Stumbledirt

By P.M. Leckie

The darkest secrets are the most difficult to keep...

Having barely survived the tyranny of his upbringing, the once rich, but now destitute Wallis Thorn, is brought by fate to the village of his birth — only to find that his family home is now a second rate hotel. He has no choice but to call upon the very people he blames for his current state of poverty.
One by one, the Thorns return to the place which once seemed like a prison to them.
Rook, wayward and hot-tempered. Esme, bitter and spiteful. And the soon to be Reverend Cyrus. A young man who scarcely knows the people who share his surname.
But can a family, who once existed governed by fear and who are now predominantly motivated by resentment, put their differences aside and bring Stumbledirt back to its former glory?
P.M. Leckie blends traditional British comedy/farce with the drama of a gothic saga to create a tale which spans the lives of the dysfunctional Thorns — from birth, through boarding school and on to adulthood. With many twists and turns along the way, this sometimes dark, but often humorous story, will stay with the reader long after it’s put down.

"From start to finish, I was completely drawn into the bizarre world of the Thorn family." — Pip, Goodreads, 5 stars.

"...every page is peppered with the author’s sometimes cheeky, but always amusing, humour which personally had me giggling to myself." — Screaming Angel, Goodreads, 5 stars.

"P.M. Leckie’s debut novel was a definite page turner from the very start ... And the twists just keep on coming." — Kimi, Kimi Chan Experience, 5 stars.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Seishin Ink
• Release date: Mar 15, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310462320

Book preview

Dedication

For the people who have helped me through some difficult times, this book belongs to you. You know how much this story means to me and you have my undying gratitude.

To Meena, Hiragi and Yuramei

Acknowledgements

Many thanks go to Stephanie Dagg for her wonderful and sympathetic edit. A huge amount of hugs go to these lovely people: Earthcop, Arashi, Kyle, Una, Frankie, Dice & Katie, Emmy, Kiera, Elizabetha Sama, Angelique, Chid & Mavis, Ken Bane, Jay, Quin, Betryal, Connor, Komehara, Kimi Chan, Alex Akira, Kate Aaron, Irma, Kitty and so many more I know I will forget some.

Chapter One

A Perilous Journey

A bitter tale of misery, deceit, treachery and unrequited love, set against the austere backdrop of a large country manor house. This book tells the sometimes humorous, often tragic story of the dysfunctional patriarchal family who reside therein. Their hopes and dreams shattered by greed and one man’s unrelenting desire for revenge. Flitting, at times confusingly, between the past and present, in an infuriatingly indefinable era–

Wallis looked briefly at the blurb on the back of the paperback in his hand. He’d taken it out from the local library, but hadn’t found the time to enjoy it, so tossed the volume onto the window ledge for the next tenant to read, return or dispose of.

Okay, Mr Thorn. If you don’t arrange for your stuff to be put into storage within the next week, I’m having the council men come round to take it to the tip. The landlady, who had no business to regard him in such a superior way, held out her hand for his key. Her fingernails were caked with dirt. She never appeared to clean anything so the source of the grime was a mystery.

He leaned against his cane, fumbled in the pocket of his rather old fashioned coat and pulled out the tarnished Yale. She immediately thrust her hand further forward.

My deposit? He put on his most refined accent with the full intention of intimidating her, but succeeded only in making her lift her chin defiantly higher.

Well, there is the matter of the ruined bed. That will have to come out of it, you know.

Wallis sighed. The bed was in a poor and, might I say, unhygienic state when I first arrived. It collapsed more probably out of suicidal misery than anything else. Sped along only a little in its demise by the woodworm.

She sneered at him. Oh, hark at you with your fancy airs.

He fixed her with an arrogant glare. I want my deposit back.

Why should he pay for the bed? It was fit for the dump when he took this room and its collapse caused further damage to his already injured hip. Granted, there had been a young and rather energetic lady perched on top of him at the time. But Wallis was not a heavy man. A bed should be made to carry two people of normal girth, engaged in moderate sexual activity, at any one time as standard. He really should be suing her, because although he’d walked with a stick for a number of years now, his little mishap on her substandard item of furniture had made his somewhat difficult efforts at mobility even more painful than usual.

Madam. He considered another plea for reasoning, then decided to try honesty. I’m destitute. He stared into her face and her features softened.

Here. She handed him a bundle of notes. And mind, if your stuff’s not out of here by the weekend… it’s the tip for it.

Wallis nodded silently and walked slowly outside. He looked down the street, first one way then the other, and decided to go left. Why not? It was equally as dull as going right.

In a matter of minutes he found himself at the bus station. He entered the crowded concourse and stared enviously at the people there who looked as if they had somewhere to go. He longed to be going home, but even more than that to have someone to be going home to. How wonderful it must feel to have a destination.

A purpose.

Homeless, practically penniless and in the city, far away from everything that he’d known and loved – or even known and hated, for that matter – Wallis felt wretched.

