Garth of Tregillis (2 page)

This made no sense to me. ‘Cousin Eunice?’ I groped.

‘Not a cousin really: a distant relation on Daddy’s side. She had lost her job and was in desperate straits and got in touch with him, and he invited her to stay at Tregillis. He was a lonely man in many ways, but he liked to have family around and I suppose he thought that she’d be loyal.’

‘I don’t recollect her name. You didn’t mention her to me—not while we were at school,’ I said after a moment.

‘No, she wasn’t there then—nor Garth,’ Diana replied.

‘Everything was different when I went home that last time before Mummy and I came to London.’

‘Garth!’ I said. ‘He’s your cousin, who was to inherit instead-’

‘Instead of me,’ she finished. ‘Yes, Tregillis goes to the nearest male.’ Her tone gave no clue to her attitude and I was silent for a moment.

‘What is he like, this Garth?’ I asked curiously.

‘Don’t ask me what Garth is like, because I simply don’t know.

I thought I did, but now—’

She was silent after that and I recollected her remark about her cousin Eunice. When I mentioned her father’s relation I found Diana forthcoming enough. She brightened a little as she said, ‘We got on quite well together in spite of the fact that she’s really quite old. She’s a strange person in lots of ways—not easy to know—but she was devoted to Daddy—and after all that’s what counts.’

‘It’s something this cousin Eunice said that has made you so unhappy—’ I groped. ‘But what—’

Her eyes were fixed on the long window, wide and distrait, and I knew that whatever vision troubled her mind she was not aware of the scene outside, where pale green leaves were newly opened against the rough soot-encrusted bark of the London trees. She said—‘Oh, it was something she said about Daddy and Garth.

About the day they went sailing together and Daddy was drowned.’

She stopped abruptly and when she spoke again her manner was completely altered.

This was obviously not all she had been about to say, but at the same time I thought I was beginning to get a glimmer of the way in which my friend had been changed from the poised, self-possessed girl who had grown up with me to this distracted creature with the wide, haunted eyes. This Eunice had perhaps managed to fill Diana’s mind with the idea that her father’s death had been unnecessary. Her brooding depression was due to the idea that if only she had been there herself she could have saved her father’s life.

‘You mustn’t let this Eunice put morbid ideas into your mind, Diana,’ I said as bracingly as I could. ‘You’ll only make yourself ill thinking that things might have been different. After all, you went away from your home only because your father himself asked you to stay with your mother.’

She eyed me, her glance troubled. ‘But Mummy has been dead for years! I could have gone back, Judith, and I know Daddy wanted me, but somehow I couldn’t—I stayed on here in the house Mummy left me and built up a life for myself. He’d asked Garth to stay with him at Tregillis, as he was to be his heir. Everything would have been different if I’d gone home.’

Somehow I felt taken aback by this information.

It was only natural she should remain in London and live her own life, I told myself, and yet, knowing how attached she had been to her father, it seemed strange to me that she should not have returned to Tregillis like a homing pigeon after her mother’s death.

It was clear that there was some good reason why she had not done so.

I waited a moment, wondering if she would say more. Instead she abruptly changed the subject and, strangely enough, I felt a sense of relief. She seemed reassured for the moment by our conversation—less troubled in her mind—and in spite of my curiosity I had a selfish reluctance to become too much involved.

Now as I riffled through the sheets of paper I felt the same sense of relief. They were nothing more than receipts and the mundane conglomeration of correspondence that one accumulates in running a home. Secretly I had been dreading what I might find amongst Diana Seaton’s private papers.

But this was only the beginning. There were still stacks of correspondence and miscellaneous papers to be gone through and I made a great bundle of the contents of her desk and, crossing over to the sofa, placed them on a small occasional table and stretched myself out. Gradually I began to relax. So far, they had all been fairly innocuous: a receipt from an exclusive boutique; lists of groceries; accounts from catering firms. And, a little sadly, I noticed she had preserved the letters from her admirers: some fiery, some pathetic. It was obvious that she had treated them all with kindly detachment. On some she had scrawled reminders that seemed to underline her indifference. ‘Must try to meet Rex next week.’ Or, ‘Poor darling Bob proposed for the seventh time. Will really have to put a finish to this.’ No, whatever it was that had caused Diana such anguish it had certainly not been a love affair.

