The Darkest Hour. Barbara Erskine
sipped the coffee then glanced at him over the rim of the mug. ‘I don’t suppose either of them haunt this place?’
It was his turn to laugh. ‘Well, Ralph never came here, so I doubt if he would. But Evie?’ He wrinkled his brow. ‘She has certainly left a strong presence here, let’s put it that way.’
She looked thoughtful for a moment and he put down his mug. ‘You weren’t being serious?’
‘No, of course not,’ she said quickly, ‘but, as you say, she has left a strong presence here. One would have to be very insensitive not to feel it.’
‘She loved this place. It feels a bit like a betrayal to be moving her stuff out, if I’m honest.’
‘That’s how Mrs Davis feels. But I can understand your fiancée wanting to –’
‘She’s not my fiancée,’ he interrupted sharply.
‘Sorry. Partner, then. Whatever.’ She changed the subject hurriedly. ‘It is helpful for me to have it all out there, then I can sort through it more easily.’ She hesitated. ‘I gather from Mrs Davis that any diaries there may have been were inherited by your cousin?’
He frowned. ‘I don’t think Evie kept any diaries.’
She looked puzzled. ‘I must have misunderstood. No matter. There seem to be a great many letters from her friends. I am sure I can find material there. She was obviously a hoarder!’ She smiled.
‘Indeed.’ He stood up suddenly. ‘Shall we go to the studio and take a look?’
She followed him into the lush garden with its kaleidoscope of flowers, the grass perhaps a little too long now. It showed a trail of damp footprints behind them and she felt her feet grow wet in her sandals. Did he have a gardener, she wondered, or did he do it himself at weekends? She felt a pang of guilt. Their precious little garden behind the gallery was overgrown. It looked unloved. Neither she nor Robin had the time to look after it any more.
Mike produced a key and opened the door to the studio. He went in and looked round. ‘You seem to have tidied up. Or was that Dolly?’
‘Me!’ Lucy moved over to the table. ‘I needed space to work and make notes. There is a tremendous amount of stuff here. Even her clothes.’ She moved over to a couple of large cardboard boxes. ‘Shoes. Hats. Handbags.’
‘Ah.’ For a moment he looked uncomfortable. ‘Charlotte may have misunderstood when I said we should put her papers out here. She seems to have brought everything.’
‘It’s a small house,’ Lucy said sympathetically. ‘I’m sure you both need the space. I’ll go through it all and then perhaps you can decide what should be kept. For the archive,’ she added hastily, afraid she might have overstepped the mark.
‘Good idea.’ He glanced round helplessly. ‘There seems to be an awful lot more stuff than I expected. How on earth are you going to find time to go through everything?’
‘With great difficulty if I can only come once or twice a week.’ She glanced up at him frankly.
He shook his head. ‘I can see that. Perhaps we can find a way of circumventing Dolly’s surveillance.’
For a moment she was speechless. ‘Does she give the orders round here then?’ she said at last.
He screwed up his face quizzically. ‘Pretty much. I rely on her such a lot. You can see why. I’m away most of the time and she has been coming here for more than forty years. The house and garden wouldn’t survive without her.
‘I see.’ Lucy sighed. ‘Sorry. It’s not my business anyway. It won’t be hard obviously to sort out the paperwork from the other stuff.’ She gave a reluctant smile. ‘Then I’ll try and roughly put it into some kind of chronological order. I hope she won’t mind me using a computer?’
‘Now. Now.’ The reprimand was gentle. ‘I’m sure it will be fine. We are going to help you as much as we can.’
She felt very small suddenly. ‘Sorry. It’s frustration. I can’t wait to start.’
‘Then why not start now? I won’t get in your way. Perhaps we can adjourn to the pub at lunchtime to compare notes?’ He paused. ‘I don’t know how to tell you this but I’m afraid there is still much more in the house.’
She made a face. ‘It is her whole life, Michael. May I call you Michael? Mrs Davis, Dolly, is always so formal. But as long as there is room in the studio we can go on bringing it over here. It is all stacking away quite neatly.’ She hesitated for a moment. ‘I take it you have no reservations about all this. You haven’t changed your mind about me working here?’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t think we’ve got anything to hide. If I had the slightest inkling that there was I wouldn’t let you within a mile of it all. Please don’t let Dolly put you off. And it’s Mike. Please.’
She watched as he strode back across the lawn towards the shed in the far corner. Ah, her question about lawn mowing was about to be answered. She saw him bend to pick up a red fuel can from just inside the door. He shook it experimentally, nodded as though satisfied there was enough fuel for his enterprise and then dragged the mower out into the sunshine.
Leaving the door open to let in the sunlight she turned back to the boxes. Almost at once she struck gold. A small battered attaché case had been pushed into one of the large cardboard cartons, together with several shabby leather handbags. Lucy was about to push the whole lot to one side when she saw the locks on the case. One of them had flipped open. She pulled the case out of the box and set it on the table. The other lock was stiff but after some tugging it reluctantly sprang back as well, releasing a musty smell of old leather. Inside the lid there were several suede pockets, ragged now and full of small holes as though they had been nibbled by some insect, one full of unused envelopes, the others stuffed with sheets of paper closely covered in small scrawled writing, much crossed out and rewritten. Pulling out a handful she stared down at them. Was this Evie’s handwriting? She set the sheets down on the table and selected one, trying to decipher the words. It has come to my notice that … then a bit that was crossed out. Lucy squinted at it … you have been less than honest, then another bit more clear this time. How could you do this to me? Lucy hooked her foot around the leg of the stool behind her, pulling it closer and she sat down, her eyes glued to the sheet of paper. It was the rough draft of a letter. Carefully she read it through. There was much in the same vein – recriminations, anger, frustration – the strongest passages crossed and recrossed out, softened, reworded. She turned over the last sheet. Nothing. She sorted through all the sheets. Of this particular letter there was no beginning and no ending. To her enormous frustration there was no way of telling who it had been addressed to or the date.
The other fragments of paper she pulled out were varied and torn but some, to her great delight, were actually about Evie’s painting.
‘Yes!’ Lucy murmured. This was what she wanted. She glanced over her shoulder towards the door. Mike was moving steadily behind the mower in the distance, partially hidden behind a couple of ancient apple trees. Her first instinct had been to call him and show him what she had found but something made her pause. In spite of what he had said she still wasn’t a hundred per cent convinced that he was wholly on side about the biography. If I had the slightest inkling that there was anything to hide I wouldn’t let you within a mile. The words echoed in her head for a moment. There was a warning there; a threat even. If she uncovered more personal stuff was he likely to confiscate it or worse, burn it? She had heard of families reacting like that before. She hesitated, tempted to stuff the contentious pages into her bag. No, that would be unforgivable, stealing. But perhaps just for now she would quietly put them safely to one side and wait to see what else turned up.
It was after one o’clock when Mike stuck his head round the door. ‘Would this be a good moment to stroll up to the pub?’ He stepped into the studio and fished in his pocket for a piece of paper. ‘Put