People seemed to be in a hurry either to get on a bus or come out of the station, and he stopped and stood still for a moment. He could get on one of these vehicles. Perhaps that was the only good thing about having no destination. One could choose a temporary one. An imaginary one.

A rusty pile of scrap sat in front of him, built to carry twenty but containing only one passenger. An elderly lady with a surly golden retriever sprawled on the floor at her feet. Where was she going? She didn’t look like a city type. She looked like a countrywoman. Her clothes were shabby but practical and her face had that no-nonsense appearance people from rural areas had.

Wallis took a step to the side to see where the bus was headed. He was never really a believer in Fate but the yellow faded sign caused his heart to race.

Glory via Everdirge.

The driver set up his ticket machine, before spitting out of the window at his side.

On or not? he asked in a fed-up voice.

Realising the question was addressed at him, Wallis stepped awkwardly onto the bus. The old lady, seeing that he walked with the aid of a cane, got up from the seat at the front and moved a few rows back, her dog shuffling dutifully after her.

Wallis gave her a polite nod and took out his money. Everdirge, please.

The journey wasn’t an exceptionally long one, perhaps taking only a fraction over two hours, but that in itself felt odd. Although it seemed that while in the city, he was far from his place of birth, he never really had been. Only a relatively short bus ride, and as vehicle and passengers hurtled down the winding country lanes towards the village that had, until a few years ago, been home to him, the journey there, much like the journey away, was filled with completely unfamiliar landscapes.

Perhaps people made this trip every day if they lived in Everdirge but worked in the city. Or if they lived in the city but went to the large country campus of St Peregrine’s University, which the bus had careered past without stopping at. But when Wallis had lived in Everdirge he seldom left. There was no need to.

Gradually, as the sights became more recognisable, they brought with them a feeling of nervousness. Wallis looked anxiously out of the window, afraid of the view which awaited him.

But as Fate had apparently brought him on to the bus, Fate was about to help him off it, too.

A man on a bicycle appeared from nowhere and the driver hit his brakes to avoid a collision with him. Wallis was propelled forward from his seat and landed with a painful thump amongst the litter and crumpled tickets on the floor near the doors.

Stupid bloody idiot! The driver waved his fist out of the window.

Wallis groaned and reached out for his stick. The elderly lady got to her feet and attempted to lift it for him, but she seemed quite incapable of stooping low enough. The dog wagged its tail and took Wallis’s walking aid in its now cheerful mouth. It then headed up the aisle to the back, followed closely by its owner. Wallis pushed himself up into a sitting position, his vision blurred.

You could have killed me there! You were going too fast! a polite but angry voice called from outside.

I bloody wasn’t! You pulled out without any indication! the driver protested.

I did not! I gave the generally accepted hand signal and you just ignored–

Hand signal? the man at the wheel interrupted. How d’you like this for a hand signal, you pompous twat! He then gave a hideous laugh, the no doubt rude motions of his fingers shielded from Wallis’s view by the wing mirror.

Oh, most mature, the polite voice came again. I’ve taken a note of your number. You will be hearing from me.

He driver swore under his breath then he turned to Wallis. You all right there, son?

The stick now wrestled from the jaws of the defeated mutt, the woman handed it to its rightful owner. Wallis grabbed it and used it to get to his feet.

The driver grimaced. Bloody stupid guy on a bike out there. I had to brake or I would’ve hit him. Should’ve just hit him, eh? Upper-class git.

Wallis straightened his clothes and gave the man his best, murderous glare, while he wiped dog saliva from his fingers with a faded cotton handkerchief. But something outside the window caught his eye and the tirade of abuse he was about to spout stayed within his open mouth. He stared for a while without saying anything.

Well, d’you want to sit down again so we can be off?

Can I get out here? Wallis replied in a subdued voice.

The doors opened with an ominous creak, and he alighted cautiously onto the road.

Imposing, like it had always been, its large grey façade punctuated by many Gothic style windows. A set of double stairs led to the front doors like an angry frowning mouth on a vast stone giant’s head.

Stumbledirt.

Situated amidst extensive grounds, which were largely concealed from the rest of the world by the high stone walls that surrounded them, it was, in its heyday, the largest house in the village of Everdirge, its occupants the most respected and wealthy. In those days, the gates were always locked. Visitors were not welcome in this self-contained world of misery.

* * * * *

The birth of a child should be an eagerly anticipated occasion, spoken about for months before the actual event. The long awaited arrival of the first child of Hieronymus Thorn – Hero to those permitted the familiarity – and his wife, Blanche, was no exception.

Coincidentally, Hero’s brother Gabriel and wife Evangeline were expecting their first child at exactly the same time. A competition of sorts arose between the siblings, to see who would be the first to produce a son. An heir to the name and fortune of the wealthy Thorn dynasty.

Hero sat in the hallway outside his wife’s bedchamber and listened to her cries with a certain amount of disgust. How unseemly of her not to hold her tongue through the so-called pains of labour. Did she have no shame?

