Butterfly Island Page 2

  She heard quiet footsteps in the corridor. A door banged. A little later, hushed voices reached her through the wall. Beatrice was unable to make out what they were saying, but a feeling of unease drove her to move a little nearer to the wall and lay her ear against the faded wallpaper, which gave off a strange smell.

  “How do we know it’s really her? She could have found the letter.” It was Daphne, and she sounded angry.

  Had she changed her mind? Where could Beatrice go if she had? She knew no one here in England.

  “I don’t think for a minute that she found the letter.” The younger woman rushed to defend her. “There was no money in it—do you think a vagrant would really be interested in it?”

  “It did contain a promise of help.”

  “But anyone would realise it was highly likely that whoever had the letter would be recognised,” Emily continued to protest. “Have you seen her hair? And her face?”

  “There are plenty of girls with black hair. She could be making the most of that fact.”

  “Mother!” Emily said, her voice full of reproach. “Haven’t you looked at her? It’s plain to see. Even though she’s the grandchild, it’s plain to see.”

  What’s plain to see? Beatrice wondered, ignoring the thirst that stuck her tongue to the roof of her mouth. Her heart began to race as though she were fevered, making the voices all the more inaudible. She sensed that the two women knew something about her that she was unaware of herself. What could it be?

  A long pause followed, before Daphne said, “You know our supplies are rationed.”

  “And you know what Grandma Victoria always said,” her daughter countered.

  “Yes, that . . .” Something seemed to stick in her throat; something that wanted to come out but didn’t dare. “It’s all nonsense!”

  “Nevertheless, you promised at her deathbed that you’d obey her instructions and help Grace’s family if they were in need, just as she had promised her sister,” her daughter replied calmly.

  “Maybe she shouldn’t have made that promise.” Daphne fell into an embittered silence; then Beatrice heard footsteps crossing the room. “Very well, she can stay until her baby’s born. Then we’ll see. We’ll be doing our duty if we find her and the baby a safe place to stay. The two of them can’t possibly stay any longer in the midst of all this chaos.”

  “But the chaos will die down sooner or later—”

  Daphne seemed to have silenced her daughter somehow.

  Could they know I’m listening? Beatrice wondered anxiously. No, that was impossible; she had kept her breathing shallow and leaned against the wall like a statue blown aslant by the wind.

  “We’ll keep her here until she gives birth, and then we’ll see. As you know, all our plans have been destroyed, so we shouldn’t be making any more just yet.”

  They fell silent. The two of them had clearly gone to bed, without saying goodnight or entering into any further disagreement.

  As the tension dropped away from her body, Beatrice became aware of a burning sensation in her throat. Water. I must have a drink.

  Gritting her teeth, she pushed herself away from the wall. Her awkward position had given her a backache, and her ankles, which had been permanently swollen for a month now, tensed up. If it hadn’t been for this nagging thirst for water, she would simply have lain down and waited for sleep. But if she were to settle down again she had to have something to drink.

  Outside, she felt around for the light switch, but no light came on. Was there a power cut, or was the electricity rationed? Then Beatrice remembered seeing a large fuse box in the kitchen; some fuses had been unscrewed to economise on electricity.

  The washed-out patches of moonlight helped her find her way, however. Along the corridor, down the stairs, then through the second door on the right. Down another corridor, following the lingering cooking smells.

  Despite her meagre weight, the stairs creaked softly beneath her feet as she crept down as quietly as possible. On the bottom step she had to pause; her thirst had developed into a physical feeling that made her feel faint. Non-existent lights flashed in front of her eyes, and she was unable to drive them away by closing them.

  Her heart thumping, she grasped the banister with claw-like fingers. She saw a movement in the corner of her eye. A silhouette stood against the faint light falling from the ballroom.

  “Is everything all right, miss?”

  Beatrice felt an automatic urge to reply in the affirmative, but she couldn’t. The words wouldn’t come.

