House of Silence Read online

  HOUSE OF SILENCE

  Linda Gillard

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2011 Linda Gillard

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters and events in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Cover design by Nicola Coffield

  www.lindagillard.co.uk

  Ebook Formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com

  For my mother, Margaret,

  who loves a mystery.

  Table of Contents

  A Beginning

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  The Truth

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Whole Truth

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Nothing But The Truth

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Endings and Beginnings

  Chapter Twenty-four

  About the Author

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Also by Linda Gillard

  Connect With Linda

  A Beginning

  Chapter One

  Gwen

  I used to wonder if Alfie chose me because I was an orphan and an only child. Was that part of the attraction? I came unencumbered, with no family.

  We were kindred spirits in a way. Detached, self-centred, yet both obsessed with the past. Our past. The difference was, I had no family and Alfie did. He had a family - a large one - but mostly he behaved as if he didn’t, as if he wanted no part of them, however much they might want a piece of him.

  As a lonely child, then a solitary adolescent, I used to fantasise about having a family - a proper family, teeming with rowdy siblings, jolly aunts and uncles and of course doting parents. Alfie had that. But I suspect his fantasy was that they had all died, leaving him in peace as sole owner and occupier of Creake Hall.

  It was a macabre joke we shared: that he lived on grim expectations. I used to chide him for his callousness and he would get angry, which was unlike him. He’d say, ‘You have no bloody idea, Gwen! You don’t know how much they expect of me.’

  And it was true. I had absolutely no idea.

  It’s Gwen. Short for Guinevere.

  Don’t ask.

  I was conceived, so I was told, at Glastonbury, foisted by father unknown on a semi-comatose mother. Sasha (she always insisted I call her that) must have done one line of coke too many. Sasha always said she had little recollection of my father but claimed my conception had been historic in all senses, that she had felt a deep, deep connection to the past (if not my father, whom she never saw again.)

  To my eternal embarrassment, she named me Guinevere which was mercifully shortened to Gwen and sometimes, when she was having a stab at being maternal, Gwenny. But never Ginny. Ginny was the pet name (I use the term advisedly) of one of my dipsomaniac aunt’s monstrous and much-loved Persian cats. There were three: Whisky, Vodka and Gin. Aunt Samantha had a quirky sense of humour when she was sober, which wasn’t often.

  Aunt Sam did booze, Sasha did drugs and my Uncle Frank did men - boys, if he could get them. This unholy trinity went down like ninepins in the ‘90s, martyrs to over-indulgence. All three died tragically young of, respectively, cirrhosis of the liver, a drug overdose and AIDS.

  As for me, I’m allergic to alcohol and worry a lot about my pension. If she were alive, Sasha would have said this was unnatural in one so young. (Twenty-six, but people say I look older. I certainly feel older.) My mother, fond as she was of clichés, would have said, “Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die!” And Sasha did. I wouldn’t describe myself as the ambitious type, but I do aim to live longer than my mother. If I make it to thirty-five, I’ll have achieved that modest goal.

  So it’s Gwen, not Guinevere. That’s one of the few things my mother and I agreed about. Names are destiny. So you might be surprised to learn that, despite the name and a genetic pre-disposition to excess, my friends describe me as frighteningly sensible, not at all the sort of woman who’d fall for an actor. And his home. And his family.

  But Sasha would have understood. So, bless them, would Aunt Sam and Uncle Frank. They would all have cheered me on from the sidelines, for it would appear family is destiny too.

  Even when you haven’t got one.

  Alfie Donovan wasn’t my type. Given my limited experience with the opposite sex, I’m not sure I can presume to say I have a type. Male, sober, solvent and heterosexual would be at the top of my wish-list, with tall, dark and handsome not far behind. I don’t claim to be original. At five feet nine myself, I think I can be forgiven for giving short-arses a wide berth. Uncle Frank used to claim, “It’s all the same when you’re lying down, sweetheart,” but his powers of discrimination declined in later years. (Or, as he liked to put it, he developed “more catholic tastes”.)

  Alfie was no taller than me. He was blond and funny-looking. Literally. His face made me laugh. His letterbox grin made a grey day suddenly sunny. Old ladies smiled at him for no reason and babies in buggies would crane their necks and stare, fascinated. Alfie’s face was so mobile, so expressive, he could talk with it without opening his mouth. A roll of his eloquent brown eyes spoke volumes. He could crack you up with a look, hint at filthy double entendres with the hoist of an eyebrow. But handsome? No, never. His was a striking face, a memorable face, and - though I didn’t realise it at first - it was also a familiar face.

  I’m talking about Alfie as if he’s dead… He isn’t, of course. Not exactly.