He grimaced as she let out yet another long howl. God willing, the hideous necessity would be over with soon and he would finally have his son.

The desire for a drink was overwhelming, but he’d neglected to bring the decanter up with him. Hoping he could spy a servant, he glanced both ways along the hall. But there was no one and he let out a great exasperated sigh while his wife called out his name in a strangled kind of voice.

Why did she keep calling for him? Surely she knew that he found the whole idea of birth distasteful. Conception was another matter. He’d enjoyed being there for that, but the birth? He would never be able to go near her again if he was unfortunate enough to be witness to such an abomination. An hour ago he’d been assured that the child’s arrival was imminent and had been sitting in this uncomfortable chair ever since.

The nurse would be fired. She’d deliberately misled him so that he would have to sit and listen to how much pain his wife was having to go through in order to provide him with a child. But Blanche had enjoyed the conception too, so he wasn’t all to blame that she was apparently in so much agony now.

The door opened and the nurse came out, her hands and the cuffs of her dress stained copiously with blood. Again, he felt that she’d purposefully chosen not to clean herself up a bit beforehand, so that he would once more be presented with the opportunity for guilt.

She appeared cautious in her approach, no doubt afraid of his volatile temper. Hero didn’t suffer fools gladly. This was no crime, but inevitable when faced with so many in the day to day business of one’s life.

Well? He stood up impatiently. It’s over?

Yes, Mr Thorn. She smiled in a forced way.

As well as being famous for his legendary temper, he was also an incorrigible womaniser. He’d always been a good-looking man, with his thin, fine-featured face and silvery white hair that fell to his shoulders. As such a plain creature herself, she should have been grateful that he’d once propositioned her. But she’d whined about being a good Catholic girl and resisted, with talk of hellfire and damnation. Their relationship had been somewhat strained ever since.

Well? he repeated.

You have a healthy daughter. She took a step back.

A daughter! Hero about-turned and marched along the hallway. When he reached the end of the passage he called back to her. Consider yourself dismissed!

* * * * *

Much later in the evening, Hero returned to Stumbledirt, the time spent away having neither cooled his anger nor caused him any amount of sobriety over the situation. Certainly not with the quantity of alcohol he’d consumed to celebrate the birth of his brother’s child. Not only had Gabriel done better for himself by marrying a woman of title, he’d managed to produce a son – the rather grandly named Lord Rook Gabriel Hawkburn Thorn. And a fine child he was, too. Healthy and with a shock of white hair like all of the other Thorns who had gone before him.

Hero considered going straight to his own chamber, thus by-passing the unpleasant task of having to look at his new-born daughter. But curiosity got the better of him. In all likelihood Blanche would be intolerable towards him if he didn’t give the child at least a cursory glance. He opened the door and entered the room as quietly as he could, not wishing to wake wife or child and so have to pay attention to either.

Blanche seemed to be asleep, so he walked past her bed to where the cot lay. He pursed his lips and leaned over, staring into the vast amount of white broderie anglaise which swathed his child. His hands placed firmly on either side of the wooden cradle, he finally found the infant amongst the fabric.

Grudgingly, he admitted that she was pretty with her small rosebud mouth and white curls. She looked like a cherub and he gazed at her, wishing that she had been Gabriel’s offspring and Gabriel’s son had been his. He would have said how lovely she was, lifted her and held her in his arms as a proud uncle would, spoiling her with kisses and furnishing her with everything that her heart desired. He would have done all this, safe in the knowledge that he had a son and was the envy of all.

But he would not lift her.

She was a girl and daughters were useless, no matter how beautiful. Barely hours old and she’d already failed him. Anything she did from today onwards would only bring him further disappointment.

Hero. Blanche’s voice carried across to him, no more than a whisper. Where were you?

He sensed her spite and wanted to yell at her to watch her tone. But his daughter was asleep. Even though he despised her, he didn’t want to wake her and have her add to the inane babble.

I was with Gabriel, he said sternly. He has a son.

Her accusation would be more than matched by his resentment, which he made no effort to conceal. How could she have done this to him? Was he such a terrible husband that she couldn’t give him the one thing he truly desired?

When he’d held Gabriel’s son it was all he could do not to cry out at the injustice of it all.

What will you call her? His voice overflowed with bitterness. He wanted no part in the decision. She would be nothing to him. Her name was of little importance.

Esme. Blanche shifted her position slightly and Hero could see her face more clearly in the light from the candle on the table next to her. Even now she looked beautiful with her blonde hair swept back from her oval face, her blue eyes sparkling in the glow of the guttering flame. But he was in no mood to find her appealing. He detested her for letting him down.

Esme, he repeated dispassionately en route to the door. Fittingly insignificant.

And what will you call your son? Blanche raised her voice.

