Authors: Kathleen McGurl
I will telephone you soon to arrange transfers into their savings accounts. And to arrange when I might come down to stay with you all!
With much love,
Jack
Ali read the letter with an open mouth. ‘Pete, Pete, come and look at this!’ she called. He was barely in the kitchen when the doorbell rang. Ali thrust the letter at him, and went to answer the door. It was Jason.
‘Did you get a letter from Jack?’ he asked. His face was flushed and he was grinning broadly. ‘Nice tree, by the way.’
‘I did. About his will?’
‘Yes. What a marvellous, kind man he is!’
‘Pete’s reading it now. Come in, I’ll make you coffee.’
Pete looked up from the letter as Jason entered. ‘Jason, mate, about this will—I can’t deny it’d be welcome money but it should be all yours. You’re his grandson. We can’t take any of this.’
Ali watched as Jason sat down beside Pete and looked straight at him. ‘The money is Jack’s, and he can do what he wants with it. He’s made it clear what he wants, and I think he’s doing exactly the right thing.’
‘But, but…’
Jason raised a hand. ‘No arguments. I’m as surprised as you are to be mentioned in his new will. In any case, I hope it will be many years before the will is executed.’
‘Of course,’ said Ali. ‘Lovely Jack. Lovely, lovely Jack.’ She put a cup of coffee and a plate of still-warm cookies in front of Jason.
‘Mmm, thank you. Actually, there was another reason I came round.’ Jason pulled a sheet of paper out of his pocket. ‘I printed this off from my company’s website. We’re recruiting. That job description made me think of you.’ He handed it to Pete, gulped his coffee and pocketed another cookie, with a wink at Ali. ‘I’ll be off, then. Thanks for the coffee.’
She showed him out, then went back to Pete. He was gazing in awe at Jason’s sheet of paper. ‘Bloody hell, Ali, I am
made
for this job! I’ve got exactly the experience and knowledge they are looking for. I’m going to apply for it right now. He’s a good neighbour. And a good friend.’
Ali smiled. ‘And a fabulous cousin.’
The doorbell rang again. Kelly came clattering down the stairs. Matt had just texted to say he was on his way. She reached the door before her mum and gave him a huge kiss.
‘Yay, you’re here!’ she said.
‘Want some fresh air?’ Matt asked, wrapping his arms around her.
‘Ice cream!’ she replied, grabbing her jacket and scarf.
‘In December?’
‘All year round. Mum, we’re off out, back for tea, OK?’
‘Sure,’ came the reply.
They went to the end of the road, down the zigzag path that led to the prom, and walked along hand in hand, buying ice creams from the first kiosk that was open. The sun was shining, the sky was a dazzling blue, and if it wasn’t for the fact the temperature was barely above zero you could almost imagine it was a summer’s day. Kelly let go of Matt’s hand and instead put her arm around his waist, pulling him close. He smiled, and twisted round to kiss her. He tasted of vanilla ice cream. She was glad to be back with him. Whether they had the kind of love that lasted, like Joan and Jack’s, remained to be seen, but for the moment she was happy to be part of a couple again.
She thought back over the events of the last few months, all that had happened since they moved into Betty’s house. It was hard to believe that she was the same girl now, the one who’d dressed in forties clothing, given up college for a job at the nursery, pushed lovely Matt away with her obsession about the past. Thank goodness that was all over now. As soon as she’d handed over the gold-and-pearl locket to Jack, she’d felt as though a weight was lifted from her. And returning home, she realised she could no longer feel Joan’s presence. She’d gone. Despite now knowing that someone had died in their house, it felt a happier place—more like a home.
She’d given the bundle of letters back to Jack as well. Only the two photos, the one of the three schoolgirls and the other one of Jack in uniform, remained. Kelly had tucked them away in a drawer.
‘Shall we sit down for a bit?’ Matt asked, pointing to a bench under an old Victorian shelter. Kelly looked to where he was pointing. For a brief moment, she thought she saw a young girl in an old-fashioned dress and coat sitting there, her hands clasped in her lap and a gentle smile on her face as though she was waiting patiently for her sweetheart. The girl smiled and nodded at her, and then the vision faded.
