The Mercer's House

Prologue

26th December, 1988

Such a lovely day. It was cold on the beach, but we all went down and threw sticks for Skip, who I thought would freeze to death running into the sea. He didn’t, of course—he just stood next to Alex and shook himself, while the boys screamed with laughter. Rowan in particular thought it was hilarious. He kept pretending to be a dog, and was barking and shaking himself over everybody. He gets more and more delightful each day, and I couldn’t possibly love him more if I tried. Father Christmas brought him some colouring pencils, and he’s taken a real shine to them. This morning he brought me a picture that he said was of me, and it’s not bad at all considering he’s only three. I wonder whether he’ll have an aptitude for art? It’s too early to tell, I expect, but it would be nice to think we had that in common as he grows up. I’m going to start painting again soon. I feel ready for it now, and the scenery around here is so inspiring. Perhaps I’ll try not to destroy my work this time, although I can never get over the feeling that capturing a view takes something away from it, somehow. That sounds silly written down. I will get over it and paint something pretty to hang in the house.

It’s been a happy Christmas all round, I think. It was lovely to have Alex home, since he’s been working away such a lot recently. He’s been telling me more about the story of the woman who died here two hundred years ago, and the whispering voices people hear on the beach. It’s a horrid story, and odd, too, because when he mentioned it I suddenly remembered the other day, when I thought I heard something while I was out with Skip. It was like a kind of murmuring in my ear, down by the rocks, although I couldn’t hear what it said. For a second I was terrified the voices were coming back, but then it faded out, so I think it must have been my imagination. I’d rather he hadn’t mentioned it, though. I don’t like ghosts. But better ghosts than—no, I won’t think about that.

I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy. I love having us all here as a family for Christmas, even Will. He was grumpy at having to come here instead of stay with his mother, but he seems to have cheered up a bit now. I need to work on Will. He and Rowan will be friends, I’m determined. There’s no reason why they shouldn’t get on. I need to convince him that we’re not intruders, come to take Alex away. He isn’t rude, exactly, but he’s wary and reserved, and won’t let on what he’s thinking. I only hope he’ll accept us eventually, and learn to trust me, especially since his father is away for work so much and it falls to me to look after Will when he’s not at his mother’s. Alex joked today in that half-apologetic way of his that he was worried he’d come home one day and find I’d divorced him. But I’d never do that. I knew he was a busy man when I married him, but it didn’t put me off. He’s so understanding, and such easy company, that I’d put up with a lot more from him than I do. Besides—and I’ll never tell him this—he’s almost doing me a favour by his absence. It’s a struggle to keep everything contained sometimes, and I’m afraid if he were here too often I’d blurt it all out, everything I’ve tried so hard to forget, and then he’d stop loving me, or at the very least be disappointed in me. It’s never nice to find out that someone’s not what you thought they were, and even though it wasn’t my fault, I do worry that he won’t see it that way, and that I’ll have to leave and start all over again. I couldn’t bear to lose Alex. I do love him so.

Strange about the voices, though. I see Corbin looking at me sometimes, and wonder if he suspects. I’ve never told them about it, and I won’t. It doesn’t do to dwell on past unkindness, and everyone here is so terribly kind that I’m certain it will keep me well. That’s what I need. As long as people are kind to me, then the horror won’t come back, I know it…

1

‘Excuse me. It was Elsbury you wanted, wasn’t it?’

The voice was talking to her. Zanna turned her head and gazed uncomprehendingly at the young Australian who had been sitting opposite her since he got on the train at York. He had attempted eye contact and friendly overtures at an early stage of the journey, but Zanna wasn’t in the mood to respond and had merely given him a polite smile and replied as briefly as possible to his remarks. He’d taken the hint without offence, and settled back to flick through a well-thumbed tourist guide and clear out a mass of old tickets and leaflets from the pockets of his rucksack, leaving Zanna free to absorb herself as much as she liked in her own thoughts.

‘Do you want a hand with your stuff?’ said the Australian, and Zanna finally realized with a start that they were just pulling into the little station at Elsbury. She stood up, knocking over the empty paper cup that had been drained of coffee long ago, and began collecting her things together hurriedly.