He whirled around in fury. Was she implying that some impropriety had taken place between him and Evangeline? None had, although this was not for the want of trying. Evangeline was beautiful but alas, she only had eyes for Gabriel. No matter how hard Hero tried – and he’d fervently pursued her since the day they’d first met – she wouldn’t let him have anything more than a polite kiss. He would have dearly loved to have added her as a notch on his already crowded bedpost.

What do you mean, woman?

Your son, Hero. She allowed the bedcovers to slide down slightly, showing that she was not alone in the bed.

My son? Hero slowly approached the bed, scarcely able to believe his eyes.

Blanche tilted the bundle she’d held close to her breast towards him and Hero’s mouth fell open in shock. Another infant. A small and striking creature with a shock of white hair just like its father. He walked closer, his hands trembling. He took the baby in his arms and stared down at it in wonder.

"A boy?" he whispered.

Yes. If you’d stayed after the birth of your first child you would have realised that you too have a son. I was carrying twins. He was born an hour after Esme.

Hero was filled with the most complete feeling of joy. The child stirred against him and opened its steely blue eyes, its features a perfect miniature of his own.

Blanche, he gasped, I had no idea…

Blanche said nothing so he sat on the edge of her bed with his son held tightly in his arms.

And he’s fine? He is well?

She nodded. They both are.

I am… I’m glad. He reached out one of his hands and clasped her fingers in his. An hour after the girl. He nodded with satisfaction. He was born before Gabriel’s boy.

He tightened his fingers around Blanche’s, in what he’d intended as affection, but she still seemed cold.

I’m happy for you, she said.

He didn’t much care about the lack of enthusiasm in her voice, too delighted to have found that he’d beaten his brother in the race to provide the family with an heir.

A son, he breathed, I’ll call him Wallis. Wallis Hieronymus Thorn.

And so they would grow up. Esme, the beautiful daughter, who longed for nothing more than for her father to look at her once with pride or love. Wallis, the handsome and perfectly despicable image of the man who sired him. And Rook, the resentful, roguish cousin who’d had his inheritance snatched from him on the very day that he was born.

Chapter Two

A Grave State of Affairs

While Wallis peered through the wrought iron railings of his old childhood home, wondering idly about its present purpose, a young man was being asked, in no uncertain terms, to leave a fine leather goods store, never to return to the establishment again.

Of course, Wallis was unaware of the unfortunate ban being enforced on the young man because he was rather preoccupied and nowhere near the shop in question.

A young woman dawdled idly along the road. She pushed open the gate to Stumbledirt and held it ajar for Wallis as though she assumed that he’d been about to enter the grounds. He hesitated for a moment, then stepped through to the gravel driveway.

Eh, thank you? she said in a loud voice, her expression expectant. Wallis was used to being treated in this way. It seemed that his disability always made people assume that he was either a little deaf or stupid.

He gave her a disparaging smirk.

Thank you? she repeated with a pointed look.

You’re welcome, he answered politely.

She tutted loudly and walked off towards the house.

He stared after her then called out, Excuse me. Can you tell me… what this place is?

She turned towards him with obvious impatience and shrugged. Stumbledirt?

When he took a few steps closer, it annoyed him greatly that her eyes slipped from his face to his foot. I know it’s Stumbledirt but… what is its purpose now? Do you live here?

She glanced up at his face again and said once more in an over-loud voice, Nah, I work here. She sniffed.

You are a servant? He raised his eyebrows.

She laughed. I’m not a servant! Though I may as well be. I do the rooms and stuff. Are you looking to stay here? You should be okay. It’s quiet just now.

A room? Dawning realisation crept over him. It’s a hotel?

Well, I’d say more of a hovel than a hotel, but the owner thinks it is. She giggled. Are you wanting to stay?

With nowhere else to go, the suggestion seemed tempting, so he began walking along the gravel path with her. Even at his slow pace, he soon stood in the hallway of his old home. It looked quite different from how it had when he was a child. There was a reception desk in front of him and to the right of that, the room that used to be Father’s drawing room appeared to be used now as a bar. Wallis wrinkled his nose with disapproval at the plastic parrots and Jolly Roger flags which had been nailed over the door. A sign, seemingly hand-painted by a poorly educated child, read, The Pirate’s Rest. Although Father would have approved of all the alcohol, he wouldn’t have been so keen on the décor.

The girl who’d walked with him had now slipped behind the counter of the reception area and was talking in hushed tones to another female of a similar age. They both stared at him.

Hello. The new girl smiled. I’m Pandora. You’re looking for a room?

He drew closer to the desk and once again it pained him that she stopped looking at his face and stared instead at the reason for his hobbling gait.

I have not made a reservation. Does that matter?

She lifted her eyes from his foot to his face. Nope. She smiled. It’s very quiet. Any preference of room… I mean… She looked at his foot again. We have no lift. Would you prefer the ground floor?

He sighed and nodded slowly by way of an answer.

Okay. A single room? She raised her eyebrows.