It was when I came on the small blue morocco-bound book with its gilt clasp that I instinctively recoiled, for this was Diana’s diary.

In this she had written those things that were not meant for other eyes. I glanced at the fire that roared up the chimney. Should I toss the book into the crimson depths unread? For one short searing moment I remembered Diana as I had last seen her, her face pale and drawn, her eyes bright and haunted. What or who had caused this change in my friend? If there was any possibility that, even now, I could resolve her problem was it not my duty to do it?

Somehow it didn’t seem right that Diana, always so meticulous, so careful of detail, should leave any loose ends behind her.

I opened the delicate filigreed clasp. It was a five-year diary, closely written, and in spite of my reluctance I began to feel a growing curiosity. Diana had always been comparatively reserved and taciturn. What could she have written about at such length?

Then, as my eye scanned the small, neat writing, I began to feel a sense of disappointment. I don’t know quite what I had expected, but it certainly hadn’t been this bleak, terse cataloguing of her activities.

I knew vaguely that she had been concerned with different types of social work, had been. a member of various charitable societies and associations that her mother, as a wealthy and well-known society figure, had enthusiastically lent her name to, and then, typically, had lost interest in. But with Diana, of course, it had been different. To her this work had been important and worth-while and she had carried on where her mother had left off. I could see lists of appointments, committee meetings, the detailed organization of galas and charity balls. Yes, Diana had taken her responsibilities very seriously. And I wondered if it was because she had been truly engrossed in her work or if she had simply felt it was her duty, since her mother had committed herself. Anyway, it was a life so very different from my own that I felt no interest in it.

I rifled through the pages. Occasionally there was a reference to social engagements and to various men, but again they were cool recordings of her activities and had the same arid brevity she gave to her other occupations. ‘Met Pete R.; theatre,’ was a typical example. Or in her reference to a particular importunate admirer.

‘Jason popped the same tiresome question again; won’t take no for an answer; what a bore. We’re so completely different, yet he can’t believe we won’t live happily ever after. I was as tactful as possible, for he is rather sweet, but told him marriage was definitely out. He makes me feel so old and wise; not at all how one should feel towards a prospective husband!’

‘We’re so completely different!’ How well I remembered the small figure in the moonlight saying fiercely, ‘If ever I fall in love, Judith, I shall try to make it be with someone as much like myself as possible.’

But these were the early years of her diary and I flurried through the thin pages feverishly. I must look at the more recent entries.

Perhaps somewhere there, if I read carefully enough, I might come across a clue. Something that would lead me to an explanation and settle for good-and-all that restless, mystified feeling I had concerning Diana Seaton.

And then, quite suddenly, I came on it. The date, I knew, was shortly before I joined her in her London home. It was not written in her precise, schoolgirl script, but wildly so that her distress was all too painfully obvious. ‘Telegram from Mrs. Kinnefer—Daddy is dead. I can’t believe it. Will leave for Tregillis immediately.’

The writing trailed away into an illegible scrawl. After that there were several blank pages, then an entry headed ‘Tregillis’. ‘Today I spoke to Mrs. Kinnefer. She was dreadfully upset and although she doesn’t mention it, I know she’s worried about her own future, for now that Garth has succeeded she does not know whether she will be kept on at Tregillis or not and her whole life is centred here.

