Part one
For JixeWriMo 2013, I decided to try writing one story of a certain length (which I forget exactly, but about 50,000 words) from start to finish, just to see if I could. This story is the result. I think it proved that while I could do that, I probably shouldn’t. A number of times, I have tried to clean it up and post it, but I usually get distracted part-way through. It’s set, therefore, in roughly 2013 or a year or two earlier.
“I’m never going to find a summer job,” Trixie moaned, banging her head on the kitchen table of her parents’ home. “Everyone has plans except me. I’m going to be stuck here, all summer, by myself, with nothing to do.”
Her mother smiled at the histrionics. “It might not come to that. Something might still come up.”
Trixie sighed and lifted her head. Helen set down a plate of bacon, eggs, fried tomatoes and toast in front of her and she managed to sound grateful when she thanked her. Next to Trixie’s place leant a pair of crutches. Five weeks ago, she had not-so-gracefully tripped and fallen down a flight of stairs, breaking an ankle in the process. This had made the remaining four-and-a-half weeks of her first year at college challenging and had also scuttled her summer plans of working on a charity project in Cambodia. The team she had intended to go with had left the day before. When the plaster came off in another eight days, she had been told to expect her leg to be weaker than before and to have to work at making it strong again.
“I’ve called everyone I can think of,” Trixie complained. “No one knows of anything I’m likely to be able to do. Why couldn’t I have broken something more convenient? Like my head?”
Smiling, her mother sat opposite and began eating her own breakfast. “No matter what you broke, you’d still have a recovery time. And who knows, someone that you’ve spoken to may hear of something yet.”
Trixie heaved another heavy sigh. “I sure hope so, or this summer will be the most boring one ever.”
A little under a week later, Peter Belden arrived home with a spring in his step and a wide smile on his face. As he entered the kitchen, he greeted his wife with a kiss and immediately asked after Trixie.
“She’s in her room,” Helen replied, meaning the guest room – Trixie had not been able to safely master climbing stairs on crutches.
“Trixie!” her father called, without leaving the kitchen. “Can you come here?”
“Coming!” she replied. The sounds of her progress soon followed and she arrived with a clatter. “What is it?”
Her father smiled. “On my way home today, I stopped at the Post Office and I stood in line behind Mrs. Fletcher.”
Trixie frowned. “Do I know Mrs. Fletcher?”
“Perhaps not; she’s a very elderly lady whose son I used to work with, but that’s not important. The important part is that she asked if my daughter was still looking for a summer job.”
“Yes!” Trixie cried. “She knows something I can do?”
He nodded, smiling at her excitement. “She has a relative whose next door neighbour’s niece works as a home care helper of some sort. The lady she works for is looking for a personal assistant for a couple of months to help with some kind of project. From what Mrs. Fletcher tells me, the project is to solve some kind of a family mystery.”
Trixie’s eyes opened wider and her jaw dropped. “When can I start?”
“First, I think, you might need to give the lady a call. Mrs. Fletcher gave me a contact number.” He handed over a piece of paper bearing a Connecticut number. “The times listed at the bottom are the times that it would be suitable to call.”
Trixie glanced at the paper, then at the clock, frowning to see the discrepancy. “Okay, so I’ll call her in two hours’ time. I can’t wait!”
Those two hours dragged by for Trixie, despite the evening meal and the conversation that accompanied it. She fidgeted her way through that time and it was a relief to everyone in the house when the time was up and she could make the call. She was almost shivering with anticipation by the time she dialled the number.
“Hello?” a young voice greeted when the telephone was answered.
“Oh. Hello. Could I please speak to Miss Everett-Cooper?”
There was a short pause. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think she’s up to it this evening.”
In the background, a loud, elderly voice asked, “Who is it?”
The younger voice continued, “May I ask what it’s regarding? I may be able to help you.”
With a sinking heart, Trixie introduced herself and explained, “My father heard that Miss Everett-Cooper was looking for a personal assistant for a special project.”