He glanced along the hallway to what used to be the music room. The one at the far end of the hall, it is available? He pointed, indicating where he meant.

Sure. She shrugged. Name?

Her brusque manner offended him and he took a deep breath before answering. Wallis Hieronymus Thorn.

The girl who had walked him down the driveway giggled. Ooh. Fancy.

Well, Mr Thorn. Pandora cast a scathing glance at her workmate. You will have to pay a deposit.

Wallis blinked incredulously, then leaned towards her over the reception desk. Did you not hear me? I’m Wallis Thorn.

Pandora gestured in a hopeless sort of way and lifted her hands from the hotel register. I’m sorry… but I need a deposit from you before I give you a room key… and some ID.

Outrage replaced Wallis’s confusion. Listen miss, er… He struggled to remember her name.

Pant odour. The girl with the loud voice chuckled behind Pandora and earned herself another caustic look.

Listen miss. He decided against using her name in case he hadn’t heard it correctly. "You will give me my key and show me to my room. I am Wallis Thorn. I believe the Thorns still command a little respect in Everdirge. I will not be paying a deposit and I am standing here in front of you. What more… ID… do you require? Trust me. The owner is damn lucky to have someone such as myself even considering staying within the establishment."

Pandora stared at her colleague and muttered, What do you think, Jezebel? Should I let him have a key?

Jezebel shrugged. Well, he can hardly run away without paying can he? Give him a room. I’ll let Arty know he’s here and he can turf him out if he thinks he’s some kind of scam artist.

Wallis looked at them both aghast. I’m right here! he said in an exasperated voice. Don’t you know who I am?

Yeah, yeah. Jezebel waved an airy hand. You’re Wallis Thorn. C’mon, I’ll take you to your room.

She came round from behind the counter and, much to his increasing horror, took him by the arm. He shook his elbow from her grip and followed her along the corridor. The ache in his hip grew steadily worse, probably from ascending the stone steps at the entrance, and he attempted to keep pace with her. He stared at the back of her head, at the messy parting between the untidy bunches she wore in her jet black hair.

Such an unusual hairstyle for someone out of pre-school, he sneered sarcastically. But she continued in front of him and ignored his comment completely.

When she reached the door of the old music room, she opened it for him.

With a great deal of annoyance and embarrassment he realised that he couldn’t take another step without being overwhelmed with pain. He leaned against the wall and considered what best course of action to take. It seemed mad to ask for her help after insulting her and refusing her aid before, but there was really no way he could make the next few feet independently.

Apparently realising his predicament, she walked back along the corridor and it seemed that she was about to help, without him even having to ask. But he was mistaken. When she drew level with him she simply tucked a key into the pocket of his coat.

Have a nice stay, she grinned and left him standing there.

* * * * *

Holy moly. Jezebel stared out of the window as a rickety old van pulled up outside and a very unfit-looking man in filthy overalls began unloading a vast amount of what looked like junk on to the gravel driveway, just at the steps to the front door.

He jumped into the back of his vehicle. Jezebel and Pandora both looked out to see him hurl a basket wheelchair on to the red chipped stone. It landed on its side with a crash.

Wallis? Pandora ventured. As he was at present one of only a few guests, and certainly the only one with a disability, the supposition that the stuff belonged to him was a no-brainer. The man was now walking up the steps, clipboard in fist, so the girls hurried to the door to greet him.

Mr Wallis Thorn? He glanced from one of them to the other. Pandora stepped forward, wrinkling her nose as a smell of stale sweat hit her.

Um, she choked, waving a hand in front of her nose, he’s a guest here.

Good. The man leered. Sign here, missy.

He held out the clipboard, and purely just to get rid of him and the horrible smell that was coming from him, Pandora signed the form without so much as a cursory read of it. He was gone before the smell was, leaving the wheelchair and several tea crates of odd stuff in a cloud of exhaust fumes.

Are we supposed to take this to his room? Jezebel reached amongst the items and pulled out a large, framed document. It appeared to be a family tree, the name Thorn written ornately beneath a coat of arms which bore the motto Per Furtim.

I suppose so. Pandora shrugged. Did you speak to Arty about him?

Arty was the Stumbledirt Hotel’s mysterious and never-present owner. None of the staff had ever met him, having all being recruited at a city employment agency. All conversations with him were held over the phone. He was an arrogant-sounding man and calls from him were dreaded by all. Simple queries were treated as though they were beneath him. Jezebel, however, was thick-skinned so it usually fell to her to deal with him.

Yeah, Jezebel nodded. He said he’s to get a room but no fancy treatment. We’ve to keep a note of all expenses. What was it he said? She put on a haughty voice, ‘No matter how trivial! I want him charged for every last bit of toilet paper!’

Great. Pandora sniffed. It would take the two of them to carry all this rubbish to the room but although she found his snobbish air irritating, it didn’t seem right to expect a disabled man to do the donkey work himself.

