Butterfly Island Page 5

  Diana sensed this was not true and suspected that Mr. Green simply wanted to look after her once again.

  After dropping her off at the main entrance of the hospital, he shot off on his supposed errand, whatever it was. As on the previous day, Diana made her way to the intensive care ward. The flimsy, yellowing paper in her trouser pocket felt like a stone, getting heavier with every step she took towards Emily’s room. Diana had spent the night wondering about the possible consequences of the telegram. She had known nothing of Henry Tremayne’s brother nor of his tragic death.

  Was that part of the secret Aunt Emily was talking about?

  When she stopped to enquire at the nurses’ station, Diana was overcome by a strange feeling. The doctor who approached was not Dr. Hunter, but a slim, blond man in his late thirties with a shining stethoscope over his surgical gown.

  “Are you her granddaughter?”

  The nurse, who was also here today, must have told him she would be coming.

  “I’m Dr. Blake,” he said when she nodded, and shook her hand. “Unfortunately your grandmother isn’t doing too well. Her condition has deteriorated to such an extent that we’ve had to link her up to breathing apparatus. Her circulation is very unstable, but we’re doing everything we can.”

  Diana nodded in shock. She hadn’t anticipated an improvement, but had certainly not expected her aunt to deteriorate so quickly.

  “Of course, you’re still welcome to visit her, but we’ve sedated her to help her recovery, so she won’t be able to hear you. You should be aware of that.”

  Stunned, Diana thanked him and made her way to Emily’s door and into the protective clothing. As she stood before the beeping machines, the situation became even clearer to her.

  Emily’s face could hardly be seen beneath the breathing and feeding tubes, her eyes were sunk in hollows, and her breast rose and fell mechanically, prompted by the respiration equipment. A dreadful tightness gripped Diana’s chest; she had not felt this kind of pain even when she’d discovered Philipp’s infidelity.

  She sank down on the small stool by the bedside and sat for a few moments silently weeping. No one came to ask her what was the matter or offer help, which was just as well. No one could help her right then.

  Her tears began to ebb some fifteen minutes later, and she edged up to the bedside and stroked Emily’s hair. An occasional sob still escaped her, but all at once she felt as though her aunt was standing near her with a comforting hand on her arm.

  Oh, child, we all have to go sooner or later . . . Once again she saw the hope in Emily’s eyes as she’d said that maybe she’d see her forebears on the other side. And she thought of the reports of comatose patients who believed they’d heard the voices of their relatives as they lay there motionless.

  “I found the telegram,” she said softly, once she had overcome the shyness of talking to an unconscious woman.

  “I don’t know if it was you who tucked it into the Dickens, but if it was, thank you.” Diana was still a little perplexed, but convinced that this piece of paper, which she regretted being unable to show to Emily, was part of the secret. “And I’ve found the secret door. Locked, as you said it would be. But I’m going to call a locksmith today. I promise you I’ll find it.”

  She heard footsteps and looked up as if caught in some guilty act. A nurse in full scrubs came around the corner. Had she overheard her and now thought her crazy? If she did, she didn’t show it.

  “You do know you’re only allowed half an hour here?” she asked.

  Diana nodded. “Yes, I was just leaving.”

  This time she didn’t add that she’d come again tomorrow. She had no desire to tempt fate, nor to be stopped again by a waiting doctor at the nurses’ station.

  She said goodbye to Emily by kissing her brow through the mask, then left the room and tore the protective clothing from her body.

  Before she had reached the reception hall, her phone buzzed. She should have switched it off altogether, but her sense of duty towards her practice kept her from doing so. As she rummaged in her bag for the phone to read the text, she wondered how long she actually intended to stay here. Eva had asked her to stay away for only two or three days, but Emily’s condition, the trail of the family secret, and the fact that someone had to be there if the worst came to the worst seemed to be conspiring to keep her from returning to Berlin any time soon.

  Would she be able to manage such a long absence? Granted, her team was incredibly reliable and Eva was a very good lawyer, but every now and then clients wanted to speak to her personally.

