The Caroline Quest: An addictive mystery novel Page 2

  I’m sure he had common sense on his side, but selling was quite beyond me and I had no intention of doing so. I needed to know that this house was there in the background, waiting for me to come back to it, however far I travelled. Sorry, Frank, I said silently. Can’t be done.

  I went out the following day and walked along the beach, noting that things were changing. A few lots had been sold along the shore and houses were being built; still, the sea hadn’t changed, nor the sky, nor the headland, nor the clean, fresh air. I breathed deep of it and felt a great deal steadier.

  It was on my way back that I met Len Hancock, a neighbour we had known for years. He’d always been good to us — had kept an eye on the house when it was unoccupied and could be relied on to fix the odd tile or check the plumbing. We stopped and talked and he said how sorry he and Patsy had been to hear about Mom, and he reminisced a little about past incidents; the time he had taken us out in his Boston whaler and we’d seen a whole shoal of dolphins, and the night when we’d gone over to his place for a barbecue and Mom had mixed lethal daiquiris.

  ‘She was a heap of fun,’ he said. ‘Kind of gave the whole place a shot in the arm when she was around.’

  I managed to smile and agree, and would have walked on, since I could feel the onset of tears once again. But he seemed reluctant to let me go. There was, it became clear to me, something else he wanted to say, though he seemed to find it difficult to begin.

  ‘How’s the family, Len? Is Patsy well?’ I asked, making an effort to behave normally. It was all the spur he needed and he became animated.

  Patsy was fine, he told me. And the children were fine, too. Doing real good, the lot of them. And his brother Hank why, he’d left New York and was building a house just nearby. Only thing was, it was all taking longer than anyone had thought and so Hank and his wife were looking for somewhere to rent. It had crossed his mind — now, he didn’t want to rush me or intrude on my grief — but had I thought what I wanted to do with our house? Maybe it was too soon to talk of such things, but if it was possible. Hank and Sally would love to rent it for six months or so, and even though he maybe shouldn’t blow his own brother’s trumpet, you’d go a long way to find finer tenants.

  I said I would think about it; and the more I thought about it, the more it seemed like a good idea. I liked Len and Patsy, had met Hank and Sally and liked them, too. It would be a comfort, if I were truly to go on an extended holiday, to know that the house was occupied and looked after. When I returned to it after my walk I wandered up to my mother’s room and stood looking out at the sea.

  ‘Shall I?’ I asked. But this time I heard no voices.

  I turned and looked around the room. Any tenant would clearly want to use this as the main bedroom since it was the largest, had its own bathroom and commanded the best view. No point in being sentimental, I thought, looking at the dressing table where my mother had sat so often, and the desk where she had written her letters. I would have to bite the bullet and clear out all her belongings.

  It was not a happy task. There were old, casual clothes hanging in the closet, and most evocative of her presence of all were a couple of bright silk kaftans she delighted to wear on summer evenings. I took them down and held them both at arm’s length in front of me. They seemed to bear the shape of her slim, dynamic body and what I was to do with them, I couldn’t imagine. I couldn’t bear the thought of anyone else wearing them, yet they were far too good to throw away. Maybe I’d pass the buck and give them to Lilian.

  On the dressing table were half-empty jars and bottles of make-up, a hairbrush with a few silvery-blonde hairs still enmeshed in it, and nail varnish in the clear red colour she liked best. In the drawers underneath underwear carried traces of her perfume.

  All the drawers were neat, for Mom had hated mess and clutter. Scarves were neatly folded, pantyhose rolled and kept in little silk sachets designed for the purpose. I kept some things, threw away others. Dusted the empty drawers, and put them back. Then I turned my attention to the desk in the far corner of the room.