Staying in the music room all of the time seemed weird to Wallis – as though he was a prisoner in the vast building that used to be his home. But occasionally, it was easy imagine that Father was through in the drawing room drinking port and Esme was playing with Cyrus out in the garden. He lost count of the amount of times in the two days he’d been a guest that he’d looked out of the window and expected to see his horse cantering about in the field.

A guest.

At Stumbledirt.

There were few guests here in Wallis’s day. Only Rook and then, later, although usually quite unwelcome, his friend Heath.

Two sharp raps on the door disturbed his thoughts and Wallis glanced up.

Enter! he called out, not wishing to get up and answer it himself. His hip was feeling reasonably pain-free but in truth, he really couldn’t be bothered.

The door opened and several crates came through, piled on top of a wheelchair.

My things, he said, surprised.

Various items tumbled from the chair and most of Wallis’s worldly possessions toppled onto the threadbare carpet.

Oops! Jezebel shouted. Pandora came in after her, a few more of the boxes held tightly in her arms, and she placed them carefully on the floor by the door.

What is all this crap? Jezebel gestured to the odd assortment of objects which littered the faded red Axminster.

Seeing his personal effects scattered about and referred to as crap, Wallis felt totally wounded. Pandora hastily began to pile the strewn things back into some semblance of order, but he could see how futile this was. Unkind as it was intended to be, Jezebel was right. The items were nothing more than crap.

Thank you, he said in what he knew was a pathetic voice, finally relenting and getting to his feet with the aid of his cane.

Jezebel pushed the empty wheelchair and it banged against the wall where it toppled over on to its side. Pitiful and discarded, just like Wallis.

He lifted a pile of envelopes from the table and looked from one girl to the other. He needed his mail posted as a matter of urgency and it wasn’t difficult to gauge which one of them was more likely to be accommodating to his wishes.

I need these sent. He thrust them in Pandora’s direction.

She seemed unwilling to take them from his hands. They have no stamps on. Do you need me to buy you stamps?

Poverty was not something which sat well with Wallis. He could tell that she was judging his ability to reimburse her by his current appearance. His once dapper clothes looked shabby and rough around the edges, much like the man who was wearing them. He was still quite handsome, but the dark circles he’d noticed develop under his eyes of late, coupled with the hollow cheeks, detracted from this. His shoulder-length hair was almost as pale as his skin and gave him all the appeal of a ghost. A phantom who’d fallen on hard times and so unable to afford a ticket to the opera.

While Pandora took the envelopes and hastily put them into her pocket, Wallis glanced at the crates again. Jezebel had lifted out a photo album and was flipping through it.

Is that you? she grinned and pointed to a picture of three young men, splendid in riding clothes.

He snatched the book contemptuously from her. Get out of my room.

She chuckled, unfazed, caught Pandora by the arm and pulled her out through the still open door.

Was it possible that the photo had been taken fifteen years ago? It seemed like only yesterday. Everything had started to fall apart shortly after.

He stared at his own face, younger and healthier looking. Happy to have taken first prize. The youth immediately next to him held a second place ribbon limply in his black-gloved hand. Striking, and with his ever -present wicked smile, Rook.

Wallis cringed inwardly. What would Rook make of the news he’d just been sent? Would he even care that Stumbledirt was now a second-rate hotel and that Wallis was completely destitute?

Of all the letters, the one to Rook had pained him the most to write because, deep in his heart, he knew that his dear cousin would find the current state of affairs highly amusing. Rook had always envied the fact that Wallis was the wealthier one and the news that the object of his jealousy was now in dire straits would surely delight him.

Esme would no doubt be as sad as Wallis, but she was always the more practical one and may have some ideas up her sleeve on how to reverse the disastrous turn of events. But he’d be lying if he said that he was not smarting at having to write to her.

When he last saw her he’d given her a sizeable amount of money on the understanding that he would never set eyes on her – or her infernal child – ever again.

Perhaps she was still rich. Had been smart enough to squirrel away the money or maybe even cleverly invest it. She could be rolling in it and simply desperate to see her darling twin again.

Probably not, though, he conceded.

There had almost certainly been little point in writing to their younger brother, Cyrus, at all. What age would he be now? Twenty-one, twenty-two? He never saw any of the Thorn money, although he’d inherited Mother and Father’s good looks instead. Brains had never been his strong point. So it was highly unlikely that he would now be flush with cash, but there was no harm in trying.

The last letter he sent was also a bit of a gamble.

When Father was alive, one of his last tasks as patriarch of the Thorns was to arrange a marriage for Wallis. He’d been engaged to Winnie, the daughter of a successful local businessman and heiress to a small fortune, for about a year. Then Father died and Wallis didn’t really feel like going through with the wedding. He didn’t need Winnie’s money and she’d never really been his type. There had been no big break up. He simply stopped having any contact with her. She was a very well brought up young lady and probably thought it proper for them to remain so distant for the period of their engagement. Who knows, she might still be out there somewhere, minted. Longing for a missive from her betrothed. It was unlikely that anyone else had been desperate to marry her unless, of course, like Wallis now, they desired to get their hands on her loot.