  “Miss, I’m Dr. Sayers,” the man continued, moving into her field of vision. “I can help you.”

  Her knees gave way and she sank into darkness.

  BOOK ONE

  The Secret

  1

  Berlin, April 2008

  Diana Wagenbach woke with the pink morning light on her face. With a sigh, she opened her eyes and tried to get her bearings. The magnificent linden tree in her garden cast a shadow across the tall panes of the conservatory on the side of the living room. Flecks of light were scattered over the dark-red rug that protected the parquet from scratches. A strange smell hung in the air. Had someone spilled alcohol somewhere?

  It was a while before Diana recalled how she came to be lying on the white leather sofa. The clothes she had been wearing the previous evening still clung to her body, her black hair was plastered to her brow and cheeks with sweat, and her lips were completely dry.

  “Oh my God,” she groaned as she sat up. Her arms and legs ached as though she had been dragging removal boxes around all night, and lying in a strange position had given her backache.

  As she sank back in the seat, she gazed around in horror. The living room looked like a battlefield—not the aftermath of a wild party, but because she had lost control. Shocked, she rubbed her eyes and face.

  Diana was usually a peaceful person, patient almost to excess, or so her acquaintances said. Yesterday she had seen her husband, Philipp, with that woman. True, his job involved business meetings, sometimes after work. But that did not include passionately kissing the business associate while stroking her breasts lustfully.

  If only I’d stayed at home, Diana thought as she straightened up and inspected the bruises on her arms.

  But no, I just had to go to our regular restaurant because I wanted to treat myself to something special after a hard day’s work.

  As she stood up from the sofa, trying to rub life into her tired bones, she ran through the previous evening in her mind.

  Of course, she didn’t have the courage to confront Philipp in the restaurant. She had left without him noticing her and run home, where she had flung open the door in a rage and thrown herself, weeping, on the sofa. How could he do that to her!

  After a brief outpouring of tears, she’d begun to pace up and down the house, tormented by innumerable questions. Had there been any clues? Should she have suspected? Was it all simply a mistake and the kiss had been totally innocent?

  No, that kiss had been anything but innocent.

  And if she was honest, their marriage had been foundering for some time, merely waiting for a gust of wind to dash it on to the rocks.

  A thousand curses had shot through her head.

  Reproaches, threats, demands.

  When Philipp was finally standing before her, keys rattling in his hand, her intention of starting a row with him had come to nothing. Instead, she had simply looked at him, and in a calm voice asked who was the woman he had been embracing so passionately.

  “Darling, I . . . She . . .”

  She’d refused to believe his protestations that she was just an acquaintance. Lie detection was one of Diana’s talents. Even as a child she had always known when someone wasn’t telling her the truth. She had even once caught Great-Aunt Emily, normally open and forthcoming, keeping something from her.

  “Get out of my sight!” The only words she could bring herself to say. Get out of my sight. Then she had turned and gone into the conservat
ory. Gazing out through her reflection to the moonlit garden, she’d heard the door close behind her.

  That would have been the right moment to go to bed and cry all her cares into her pillow. But no, Diana’s reaction had been different.

  In retrospect, she was shocked by her own actions. A switch had flipped in her, something breaking loose that never had before. It had begun with a vase she flung against the wall with a cry of rage. It was closely followed by chairs from around the dining table. She had hurled them with all her might across the room, shattering the glass coffee table and the display cabinet containing Philipp’s trophies.

  A bottle of single malt whisky had also fallen victim to the onslaught. The golden-brown contents were now drying to a stain on the carpet.

  Maybe I’d have been better off drinking it, Diana thought sarcastically. It would have made it easier to explain to our insurance company what happened here.

  Shards of glass sparkled at her spitefully and crunched beneath her shoes as she crossed the room. A hot shower would bring some kind of balance back to her spirits and give her the opportunity to put her feelings in order.

  After undressing, she regarded herself in the mirror and briefly wondered what the other woman had that she didn’t, but gave herself a mental shake/pep talk.