  It was a bureau with a top that let down. As expected, its interior was incredibly neat, everything in little compartments. Curiously I took out the bundles of letters and photographs and old bills, feeling like an intruder. Not that there was anything particularly private or unexpected among them, though I was a little surprised to see an old, postcard-sized studio portrait of my father, who had died three months after I was born. The marriage had not been a happy one, and though I had seen the photograph before it had never been on display and was not something that I would have expected her to keep so carefully. Tucked away as it was, she had probably even forgotten it was still in existence.

  As a child, I was always curious about him, never having known him myself.

  ‘I never knew him, either,’ Jim said once, when I pressed him for information. ‘I can’t tell you what he was like. He wasn’t around much. You’ll have to ask Mom.’

  I had already asked and had got nowhere. He was handsome, Mom had said, and a good actor. Beyond that I learned nothing.

  ‘Why wasn’t he around?’ I asked Jim. He shrugged.

  ‘Dunno. Just wasn’t. I really don’t remember him much.’

  ‘He must have come home sometimes,’ I reasoned.

  ‘Guess so. He just wasn’t the kind of dad who’d take a kid fishing or to a ball game. I don’t think he liked kids much. To tell the truth, I was a bit frightened of him, he was such a stranger. He was kind of powerful.’ he added, after a moment’s thought.

  ‘Powerful? How powerful?’

  ‘Dunno. Just kind of ‘ He’d hesitated, trying to find the right word. ‘Threatening. I guess. As if he could get real mad if a guy didn’t behave.’

  It wasn’t until I’d been twelve, going on thirteen, that I’d learned the truth. All I knew until then was that my father had drowned in a boating accident. It took a mean-spirited older girl I’d beaten to a starring role in a school play to taunt me with the true facts. He’d been a drunk and a druggie, she said, and he’d fallen off a friend’s yacht and drowned himself after an all-night orgy with a group of film actors and starlets.

  ‘Well, that’s what they said they were, but really they were nothing more than call-girls,’ she’d told me in shocked tones, loving every minute.

  ‘That’s nonsense!’ I’d said.

  ‘No, it’s not. My mom told me, and she knows all about it because it was in the papers. So there!’

  When I confronted my mother, she confirmed that this account was largely true.

  ‘You should have told me,’ I flung at her bitterly. ‘I felt such a fool, not knowing.’

  ‘Maybe I should,’ she admitted. ‘I was going to, when you were older.’

  ‘You might have known someone would tell me. After all, he was a famous actor.’

  ‘Not so famous,’ she said wearily, and sighed. ‘Sure, it was a nine-day wonder, but I thought it had all been forgotten a long time ago. God knows, I’ve almost succeeded in forgetting it myself.’

  ‘He was my father!’

  She’d looked at me in silence for what seemed a long while, then she sighed again and put her arms round me.

  ‘He wasn’t a bad man, sweetheart. Just very weak and self-indulgent and quite unsuited to marriage. He couldn’t take responsibility, you see. Not for himself or for anyone else. You won’t grow up like that, not with me behind you. You mustn’t let it worry you.’

  It did worry me, though less and less as time went by, until in later years I’d hardly ever given him a thought. Until now. I studied the face of the man in the photograph with the utmost concentration. How terrible, I thought, if I turned out to be weak and irresponsible and self-indulgent, too. After all, here I was, twenty-three years old, a failed actress, with plenty of money but not an idea in the world of what I ought to do with my life. Did some gene lurk within me that would prevent me doing anything worthwhile?

  The face, at least, was nothing like mine. I co
uld see no likeness — never had done, neither to me nor Jim. He was good-looking, as my mother had said, but in a dark and smouldering kind of way. He would, I thought, have made a good Heathcliff.

  As I studied the photograph, Jim’s long-ago description came to mind. He did look both powerful and threatening, with an added touch of petulance, as if irritation were boiling just below the surface. It struck me that even if I had never heard anything about him, I could have guessed that he was the kind of man to think only of himself, not of his wife and children at home. It was not the kind of face that appealed to me or would ever attract me, but even so I found I could not throw the photograph away. I put it in a shoebox I found in the wardrobe, together with various other pictures that were in the desk, mostly of myself and Jim when young.

