The Heirloom

By Julia Gasper

Grace Arnold was sent to Felstead Hall to give her opinion about some old pictures. She found many things that were puzzling. Why was Melissa Meredith, who had just moved into the house, so famous? Why was she doomed to "die later"? And who was the unknown woman portrayed in the painting in the attic? How had it got there and what was the story behind it?
Two storylines interweave in this tale of mystery, Victorian life and lost love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Apr 28, 2022
• ISBN: 9781471713859

Book preview

The Heirloom

A Tale

by

Julia Gasper.

©Julia Gasper 2022

ISBN 978-1-4717-1385-9

The characters, situations and incidents in this story are wholly imaginary and have no relation to any living personages.

The Heirloom.

I

It was drizzling when Grace set off from Muswell Hill in her Volvo. She opened the boot to put in her bag –  a black, zipped holdall with the word Paris on it in large capital letters and an image of the Eiffel Tower, bought at an airport in a hurry when the strap of her older, far less touristy bag had broken some years ago – slammed it shut, then opened it again to change into her driving shoes, which she always stored there. Settling into the driving seat, she set the sat-nav using the address she had been given in a work Email. She didn’t really need it for the first couple of hours, as she knew the road to Oxford very well, and from there could follow the signs to Birmingham. But after that it got more complicated and she didn’t want to take any risks.

Felstead Hall, a Georgian listed house in Staffordshire, had recently been sold and the new owner had found some items in the attic that they wanted to clear out. A local auctioneer had already looked at them and had suggested that an art expert give an opinion. So they had got in touch with Grace. She didn’t mind this sort of expedition as it made a change from routine and gave her a break from London. She would stop in Oxford on her way home and spend the night with a friend.

The further North she drove the more the weather cleared up, and by the time she left the main road and started to look out for her destination, it was positively sunny. Gaudy forsythia and white hawthorn were visible in the gardens and hedgerows she passed and on some roundabouts clumps of daffodils bloomed or stood in recently-withered condition with their bulbous, swollen necks. Despite or perhaps because of the sat-nav she still got lost. It had an annoying habit of saying turn left off a roundabout when it meant what she would have called turning right. The wrong road led her through a series of villages and hamlets, with confusing signs, and it was miles before she got back on track. Even then she took another wrong turning because there was a fork with no clues at all. Eventually she saw the pub, the Felstead Arms, where she was booked in for the night, an indication that she was getting close. She had not planned to go there first, but she stopped for a coffee, which she really needed by now, and checked herself in. The ground floor walls were hung with coloured engravings of coots and partridges. In her room she found prints of nineteenth century rural life, showing rare breeds of pig, sheep and shire horse, nothing too garish or banal. Having finished her coffee she returned to her car and drove out of the village again. The entrance she was looking for was set back from the road, overgrown, easy to miss, and led her through woodland.

As she approached slowly along the drive and the house came into sight, Grace thought, How strange, an avenue with no trees. I wonder what happened to them. Just a hedge on either side. Fairly run-of-the-mill mid-Georgian building, probably by a minor architect, no great Palladian features, has been enlarged later and the bow windows are certainly Victorian additions. They’re not too bad, just not original. It’s the extension over there that ruins the symmetry. Reaching the forecourt, she was surprised to see so many vehicles parked there. There were vans, several cars and a trailer. She managed to manoeuvre her Volvo close to a hefty four-by-four and an elegant convertible, under a large chestnut tree.

Taking only a briefcase containing her laptop, she walked to the porch and looked for a knocker or doorbell. She found a bell-pull on the left, its handle made of wrought-iron filaments wound into a slender spindle shape, attached to a metal cable that ran upwards into a tiny wheel that guided it through a hole in the wall. She pulled it and heard, somewhere inside the building, the kerdung-kerdung of a hemisphere of metal that had once been called a bell before electric bells were invented. She had to repeat this several times, which she didn’t mind as she liked the mechanism so much, although she realized it was probably late Victorian or Edwardian, not contemporary with the house. After a few minutes, a young man appeared.

Hallo, said Grace. I’m Grace Arnold, for Mrs Meredith. From Wagstaff’s.

Oh. I’ll go and tell Joyce.

A few minutes later he came back. She’s busy, you’d better come in.

Grace was shown into the large front hall, which was full of all sorts of equipment she didn’t recognize, and cables running everywhere, and from there the young man led her into another, large room. In the middle there were two women fussing over somebody seated in a chair.

Mrs Meredith?

Hello, there! said one of them buoyantly. Yes, I’m Joyce. She was a svelte woman in her forties with short hair lightened and streaked in a subtle, flattering manner.

You invited me to come and look at some pictures.

Oh yes! she said, remembering at last. Excuse the commotion everywhere, we’re a bit overrun today. Do sit down.

I hope I parked in the right place, Grace said, unable to find a free hand to be shaken.

Someone will shout if you haven’t, said Joyce. Melissa just needed to be tidied up before we take a few shots. This is Lee Harper from Diamond TV. Then turning to the other woman, We decided to ask an art expert in to look at some funny old pictures we found in the attic. Robbie, would you make a cup of tea?

The young man vanished into the kitchen, and Joyce continued. You see, this house, at one time, used to be a school. And there were a lot of pictures, but most were sold, the rest were put into storage, and just before we throw them out we wanted to, you know, get an expert opinion.

It probably won’t take long, said Grace. I’ll try not to get in your way. I’ve booked a room in a local pub and I can eat there too.

There may be more than you think, said Joyce. All the time she was talking, she and Lee were moving around the model using their combs, styling brushes and hair-spray busily. You must let us give you some lunch.

Thank you, but it looks as if you’re too busy.

Oh, we’re always busy, a few more people make no difference! Joyce replied. You might find yourself appearing on camera in the background of a few takes though!

Really? I don’t think I’m quite prepared for that! Grace said nervously. Anyway, I haven’t got an Equity card.

Don’t worry, only joking. Everyone will be looking at Melissa, naturally. At this, Melissa stood up, turned round and smiled, a tall elegant figure in a tight T-shirt and plain drainpipe jeans, with long chestnut hair hanging glossy and sleek. Grace stepped forward, and offered her hand, and as their eyes met she had a sudden strange feeling that there was something odd about her.

Did you have a nice drive up from London? Melissa asked.

Yes, very straightforward, said Grace. You can’t go wrong with the sat-nav.

At that moment Robbie returned with the tea, four mugs on a small circular tray. Grace took a sip of hers. It was absolutely ghastly, not just because of the tea – a cheap supermarket brand, full of tannin rather than flavour – nor because it was too strong, but because it was made with unfiltered tap water. In some parts of the country that would not have been a problem, but here it evidently was. She realized that she would have to drink all of it. Ah well, she thought, all in the pursuit of duty, the stale of horses and the gilded puddle that beasts would cough at, and all