I was trying to comfort her when that odious child M.M. burst in and I wasn’t able to finish what I was saying. Later I had a long talk with Eunice in her room, for somehow I could not bring myself to ask Garth about Daddy’s death although he was with him when the accident happened. It seems Garth and Daddy had gone sailing in the sloop. The wind freshened suddenly and somehow or other they capsized. It’s really unbelievable, for both Daddy and Garth were so used to sailing: it doesn’t make sense. Eunice kept going on and on about how Daddy couldn’t swim and Garth, she said, longed to take over Tregillis here and now. But I can’t believe it—
won’t
believe it. It was Daddy’s idea that Garth should stay here at Tregillis. He needed Garth so much after Mummy and I left. Trusted him—and Daddy was shrewd about people. He’d have known if Garth were a wrong’un. Eunice
must
be wrong. The shock of Daddy’s death has been too much for her, she was so devoted to him. Yet I keep remembering that once I myself trusted Garth and he let me down. I mustn’t let myself think of that—’

There was only one more entry. The handwriting here was precise and small as if the wild emotions that had filled her during the previous two entries had cooled and she were calm again. But the neat, cold handwriting was no clue to what I was about to read.

‘Today the “accident” makes horrible, hideous sense. I have just discovered that the Comte de Chalandon is dead and Armanell is now a widow. I didn’t think that I could hate anyone as I hate Garth. He has stolen everything from us. First me and now Daddy, so that he can have a home for Armanell to come to when the time is ripe. Was Daddy’s death an accident, or was it cold-blooded murder? My mind is tortured by doubt. I feel I shall go mad unless I find out—but how can that ever be managed? To think of Garth and Armanell together—at Tregillis—’

The diary stopped abruptly. There were no more entries. It was as if at that point Diana had felt that nothing else that occurred in her life could have meaning or importance enough to be recorded.

I shuddered a little as I replaced it. I am not a superstitious person, but at that moment I felt that somehow, if ghosts walk, surely the spectre of Diana Seaton must be present in that ancient grey pile in Cornwall.

There was another thing that worried me. Instead of being satisfied and reassured I now felt more disturbed than ever. It was as though, now that Diana had died, it was my duty to discover for her the truth of her father’s death. After all, she had left her possessions to me. This would be a sort of repayment. Perhaps then I would feel that I had done all I should have as far as Diana was concerned.

But to obtain information I should have to be on the spot, and how was I to accomplish this? It seemed quite impossible; I could hardly present myself to the new owner of Tregillis as a friend of Diana’s and claim hospitality. No, it was out of the question. I should never now know whether Diana’s suspicions were justified, and strangely enough my relief was mixed with a vague sense of disappointment. What exactly was Garth Seaton like? From hints in Diana’s diary he was clearly a strange and enigmatic character.

And who, for that matter, was Mrs. Kinnefer, and the odious child that she seemed to dislike so intensely?

As I was about to close the clasp of the leather-bound book a scrap, cut from a newspaper, fluttered out. I bent down and picked it up from the carpet. It was dated several days before Diana’s death and it was an advertisement from a West Country newspaper.

There was something incredibly poignant about the fact that Diana had still subscribed to those papers that reminded her of her own beloved Cornwall and I scanned it with interest. ‘Wanted, a tutor, male or female, to coach a French boy in English. Highest references expected.’ I saw that the applicant had to apply to Garth Seaton of Tregillis, and somehow the insertion was as terse and laconic as I imagined the man who had written it might be. But why had Diana cut it out and kept it? Was it simply that anything to do with her own home and the man whom she considered a usurper had a dark fascination for her? And who was the French boy? I wondered. Could it be by any chance the odious child whom Diana had spoken of?

I sat on the floor and considered the small scrap of paper and found myself gripped by excitement. It was as though fate had intended I should carry out Diana’s vendetta—for it was clear from her diary that, were she to have become convinced that Garth Seaton had killed her father, she was prepared to do everything in her power to bring him to justice. Why else, unless fate had intended it to be, were my qualifications exactly what Garth Seaton was looking for? Surely I would stand a better chance of obtaining this position than most of the other applicants, because there was no doubt in my mind now what I should do. There was nothing now to keep me in London. According to Diana’s solicitor her home was to be sold and the proceeds divided between different charities. I, however, was heir to the bulk of her money and I was free now to pursue any life I should choose. Gratitude alone should prompt me to try to solve the riddle of Giles Seaton’s death. But deep inside me I knew there was something less idealistic. There was a growing, gnawing desire to gain access to that majestic old Tudor pile and to satisfy my curiosity.