“In that case, I can give you some information. Let me just get the notes.” The phone was set down and Trixie could hear the old lady clearly as she asked, in plaintive tones, to know who was calling. “Here we are. It’s a live-in position – food and accommodation provided – for the summer, or until the problem is solved, whichever is sooner. The pay is rather limited, I’m afraid. Miss Everett-Cooper had a stroke a couple of years ago and it’s caused dementia. Some days, she seems completely normal and others it’s like she’s a completely different person. Today is one of her bad days and she just doesn’t understand what’s going on. The scope of this job is to help her on her good days to remember what’s needed to find some long-lost relatives. She wants to return something to them.”
“That sounds really interesting,” Trixie told the woman. “Does she have a lot of bad days, though? What would I do then?”
“I’m not really sure about what you’d do. The number of bad days varies enormously and it’s impossible to predict.” There was another short pause. “If you’re interested, I have the number of someone who knows more about it, or I could take your number and pass it on to him, if you’d prefer.”
“I’d like the number, please,” Trixie answered, readying pen and paper. After jotting down the details, she thanked the woman to whom she had been talking and they said their goodbyes.
Without a pause, she dialled the new number and waited for it to be picked up. She was thrilled to hear it answered by a man with a deep, though aged, voice.
“Yes?” he asked.
“Is this William Heffernan?” When he told her that it was, Trixie introduced herself and explained how she had obtained his number.
“And you’re interested in the job? Excellent. I was beginning to think we wouldn’t find anyone.”
“I was beginning to think I wouldn’t find anything either,” she answered. “I broke my leg about six weeks ago and couldn’t follow through with my summer plans.”
“That must be very disappointing.” There was clear sympathy in his voice. “Now, to business. I take it you wanted some further information.”
For the next ten minutes, he and Trixie discussed the job and what it would entail. In addition to what she had already heard, she would be required to search the house for clues to answer two particular questions. Mr. Heffernan himself had tried to solve the difficulty, as had his wife, but the elderly lady was disinclined to talk to either of them and they did not feel physically capable of the extended search. By the time he had told her all this, Trixie was itching to get started.
“The only other thing is that you will need to supply two or three character references,” he finished, when everything else was settled. “If those are satisfactory, I am prepared to offer you the job.”
For a moment, Trixie had no idea who she could ask, but soon a few ideas popped into her mind. “Is there anyone you know in my area, that I might know as well? I’m sure a reference from someone you respect would be more reassuring for you. I’m from Sleepyside, New York.”
“Let me think … I don’t suppose … no, I don’t think he’d still be alive.” He paused. “I don’t think there’s anyone I know personally. There might be someone I know by reputation.”
“Matthew Wheeler?” Trixie suggested.
The other man had a smile in his voice as he replied, “If you can get a reference from Matthew Wheeler, I think I’ll be happy with just that one and one other. It sounds like a difficult prospect to me. He seems to be a very busy man.”
“Yes, that’s true,” she answered, “but I’m sure he’d be willing to do that for me. How would you like it to get to you?”
She wrote down the details as he gave them and they soon ended the call. A moment later, she was on the phone to the Manor House, asking to speak to Mr. Wheeler. He was in – as she had already known – and readily agreed to her request.
“I’ll do it right away,” he told her. “I’m sure he’ll be surprised to receive it so quickly.”
“I’m sure he will, too. Thank you, Mr. Wheeler. You’re the best!”
A week later, Trixie left for Ridgefield, Connecticut. Due to the lingering weakness in her leg, her mother drove her there. Bobby had complained loud and long about the prospect of having to go with them, so he had been left at the Lynch Estate for the day.
William Heffernan had been more than surprised at her speedy obtaining of character references, in particular the one from Matthew Wheeler. In fact, he had been astounded. Trixie did not know what either of her references contained but it appeared from the reaction that the one from Mr. Wheeler, at least, must have been glowing as well as almost immediate. He had taken a day to ascertain that it really was genuine, then had called Trixie to confirm that she had the job, to set her starting date and to give her the address of Miss Everett-Cooper’s house.
As they neared their destination, Trixie began to neglect her task as navigator in favour of taking in every detail of their surroundings. Several times, she was chastised for not telling Helen of a turn in time for her to make it. At last they reached the house and Trixie stared at it in amazement.