  But something died. Somebody.

  ~~~

  A man dressed in breeches, topcoat and elaborate cravat strode along the gravel path. He came to a halt in front of a wooden bench and addressed its occupant, a young woman in jeans and a man’s linen shirt, her head bent over a spiral-bound notebook.

  ‘Excuse me.’

  She peered up at him, shielding her eyes against the sun, and cast a professional eye over his appearance, from carefully arranged blond curls to immaculate riding boots - only a size eight by her estimation. He was slender and pale and looked very hot. Smiling, he said, ‘You’re Wardrobe, aren’t you?’

  She didn’t return the smile. ‘Well, I don’t actually have a pair of wooden doors, but thanks to an exhaustive training and a couple of years in the rag trade, I have been known to work wonders with a safety pin.’

  His large brown eyes rolled heavenwards. ‘Music to my ears! You see, I’ve got a problem with my breeches.’

  She turned back to her notebook. ‘They’re meant to be tight. Caroline’s a stickler for authenticity - didn’t they warn you? Don’t expect to breathe and don’t even think about sitting down. If you get tired, you have to lean against the fireplace. Decoratively.’

  ‘Oh, absolutely! Understood. No, this is more serious than breathing problems.
Especially from Caroline’s point of view. My breeches are falling down.’

  She looked up. ‘What do you mean, falling down?’

  ‘Travelling earthwards. I think I might have lost a button—’ He flicked the cascade of lace at his throat. ‘But I can’t see past this sodding cravat. I can feel them slipping down. I know I’m not imagining it. One of the extras - who’s already shown an unhealthy interest in my arse - referred to me as “droopy drawers” when he thought I was out of earshot. One of your safety pins might just save the day. And my face. Or rather arse.’

  Suppressing a smile, the girl shut her notebook, stood up and said, ‘Follow me.’ She led him away from the mêlée of actors and technicians to a secluded part of the shrubbery. Turning to face him, she said, ‘Undo your waistcoat. And please try not to destroy your cravat!’ She bent down and examined his costume. ‘Oh, I see your problem. You’ve lost a button at the waist. Have you put on weight since you were fitted for these?’

  He gasped. ‘My, that was tactful! I thought you wardrobe ladies were meant to be the soul of discretion, masking the numbers on your tape measure with a carefully placed thumb to avoid damaging fragile egos.’

  ‘Oh yes, we do that for stars. And some of us will do it for nobodies. We don’t do it for people who address us as pieces of furniture. We’re funny that way.’

  ‘Sorry, I was a bit stressed. I’ll address you as anything you like - your majesty - if you’ll fix me up. You see, if they ever finish with those bloody lights, we get to shoot the one and only scene in which I have to do some acting, as opposed to propping up fireplaces. Decoratively. So I’d like to look my best. Please. Ma’am.’

  ‘I see.’ She produced a small tin from the breast pocket of her linen shirt and extracted a safety pin. ‘Stand still. Very still.’ She knelt in front of him and slipped her hand inside the waistband of his breeches.

  He looked down, bemused, at the top of her shining dark head, now on a level with his crotch. ‘Well, let’s hope there are no paparazzi behind me, lurking in the shrubbery with a telephoto lens. I can see the headline now… Blow-job in the bushes: BBC’s desperate attempt to boost ratings with Regency sex romp.’

  Unperturbed, she stood up and examined her handiwork. ‘OK, you’re done. You won’t be able to pee in a hurry, though.’

  ‘Pee? My dear, we have catheters sewn into our breeches, didn’t you know?’ He noted with satisfaction that she was now avoiding his eye in an attempt not to smile. The corners of her mouth twitched as she let the curtain of her hair fall forward to hide her face. He pressed home his advantage. ‘What’s your name - er, your royal highness?’

  ‘Gwen Rowland.’

  ‘Well, Gwen, I’ll save you the embarrassment of admitting you haven’t the faintest idea who I am. Don’t worry, you’re not the only one. The director’s either forgotten my name or doesn’t recognise me in costume.’

  ‘Could be all the weight you’ve put on, I suppose.’

  The eyes that now met his conveyed both challenge and mischief. From a distance, he’d thought she hadn’t looked all that attractive, but at close quarters the reluctant curve of that pretty mouth, the provocation in those blue eyes meant he was enjoying this more than he’d expected. ‘You know, I like you, Gwen, I really do. I suppose it would be too much to hope the feeling was mutual?’

  She shook her head. ‘Far too much. But I might like you better if I knew your name.’

  ‘I doubt it. My name’s Alfie. Alfie Donovan. I’m a nobody. Playing a nobody. The youngest brother. A tousle-haired tearaway. It’s a speciality of mine. So…’ He stood back to let her admire him. ‘You reckon I’ll survive Caroline’s scrutiny?’

  ‘Turn round and let me see… Yes, you’ll do. No-one’s going to call you droopy drawers. But you might find your arse on the receiving end of more unwanted attentions now.’

  ‘That wouldn’t include yours by any chance?’

  She fixed him with a look. ‘As well as covering up tell-tale numbers on tape measures, we’re trained to rebuff sexual advances from artistes who think they can take advantage of an intimate working relationship.’

  ‘Is that so? I see what you mean about the training being exhaustive. How very disappointing. I was going to ask - politely - if you’d have dinner with me. In about three weeks time when we’ve finished shooting this bloody scene. I wonder - if I had asked - what you would have said?’

  ‘I might have said yes. Though I’m not sure someone with a weight problem should really be dining out.’

  He beamed at her. ‘Gwen, you are a delight! Please have dinner with me. Or rather, please let me watch you eat dinner. I’ll just toy with a breadstick.’

  She folded her arms. ‘OK, I give in. You’ve worn me down. A girl can stand only so much relentless charm. Is this what they teach you at drama school nowadays? Come and find me when you’re through. You might want some help getting out of those breeches.’ She grinned, then turned and walked away, leaving him temporarily bereft of words.

  He watched her long-legged stride and the way her thick, dark hair swung from side to side in time with her step. He called out after her, ‘You know, you just made my day!’

  Laughing, she turned back, executed a mock curtsey, then continued on her way.

  Gwen

  Alfie had various alternative titles for our Regency epic (which he described as ‘based on an original idea rejected by Jane Austen’). One was Age and Avarice, another Plots and Plausibility and, at the end of a long and trying day, when filming hadn’t gone well and we were considering more sensible ways of earning a living, Fees and Feasibility.

  Alfie and I shared a passion for the novel on which the series was loosely based, so I thought his cynicism justified. The screenwriter who’d adapted the book had changed the plot, the characters and the ending and he’d set it ten years later (because the costumes were prettier). Apart from those minor alterations, he claimed, it was totally faithful to the original. There were those who said the sex scenes were gratuitous and inappropriate, but as the director repeatedly informed the cast, this was to be a Jane Austen for the twenty-first century. Sex scenes were apparently what Jane herself would have written if she’d had a free hand. And, I added privately, if she hadn’t been a spinster. And a virgin. And disinclined to write a scene in which no female character appeared, on the grounds that she, Jane, had no idea how men talked to each other when ladies weren’t present.

  Or, as Alfie put it, much more succinctly, Sperm and Spuriousness.

  We were filming on location in Sussex. Alfie lived in London and I shared a flat in Brighton with two other girls. We decided to have dinner in Brighton and Alfie said he would get the train back to Victoria. He wasn’t staying in digs for the shoot and said he always went home if he possibly could. He lived alone in a basement flat in Highbury. His mother had bought it for a song years ago to use as her pied-à-terre in town, although Alfie suspected it had actually served as a love-nest. It was now worth a small fortune. Alfie said knowing he was perceived as a man of property had proved cold comfort when he’d been burgled (twice) and mugged (once) on his own very expensive doorstep.

  He gave me all this information, partly to entertain, but also, I suspect, to let me know he didn’t expect me to offer him a bed - shared or spare - after our meal. Alfie let me understand right from the start that he was a private person, that he was territorial. At first I thought it must have something to do with being a member of a large family. I now know going to ground in that gloomy basement was the only way he could switch off. Only when he closed his own front door could he stop performing. He said, if he didn’t spend some time alone, every day, he forgot who he really was.

  I used to dismiss some of the things Alfie said as hyperbole, the camp exaggerations of an actor and raconteur, but I came to realise that truth was vitally important to him. Paradoxically perhaps for an actor who spent his life pretending, Alfie rarely told lies. It was a point of honour with him. More than anything, he
wanted to be taken seriously.