‘Thanks,’ she said, as the young man took down her suitcase and holdall from the overhead rack. She smiled at him, and he said goodbye as if they were old friends as the doors beeped and she stepped down onto the platform. Too late she noticed how good-looking he was, and briefly regretted having paid him so little attention. He waved to her through the window as the train pulled away and disappeared into the distance. She returned the salute then immediately forgot about him as she turned to leave the station.

The place was a small one, but Zanna’s bags were heavy and she didn’t know the way, and so she relented and took a taxi to the bed and breakfast place she had booked five days earlier. The B&B turned out to be a pub called the Coach and Horses. It was situated on the High Street and a sign in the window promised that it provided the friendliest hospitality in the whole of Elsbury. Zanna went in and found herself in a panelled entrance hall, with to one side a little reception desk. Behind it sat a young man with pierced eyebrows and a death metal T-shirt, who was engaged in painting his nails with black polish. He looked up as she entered.

‘Hello, my darling,’ he said in an accent which was unmistakably London, and which seemed exotic in this out-of-the-way corner of the north so close to Scotland. ‘I’m glad you turned up—I haven’t spoken to a soul all day and I was just about to start screaming with boredom.’

‘Quiet day?’ said Zanna.

‘You wouldn’t believe,’ said the man. ‘I hate it when the schools go back. That’s it till Christmas now.’

‘You never know—you might get a few last-minute visitors taking advantage of this hot weather,’ said Zanna.

‘Let’s hope so,’ agreed the man. He blew on his fingernails and looked down at a printout attached to a clipboard. ‘Now then, I’m going to take a wild guess and say that you must be Susanna Chambers.’

‘Zanna. That’s right,’ said Zanna.

‘Pleased to meet you, Zanna,’ said the man. ‘I’m Ewan, your genial host. The miserable git in the bar through there is Joe. I’m joking,’ he said as he saw her face. ‘He’s in a one today. Hormones, you know.’

Zanna craned her neck and could just see a morose-looking man of perhaps forty standing behind the bar, polishing a glass. Ewan was evidently a comedian. She smiled at him and shook her head.

‘Right, my lovely, I’m going to put you in the best room just because you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve seen all day,’ said Ewan. ‘And because the bar stewards who were supposed to be in it cancelled at the last minute.’

‘I’m honoured,’ said Zanna.

‘So you should be,’ he said. He handed her an old-fashioned barrel key. ‘Room five. Upstairs and to the right. If you need anything let me know. Do you want any help with your bags?’

‘It’s all right,’ said Zanna. ‘I don’t want you to ruin your nail polish.’

‘You’re all heart,’ he said, and left her to it.

The stairs were creaky and smelt of air freshener, which didn’t quite disguise the damp underneath. Upstairs the corridor was almost dark, the only light coming from a dim bulb overhead and a tiny window at the end which gave out onto the back yard. Room five was halfway along, and Zanna put down her case and fumbled with the key. Inside, she found a room that was surprisingly large, light and airy, with an ornate, heavy wardrobe in the corner, a cherry wood dressing table under the large sash window, and a Louis XIV-style chair against the wall. Either Ewan or Joe obviously had a thing for French boudoir chic. But the other furniture paled into insignificance compared to the four-poster bed which stood in the centre of the room. It was six feet wide at least, and the mattress stood perhaps three and a half feet off the floor, although it was difficult to tell under the piles of cushions, runners and quilts that buried it. The heavy curtains were pulled back from the window to reveal drapes of the palest green voile, which fluttered gently in the slight breeze that blew in through the open sash.

Zanna drew in her breath when she saw the room, and her spirits lifted. She sat down on the edge of the bed and drew her hand over the silky bedspread. It felt cool to the touch, a welcome relief after the stifling atmosphere of the train and the unseasonable stickiness of the late September weather. She lay back and found herself sinking into its luxurious softness. Ewan had obviously not been joking when he had promised her the best room in the place. This must be the honeymoon suite. It was just a pity she was all alone, she thought. This was not a bed for one person. It was the sort of bed that was designed to creak and groan under the movement of lovers, as they drank their fill of each other and then lay together breathlessly afterwards, the moonlight bathing their skin with a soft glow.