Wallis looked back to the photo album, at Rook’s arrogant face and he smirked. Which one of you will get back to me first?

* * * * *

Now this, he really did not expect.

Wallis held the moderately healthy cheque in one hand and the expensive notepaper in the other. Astonishing as it seemed, Rook must have replied to Wallis’s letter the very same day that he’d received it. Wallis was bizarrely touched as he reread the neatly written words beneath the grandly embossed heading, From the Desk of Lord Rook Gabriel Hawkburn Thorn. Rook had been penniless on their last meeting, but judging by the amount of money that he’d been able to spare his prodigal cousin, he must be doing quite well for himself now.

Wallis had sent the letter to the village bank in the hope that it would be forwarded. They’d had no contact with each other in years, so he’d no idea where Rook was living. Thankfully, someone had been clever enough to pass it on.

Dearest Wallis,

Why did you not write sooner?

I am distraught to think that you needed my help and that you did not get in touch with me.

I have a few things to do here but I will come back to Stumbledirt as soon as I can. In the meantime, I enclose a cheque. I know it is not much but it will see that you can live comfortably until I arrive.

How foolish of you not to have told me of your predicament sooner.

I look forward to seeing you,

Rook

Had he misjudged Rook so much? At times in their lives they’d been very close. He remembered how during those months spent in hospital, virtually unable to move, Rook had visited him almost daily and he was one of the few people whom Wallis would allow to help him get washed and changed. Rook was completely uncomplaining when he did these tasks and mindful of Wallis’s dignity at all times – in a situation where dignity is usually the first thing that one loses.

In his current state of depression, was Wallis making the mistake of dwelling on only the bad times?

Rook’s donation was enough to get by on quite comfortably for a short while, but Wallis was never really great with funds. How long was it supposed to last him?

The reception desk was being manned by yet another female. She had a pleasing, ruddy face with red cheeks and hair the colour of straw. He glanced around but couldn’t see Pandora or, thankfully, Jezebel anywhere.

Where is the other one? he asked as the girl did the usual, looking from his face, to his walking stick, and then on to his foot.

What other one? she smiled at him and her brown eyes sparkled fetchingly.

The one with the dark hair, not the loud one, the other one? He stared at her. Clearly the staff had received no training whatsoever. They all seemed to behave so informally. Father would have dismissed them instantly for less. Of course, when he wanted to have sex with them a certain amount of familiarity was permitted. But only until the act was completed, then it was business as usual.

Pant odour? She chuckled then blushed. I mean, Pandora?

Wallis looked at her with curiosity then he nodded. Yes, Pandora. Is she here? He shifted his weight off his aching foot and leaned against the reception desk.

It’s her day off. She closed the book that she’d been writing in. Can I help you at all?

Well, he sniffed, is there somewhere that I can cash a cheque?

She nodded. There’s the bank down in Everdirge? Just by the post office. She put the book under the desk.

He stared at her for a moment. You will have noticed that I walk with a cane. Everdirge is rather far for me to go. The other girl… Pandora… she didn’t mind going to the post office for me. Would you…? Do you think that you could go to the bank for me?

He put on a hopeful expression. The girl responded with an awkward cringe.

Well, you see, Mr Thorn, it says in the book that you haven’t paid anything. I’m not sure… She blushed further and he put on a stony glare, the kind that used to send a servant scurrying for cover.

I know that you only work in a hotel, but surely even you must realise that in order to pay my bill I need money? He raised his chin haughtily. Here is my cheque. I have endorsed it on the back. Please be so kind as to do this for me.

It was at times like this that he wished he was able to storm off dramatically, to give what he’d just said some greater emphasis, but he could only manage a slow walk in the direction of the room that was now the bar. Once inside he took a seat and leaned his cane against the table.

Oh, what an atrocity. To see Father’s favourite retreat bedecked in all sorts of plastic trash. Every available surface was plastered with parrots, pirate ships and great bits of fishing net. An abominable mish-mash of party paraphernalia arranged with the flair of a monkey under the influence of hashish.

He sighed deeply. A girl appeared in front of him, wearing a black pirate hat, an askew eye patch and carrying a notepad. What can I get you, me hearty?

He looked closely at her. Weren’t you just… Didn’t we… He looked confusedly at her. She was awfully like the girl that he had just spoken to at reception. Did she too have a twin?

Yeah, it’s me again. I’m Sandy by the way, she smirked. Short staffed today.

I see. He nodded. Well, I would like a glass of port please. And do not worry. Once you have cashed my cheque for me I will settle my bill. You may bring the money to my room.

She looked at him with unconcealed impatience then went across to the bar in what could only be described as a strop. Wallis stared after her with a superior air, about to muse over her utter lack of an attempt at an attractive walk, when he noticed that he was being watched.