Beyond a stone fence with tall gate pillars and surrounded by immaculate lawns and well-tended gardens stood a large house. The roof seemed to consist of clusters of gables – from the front, four were visible – and the tall windows were made of many small panes. Several chimneys towered over the entirety.
“This is not what I expected at all,” she murmured, her eyes still on the house. “I got the idea that she didn’t have all that much money to spare, which is why she’s paying me so little.”
“There’s such a thing as property tax,” her mother reminded her gently. “Appearances can be deceiving. And, remember, she has a lot of people working for her already just so that she can stay here.”
Trixie nodded and got out of the car. Leaving her belongings where they were, she limped up to the front door and rang the bell. It was answered, almost at once, by an older man in a dark grey suit.
“You must be Trixie.” He held out his hand to her. “William Heffernan. It’s nice to finally meet you.”
“Likewise,” she answered, shaking his hand.
“You’ve made good time. I was afraid it might be later before you got here. I take it you’re not quite recovered? You didn’t drive yourself?”
She shook her head ruefully. “I’m getting better, but I can’t drive just yet. My mother brought me.”
“Let’s invite her inside,” he offered, walking out the door and down the half-dozen steps.
By the time Trixie was back down, he was already commandeering her bags and ushering her mother into the house. He showed them into a sitting room and asked them to help themselves to refreshments and take a seat while he dropped Trixie’s bags into her room.
“Only this level of the house is in use these days,” he explained, as he joined them. “Ivy can’t manage the stairs any more, so everything important has been moved down here. I think that will suit you well enough, until you’ve regained some strength, won’t it?”
Trixie smiled. “Yes. I hope I’m back to using stairs easily in another week or two, though.”
“I hope you’ll be more careful when you do,” Helen added. “It was falling down a set of stairs that broke her leg in the first place.”
Her daughter rolled her eyes, but did not verbally respond.
“When you’re ready, I’ll show you around. You might have to wait to meet Ivy, though, as I believe she’s having a rest.” He waved to indicate their current surroundings. “This is the staff rest area, by the way. There are always plenty of people coming in and out of the house and this room is always available to them for a cup of coffee and somewhere comfortable to sit. There is a meals area, also, which I will show you later. And, before I forget, here are your keys.”
Surprised, Trixie reached out to take them. “Will I need these?”
The older man smiled. “There will be many hours when you’re not working. I expect you’ll like to go out now and then. It would be convenient if you could let yourself back in without having to bother anyone, wouldn’t it?”
“I guess it would,” she agreed.
When their warm drinks had been consumed, the three went for a walk together around the active part of the house. Trixie was delighted with her room, which looked out over the back garden and had a bathroom to itself. They did not enter the old lady’s suite of rooms, as she was at rest. Last on the tour was the formal living and dining rooms, which contained fine, old furniture and appeared to have changed little in the past fifty years or more.
“I hope you’re not getting ready to make a run for it, Trixie,” William Heffernan asked, as they returned to their starting point. “I know it’s hard to make a judgement without meeting Ivy, but I hope you’ll be happy enough here.”
“I’m sure I will,” she replied. “And I really want to get started on the problem.”
He smiled. “I’m glad to hear that It’s rather selfish of me, but I hope that you’ll quickly find success. If you don’t find the solution, it will fall to me to do so after Ivy passes – presuming I outlive her, of course, which is not at all certain. I’ve long wished that she had taken my advice twenty-five years ago and found this solution then – or any time since, for that matter. I’m very much afraid that she’s left it too late.”
“I’m going to do my best,” she assured him. “Don’t worry.”
Farewells had been made and Helen had returned to Sleepyside. William Heffernan had also departed for his own home, but had left a few papers with Trixie for her to study at her leisure and some small notebooks for her to take notes as she interviewed the old lady. She had spent nearly five minutes unpacking her bags and stowing everything away before sitting down with the papers to read. They yielded few clues as to what she would be doing here. One was a brief account of William Heffernan’s acquaintance with the Everett-Cooper family. Another was an excerpt from Ivy Everett-Cooper’s will, dated July twenty-eighth 2008. This was the most interesting to Trixie, as it mentioned an heirloom, a hand-carved wooden candlestick, which she wanted to leave to her nearest blood relative on her father’s side, and certain shares which she wanted to leave to the descendants of a man named Calvin Ellis of Petaluma, California.