  ~~~

  Gwen glanced up from her menu and studied Alfie as he read the wine list. He wore a white T-shirt underneath a fawn linen suit. Both revealed his weight problem to be imaginary. His hair, like the suit, was fashionably rumpled, the Byronic curls no longer in evidence. He looked up and said, ‘So what are you having?’

  ‘The sea bass, I think.’

  ‘Snap. How do you like your wine?’

  ‘Not at all. I’m allergic to alcohol.’

  ‘How tragic.’

  ‘Not really. I had a very dear aunt who was an alcoholic, so the attraction of booze always escaped me.’

  ‘ “Was”? Is she an ex-alcoholic?’

  ‘No,’ Gwen replied, not looking up from her menu. ‘An ex-person.’

  Alfie didn’t answer immediately, then said softly, ‘Alcoholism is a bugger, isn’t it? Children have no idea what’s going on. Or what to do.’ Gwen said nothing and continued to stare fixedly at her menu. Alfie took the hint. ‘Well, I’m going to have a glass - possibly two - of sauvignon blanc. Would you like some mineral water? Sparkling?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ she replied, relieved at the change of subject. As he ordered for them, Gwen resumed her study of Alfie. He definitely wasn’t handsome, but he was appealing. Sexy in a quirky, boyish sort of way. She had to admit, he was definitely growing on her.

  When the waiter had gone, Alfie leaned across the table and said, ‘If you’re going to make me the object of scrutiny, I shall have to ask if you’re mentally undressing me and if so, is it for professional purposes or just for pleasure?’

  She laughed. ‘The conceit of the man! Just listen to him!’