  I turned my attention to the desk again and found that in the centre was a small, locked drawer. It presented no problem for me, for I had seen the key in a little porcelain box on the dressing table. Inside there were more papers; private letters, for the most part years old and of no particular significance. I riffled through them, tore them across and threw them away. At one time my mother had opened an account with a local Corey Cove bank, and although she had closed it a few years later, beneath the letters was the half-used cheque book and a few bank statements. Under them was another letter consisting of several pages, and I unfolded them feeling nothing more than a mild curiosity.

  How could I possibly have known that what I was to read would turn my world upside down?

  Two

  There was an English address at the top — I8 Cranleigh Road, the address that had been Jim’s, I recognised with a shock — yet the letter was dated 9th July, I990, nine years previously and just over a month after he had been killed. I remembered that period so well. His body had been flown back to New York and we had come to the Cape immediately after the funeral service. We had stayed for the rest of the summer.

  ‘Dear Mrs Crozier,’ the letter ran.

  I know that this will come as a shock to you, and it is hard for me to know where to begin. I am still in a state of shock myself, and have not been able to bring myself to write before. Now I feel I can put it off no longer.

  I am aware that Jim never told you of my existence. The truth is that we were very close — in fact, we loved each other and for the last four months of his life we lived together.

  I am also aware that for some reason you have an antipathy towards the British. This is why Jim never mentioned me to you — which was the only thing I can think of about which we differed. I felt that you should be told, particularly as we would undoubtedly have married had Jim lived.

  The reason I am writing now is that only the week after he died, I had confirmation that I was pregnant. I am well into my third month of pregnancy, and our baby is due towards the end of January next year. I know that you and Jim did not see eye to eye about a good many things but, for all that, he felt a great affection and respect for you and I am certain he would want you to know about your prospective grandchild. What you do about it is up to you.

  Neither of my own parents is alive. My father was in the army and was killed in Northern Ireland ten years ago, while my mother died last year. I have no brothers or sisters, so am very much on my own apart from my father’s sister, who has always been very good to me. For this reason, I have no doubt that friends, when they hear of my situation, will urge me to have a termination, but this is something I have no intention of doing and I hope you will back me in this decision. This baby is a part of Jim, whom I loved with all my heart, and whatever the difficulties I will keep him and bring him up myself. For some reason I feel quite convinced I will have a boy!

  I am a competent and experienced secretary, fluent in both French and German and up to date with all the latest information technology. I feel sure I could find work anywhere. If you would like me to come to America so that you could be part of your grandchild’s life, I would be willing to do so as I have few ties here.

  On the other hand, I am not asking for anything you feel unwilling to give. I am young and healthy and very independent. I am perfectly capable of fending for myself and my child, but thought it only fair to you and to Jim to let you know the state of affairs.

  Hoping to hear from you, I am yours sincerely.

  Caroline Bethany.

  Below the signature, in my mother’s handwriting, was a further note:

  One thousand dollars sent July 23, I990.

  And she never said a word to me! Not then, not since.

  There was no other comment, no clue as to what she might have replied to this unknown, bereaved girl. I read the letter through again, my disbelief growing. How brave was Caroline Bethany, how admirable her attitude. And how solitary she was! In my over-emotional state of mind I found the newly banished tears welling in my eyes again.

  But then the importance of what she had written hit me in the solar plexus and excitement took the place of sadness. Somewhere in England I had a nephew — or a niece, I reminded myself, seeing that I had followed the unknown Caroline Bethany in assuming the child would be a boy.

  It was clear that my mother had not invited her to America unless, of course, she had sent the money so that Caroline could pay her air fare if she wanted to. Somehow I doubted it. The very fact that she had said nothing to me made me think that her reply had been cool, for why, otherwise, had there been no other communication? No Christmas or birthday cards, no photographs? Surely these would have been in evidence if she had shown any kind of friendliness?