Beyond that, she learned that at the time William Heffernan moved to Ridgefield some forty-five years ago, Ivy was already living in this house with her widowed mother and four older sisters. One sister had died not long after he arrived and another perhaps five years later. Their mother had passed away at the age of ninety-nine. The remaining two sisters had each reached or passed the age of ninety. Ivy had been living here alone since her last remaining sister died nearly seven years before.
By this time, Trixie felt the need to stretch her legs and so went in search of a drink. She was nearing the room where she had sat earlier when she heard the sound of voices somewhere nearby and correctly deduced that her employer must be up and about.
“Come on, Ivy. Just a few more steps for me, please.” The voice was young and cheerful.
“Mother doesn’t like me to go this way,” an elderly voice answered, somehow sounding at once timid and forceful. “I shouldn’t do this. I should go back.”
“She’s not here at the moment, so it doesn’t matter,” the younger voice assured. “Just a few more steps.”
“Gracious! What’s that doing there? Oh, I must put it away at once. It’s very precious, you know, but Mother cannot stand to see it.”
“Oh, but your mother isn’t here now,” the younger voice replied. “It will be fine there for now and I promise to put it away later.”
“You mustn’t forget. It’s very important.”
Around the corner came the pair. The elderly lady was small and frail, wearing a blue floral dress that was several sizes too large. She was using a walker. Beside her walked a woman in a pale blue uniform, who was not as young as her voice sounded.
The old lady looked straight at Trixie. “Oh, Edith! How lovely to see you after all this time.”
A jolt ran through Trixie at being addressed in this way. Her first thought was that this woman somehow knew her maternal grandmother, who was known as Edie, but whose name was actually Edith. She dismissed the thought almost at once; this woman was many years older than Trixie’s grandmother.
“Just come with us,” the other woman told her in a low voice. “I’m Sarah Peters. I don’t think you’ve met Ivy yet, have you? She’s not having a good day today.”
Trixie introduced herself, adding, “Who is Edith?”
Sarah shrugged. “No idea. Someone she knew long ago, probably.”
“And how is Philip?” Ivy asked, in her loud voice.
“Er … fine, thank you,” Trixie guessed.
“What’s that you say?” Ivy asked.
“She’s rather deaf,” Sarah explained. “You’ll have to speak up.”
“Fine, thank you,” Trixie repeated, more loudly.
Ivy’s pale eyebrows rose. “You surprise me. Last I heard, he was very low and not expected to make a recovery. Were the doctors mistaken?”
“I meant that he’s no worse,” Trixie improvised. “And how are you?”
The elderly woman’s steps slowed to a stop. “You know, I don’t feel at all myself. I can’t understand it.”
Sarah took over. “You haven’t been well today, Ivy. Come along, now. We’ll get you something to eat. Nearly there.”
“I don’t think I know you. And this is not the right way. I think I’ll go back.”
With a firm hand, Sarah guided her charge into a small dining room and settled her at the table. The walker she set far enough away that Ivy could not get to it. An adjoining doorway opened and another woman came through with a tray of pleasant-smelling food. She set the three plates on the table.
Sarah thanked the other woman, introduced her as Maria and allowed her to leave.
“She doesn’t like being near Ivy for any longer than she has to be,” Sarah explained in a low voice. “If you can stand it, I’d really like it if you’d eat with us. Maria’s temperamental enough without adding burdens to her.”
“It’s fine,” Trixie answered. “I’d be happy to eat with Ivy – especially on her good days; that will be one of the best times to get information from her, I guess.”
“I’ve never had much luck at that, but I guess William explained that already. She might talk to you now, but you won’t have too much control over the information that you get.” She smiled. “Maybe, if you ask her a question, she’ll start reminiscing.”
