The Emerald Comb. Kathleen McGurl

both glared at me, then the words all came out in a rush – ‘my ancestors used to live here. I’ve researched my family tree, you see, and found my four-greats grandfather William St Clair built this house, then his son Bartholomew inherited it and lived here after he got married, then his son, another Bartholomew but known as Barty lived here right up until –’

      ‘1923!’ To my utter astonishment both the old people chorused the date.

      ‘You’re a St Clair then, are you?’ said Vera, looking less fierce but still a little suspicious.

      ‘I was Catherine St Clair before I got married. Plain old Katie Smith now.’

      I put out my hand and thankfully she took a tentative step forward and shook it. The atmosphere instantly felt less frosty.

      ‘Vera Delamere. And this is my husband, Harold.’

      I shook his gnarled and liver-spotted hand too, while he stayed sitting in his chair. ‘I’m so sorry to have frightened you. I shouldn’t have come around the back. I was just so desperate for a glimpse inside. And I wasn’t even sure if the house was occupied at all…’ Oops, was I implying it looked derelict? I felt myself blushing again. I thought quickly, and changed the subject. ‘You know about the St Clairs?’

      ‘Not all of them, but we’ve heard of Barty St Clair,’ said Harold. ‘When we moved here in 1959 a lot of people hereabouts remembered him still. He was quite a character, by all accounts.’

      ‘Really? What do you know about him? He was my great-great-great-uncle, I think.’ I counted off the ‘greats’ on my fingers.

      Vera sat down beside Harold and gestured to me to take a seat as well. ‘I remember old Mrs Hodgkins from the Post Office telling me about him. Apparently he wouldn’t ever let anyone in the house or garden. He wasn’t a recluse – he’d go out and about in the village every day and was a regular in the pub every night. But he had this great big house and let not a soul over the threshold – no cook or cleaner, no gardener, no tradesmen. Mrs Hodgkins thought he must have had something to hide.’

      ‘Ooh, intriguing!’ I said. ‘Perhaps he had a mad wife in the attic or something like that.’

      Vera laughed. I smiled. Thank goodness we’d broken the ice now. ‘Well, by the time we moved in there was no evidence of any secrets. Mind you, that was many years after Barty St Clair’s day. It was a probate sale when we bought it. It had been empty for a few years and was in dire need of modernising.’ She sighed, and gazed at the peeling paint on the patio doors. ‘And now it’s in dire need of modernising again, but we don’t have the energy to do it.’

      She stood up, suddenly. ‘Why are we sitting out here in the damp? Come on. Let’s go inside. I’ll make us all a cup of tea, and then give you a tour, Katie.’

      Harold chuckled. ‘Then you’ll see for certain we have nothing worth stealing, young lady.’

      I grinned as I watched Vera help him to his feet, then followed them around to the kitchen door on the side of the house. I felt a tingle of excitement. Whatever secrets the house still held, I longed to discover them.

Chapter Two: Hampshire, November 1876

       Kingsley House, November 1876

       My dear Barty

       I have rested for a day or so, filled my ink-well, replenished my paper store and summoned the courage I need to begin my confession. And begin it I must, for the date of my death grows ever nearer.

       Barty, I shall write this confession as though it were a story, about some other man. I will write ‘he did this’, and ‘he said that’, rather than ‘I did’, and ‘I said’. At times I will even write as if in the heads of other characters, as though I know their thoughts and am privy to their memories of those times. It is from conversations since then, and from my own conjectures, that I am able to do this, and I believe it is the best way to tell what will undoubtedly become a long and complex tale. It is only by distancing myself in this way, and telling the tale as though it were a novel, that I will be able to tell the full truth. And you deserve the full truth, my true, best-loved son.

       We shall begin on a cold, snowy evening nearly forty years ago, when I first set eyes upon the woman who was to become my wife.

       Brighton, January 1838

      Bartholomew St Clair leaned against a classical pillar in the ballroom of the Assembly Rooms, watching the dancers whirl around. There was a good turnout for this New Year’s ball. He ran his fingers around the inside of his collar. The room was warm, despite the freezing temperatures outside. He could feel his face flushing red with the heat, or maybe that was due to the volume of whiskey and port he’d consumed since dinner.

      He scanned the room – the dancing couples twirling past him, the groups of young ladies with their chaperones at the sides of the room, the parties of men more interested in the drink than the dancing. He was looking for one person in particular. If his sources were correct, the young Holland heiress would be at this ball – her first since she came out of mourning. It could be worth his while obtaining an introduction to her. Rumour had it she was very pretty, but more than that, rich enough to get him out of debt. A couple of bad investments had left him in a precarious position, which only a swift injection of capital would resolve.

      He watched as a pretty young girl in a black silk gown spun past him, on the arm of a portly man in military uniform. Her white-blonde hair was in striking contrast to her dress, piled high on top, with soft ringlets framing her face. She was smiling, but something about the way she held herself, as distant from her dancing partner as she could, told Bartholomew she was not enjoying herself very much. He recalled that the Holland girl was currently residing with her uncle, an army captain. This could be her.

      The dance ended, and now the band struck up a Viennese waltz. Bartholomew kept his eyes fixed on the girl as she curtsied to her partner, shook her head slightly and made her way across the room towards the entrance hall. He straightened his collar, smoothed his stubbornly curly hair and pushed through the crowds, to intercept her near the door.

      ‘You look hot,’ he said. ‘May I get you some refreshments?’

      She blushed slightly, and smiled. ‘I confess I am a little warm. Perhaps some wine would revive me.’

      He took a glass from a tray held by a passing waiter, and gave it to her with a small bow. ‘I am sorry, I have not even introduced myself. Bartholomew St Clair, at your service.’

      She held out her hand. ‘Georgia Holland. I am pleased to meet you.’

      So it was her. She was even prettier viewed close up, in a girlish, unformed kind of way, than she was at a distance. He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. Her skin was soft and smooth. ‘Would you like to sit down to rest? Your dancing appears to have exhausted you.’

      ‘It has, rather,’ she replied, as he led her towards some empty chairs at the side of the room. ‘I am unused to dancing so much. This is my first ball since…’ She bit her lip.

      ‘Since…a bereavement?’ he asked, gently. Sadness somehow suited her.

      ‘My father,’ Georgia whispered. She looked even prettier with tears threatening to fall. ‘He died a year ago. I have only just begun to rejoin Society.’

      ‘My condolences, Miss Holland. Are you all right? Would you like me to fetch someone for you?’

      She shook her head. ‘I am quite well, thank you. You are very kind.’ She took a sip of her wine, then placed it on a small table beside her chair. She stood, and held out her hand. ‘It has been a pleasure meeting you, Mr St Clair. But I think I must take my leave now. My uncle is here somewhere. Perhaps he will call a cab to take me home.’

      Bartholomew jumped to his feet. ‘I shall find your uncle