Chapter One
More than five years later Candida was reading a letter. It was ten days since Barbara Sayle’s funeral, and there had been a great many letters to read and to answer. Everyone had been very kind. She had written the same things over and over again until they almost wrote themselves. What it all added up to was that Barbara was gone. She had been ill for three years, and Candida had nursed her. Now that it was all over, there was practically no money, and she would have to look for a job. The bother was that she wasn’t trained. She had left school and come home to look after Barbara.
And now Barbara was gone.
All the letters which she had been answering had been concerned with this one thing, but the letter which she had just opened was different. It wasn’t about Barbara at all, it was about herself. She sat by the window reading it, with the wintry light slanting in across the expensive paper and the old-fashioned pointed writing. There was an embossed address in the top right-hand corner:
Underhill, Retley.
The letter began, ‘My dear Candida’, and it was signed, ‘Olivia Benevent’. She read:
‘My dear Candida,
‘I am writing to condole with you on your recent bereavement. The unhappy quarrel consequent on your grandmother’s marriage having interrupted normal intercourse between her and the rest of the family, my sister Cara and I were never afforded an opportunity of making the acquaintance of our nephew Richard and his wife, or of our niece Barbara. Now that they are dead, there would not seem to be any reason why this regrettable quarrel should be carried on into a third generation. As the daughter of our nephew Richard you are our only surviving relative. Your grandmother, Candida Benevent, was our sister. Her marriage to John Sayle removed her from the family circle. We invite you to return to it. My sister Cara and I will be glad if you will pay us a visit. The Benevents come of an old and noble family, and we feel that their last descendant should know something of its history and traditions.
Hoping that you will see your way to accepting an invitation which, I can assure you, is very cordially extended, I sign myself for the first but, I hope, not for the last time,
Your great-aunt,
Olivia Benevent’
Candida looked at the letter with some rather mixed feelings. She knew that her grandmother’s name had been Candida Benevent, and she knew that there had been a family quarrel, but that was about as far as it went. What the quarrel was about, why it had never been made up, and whether there were any Benevent relations, she really had had no idea. Perhaps Barbara didn’t know either. Perhaps she knew and didn’t bother her head about it. She was the sort of person who mightn’t. An old quarrel might just not have seemed worth bothering about. And Candida Benevent had died when her children were quite young – there had been no living link with the family she had left behind her.
When she showed the letter to Everard Mortimer, who was Barbara Sayle’s solicitor, she discovered that he knew no more about the quarrel than she did herself, but he strongly advised her to accept Miss Benevent’s invitation. He was a pleasant young man in his early thirties with a modern attitude towards the family quarrels of two generations ago.
‘Cutting people out of wills and washing your hands of them was rather in the Victorian tradition. People are a bit more tolerant nowadays. I think you certainly ought to accept the olive branch and go and stay with the old ladies. You seem to be their only relation, and that might be important. Your aunt’s annuity stopped when she died. She had the cottage on a lease, and by the time everything is cleared up you won’t have more than about twenty-five pounds a year.’
A bright carnation colour came up under Candida’s fair skin. It made her eyes look very dark and very blue, and her lashes very black. Everard Mortimer found himself noticing the contrast with her chestnut hair. He found it pleasing. It occurred to him that if she were really going to be something of an heiress – and that was what Miss Olivia Benevent’s letter sounded like – she would not lack for suitors. Even with no more than twenty-five pounds a year there might be quite a queue. He had a fleeting glimpse of himself at the head of it. He allowed his manner to become a little warmer.
Barbara Sayle had never spoken of her mother’s family. The old great-aunts might have nothing to leave. On the other hand they might have quite a lot. All over the place there were old ladies with property to leave and no very clear idea of how they were going to leave it. He could think of half a dozen amongst his own clients. The making and unmaking of wills was a recreation to them. It gave them a sense of importance, a sense of power. They liked to feel that they would have a hand in the affairs of the younger generations. There was old Miss Crabtree. Her niece didn’t dare to get married and leave her for fear of being cut out of her will, and if she would have been willing to risk it, her fiancé wouldn’t. There was Mrs. Barker, whose elderly daughter had never been allowed to have either a job or a penny of her own – had to go to her mother for bus fares and didn’t know how to write a cheque. And there was Miss Robinson, who made a new will regularly every three months, and put in first one and then another of a large circle of relatives as principal legatee. It was like a game of musical chairs. One day the tune would stop and someone would scoop the lot. Well, the Miss Benevents must be pretty old. It wouldn’t do Candida Sayle any harm to make up the family quarrel and pay them a little attention. With that new warmth in voice and manner, he advised her to do so.
Chapter Two
Candida arrived at Retley on a February afternoon. She hadn’t expected anyone to meet her, and no one did. She found a taxi, tipped the porter who carried her suit-cases, and was rattled away over the stones of the station approach. There was a yellow gloom and drizzle of rain. The lamps were not yet lighted, and she could not feel that she was seeing Retley at its best
They passed through a street with some good shops, and a number of narrow ones with tall old houses. After that, the usual jumble of bungalows and council houses, until quite suddenly there were open fields and hedges on either side. They passed an inn with a swinging sign, and a little farther on a petrol station, and then just fields and hedges, hedges and fields. She had begun to wonder how much farther it was going to be, when they turned sharply to the left and the ground began to rise.
Presently she made out a wall with iron gates that stood open. The drive was like a dark tunnel, and when they emerged it was not into the light but into a deep and gloomy dusk. The house stood up before them like a black cliff, and the hill stood up behind the house. She stepped back across the gravel sweep and stared at it. There it was – and that was why the house was called Underhill. The hillside must have been cut away to get a level site on which to build, and the house looked as if it was jammed right up against it. What an extraordinary idea, and how dreadfully dark all the back rooms must be.
She returned, skirting the taxi, to the worn stone steps which went up under the shadow of a porch. For the first time it occurred to her that the house must be very old. These steps had been hallowed out by the passing feet of many generations. It seemed odd to find that there was an electric bell.
The taxi driver said, ‘I’ve rung, miss,’ and as he spoke the door swung in. An elderly woman in a black dress stood there. There was a light in the hall behind her – a dark place fitfully illuminated. The woman had white hair. It stood out against the glow like a nimbus. She said in a deep voice and with a foreign accent,