  She was thirty-six, but didn’t look it. Anyone who didn’t know her would have guessed she was in her late twenties. The grey hairs that were supposed to sprout in her mid-thirties had not yet begun to appear. Her fully black hair flowed over her shoulders, which, like her arms, had taken on a golden summer tan—the envy of her female employees and friends. The rest of her untoned but nevertheless slim body was lighter, in need of a beach holiday to bring the skin colour into line with her limbs.

  A holiday, she thought with a sigh as she stepped beneath the shower. Maybe I should get away and forget all about this crappy situation.

  The lukewarm water of the shower revived her senses, but unfortunately also stirred the nervous turmoil in the pit of her stomach. The water might have been washing away the traces of the previous night from her skin and hair, but it couldn’t change what had happened.

  The shrill tone of the telephone rang out, and Diana tried to ignore it. It was probably Philipp phoning with some stupid apology. Or, worse, asking her how she was. She had switched off her mobile, so the landline was the only way of reaching her.

  When the caller persisted and it occurred to her that Eva Manzel, her partner at her law practice, could be trying to reach her, she wrapped herself in a fluffy blue towel, left the bathroom and went downstairs to the hall. If it’s Eva I can just tell her I won’t be coming into the office today. She picked up.

  “Wagenbach.”

  “Mrs. Wagenbach?” a voice asked, mispronouncing her name.

  Diana gasped. “Mr. Green?”

  Her aunt’s butler confirmed it in his halting German, before Diana replied in English.

  “It’s lovely to hear from you, Mr. Green. Is everything all right?”

  How long had it been since she’d spoken to her aunt? Or to the butler, who acted as a kind of go-between and usually held the receiver up for Aunt Emily, whose arm had not functioned properly ever since she had suffered a stroke.

  “I’m afraid I don’t have good news for you.”

  The words hit Diana like a fist to her solar plexus. “Please don’t keep me on tenterhooks, Mr. Green. Tell me what’s wrong.”

  The butler hesitated a moment longer before venturing into the inevitable. “I’m sorry to tell you that your aunt suffered another stroke two days ago. She’s in St. James’s Hospital in London, and I’m afraid the doctors don’t know how long she has to live.”

  Diana’s hand went to her mouth and she frowned, as though these actions could fend off the bad news. But an image flooded her mind’s eye: an elderly lady, her strawberry-blonde hair gradually turning a snowy white and a kindly smile lighting up her wrinkled mouth.

  How old was Aunt Emily? Eighty-six or eighty-seven? Diana’s grandmother, Emily’s second cousin, had died many years ago, though they were a similar age.

  “Mrs. Wagenbach?” Mr. Green’s voice blew away the wisps of thought like a gust of wind.

  “Yes, I’m still here. I’m just . . . shocked. How could it have happened?”

  “Your aunt has lived to a ripe old age, Mrs. Wagenbach, and I suspect life hasn’t always been good to her. My mother always said that people are like toys; sooner or later they break.” He paused briefly as though imagining his mother. “You should come here. Madam has asked me to bring you to see her, while she’s still more or less conscious.”

  “So she’s spoken to you?” A small, absurd spark of hope fluttered inside her. Maybe the doctors would pull her through. Wasn’t it the third stroke that was supposed to be fatal?

  “Yes, but she’s very weak. If you want to grant her wish, you should fly out today if possible. If you decide to come, I’ll drive to the airport myself and pick you up.”

  “Yes, I . . . I’ll come. I . . . just have to find out the time of the next flight and whether there’s a seat available.”

  “Very well,” the butler replied. “Would you be so kind as to email me to let me know when exactly you’ll be arriving? I wouldn’t like to have you waiting in the rain.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Mr. Green. I’ll send you my flight details as soon as I have them.”

  Another brief pause followed. A crackling in the ether. Had the connection been broken?