Zanna laughed a little wistfully at her own nonsense. She might have come here with Adam at one time, a few years ago, before it all fell apart. It was the sort of place he would have appreciated. He was fond of luxury—although the rest of the hotel might have left something to be desired in his estimation. But Zanna liked it—liked its quirkiness and slight air of enthusiastic amateurishness.

She rose from the bed and went over to the window. The street below was fairly quiet—the time of year, she supposed. The tourists had been gone for a few weeks now, and since it was midweek there wouldn’t be much trade. To her right, a few hundred yards away, she could glimpse the sea at the point where the High Street seemed to end—although in fact she knew that it curved away to the left and hugged the coast. The sight exerted an irresistible attraction on her, and with sudden decision she closed the window, left the room and hurried downstairs. Once outside, she turned right and headed towards the sea, and within five minutes was standing at the end of the road, gazing at the vast expanse of Northumberland sky and sea and sand, bounded to her right by a rocky outcrop, and to her left by a low cliff, which jutted out to sea. The beach was almost deserted—only the occasional dog walker broke the scene—and almost unconsciously she found herself hurrying along the little path that led down to it. The tide was out but on the turn, and she set off to meet it, kicking off her sandals as she went and feeling the relief of the cool grittiness under her feet after the heat of the day. Soon the sand became hard and damp, and she slowed and turned to look behind her, walking backwards for a few paces as she took in the sight of the village, with its brightly-painted cottages, which gave a cheery aspect to the sea front, and behind them a glimpse of the dignified buildings in grey stone that were characteristic of the rest of the place.

She reached the sea and ploughed straight in, hitching her long cotton dress up to her thighs, and stood for a moment, gazing down into the clear water as it swelled and swirled around her. But she was knee-deep and the tide was coming in swiftly, and so she quickly retreated to shallower water and began to splash along the edge, heading northwards towards the headland. Set slightly back from it was a house, which stood alone, far from any other building, facing out to sea and seeming to proclaim a proud independence from the village itself. She came level with it and stood in the shallows, gazing at it curiously. Tall and imposing it was, looming darkly against the skyline, and had it not been for its windows, which had evidently been placed deliberately to give the most favourable view of the sea and which gave the place a watchful air, Zanna would have found it closed and forbidding. As it was she shivered a little, and noticed that the temperature had dropped. She looked at her watch and discovered that it was getting late. But somehow she could not tear herself away, and she remained there, rooted to the spot, for much longer than she had intended. What was it that came into her mind as she looked at the building? There was something; a slight glimmer of—what was it? Fear, perhaps? And yet why she should think that, she had no idea. As she stood there, gazing at the house, she thought she heard a murmur of voices close by, and she started and turned, but there was no-one about. It must have been the sound of the waves.

‘You idiot, Zanna,’ she said to herself out loud. ‘You’re imagining things again.’

She looked down and saw that the tide had risen even in those few minutes, and that the sea had wet the bottom of her long dress, which had slipped down and now clung uncomfortably about her legs. She was beginning to feel the chill, and so she came back towards the shore. As she did so, she saw a man she had not noticed before, standing in the shelter of the sand dunes, watching her. He was dark-haired and youngish—perhaps in his early thirties—and had a certain quality of stillness about him that attracted Zanna’s attention, as it seemed a stillness born of effort rather than inclination. Instead of turning away when he saw she had seen him, he continued to stare at her, and for a moment she wondered whether he had heard her talking to herself, although surely he was too far away for that. How long had he been there? She met his gaze with a defiant tilt of the chin, and at last he seemed to realize that he was staring and turned away. Zanna watched as he walked slowly up the steep path towards the big house—the house she was to visit the next day. Who was he, Zanna wondered curiously, and set off back to the inn, resolving to find out what she could from Ewan before she set off on her mission.

2

Ewan had disappeared from his perch behind the reception desk when Zanna returned to the Coach and Horses. She ran upstairs to change out of her damp clothes, then came down to find him in the bar, chatting to an elderly couple who had come in for early drinks. The taciturn Joe was still behind the bar, and looked up as she entered.

‘Can I get you anything?’ he said, politely enough.