‘Sure, let’s sit,’ she said. ‘I’ve always liked this bench.’
If you loved
The Pearl Locket
turn the page for an exclusive extract from Kathleen McGurl’s haunting novel
The Emerald Comb.
Kingsley House
North Kingsley
Hants
November 1876
To my dearest son, Barty St Clair
This is my confession. I am the only soul still living who knows the truth. It will pain me to write this story, but write it I must, before I depart this life. I have not long to live, and I fear death – heaven will not be my final resting place. Dear Barty, when you have read this in its entirety you will understand why I know I am destined for that other, fiery place, to burn with guilt and shame for all eternity.
You must read this alone, sitting in the worn, red armchair by the fireside in the drawing room of Kingsley House. Or perhaps you will sit in my study, at my old walnut desk. Where ever you choose, have a glass of whiskey to hand to fortify yourself. You will need it.
Read this only after I am dead, after I am buried. Read this and understand why you must
never sell Kingsley House
. You must live in it until the end of your days, guarding its secrets, as I have.
Tell no one the contents of this confession. Not even your brother, William.
Especially
not your brother, William. It would grieve him, he who worshipped his mother and believed she could do no wrong, even more than it will grieve you. You will understand this when you have reached the end of my story.
Destroy this document when you have read it. You must carry the shameful secret within you, as I have done, but at least you will not also carry guilt.
There, I have written an introduction, but I must rest before I begin my story. Bear with me, my dearest son, while I recoup the strength I need to write this sorry tale.
Your ever loving, repentant father,
Bartholomew St Clair
Chapter One
Hampshire, November 2012
The weather matched my mood. A dark, low sky with a constant drizzle falling meant I needed both headlights and wipers on as I drove up the M3. Whenever I’d pictured myself making this trip I’d imagined myself singing along to the car radio beneath blue skies and sunshine. The reality, thanks to a row with my husband Simon, couldn’t have been more different. All I’d asked of him was to look after our kids for a single Saturday afternoon, while I went to take some photos of Kingsley House, where my ancestors had once lived. Not much to ask, was it? I’d planned it for weeks but of course he hadn’t listened, and had made his own plans to go to rugby training. Then when it was time for me to leave, he’d made such a fuss. I’d ended up grabbing my bag and storming out, leaving him no choice but to stay and be a parent for once, while the kids watched, wide-eyed. Perhaps that’s unfair of me. He’s a wonderful parent, and we have a strong marriage. Most of the time.
It was a half-hour drive from our home in Southampton to North Kingsley, a tiny village north of Winchester. Just enough time to calm myself down. Funny thing was, if I’d wanted to do something girly like go shopping or get my nails done, Simon would have happily minded the kids. But because I was indulging my hobby, my passion for genealogy, he made things difficult. I loved researching the past, finding out where my family came from. Simon’s adopted. He’s never even bothered to trace his biological parents. God, if I was adopted, I’d have done that long ago. I can’t understand why you wouldn’t want to know your ancestry. It’s what makes you who you are.
The rain had eased off; I’d calmed down and was buzzing with excitement when I finally drove up the narrow lane from the village and got my first glimpse of Kingsley House. Wet leaves lay clumped together on its mossy gravel driveway. Paint peeled from the windowsills, and the brickwork was in need of repointing. An overgrown creeper grew up one wall almost obscuring a window, and broken iron guttering hung crookedly, spoiling the house’s Georgian symmetry.
Kingsley House was definitely in need of some serious renovation. I fell instantly and overwhelmingly in love with it. It felt like home.
Gathering my courage, I approached the front door. It was dark green and panelled, with a leaded fan-light set into the brickwork above. There was no bell-push or knocker, so I rapped with my knuckles, wondering if it would be heard inside. Was there even anyone at home to hear it? There were no cars outside, and no lights shone from any window despite the deepening afternoon gloom. Maybe the house was uninhabited, left to rot until some developer got his hands on it. Or perhaps the owners were away. I’d checked the house out on Google street view before coming, and had the idea it was occupied.