  “I’m very sorry, Mrs. Wagenbach. I’ll do all I can to make sure everything goes as well as possible for you here.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Mr. Green. Many thanks. I’ll see you later.”

  After ending the call, she had to sit down. Preferring to avoid the mess of shattered glass, she made her way to the kitchen. She had always sat in the kitchen at Emily’s when she’d visited her every summer with her mother, Johanna.

  Her mother had been particularly close to Emily, since it was Emily who had brought her up after her own mother died giving birth to her during the tumultuous aftermath of the war. Diana only knew Beatrice from a faded photograph that had been taken shortly before Johanna’s birth. She had never understood why Emily, who had remained childless, hadn’t adopted her mother.

  The clock in the living room, which Philipp had brought as a souvenir from the Czech Republic and she had always hated but tolerated for his sake, struck the hour. It reminded her that time was passing and aeroplanes didn’t wait.

  Although she was churning with worry inside and her hands and fingers trembled slightly, she managed to dress in just five minutes. She chose practical clothing: jeans, a short-sleeved blouse, and a lightweight red sweater in case of unpleasant weather. She tied up her black hair in a ponytail, and went without make-up for once. With an ease acquired from innumerable business trips, she was able to pack her things in no time. She wasn’t taking much with her; only a blouse to change into, a T-shirt, changes of underwear and a toothbrush, plus her laptop, notebook and charger. There was a small village near Tremayne House that sold everything needed by the cyclists who liked to tour the area. As long as she had her purse and papers with her, she’d be able to buy anything else she needed.

  Pausing at the door, she glanced back at the chaos she was leaving behind. The glass shards glittered in the sunlight like diamonds. Let Philipp clean it up, she thought, quietly pleased that she hadn’t left a note for once.

  Outside, she got into her red Mini, which always served her well in the heavy Berlin traffic, and a little later found herself on the autobahn heading for Berlin Tegel Airport.

  Around the same time, Mr. Green was heading for a bookshelf in the study of his former master. His mistress had left him strict instructions about what to do when she died. He should make sure that Diana found it. The secret.

  He didn’t actually know what it was. During the years he had served at Tremayne House, he had learned to curb his curiosity, although he ha
d to admit that from his very first day there he had sensed that there was something mysterious about the house. The feeling had never left him.

  Mrs. Woodhouse had introduced him to the puzzle of the instructions a few years previously. She had believed at that point that the angel of death would be calling at her door before long, but God had granted her more time, enough to leave a trail of clues.

  A picture here, a letter concealed in a book there, to be left where the intended person would happen across them by chance. It will help her to cope in the time after I’m gone, Madam had said. Although she had not seen Diana for years, Mrs. Woodhouse had never doubted the love and loyalty of the girl who had assumed the role of grandchild in her heart.

  Standing before the bookshelf, Mr. Green sought out a specific volume. The books had never been rearranged since the death of old Mistress Daphne, Emily Woodhouse’s mother. Not even during the war, when everything had been turned topsy-turvy, had a single book been out of place.

  Ah, there it was! A green binding, faded golden script. A book that looked as if it had been placed there by chance. But once you recognised the cover, it was clear to see. In case his visitor was too sad to be able to think clearly, he drew it out a little, so that it protruded by hardly a finger’s width. The sound it emitted was like the sigh of relief of a dying man finally able to turn over on to his other side.

  2

  The plane from Berlin landed at London Heathrow under a blanket of thick rain clouds that turned day into evening. Light drizzle developed into a storm as fat raindrops pattered down on the airport and against the windows of the bus that shuttled the passengers to the arrivals hall.

  After claiming her suitcase from the conveyor, Diana hurried to the concourse, where she hoped she would find Mr. Green. He had replied to her email saying he would be there punctually, but rush-hour traffic could put even the most conscientious butler off his stride.

  At first she couldn’t see him among the crowds, but she finally caught sight of him by the doors. Their eyes met and his hand shot up in a wave.