The Distant Shores Page 3

  ‘Really, Mrs Walbridge, if it was the housekeeping ghost she’d hardly make a mess she’d have to clean up.’ Margot laughed carelessly. ‘My fault entirely. Typically clumsy of me! Now, where were we?’

  Mrs Walbridge took a gulp of sherry. ‘You were just saying you did not believe in ghosts!’

  Chapter 2

  Margot did not expect to sleep much that night. The episode with the glass, and Mrs Walbridge’s reaction to it, had put the wind up her. She did not believe in ghosts, but turning out the light and listening to the creaking and groaning of the castle made her feel oddly apprehensive. However, it had been a long drive and she was tired. Shortly after putting her head on the pillow, the exceedingly comfortable pillow – Mrs de Lisle had spared no cost – she sank into a deep and dreamless sleep.

  In the morning she ordered room service and drank her coffee at her desk, reading through her notes and working out where she needed to focus her research. There were eight Lord Deverills: Barton, Egerton, Tarquin, Peregrine, Greville, Hubert, Bertie and finally Jack Patrick, the present Lord Deverill. As they were a high-profile family with political influence, at least up until Greville at the end of the nineteenth century, Margot had managed to research the first five lords pretty thoroughly. They were all colourful characters and fabulously wealthy, with dark secrets, including the usual extramarital affairs and illegitimate children favoured by the aristocracy. Barton had been a tyrant, Egerton a bully and horrid to his wife, and the worst, Tarquin, had been cruel to his disabled son who had drowned on his tenth birthday in the ornamental pond in the castle grounds. It was rumoured that his father turned a blind eye and allowed it to happen, because the child brought shame upon the family name. Tarquin’s wife died shortly after, of a broken heart.

  The last sixty years were Margot’s main focus now, from Hubert Deverill to the present day. But it was going to be challenging when so many of the leading personalities were still alive. There was JP, the current Lord Deverill, and his ex-wife, Alana, who had moved to America after their divorce. She had apparently taken him to the cleaners in the courts, leaving him with no alternative but to sell the castle. They had three children who were in their late twenties and thirties. Margot wasn’t sure where they were. Then there was Celia Deverill and her second husband Boysie Bancroft who were in their mid to late eighties – they lived in Paris. And JP’s twin sister, Martha, and her husband Joshua, who divided their time between California and Cork. If Margot wanted information she was going to have to be devious. It was unlikely that any of these characters would want to help her.

  To Margot’s relief the fog had cleared in the night, leaving a crisp blue sky and feathery white clouds. The lawn glittered with a sprinkling of frost. Some sort of animal had trotted across it in the night, leaving its meandering footprints as evidence of the fun it had had while the castle slept. Margot decided she’d take a look around the town. If she was going to write about the Deverills, it was important to put the castle into context. After all, the relationship between the family and Ballinakelly had always been an uncertain one. The family had inspired both hatred and loyalty in the Irish; it was important to give a balanced account, as Mrs Walbridge would say.

  Excited to be in Deverill heartland Margot put on her bright red coat and bobble hat and hurried downstairs. Mrs Walbridge was in the lobby, standing in front of the fire in a camel-hair coat and crocheted hat that resembled a tea cosy. ‘Good morning,’ said Margot cheerfully.

  Mrs Walbridge’s keen little eyes lit up. ‘Good morning, dear,’ she replied. ‘Are you going out?’

  ‘Yes, I’m heading into town.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Mrs Walbridge. ‘I’m waiting for a taxi.’

  ‘You can come with me if you like,’ Margot offered. ‘I have a car.’

  ‘Oh, how very kind. I’m visiting a friend who lives just the other side of Ballinakelly, by the sea.’

  ‘How lovely. I’ll get to see more of the countryside. I’ll ask them to cancel your taxi.’

  A moment later Mrs Walbridge was putting on her gloves and following Margot out into the sunshine. ‘Isn’t it a beautiful day,’ she gushed. ‘Ireland is so unpredictable. One day you can’t see further than your nose because of fog and the next it’s like this. As blue as cornflowers.’

  Margot unlocked the door of her Volkswagen Beetle, which was as blue as Mrs Walbridge’s cornflower sky, and climbed in. Mrs Walbridge waited patiently as she gathered up the papers and magazines, crisp packets and cola bottles she’d left on the passenger seat and chucked them into the back. ‘Ready for you now, Mrs Walbridge,’ she called.

