beckoned, ’er was. ’Er had to go in. It was what ’er wanted.”

“I don’t understand, Seth. Who wanted what?”

“Wasn’t what ’er wanted. ’Er had to, didn’t ’er? But ’tweren’t I, Miss. ’Er ’ad to and ’er went.”

Gordon had come into the stable. I wondered how much of this conversation he had heard.

“Oh, hello, Violetta,” he said. “Are you going for a ride?”

“Yes.”

“It’s a good day for it.”

I wondered whether he would understand what Seth was trying to say.

I began: “Seth was telling me…”

A look of terror came into Seth’s face.

“I didn’t say nothing,” he mumbled. “I didn’t know nothing.”

“About the first Mrs. Tregarland’s accident, I think it was, Seth,” I said.

“No. No, I didn’t say nothing.”

Gordon was watching him intently. Seth lowered his eyes and shuffled away.

Gordon turned to me. He patted Starlight’s flank and helped me to mount.

“Poor Seth,” he said quietly. “He’s worse some days than others. Enjoy your ride.”

As I went out I heard him say to Seth: “I want to have a look at Black Eagle. I thought there might be something wrong.”

I rode on, thinking of Seth’s words. It was a pity he was so incoherent. One could never be sure whether what he said was actual fact or some figment of his addled mind; but I did feel he was trying to say something which was worrying him and for which he must make excuses.

Jowan was waiting for me. As always he looked delighted to see me. We rode onto the moors and, finding a sheltered spot, tethered our horses.

We sat leaning against a stone—one of a little group of six clustered round one of a much larger size. I remarked that they looked like sheep around the shepherd.

I could not forget my conversation with Seth and, as Jowan noticed my preoccupation, I told him about it.

“Poor Seth,” said Jowan. “It is sad that he had that accident. He would have been a bright young boy but for that.”

“It is sobering to think that one small incident can change our lives. I wish I knew what he was trying to say. It was almost as though he were making excuses.”

“For what?”

“Something he had done in connection with the first Mrs. Tregarland.”

“Oh…what did he say exactly?”

“It’s hard to tell what. Something he didn’t do. It was almost as though he were making excuses for some action. He kept saying it was the ghost who called her into the water.”

“He was excusing himself?”

“Well, it was so muddled, almost as though he were being blamed for something he hadn’t done.”

“Did he say he was there?”

“He never says anything as straightforward as that.”

“Did he sound as though he had been there?”

“Well, yes. And he might have gone on but Gordon came into the stables just then and he stopped.”

“Did Gordon hear?”

“Some of it, I suppose.”

“I wonder what he thought of it.”

“Well, no one takes much notice of Seth.”

“Sometimes people like that know more than you think they would. It is just possible that he might have some information, something the rest of us don’t know.”

“You mean about Annette’s death?”

“H’m. It always seemed a bit odd to me…that the champion swimmer should be drowned. It was not as though there was a gale.”

“I thought it might have been cramp.”

“Possibly. But why should Seth say it wasn’t his fault?”

“He’s obsessed by it.”

“Why?”

“Because he believes that ancestress of yours who drowned herself wants other young women to do the same…if they are connected with Tregarland. It’s a sort of revenge on the family.”

“I suppose that’s so. It mightn’t be a bad idea to find out what is in Seth’s mind.”

“I’ll see what I can do. What is happening in the outside world?”

“You mean that part in which we are all extremely interested at the moment?”

“I do indeed.”

“Well, things don’t get better. They are moving toward some climax. The latest news is that, for the first time in British history, there is to be military conscription in peacetime.”

“That sounds as though they are really expecting war.”

“If Hitler moves into Poland, there will be. I don’t think there is any doubt about his intentions, and now the days of appeasement are over, equally there can be no doubt about ours and those of the French.”

“Conscription? Does that mean…?”

“Able-bodied young men will be called up for military service.”

I looked at him in dismay.

“I expect they would say I was doing useful work by running the estate. On the other hand, if it came to conflict, I should have to be there.”

I continued to look at him. He laughed suddenly and, taking my hand, kissed it.

“It is nice to know you care,” he said.

It was a beautiful day. May had come and there was warmth in the air. When I came out of the house I saw Dermot sitting on a seat in the garden. I went over and sat beside him.

“It’s a lovely day,” I said.

He agreed. He was looking down on the beach with that infinitely sad expression, thinking, I knew, of Dorabella.

“I wonder what’s going to happen,” I said, trying to turn his thoughts to other things. “Do you think there’s going to be war?”

“I suppose so.”

“There is such uncertainty everywhere.”

He nodded and we fell into silence. I could see it was useless to try to lift him out of his melancholy.

He said suddenly: “The time goes on. They will never find her. She’s gone…forever.”

I put my hand over his and he went on: “You and I—we were the ones who loved her most.”

I said: “There are my parents. They loved her dearly, too.”

“It is not quite the same.”

“My mother hides her grief but it is there. I never found that miniature I gave her.”

“She thought a great deal of it. She often told me how she felt about you. She used to laugh about the way in which you helped her out of trouble. She said she was a monster who thought up the wildest adventures and always at the back of her mind was the thought, Violetta will have to get me out of this.”

“Yes, it was like that with us.”

“She said you were her other self. She called it a cord between you. She said you were the better half.”

“Oh, Dermot, I can’t bear to think of her.”

“Nor I.”

After that we were silent. It was no use trying to talk of other things. She was uppermost in our minds and she would keep intruding. She had once said, “Don’t ever think you’ll be rid of me. I shall always be there.”

It was true, of course.

I sat with him until Jack came to take him in.

I watched them. Jack was strong and gentle and helped Dermot into his chair. He lifted his hand to me as Jack wheeled him into the house.

I went down the slope to the beach and stood there watching the waves.

“Dorabella,” I said. “Where are you?”

Next morning, when Jack went into Dermot’s room, he found that he was dead.