  Of course, I had been very young at the time; I’d celebrated my fourteenth birthday only three days before that letter was written. Now I was much closer to the age that Jim had been at the time of his death, and the enormity of my mother’s action took my breath away.

  ‘My God, Martha Crozicr,’ I said to the spirit within that house. ‘You could be a bitch when you put your mind to it.’

  I had always known it, of course. She had laughed at misfortune and never gave in to despair during the bad times. She was smart and attractive, not demonstratively loving but casually affectionate and always reliable but by heaven, she was hard-nosed. And she sure as hell didn’t like the British.

  Was it a boy. I wondered? I was on fire, suddenly, with the desire to find out, thrilled beyond expression to think that after all I was not entirely alone in the world. Somewhere out there was a nine-going-on-ten-year-old boy or girl who was Jim’s child.

  I dialled the number for international information and asked if they had a Caroline Bethany listed at the Chiswick, West London address I remembered so well from the days when I had written regularly to Jim.

  I hardly dared hope that she would still be there, and of course, she wasn’t. I put the phone back in its cradle and reread the letter. When I had done so, I sat chewing my lip, thinking hard.

  Lovells. I thought. The firm of fine art auctioneers Jim had worked for. This was my only avenue of enquiry. There must surely be someone still working there who was there at the time of Jim’s death, someone who would remember him and his girlfriend and would know where to find her. Maybe Caroline had worked there, too. Maybe she still did! I called International Enquiries once more to get Lovells’ number and was about to dial it when I realised it was Easter Sunday and that there was hardly likely to be anyone at work. My call would have to wait for some future date.

  Meantime, however, all my indecision had left me. I knew now what I had to do. The moment I was released from Bower Street I would fly to England, find Caroline Bethany wherever she was surely it couldn’t be difficult in such a small country? Rescue her from the life of drudgery I felt sure she must be living and bring her back to the States. My imagination leapt ahead. I certainly wouldn’t sell this house now! It was a kid’s paradise and Jim’s boy would love it. There, I was doing it again! It could just as easily be a girl. It didn’t matter. She’d love it, too.

  I had one night in New York before flying back to LA and spent it going th
rough Mom’s papers there. There was certainly plenty to deal with. Letters of sympathy, a few bills, junk mail which still kept coming even though it was I and not she who had to throw it in the bin. There was also a list from the Chapel of Rest of all the people who had sent flowers to the funeral. Some famous names were there, the cream of Broadway, but there were many whom I recognised as friends and acquaintances. Others were completely strange to me. Who, I wondered, was Olga Stanovsky? She sounded like a Russian spy. And as for Sir Timothy Crofthouse — well, he sounded just the kind of Englishman my mother couldn’t abide. How she could ever have met him was a total mystery to me, but I assumed him to be an actor, even though I had never heard of him. I could almost see him in my mind’s eye grey and distinguished and probably very handsome in a military kind of way. That kind of man could often have a long, but totally unstarry career in Hollywood playing carls or lords or aristocratic roles. Sometimes they did very well as butlers, too. Whatever; I just hoped that receiving a wreath from him wasn’t enough to make my Anglophobe mother turn in her grave.

  I was more interested in the older papers I found in her office and spent a long time going through them just incase there was any more information about Caroline. I found no other references to her, but I did unearth a photograph of Jim and another guy which must have been taken a year or so after his defection to England. I remembered it arriving remembered thinking how distinguished Jim looked in his grey suit with a smart shirt and a tie. Mom had been annoyed by it because in some strange and indefinable way her all-American son looked so English. It was the suit that did it, I guess, and the fact that they were standing beside an ancient stone wall covered in rambling roses.

  ‘Steve and me in the garden of Summerton Manor,’ he had written on the back.

  We went there to work, but personally I just couldn’t feel more at home in these stately surroundings. Sorry, Mom!