As she began to eat the roast meat and potatoes that had been set before her, Trixie came up with a line of investigation. “Tell me about your father, Ivy.”
“Oh, he was such a handsome man,” she answered, lighting up as she spoke. “He was so kind when he was happy, but it didn’t take much to make him mad. He was a very successful businessman, you know. I was only six when he died – that was when we lived in our previous house. I remember, he was terribly sick for days … and then, one day, he just wasn’t there any more. But I shouldn’t talk about him; it upsets my mother.”
“She’s not listening at the moment,” Trixie coaxed. “You don’t need to worry.”
“Oh, but she might come in and hear me. I wouldn’t want her to think that I’m disobeying her. I’ve always been a good daughter, always done what I was told.” She dropped her voice into what she must have imagined was a whisper. “I know what happens to girls who don’t obey their mothers.”
“Do you?” Trixie asked, both intrigued and alarmed.
“Oh, yes. One of my sisters didn’t obey and she died for her trouble. After that, I made sure to always obey.” She gave a knowing look. “It’s never wise to disobey my mother. She always finds out.”
Trixie nodded. “I was wondering, who is Calvin Ellis?”
Ivy looked at her with wide eyes. “I’ve never heard of him. My mother would never let me speak to strange men.”
During the remainder of the meal, Trixie tried various tactics to try to get Ivy to talk, but the elderly woman remained tight-lipped. Trixie was forced to accept that she would get no further that night.
“She’s often this way,” Sarah told her. “Now, if you don’t mind, could you sit with her for a few moments? I need to go and hide the candlestick.”
“What?” Trixie asked, in alarm.
Sarah gestured to the front hallway. “It’s an heirloom of some kind. A big, carved wooden thing. Ivy alternates between wanting it to have pride of place and desperately wanting to hide it.”
Trixie had a vague recollection of a small side table, with a bowl of ugly wax fruit and a dark column about eighteen inches high, which must be the candlestick. She deduced it must be the one mentioned in the will, though until that moment her mental picture of it had been vastly different.
“But why?”
Sarah shrugged. “Why does she do anything? It makes sense to her and that’s all that matters. So, can you sit with her?”
Trixie nodded. “Yes, that’s fine.”
“I’ll be back soon,” Sarah promised.
Alone in her room a little later, after scribbling down the details of the conversation with Ivy, she settled on the bed with her laptop. She had arranged to meet Honey, who was spending the summer in Paris, in a chat room. She arrived before her friend and spent a few minutes fiddling with the settings as she waited.
Honey: Hi Trixie. I’m not late, am I?
Trixie: No, I was early. How are you?
Honey: Wonderful. I love Paris. I don’t think I ever want to leave.
Trixie: :( I’d miss you.
Honey: I wasn’t serious. How is the new job?
Trixie: Not sure yet. I just met the old lady. She called me Edith.
Honey: *laughing* Really? Why?
Trixie: No idea. She seemed to think she knew me and I kept answering her
questions wrong. It was terrible.
Honey: I’m sure it will get better. It’s always hard to settle
in somewhere new.
Trixie: I guess. So have you met anyone new lately?
Honey: I might have.
Trixie: Really? Do tell. Does he have the right last name?
Some time ago, her cousin Ben Riker had been visiting and had teased Honey that if she married one of the Belden brothers, her initials would then be MGB, which is the name of a British classic car. She had not known what one looked like, so had searched the internet for images. The next time he brought it up, she told him that she preferred the slightly older MGA. Ever since, the matter had been a running joke among the Bob-Whites, that any potential boyfriend of Honey’s must have a suitable surname.
Honey: Ha ha. As it happens, I am not looking for a husband at the moment. I know you will be shocked by this.
Trixie: I’m shocked!
Honey: So, have you met anyone where you are?
Trixie: You mean, like the old lady? And some kind of carer-person, who’s
a woman and about 50. And the man who’s pretty much my boss
and is even older still?
Honey: Not a lot of boyfriend prospects there. Maybe we’ll both be
single forever.
Trixie: Like the old lady I’m working for. That’s kind of
depressing.
Honey: We can share an apartment and have a strict no boys rule. It might
be fun.