I knocked again, and waited a couple of minutes. Still no response. But now that I was here, I thought I might as well get a good look at the place. After all, my ancestors had lived here for a hundred years. That gave me some sort of claim to the house, didn’t it? The windows either side of the front door had curtains drawn across. No chance of a peek inside from the front, then.
To the left of the house there was a gate in the fence. One hinge was broken so that the gate hung lopsided and partially open. I only needed to push it a tiny bit more to squeeze through. Beyond, a paved path led past a rotting wooden shed to a patio area at the back of the house. I tiptoed round. A huge beech tree dominated the garden, its auburn autumn leaves adding a splash of colour to the dull grey day.
French windows overlooked the patio, and the room beyond was in darkness. Cupping my hands around my eyes I pressed my nose to the glass. It was a formal dining room, with ornately moulded cornices and a fine-looking marble fireplace. Had my great-great-great-grandfather Bartholomew and his wife dined in this very room, back in the early Victorian era? It sent shivers down my spine as I imagined their history playing out right here, in this faded old house.
‘You there! What do you think you’re up to?’
I jumped away from the window and turned to see a gaunt old man in a floppy cardigan approaching from the other side of the building, waving his walking stick at me. Behind him was a neatly-dressed elderly lady. She was holding tightly onto his arm, more to steady him than for her own benefit. The owners were not on holiday, then. I silently cursed myself. Today was really not going according to plan. First the row with Simon and now being caught trespassing.
The man waved his stick again. ‘I said, what do you think you’re up to, snooping around the back of our house?’
‘I’m…er…I was just…’ I stuttered.
‘Just wondering if the place was empty and had anything worth stealing, I’ll bet,’ said the lady.
‘No, not at all, I was only…’
‘Vera, call the police,’ said the old man. His voice was cracked with age. His wife hesitated, as if unsure about letting go of his arm to go to the phone.
I held out my hands. ‘No, please don’t do that, let me explain.’
‘Yes, I think you had better explain yourself, young lady,’ said Vera. ‘Harold dear, sit yourself down before you topple over.’ She pulled a shabby metal garden chair across the patio and gently pushed him into it.
He held his stick in front of him like a shotgun. ‘Don’t you come any closer.’
God, the embarrassment. I felt myself redden from the chest up. They looked genuinely scared of me.
‘I’m sorry. I did knock at the door but I guess you didn’t hear.’
‘There’s a perfectly serviceable bell, if you’d only pulled on the bell-rope,’ said Vera.
Bell-rope? Presumably part of an original bell system. I shrugged. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t notice the rope.’
Vera shook her immaculate grey perm and folded her arms. ‘In any case, you had no answer, so why did you come around to the back?’
I gaped like a goldfish for a moment as I searched for the right words. I’d imagined meeting the current inhabitants of my ancestors’ house so many times, but I had never once thought it would happen like this. We really had got off on the wrong footing. I could see my chances of getting a look inside vanishing like smoke on the wind.
‘The thing is, I was interested in the house because’ – I broke off for a moment as they both glared at me, then the words all came out in a rush – ‘my ancestors used to live here. I’ve researched my family tree, you see, and found my four-greats grandfather William St Clair built this house, then his son Bartholomew inherited it and lived here after he got married, then
his
son, another Bartholomew but known as Barty lived here right up until –’
‘1923!’ To my utter astonishment both the old people chorused the date.
‘You’re a St Clair then, are you?’ said Vera, looking less fierce but still a little suspicious.
‘I was Catherine St Clair before I got married. Plain old Katie Smith now.’
I put out my hand and thankfully she took a tentative step forward and shook it. The atmosphere instantly felt less frosty.
‘Vera Delamere. And this is my husband, Harold.’
I shook his gnarled and liver-spotted hand too, while he stayed sitting in his chair. ‘I’m so sorry to have frightened you. I shouldn’t have come around the back. I was just so desperate for a glimpse inside. And I wasn’t even sure if the house was occupied at all…’ Oops, was I implying it looked derelict? I felt myself blushing again. I thought quickly, and changed the subject. ‘You know about the St Clairs?’