  A harassed glance at the phone revealed a message from Philipp.

  You weren’t at home. Please get in touch and tell me where you are. We need to talk.

  Talk, Diana thought bitterly as she deleted the message without hesitation. Talk about what? About your infidelity? Or how you’re sorry? No, my dear, you can stew for a while longer.

  Philipp’s message helped her come to a decision. Once she was back at Tremayne House she’d message Eva saying she shouldn’t expect her back for at least two weeks and she should forward any important matters to her by email.

  As on the previous day, Mr. Green was waiting for her in the hospital foyer. He was talking to an elderly man, a small package beneath his arm.

  Why didn’t he leave that in the car? Diana wondered as she gave him a brief wave and carried on through the glass doors.

  “How is Mrs. Woodhouse?” he asked after excusing himself from the other man.

  “Worse. She’s on breathing apparatus.”

  Diana couldn’t bring herself to say any more. Mr. Green nodded in sympathy.

  “I’m sorry to hear it. I have something for you here.”

  Diana looked at him in surprise and swallowed. “You bought something for me?”

  “No, I just went to fetch something that your aunt had bought. For the annual parcel.”

  All shreds of Diana’s self-control vanished—hot tears flowed down her cheeks. Even though she had been feeling unwell over recent weeks, Emily had thought about something as inconsequential as the parcel she sent her once a year for no particular reason. Diana had always jokingly called it the Care Package, since her mother had always received one after moving to Germany.

  “Now, now, Miss Diana, you have to be brave. Your aunt’s a fighter. She won’t give up so easily.”

  Mr. Green drew a clean handkerchief from his coat pocket and only then did he seem to realise that he’d called her Miss Diana, just like he used to when she was a child. He suddenly blushed bright scarlet.

  “Thank you, Mr. Green,” Diana replied with a sniff. “And please will you keep calling me Miss Diana? For one thing, I don’t think I’m going to be Mrs. Wagenbach for much longer.”

  The butler looked at her in some confusion before leading her over to the car.

  “My husband and I will probably be getting a divorce,” she informed him once they were a short way out of London.

  At first the butler was rendered speechless, then he cleared his throat and replied, “You should think long and hard about it. These days people often throw relationships away too easily.”

  In earlier days, maybe the times of Emily or Daphne, he would have been reprimanded for such a statement. But Diana thought he had a point. People simply threw good, long-term relationships to the wind—for a short-term affair, for example.

  “He was unfaithful to me,” she said, which would also have been unacceptable in the old days.

  “Oh, then that’s a different matter altogether.” Could Diana detect a slight trace of anger in his voice? “I don’t understand some men. Why do they throw themselves into affairs and believe that women won’t notice? That certainly wasn’t the case in the past—women have a sense for it.”

  “And now they’re no longer prepared to hide the fact that it troubles them,” Diana added.

  “Exactly! But men still assume they’ll get away with it. And they bring all that trouble and disgrace u
pon themselves just to feel another woman’s skin for a few moments.”

  Listening to his wise words, she could have been forgiven for thinking that he’d had the happiest relationship of all times. But Diana knew only too well that wasn’t the case. Was he saying it with the benefit of hindsight?

  Back at Tremayne House, Diana immediately withdrew with the parcel to the living room, which she had transformed into a kind of headquarters since the previous evening. She had always loved the huge colonial sofa, which had been so lovingly cared for that it showed no sign of wear despite having survived since the turn of the twentieth century.

  Her laptop, its cable running to the phone socket, stood on the low, solid table which was more used to holding the fruit bowl. She had brought the pad of paper from the study, but left the inkwell where it was, since she didn’t want to risk staining the carpet with a fountain pen.

  On the pad was a list of the things she wanted to do that day. For years she had kept a to-do list, which had actually helped her to bring a bit of order into her life. The list, with a call to the locksmith as its first item, now also fulfilled the role of lifesaver for Diana as she sank down on the sofa and took the telegram out from the new envelope she had put it in to protect it.