Trixie: Until we get all wrinkled and ugly.
Honey: Then it won’t matter that we’re single and we can just
have fun and not worry about our looks. It makes me feel better
about my complete lack of boyfriends already.
Trixie looked at what Honey had written and tried to think of what to say in response. To say that her life was not turning out the way she thought it would was an understatement. If you had asked her when she was fourteen, she would have stated with certainty that in five years’ time she would working towards opening her detective agency and dating Jim Frayne. However, those five years had passed and both of those dreams seemed to have faded into nothing. On the contrary, she and Honey had permanently shelved the agency idea, Jim had gone off to college and seemingly forgotten about her and she had a string of dating disasters to look back on.
Honey: Trix? Are you there? Did I say the wrong thing?
Trixie: Sorry, Honey. Just thinking.
Honey: You know I’ve been disappointed too. I understand how you
feel.
Trixie: I know. I don’t mean to take out my frustrations on you. It’s
just hard sometimes.
Honey: I’m here for you if you need me.
“Yes, on the other side of the Atlantic,” Trixie muttered, aloud. Then she shook herself of the sentiment.
Trixie: I know, Hon. I appreciate it. There’s just not anything to talk about right now. Everything is just the same.
Honey: It will get better. I know it will. Maybe, one day, we’ll
meet a mysterious set of identical twins, who sweep both of us off
our feet and we’ll live happily ever after, next door to each
other.
Trixie: That sounds like a plan. And if they don’t show up, we can
always go back to the no boys idea.
At that, the conversation turned to other things. By the time they needed to sign off, her natural buoyancy had returned and Trixie was looking on her life in a positive light once more. She had good friends, even if they were far away, her family loved her and she had a mystery to investigate. For now, that was all that she really needed.
The following day, Ivy appeared more connected to the present day and did not seem to remember what had happened the evening before. She smiled at Trixie as she was introduced and invited her to come into her suite to look at the family photographs.
“So, William has sent someone to help me at last,” she mused. “I was wondering when he would. Come here, dear, and look at these. I like to have them here, on the wall, so that I can see all of their faces.” She pointed to a large, formal portrait in an ornate frame. “This is my family, the last time that we were all together. This is my father, of course, and my mother. Here is my eldest sister Myrtle. This is Olive; she’s the second-eldest. Then, there’s Fern. Here’s Viola. This is Rosemary. This little one is me.”
“When was it taken?” Trixie asked.
Her hostess frowned. “I’m not sure. I suppose I was perhaps four years old then, and I’m ninety-six now …”
“Ninety-six!”
The old lady smiled. “Yes. I’ve come this far; I intend to reach one hundred. My mother very nearly did. She was ninety-nine years and seven months old when she died.”
“And your sisters …” Trixie began, but did not know how to finish her question.
“Oh, they’re all gone, now.” The old lady seemed only a little sad. “Fern was the first. She was only seventeen. This one here is the last picture of her, when she turned sixteen. Pretty, wasn’t she? Next to go was Rosemary. She only lived to be fifty-three. There’s a few pictures of her, you see. Olive was sixty-seven. Here she is, on her sixty-fifth birthday, looking quite distinguished. They all passed before our mother, which was very sad for her. Myrtle was ninety; she’s been gone for nearly twenty years, now. She wore glasses for as long as I can remember and that always makes a girl look unattractive, don’t you think? Viola lived to be ninety-four. She’s been gone for over six years.”
“Did they all live here in Ridgefield, or did some of them live in other places?”
“Here, of course. In this house.” Ivy seemed shocked by the question. “Except for poor Fern. She died the year before we moved here.”
Of the numerous possible questions raised by that statement, Trixie chose, “Where did you come from?”
“Hartford.” A slight frown appeared on the wrinkled brow. “I don’t remember it very well, as I was only ten at the time. I’ve never been back.”
“Never?”
“Mother did not approve of travel for girls. Father, of course, had already died, so he could not accompany us.” She shook her head. “No, it was better for us to stay here, where it was safe.”
“And did any of your sisters ever marry?” Trixie asked, suspecting that she knew the answer.