Zanna asked for a bottled beer and sat down at the bar. A stack of food menus lay nearby and she picked one up and looked at it idly.

‘I recommend the fish curry,’ said Joe.

‘Is it good?’ said Zanna.

‘It should be,’ said Joe. ‘It’s my own recipe.’ He gave a half-smile and seemed to unbend slightly. ‘Ewan says he gave you room five,’ he said. ‘I hope you like it.’

‘It’s beautiful,’ said Zanna sincerely. ‘Did you do it?’

‘Yes,’ said Joe. ‘All my own work. Ewan will tell you he helped, but he didn’t—unless you call sticking a few cushions on the bed helping.’

‘The bed is amazing,’ said Zanna. ‘Where did you get it?’

‘From a house near here,’ said Joe. ‘They were selling off some of their old stuff and as soon as I saw it I knew I had to have it. Got it quite cheap, as well—from my point of view, anyway. I’d have paid double what they wanted. All the furniture in that room is from there. It’s a shame they had to sell it, really. It’s a beautiful old place and the stuff looked much better there—I mean, that’s where it was bought for originally—but I was hardly going to turn it down if they wanted to sell, was I?’

His face had become animated as he spoke, and Zanna smiled at his enthusiasm.

‘It’s a house near here, is it?’ she said, and as she did she already had the feeling she knew which one.

Joe nodded.

‘Yes. I don’t know if you’ve seen it. It’s the one along there on the headland. The Mercer's House, they call it.’

‘I know the one you mean,’ she said. ‘I saw it just now. It’s a lovely old house. It looked a bit lonely, though, stuck out there on its own.’

‘It does, doesn’t it?’ he agreed. ‘I always think it looks like it’s staring out to sea, waiting for something.’ He lowered his voice humorously. ‘Don’t tell Ewan I said that, though, or he’ll think I’ve gone soft.’

‘I won’t. And for the record, I agree with you,’ said Zanna. ‘It does look like it’s waiting for something. Who lives there, do you know?’

‘The Devereuxes,’ said Joe. ‘They’re brothers. Twins, I think. Lived there for years. Alexander Devereux owns the place. We only came here three years ago, but from what people say I gather he used to have plenty of money until his wife divorced him and took him for as much as she could get. Then his brother had a stroke a couple of years ago and needs care. Alexander pays for that. I assume that’s why they needed to sell all the stuff.’

‘Alexander,’ said Zanna thoughtfully. Alexander Devereux was the man she had come to see. ‘What’s he like? He must be fond of his brother to pay for his care. That sort of thing doesn’t come cheap.’

‘No,’ agreed Joe. ‘He’s a good bloke. Friendly. Corbin’s a bit quieter—less easy to get to know. We don’t really see him much now, though. He can’t walk far any more. He mostly gets about in a wheelchair.’

‘I saw a young man when I was along there earlier,’ said Zanna. ‘He went into the house.’

‘Maybe it was Will Devereux,’ said Joe. ‘Alexander’s son. Is he here, then? I’ll give him a call.’

‘Alexander’s son?’ said Zanna with sudden interest. Did she have a cousin? ‘You said something about a divorce. Is he the only child?’

‘Far as I know,’ said Joe. ‘His mother’s an interior designer and she was supposed to be bringing me some fabric samples for the lounge. Maybe he’s got them.’

This was not Helen, thought Zanna. Will Devereux was not her cousin, then.

‘Was Alexander only married once?’ she said.

‘I think so. Why?’ said Joe.

‘No reason,’ said Zanna. ‘I’m just interested, that’s all. Nosy, you know. Female.’

‘Women,’ he said with a smile. ‘So what about this curry?’

Zanna ordered her food and went to sit down. Joe had been here only a few years, he said, so he couldn’t really be expected to know anything about Helen, who had presumably left long before he came to the area. As she waited for the curry to arrive, she took out the photo from her little embroidered shoulder bag and looked at it. The colours had faded to a washed-out orange, but her father was still quite recognizable, with his thin mouth and characteristic tilt to the chin. He looked to be in his early twenties, while the girl next to him was no more than fifteen or sixteen—a beauty, even in the fashions of those days, with