  Mrs Walbridge climbed stiffly into the car, taking a while to settle into a comfortable position and to strap herself in. ‘My name is Dorothy, by the way. You can call me Dorothy if you like.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Margot, turning the key. ‘I will.’

  Just as they were about to set off a robin fluttered in front of the windscreen and alighted onto the bonnet of the car. ‘Well, would you look at that!’ exclaimed Margot in amazement.

  ‘Oh, this happens to me all the time,’ said Dorothy casually. ‘I have a thing with robins. It’s extraordinary. They’re always trying to get my attention. I’m not sure what it means, but they seem to be drawn to me.’

  ‘St Francis of Assisi – St Dorothy,’ said Margot with a laugh.

  The robin hopped closer then perched on the windscreen wiper and pecked at the glass with its sharp little beak. ‘You see?’ said Dorothy with a sigh. ‘It’s as if it’s trying to tell me something.’

  ‘Well, I can’t drive away until it flies off,’ said Margot, letting go of the steering wheel.

  ‘Go on, little robin,’ said Dorothy, leaning forward to tap the glass. The robin looked put out, stared at her for a long moment and then took flight. ‘Extraordinary,’ she repeated with a shake of the head. ‘And only robins. The other birds couldn’t care a fig about me.’

  Margot put the car into gear and set off down the drive.

  ‘I wonder, would you like to come with me?’ Dorothy asked, keen to repay Margot for her kindness. ‘I’m going to visit my dear friend Emer O’Leary. She’s JP Deverill’s mother-in-law although, since the divorce, the two of them have barely spoken. But being related to the family you’re writing about, she might be helpful. You never know. It’s worth a try.’

  ‘Really? You don’t think she’d mind me turning up with you, uninvited?’

  ‘Oh no, this isn’t England, dear. The Irish are very hospitable. She’d love to meet you, I’m sure. A famous writer like you.’

  Margot couldn’t believe her luck. She’d only been at the castle one night and already she had a meeting with someone close to the Deverill family. If Mrs O’Leary was angry with her son-in-law she might be happy to share some family secrets. As she drove down the winding lanes Margot felt happiness expanding in her chest. The day could not have started more positively.

  This time she was able to appreciate the wild beauty of the landscape. There was no fog to obscure the green pastures and rugged hills, no drizzle on the windscreen to mar her view. Sheep grazed in the sunshine on wild grasses and heather and wandered carefree among the crumbling ruins of long-abandoned cottages and drystone walls. Red kites circled above, their vast wings spread, ready to swoop on an unsuspecting creature minding its business in the undergrowth below. There was a sense of drama in those hills that appealed to Margot’s love of stories. A sense of history. As if the resonance of centuries of conflict lingered in the soil still. As if its stain could never be washed away no matter how much it rained.

  The O’Learys’ home was a modest white house with a grey-slate roof, nestled in a sheltered bay with a view of the sea. The tide was out, leaving the sand damp and teeming with small creatures for the gulls to squabble over. Even in the bleakest of winter months, the velvet green hills and jagged cliffs possessed a Gothic charm. ‘What a beautiful place to live,’ said Margot, more to herself than to her companion. A
part of her longed for such isolation.

  She parked the car in front of the house.

  ‘Emer has a lovely life. She’s lived all over, you know. In America and Argentina – which is where I met her – and, for the greater part of her life, here. I thought when her daughter moved to the States she’d go with her, but her husband is Irish to his marrow. I don’t think he’d want to be anywhere but here in Ballinakelly. He fought for independence, you know. He was brave and passionate and terribly idealistic. Quite the romantic hero. You can’t take that kind of patriotism out of a man like Jack O’Leary, and place him on the other side of the world and expect him to thrive. His heart would wither. He’d die of homesickness.’ Dorothy paused a moment and sighed pensively. ‘He’s old now, nearly ninety, but he’s still got an air of mystery about him, you’ll see.’

  Margot suspected that Dorothy was a little in love with Jack O’Leary.

  She followed her to the front door and watched her give it a vigorous knock. A moment later there was a shuffling sound behind it and then it opened. An elderly woman with short grey hair and a gentle face looked from Dorothy to Margot and raised her eyebrows in surprise. ‘I’ve brought my new friend to meet you, Emer,’ said Dorothy. ‘Margot Hart is the Writer in Residence at the castle. She’s famous.’