The old lady shook her head. “It is very difficult to raise six girls without a father. Very difficult. Suitable young men are so difficult to find when you don’t have a father to introduce them. There were never any opportunities.”
“Did both of your parents come from Connecticut?”
Ivy frowned. “My mother did. I’m not sure about my father. I seem to remember Myrtle saying something about him … now, where did she say that he’d been? Somewhere terribly far away. I’m sorry, I don’t remember.”
“If we’re going to find relatives on his side of your family, we’ll need to find out,” Trixie suggested. “Can you think of anyone who might know? Anywhere it might be written down?”
“Oh, that will be very difficult. My father died in Hartford, you understand, in 1923.” She sighed, looking away. “I don’t know of anything written down. Perhaps one of my sisters might have had something … I don’t know where we would start looking.”
“Does this house have an attic?”
Ivy’s eyes opened wide. “How should I know? My mother would not allow us to even speak of such things. It wasn’t suitable.”
“I’m beginning to be very sick of your mother,” Trixie muttered, too low for the old lady to hear, while pretending to examine one of the pictures. Aloud, she asked, “Would it be all right if I looked for one?”
“If you’re sure your mother would approve,” the old lady answered, looking uncertain. “I don’t mind where you look. In fact, it’s probably best if you look upstairs. I can’t go up there any more, except on special days.”
“If you’re sure you don’t mind,” Trixie agreed, feeling sure that there was something suspicious about the mother’s attitude. “I know my mother wouldn’t mind; she has nothing against attics.”
“I see.” The elderly brow furrowed.
“There’s one other thing I was wondering. Who is Calvin Ellis?”
“That name seems rather familiar, but I don’t think I ever knew anyone by that name. Where did you get it?” the old lady wondered.
“Mr. Heffernan gave it to me. You’ve left something to his descendants and it’s part of my job to help find him.”
“Oh, of course. Now, why did I do that, again? I’m sure I never knew him.” She looked helpless and very small. “If you’ll excuse me now, dear, I think I might be in need of a rest.”
“Of course. Thank you for letting me see these photographs.”
“It’s no trouble at all. And send Sarah to me. My candlestick isn’t in its place again. I can’t understand it.”
Outside of the suite a few minutes later, Trixie stopped at the foot of the stairs and gazed up. Squaring her shoulders, she took a few steps forwards until she could reach the railing. She took a deep breath, caught hold of it tightly and started the long climb up. By halfway, her leg was aching, but she was sure that she could make it. She rested there for a few moments, then resumed her climb.
At the top of the stairs, she looked both ways, trying to decide where to explore first. Without any particular reason, she chose to turn to the left. For the first six or eight paces, a railing separated her from the floor below. One door on the right stood closed. She opened it to reveal a sitting room, its furniture draped in dust cloths. Trixie closed this door again and went on to the next one.
A short distance ahead, there were closed doors on both sides of the corridor. The first on the left appeared to be the master bedroom. The bed was made up in shades of pale pink, every corner immaculate. A frilled pillow lay in the middle. The furniture was of dark wood and looked expensive. Everything was neat and most of the decorating rather restrained, but the whole room was shrouded in dust. Trixie stepped over to the closet and pulled it open. Numerous dresses still hung within. She closed it again and tried a dresser drawer, with similar result. Like Nell Frayne’s bedroom so long ago, this one appeared to have been left as its late occupant had kept it.
With a shiver, Trixie abandoned that room, closing the door behind her. She tried the other doors, finding a bathroom and another bedroom in very similar condition. This one, however, was smaller and contained more books. A quick look around convinced her that there was little to see here.
Retracing her steps, Trixie found further closed doors on the opposite side of the staircase. Two more rooms remained as their occupants had apparently left them. Another room was only partially furnished and Trixie deduced that this one had belonged to Ivy herself. Beyond it, another bathroom lay neglected and another bedroom held a long-dead woman’s effects. This last was the most decayed, with many of its soft furnishings falling into dust.