  Yesterday she had tried googling the name of Richard Tremayne, but without success—his ghost had not yet reached the Internet. A visit to the archives here had made its way on to the list.

  But for now, Diana reached for the telephone, which seemed to be the most modern piece of equipment in the house. As she had explored the rooms, some of them completely empty, she had seen no sign of a TV.

  Diana had tried two other locksmiths before finally reaching a friendly sounding older man on her third attempt. He told her he was planning to retire soon, but since it involved Tremayne House he would come the following afternoon and examine the lock in question.

  No sooner had she hung up than she noticed Mr. Green in the doorway. She had no idea how long he’d been standing there, patiently waiting for her to finish her conversation, but there was a delicious smell coming from somewhere.

  “Lunch will be ready at about one. Is that all right for you, Miss Diana?” he asked.

  “That depends what it is,” she replied playfully, despite her sadness inside.

  “An English speciality. Wait and see!” His voice echoed down the corridor as he disappeared from view.

  Diana was unsure whether she wanted any surprises just now. Her eyes wandered over the neatly tied parcel, which gave no clues as to its contents, or even the place where it had been bought. The brown wrapping paper had no company logo on it, as might be expected, and it was tied up with ordinary string, the kind that could be bought anywhere.

  Well, here goes—surprise! she thought, untying the knot.

  As she opened it she felt something incredibly soft beneath her fingertips. She gasped in amazement as she saw what it was. An orange silk scarf, printed with a beautiful red-and-gold pattern. It seemed quite old. The edges were very slightly frayed and the design looked Victorian in style. Although Diana was no expert, she thought she had read somewhere that scarves with a genuine Indian paisley pattern were very expensive. That was why people had begun to mechanically reproduce the pattern in a Scottish town called Paisley.

  Aunt Emily was famous for the generosity of her Care Packages, but they had never contained anything as beautiful as this before. Was it from her own wardrobe? But if so, why would Mr. Green have had to fetch it from somewhere?

  All at once Diana remembered the pattern on the wallpaper that concealed the compartment behind the bookshelf. Was it one of Emily’s clues?

  There was no way she could confront Mr. Green to ask him whether Emily had taken him into her confidence. He would probably only laugh and give some mysterious reply.

  No, I’ll get to the bottom of it myself, she told herself as she slid the scarf through her fingers, enjoying its silky feel and losing herself in thought.

  5

  The English speciality promised by Mr. Green consisted of juicy lamb chops, potatoes, and gravy with a hint of mint. It tasted delicious. Diana was not really hungry, but Mr. Green’s cookery skills had enticed her to eat so much that she felt as though she would soon be rolling around the house like a balloon.

  During the afternoon, the doorbell rang—a shrill sound that was out of character with the building but which penetrated to every corner.

  Mr. Green was out on an errand, so Diana answered the door herself. Leaving her laptop, she got up from the comfortable leather sofa and hurried through the labyrinth of corridors until she finally reached the hall.

  The visitor seemed used to waiting. As she approached the glazed door he was still there, a picture of patience with lowered head and a hat in his hand. The art nouveau patterns in the frosted glass hid his face from view, but as Diana opened the door she saw a gentleman of around eighty with thick grey hair and wearing a black trench coat.

  “Dr. Sayers?” she burst out.

  The man widened his eyes as if he’d seen a ghost, and nodded. After a moment’s astonishment it seemed to dawn on him who she was.

  “You’re Beatrice’s granddaughter, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, that’s me, Diana Wagenbach.” Diana smiled. How long was it since she’d seen this man? In her childhood he had often called at Tremayne House, since in his role as the family doctor he had formed a bond of friendship with Emily’s family. As so much time had gone by since Diana’s last visit, she had not seen him for a long while. Aunt Emily had spoken of him every now and then, yet he had gradually receded to a phantom figure. As Diana saw him before her now, his features crystallised from her distant memories.

