House of the Lost by Sarah Rayne Read Free Book Online Page B

remarkably restful about Fenn House in those days. As Theo put the coffee cups away after Sister Catherine’s visit, he was deep in the memories of those summer evenings round the big cherry-wood table in the dining room. There would be huge bowls of roses everywhere – Sister Catherine had been right about the rose garden. Helen had planted a rose called Charmian to mark Charmery’s tenth birthday. ‘Because it’s clear no one’s ever going to use the correct version of her name,’ she said, ‘so this is a reminder of it.’
    The French windows would be wide open and people would be relaxed from the wine and the huge suppers that were served. Aunt Helen fussed about the food which was always perfectly all right – it was a bit of a family joke, Aunt Helen’s fussing – and Uncle Desmond became genial after a few drinks, exchanging bluff jokes with the other men, but doing so sotto voce if Nancy was there, because Nancy did not approve of coarseness. Guff listened to the jokes and always laughed, although Charmery said he probably did not understand half of them. Theo thought Charmery probably did not understand half of them either, but he did not say this.
    Catherine got back to St Luke’s shortly before twelve. Even at this time of year she enjoyed the walk along Boat Street. Old trees fringed the lane that wound up to Fenn House so that even with the branches bare the house was hidden from most people’s view. Local legend said it had originally been built by a recluse who had wanted to hide from the world but had liked having the tributary to the Chet at the end of his garden. The Bursar was going to compile a history of the area on account of it having so many interesting fragments of gossipy lore. Catherine had been at St Luke’s for nearly ten years and the Bursar had still not got any further than saying at intervals they really must get down to drafting some ideas. The murder of Charmery Kendal had daunted even the Bursar from putting pen to paper, although it had certainly added another layer to the legends.
    Mr Kendal had been very polite and welcoming, and it had been companionable to sit drinking coffee with him. It was the kind of thing people in the outside world did all the time without so much as thinking about it, but for Catherine, who had entered the convent at eighteen, it was sufficiently unusual for it to occupy most of her thoughts as she walked back. It would not be occupying any of Theo Kendal’s thoughts, of course; he would most likely have dismissed it as soon as she had gone, because he would be used to drinking coffee and stronger substances than coffee with all kinds of females. He was very nice-looking with that dark hair and those deep blue eyes. There had not seemed to be a wife or girlfriend in the picture, but there would surely be one somewhere. Catherine caught herself thinking that his wife or girlfriend would not wear a plain navy woollen dress with flat-heeled lace-ups; she would be smart and modern, with glossy, well-cut hair. This was a thought that was dangerously close to vanity, so she pushed it firmly away.
    Morning coffee was over at St Luke’s, and there was already a smell of food from the kitchens, which meant Sister Agnes, who was the convent’s kitchener, was presiding over the midday meal. Today being Thursday it would be Irish stew with dumplings and big platters of accompanying vegetables.
    Catherine hung up her coat and went along to see Reverend Mother, who was with the Bursar, both of them frowning over some accounts. Catherine thought they were rather pleased to be interrupted, although neither of them would have admitted it. They were certainly pleased to hear she had managed to arrange for Mr Kendal to talk to the patients. The Bursar said Catherine must remember to tell Dr Innes when he came in for his clinic day tomorrow. He would be interested to meet Mr Kendal.
    ‘Yes, he will,’ said Catherine, carefully making her voice bland.
    Reverend