Trixie reached the end of the corridor without finding so much as a closet which might hide an attic access point. She walked back and forth for several minutes, examining the ceiling and looking in each of the rooms again, but without result. There did not seem to be anywhere to get into a potential attic.
Tired from her exertions and frustrated with both her lack of success and her lack of strength, she returned to her room, taking the stairs very slowly to reduce the chance of falling. She wanted to rest her leg and to think through the things that she had learned so far.
Often when she was thinking, Trixie would pace. Stripped of that ability, she instead fidgeted for a time, before settling to her task. By the time lunch was served, she had a whole lot of new questions for Ivy, but soon found that they would have to wait. Ivy had dropped into an uncommunicative state, barely acknowledging anyone around her and concentrating on her food.
“She was so chatty when I talked to her earlier,” Trixie mourned to Sarah, who had just come back on duty. “What happened?”
“Oh, she’s often like that. I suppose it wears her out. Maybe she’ll be back to her old self later.”
“I hope so. I’m going to have to find something else to do instead of talking to her.” She frowned. “I just wish my leg didn’t hurt so much. This would be so much easier if I could walk normally.”
The conversation turned to broken legs and Trixie’s irrational belief that once the plaster was off all her troubles would be over. This carried them through to the end of the meal, at which point Trixie grabbed a notebook and pencil from her room and once more made an assault on the stairs. She managed it much more easily this time, in spite of the deep ache which was building in her leg.
She went straight to the master bedroom and began a systematic search, taking a few notes as she went. Despite her efforts, she gained little information. The room had been occupied by Cornelia Everett-Cooper, a widow, who was born in 1881. From her conversation with Ivy, she could deduce that Mrs. Everett-Cooper must have died somewhere around 1980. The only point of note in the room was that, while at first glance it had seemed untouched, there were actually quite a number of items that seemed to be missing. There were no hair brushes or combs, for example. Setting this minor point aside, she moved on.
Trixie tried the same method in the bedroom opposite. It had belonged to Viola. On the bookshelves was a row of small, leather-bound books which turned out to be diaries. For fifteen minutes, Trixie delved here and there in those books which began in the late nineteen-twenties and extended as far as 2006. In the end, she gave them up as near-worthless. Viola seemed to have been of a nervous and emotional disposition, as whenever anything bad happened she had written: ‘So terrible. I can’t write about it.’ This statement appeared dozens of times, while most of the rest of the pages were filled with dull, everyday occurrences.
Moving on to the next bedroom, Trixie discovered that it had belonged to Olive. This room was decorated in a manner similar to their mother’s room. The bedspread was the same pink and the furniture a similar style, though on a humbler scale. A number of botanical watercolours hung on the wall, each neatly signed by Olive herself. In the drawers of the small desk were the materials to paint more, along with numerous other examples, both finished and unfinished.
Across the hall, she investigated Myrtle’s room, which held several book shelves. This was the sister who had mentioned something about their father’s origins and Trixie held high hopes that she might have written something down. A careful search yielded nothing and Trixie sank down onto a chair in frustration, heedless of the dust that rose from its upholstery. The muscles in her leg were burning from the exertion, but she felt determined enough to push past the discomfort.
The only places that she had not yet searched in this room were the wardrobe and under the bed. The latter took only a few moments – the space underneath was bare. The wardrobe smelled musty, causing her to wrinkle her nose, but did not reveal any secrets.
With regret, Trixie moved on to the next room. This was the one that was only part-furnished and the search neither took much time nor yielded any results.
The last room was the one in the worst condition, as Trixie remembered from her earlier visit. It had belonged to Rosemary, who seemed to have died in the late 1960s. She had also kept a diary, which began in 1929 and trailed to a halt as the writer’s health deteriorated in 1966. Unlike her sister, Rosemary had left out the dreary everyday activities and had also written down events both good and bad as plain statements of fact. An early entry recorded the family’s relief that their mother had sold all of the shares they held before the market crashed and had safeguarded their money in other ways. The final few dozen entries mentioned bad news from doctors, but gave no details. Other than that, nothing of particular importance appeared to happen within the times they were written.
With a sense of having achieved little, Trixie went downstairs to see what she could make of it all.