  “My goodness, when was the last time I saw you?” A smile softened his usually severe face. “Would you have been fourteen? It must be more than twenty years ago.”

  “It could well be. But you haven’t changed at all, Doctor.”

  Sayers gave a dismissive laugh. The ice was broken. He patted her arm.

  “Don’t go flattering an old man—you don’t know what kind of thoughts you might put into his head!”

  “I assume you’ve come about Aunt Emily?”

  “Yes. I haven’t heard anything for a few days. Is she well? She must be delighted that her niece is here; you were always like a granddaughter to her.”

  Diana looked down in sadness. He obviously didn’t know. “Please come in, Dr. Sayers, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  In respectful silence, the doctor followed her through the house and into the kitchen, which was flooded by the afternoon sunshine breaking through the clouds. Although Mr. Green was very conscientious about his work, small motes of dust danced in the rays of light. Old houses collect dust of their own accord, Diana’s mother had always said. Here was the living proof.

  “Please sit down and excuse me bringing you here into the kitchen. I’m afraid I’ve made the living room a bit untidy. Papers lying around, that kind of thing.”

  The doctor nodded with understanding as he sat on one of the kitchen chairs. “Yes, the authorities never leave us alone. Emily must be pleased you’re here to help out.”

  Diana swallowed the lump in her throat. “Aunt Emily’s been taken to hospital—the day before yesterday, so Mr. Green tells me. She’s had another stroke.”

  “Oh, good Lord!” Dr. Sayers raised his hands helplessly. “Where is she now?”

  “In St. James’s. She also has pneumonia, so she’s on breathing apparatus and can’t communicate. I went to see her this morning.”

  Sayers took a moment to grasp the situation. “That’s terrible. I’m so sorry, Mrs. Wagenbach.”

  “Call me Diana. And thank you, that’s very kind.” Diana took a deep breath, staring awkwardly at her hands. Mr. Green had made sure to leave the tea things out for her before leaving the house, so she got up and made a pot, pouring a cup for herself and Dr. Sayers. This time the smell of the tea was not enough to soothe her anxiety, but she kept
herself together in the presence of her guest.

  “It’s a real pity that I’m no longer practising and so no longer have the right to walk into the hospital and declare myself the family doctor. I would have told the old girl she can’t leave us yet. Who am I going to put the world to rights with every Wednesday afternoon?”

  A bitter smile crossed his face and Diana couldn’t help wondering whether he had ever tried to get closer to her aunt. When she was widowed Emily had still been plenty young enough to have at least allowed herself a lover.

  “I remember your grandmother well, Diana,” the doctor said. He sipped his tea and closed his eyes as he savoured it. “What wonderful tea! What do you think the chances of Mr. Green revealing his source are?”

  “You’ll have to ask him yourself.”

  Sayers harrumphed. “I doubt he’d do that, secretive old devil that he is. It must sound strange for you to hear me calling him that when I must be at least thirty years older than he is.”

  He laughed and took another drink.

  “Oh yes, your grandmother,” the doctor resumed. “What a lovely girl Beatrice was! I met her the night she arrived here.”

  Diana was familiar with a tiny part of her family history. At the end of the nineteenth century her great-great-grandmother, Grace, together with her husband, had built a house on the Baltic in East Prussia, the part that now belonged to Poland. During their flight in 1945, Beatrice’s husband and her mother, Helena, Grace’s daughter, had been killed. Diana’s grandmother had somehow found her way to England, pregnant and half-starved. Emily’s mother had taken her in when the house was being used as a military hospital.

  “Although she couldn’t help much in the hospital because of her condition, she worked hard and helped us in every way she could. Even though Daphne didn’t approve.”

  His eyes seemed to be wandering back to the old days, when he had been a young man and probably many a girl’s heart-throb.

  “Approve of her doing too much, you mean?” Diana said.

  “That was part of it. But Daphne didn’t seem to trust her. There was never any proof of her origin. Only a letter.”