Across the room, at a table situated beneath a wall display consisting of two crossed plastic oars and a child’s pair of flip-flops, sat an attractive woman. She had a mass of platinum blonde curls which framed a heavily made-up face and sipped wine from a brandy-sized goblet. Despite Wallis’s aristocratic beginnings, he still thought that more was more when it came to women and rouge. She looked practically perfect to him, with her deep red lips and long black lashes. She smiled in his direction and he smiled back.

Sandy returned to his table with his order and Wallis, without taking his eyes from the beauty in the corner, said in a confident voice, And whatever the young lady is having too, please.

He toasted his glass in the woman’s direction.

* * * * *

For the second time, Sandy knocked loudly on the door to Mr Thorn’s room, thinking that he couldn’t have heard her the first. Then she remembered his disability. He probably took a while to perform most tasks, so she crossed her arms and waited patiently. Eventually the door opened a fraction and he peered out, his hair unruly and a smear of what looked like lipstick over one cheek.

Here’s your money, Mr Thorn. She handed over the envelope full of cash. He snatched it without saying a word, then closed the door with a thud.

* * * * *

The room was dark. Wallis glanced to the pillow next to him on the bed. Thankfully there was no one there. He reached his hand across to the glass of water on his bedside table, lifted it and drained it of the slightly stale-tasting liquid within.

Much as he’d enjoyed his encounter with the young lady from the bar, who went by the name of Cissy, he was glad that she was gone.

Her voice, which he at first found amusing, had soon began to grate. Her accent seemed to be a mixture of a thick Everdirge brogue and something else he couldn’t quite pin down. Initially, her extended vowels made him think of the pleasantly bawdy songs one would perhaps hear in a music hall. Not that he’d ever been to such an establishment, if indeed these places still existed. But because he’d invited her to his table purely to get her into his bed, the connection seemed encouraging.

After a few hours of, Yes, dearie! and I always likes a gentleman with manners!, it wore a bit thin on him. She’d clearly chosen to speak in this way to give herself an exotic or mysterious air. Throw people off the scent that she was a local maybe. The ruse didn’t work but he could hardly ask her to stop it.

It came as no surprise that within the first half an hour of their meeting, Cissy informed him that she expected to be paid for what she termed as a little bit of companionship.

After all, a gentleman gets lonely, don’t he? And a girl’s got to eat.

It wasn’t the first time he’d paid for it and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. Father had always told him that there was nothing wrong in keeping the lower classes gainfully employed – as long as one’s wife didn’t find out. There was also the fact that the passing over of some cash dispensed with both the requirement for small talk and the need to apologise later if your performance wasn’t up to scratch. Wallis had no idea whether she’d enjoyed herself or not and frankly didn’t much care. She’d stopped speaking and made all the right noises, so that was the important thing.

The downside to his little encounter was that, coupled with the settling of his hotel bill, he’d now used up quite a bit of the money that Rook had sent him.

Rook had intimated that he’d return to Stumbledirt, but when? He lay back against his pillow, jolted from his pondering by the sudden memory that he’d woken calling out for his mother. The brief feeling of happiness that his earlier encounter with Cissy had given him vanished completely.

* * * * *

Wallis stood in the hallway with Esme by his side, both of them listening intently to the raised voices which carried from the drawing room.

Father seems angry with Mother for something. I think he’s on the telephone to Uncle Gabriel. Wallis listened closely, his ear pressed lightly against the door.

Father is always angry with her, Esme snapped back and Wallis reached out and caught her by the wrist. He grinned and twisted her arm up her back, to her obvious discomfort. Stop it! she hissed and he giggled into her ear, letting her go only when she stamped on his foot.

I can’t hear what he is saying. Wallis listened at the door again, Esme’s eyes fixed keenly on his face.

Mother had been taken ill in the morning. She didn’t get up for breakfast and in Stumbledirt, this was considered a hanging offence. Father expected all to be seated in the dining room, washed and smartly dressed for when he arrived to take his morning glass of port.

His rage when he noticed that his wife was not in her usual chair at the far end of the long table caused Wallis and Esme considerable fear. But, as usual, neither voiced this. Protest was futile when it came to Father’s outbursts. They were so frequent that one would find oneself in a constant argument with him. His word was law. A loud and non-negotiable decree. But the morning’s rant had been worse than usual. He was in a towering temper and had sent the maid scuttling up the stairs to bring him his errant spouse, while Wallis and Esme sat in silence for fear of enraging him further.

The maid had returned in tears. She babbled incoherently about blood and a doctor had been sent for. Mother, who could frequently be poorly, was apparently seriously ill, because Father had ordered the twins to go to their rooms and instructed them to stay there until they were called for.

Wallis’s tutor was sent away. Esme had defied Father and waited in her brother’s room and they’d both watched Mr Foster leave without even opening a book with his young, and usually quite insolent charge.

That had been hours ago. Father’s wrath would be merciless