  Margot put out her hand and smiled bashfully. ‘I wouldn’t go as far as saying I’m famous—’

  ‘Oh, but you are, Margot. I should know, I’ve read your book,’ Dorothy cut in with a chuckle. ‘She’s a very good writer too. I’m a fan!’

  Emer shook Margot’s hand. ‘You’re very welcome,’ she said, smiling in amusement at Dorothy’s enthusiasm. She opened the door wide and stepped aside to let them pass. ‘Any friend of Dorothy’s is a friend of mine.’

  The three of them went into the sitting room. Bright sunlight streamed through the windows and a fire crackled hospitably in the grate. Dorothy didn’t wait to be offered a seat but sank into one of the comfy chairs with a sigh, quite at home. She smoothed down her skirt and smiled with satisfaction. ‘What a delicious smell,’ she exclaimed.

  ‘I’ve been baking,’ Emer replied. ‘My grandson is coming for lunch today and he likes my apple pie. He’s nearly thirty but he wants me to cook his favourite things as if he were still a boy. Now, would you like a cup of tea?’

  ‘That would be lovely,’ said Dorothy.

  ‘Can I help you?’ Margot asked.

  ‘If you don’t mind, you can bring the tray in for me,’ said Emer.

  ‘Now I’m down, I’ll stay down,’ said Dorothy decisively. ‘It’s lovely here by the fire. Just lovely.’

  Margot followed Mrs O’Leary into the kitchen. It was a light, pretty room with a pine floor, worn in the places that had sustained the most traffic. An antique wooden dresser was pressed up against the back wall, a long refectory table in front of it, laden with newspapers. A wicker laundry basket had been left on a chair, overflowing with clothes waiting to be ironed. ‘Do excuse the mess. I wasn’t expecting company. Or rather, I wasn’t expecting famous company.’ Emer arched an eyebrow and Margot suspected that she was less easily impressed than Dorothy.

  ‘Dorothy told me you met in Argentina,’ she said.

  ‘We did, many aeons ago. She’s been a dear friend for years.’ Emer moved unhurriedly about the kitchen, opening cupboards, taking down china cups and saucers and arranging them tidily on a tray. She poured milk into a jug and assembled biscuits in a semicircle on a plate. She was elegant yet unpretentious in a pair of trousers, floral shirt and long cardigan. Margot imagined her as a young woman. She was probably never a great beauty, but she possessed a certain serenity that imbued her face with charm. Her eyes were a delicate shade of blue, the expression in them kind with a twinkle of humour. She sensed Emer was a patient and intelligent woman, which was probably just what a passionate man like Jack O’Leary needed.

  ‘So tell me, Margot, what are you writing up there at the castle?’ Emer asked, standing at the stove while the kettle simmered.

  Margot braced herself for Emer’s reaction. ‘A history of the Deverills,’ she answered, then held her breath.

  Emer didn’t miss a beat. ‘I suppose there’s enough for a book,’ she said, narrowing her eyes reflectively.

  ‘I’m going right back to Barton Deverill.’

  ‘And up to where?’ Emer looked at her steadily and Margot sensed the suspicion behind her smile.

  ‘I’ll probably take it up to the Second World War,’ Margot lied and then regretted it. She had every intention of bringing it right up to the present day and wished she’d been honest about it.

  ‘That would be prudent.’

  ‘My grandfather was Anglo-Irish and hunted with the Deverills back in the day. He remembered them fondly.’

  This piece of information immediately diffused any awkwardness. Mrs O’Leary nodded and her suspicion evaporated behind a relieved smile. ‘Oh well, that makes all the difference,’ she said happily. ‘You’re friend not foe.’

  Margot looked horrified and put a hand on her heart. ‘Absolutely not foe, Mrs O’Leary. I’m a massive fan of the family and the castle, especially. It’s really the history of the castle that I’m interested in writing.’

  ‘It was my daughter’s home for seventeen years and her children’s home. It broke their hearts when JP sold it. But that’s life. We can’t always have what we want and we must make do. It’s only bricks and mortar, after all. The truth is that home is where love is. And there wasn’t much love left there. That’s the real tragedy.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Margot, curious to know more.

  ‘Why don’t you take the tray into poor Dorothy. She’ll be wondering what we’re doing in here while she’s sitting in there on her own.’

  Margot did as she was told. Emer O’Leary was a straight-talking, practical woman and yet her tone was gentle and wise. Margot believed that if she and her son-in-law, JP Deverill, were not speaking, it was because he didn’t want to speak to her, not the other way round. Margot didn’t imagine Emer to be a woman to bear a grudge.

  She put the tray down on the table in front of the fire. A moment later Emer came in with the teapot. ‘Tell me, Dorothy, did you sleep well last night? Did you see that ghost again?’

  ‘I slept like a baby, Emer. Mr Dukelow, the manager, was kind enough to move me to another room.’

  ‘That’s very good of him.’ Emer passed her a teacup.

  ‘Oh, how lovely.’ Dorothy sighed with pleasure. ‘Mr Dukelow has taken my first two nights off my bill,’ she added with a delighted smile. ‘Fancy that.’

  Emer poured tea into Margot’s cup, then poured one for herself and sat down in an armchair by the fire. ‘I would say that Mr Dukelow doesn’t want you spreading ghost stories around. If people get wind of the fact that the place is haunted they might stop coming altogether.’

  ‘That’s what I said,’ Margot agreed. ‘Although I would have thought people would be more likely to come. Ghosts are all the rage, you know. I have a friend in London who’s a medium. I’m not entirely sure that he really communicates with the dead, but it’s big business.’

  ‘I’d like the dead to stay dead,’ said Dorothy with a sniff. ‘I certainly don’t want any strange apparitions in my bedroom, if you don’t mind. If I’d known the hotel was riddled with them, I would have chosen another.’

  ‘I did invite you to stay here,’ said Emer.

  ‘Jack doesn’t like visitors. Although he says he doesn’t mind, I know he does. And I like to be independent and not to be a burden to anyone.’

  ‘He’ll be here shortly. He went out to take the dog for a walk.’

  ‘That’s why he’s going to live until he’s a hundred,’ said Dorothy. ‘The secret to longevity is taking lots of exercise.’

  ‘And luck,’ Emer added. ‘But luck runs out in the end.’

  The three of them chatted in the cosy, soporific atmosphere of the little sitting room. The cast-iron fireback r
adiated warmth while specks of dust danced like fireflies in the shafts of sunlight that spilled through the windowpanes. Margot finished her tea and ate a couple of biscuits and listened to Dorothy and Emer reminiscing about Argentina. Her eyes strayed to the photographs placed on the side tables in frames. Attractive, happy people, smiling for the camera. She longed to ask who they were, but didn’t want to look like she was prying – or researching her book.

  A while later the front door opened and a gust of cold air swept into the sitting room from the hall. A dog came into the room, panting. ‘I hope you’re not a wet dog,’ said Emer reproachfully. Whether he was wet or not, the mongrel sniffed the guests then turned his back and trotted out into the hall to join his master. A moment later Jack O’Leary appeared. He wasn’t a large man, but his charisma was powerful and filled the room. It suddenly felt too small for the four of them.

  ‘Hello, Dorothy,’ he said, acknowledging his wife’s friend with a nod, as if he saw her every day and didn’t need to bother with pleasantries. Dorothy gazed up at him, an expression of awe and delight igniting a little fire in her eyes. He then turned to Margot. She stood up and put out her hand. ‘It’s very nice to meet you, Mr O’Leary,’ she said.

  ‘This is Margot Hart, Dorothy’s friend,’ Emer told him. ‘She’s the Writer in Residence up at the castle. Imagine that, Jack, they have a Writer in Residence now!’

  ‘That’s grand,’ said Jack in his gruff Irish brogue that brought to Margot’s mind winds buffeting cliffs and wild waves crashing against rocks. Dorothy had been right, this man was as much part of Ireland as a shamrock.

  Jack O’Leary might have been nearly ninety but Margot could tell that he was once a dashingly handsome man. His hair was grey, his face as haggard as that of an old fisherman who has spent his life in the elements, but his eyes were the colour of deep blue sea glass, unfathomable and full of secrets. Margot sensed that he had lived many lives, and suffered. His skin betrayed a lifetime of turbulence in the hundreds of lines carved into it. Most of all it told of loss.