Cairo stood breathless in the gloom of a forgotten corridor after a game of it. She was sixteen, although she herself wasn't exactly sure how old she was, and her shabby clothes and uncultured manner made her appear more childlike. She whispered to herself,
“Cairo, you’re a very silly girl!” A lifetime of near solitude left her talking to herself and inventing many imaginary friends,
“Yes but she's very brave too!” She heard one of them say. The hushed conversations continued as she wound her way through the warren of abandoned secret passages at the heart of the old house.
The house had been built around a central column of tiny staircases and passages designed by the master of the house so that he could move around without being seen by the servants. The passageways connected with all the landings of the main house and many of its rooms. The levers to the entrances to that secret domain were ingeniously concealed in the fine timber mouldings and architraves of the opulent old place. And although the current occupiers were aware of their existence they had fallen in to disuse many years before.
Cairo lay on her back in the dust and gloom. Hands at her side she wondered what it would be like to be a ghost.
Gradually her mind turned to the odd assortment of people in the house. There was Anjelica the housekeeper, who just about ran the house (armed with her lashing tongue and fuelled by Sir Clive’s fine brandy).
The Irish Cook, Fidelma, she was nice but had a wicked temper, and was always “Far too busy to stand around gossiping to silly young girls.”
There was the gardener, Mr Underhill, he was a strange old man who never spoke. Cairo could remember being fascinated by his enormous calloused hands, she sometimes watched him as he worked, never speaking, just quietly sitting close by, pretending to be looking elsewhere.
Then there was Sir Clive; she had never had much to do with him. Most of the time he was away in London, wherever that was. She remembered that he gave her nice presents at Christmas but then there was that time she spied on him during the night in one of the upstairs bedrooms. There had been guests at the house staying over and one of them was a young woman not much older than herself. She’d thought it would be fun to visit her in the night but when she peeked through one of her spy-holes she could see that Sir Clive was there, he was ‘doing things’ to the girl that she obviously didn't like, she was crying but he wouldn't stop, he said it was too late to stop and that it was her fault for leading him on. Cairo stayed away from Sir Clive after that,
“Horrid fat man.” all her friends agreed on that.
And then there was the chauffeur. Kelvin Bright by name, a slimy thin man who stunk of cigarettes and liked to swagger around carrying a large shotgun. Some years before he had brought five Rottweiler puppies to the house, at first they were lovely animals but his systematic training had turned them into vicious, aggressive guard dogs. She stayed away from him as well. She giggled as she remembered what Anjelica always called Kelvin behind his back,
“Greasy little ponce.”
London, Hammersmith
Eve and Franco took the twins with them when they returned to the Hammersmith house in the early afternoon, It was a dry, blustery day with bright sunny intervals and occasional iron-grey clouds. They entered the house warily but it was soon apparent that apart from poor Joan’s gory remains there was no one else inside.
Eve peered at the mess through the bathroom door and easily put two and two together,
“Shot her through the door while she was talking to you.”
Franco looked closely at the bullet holes and Joan's wounds,
“It was an old gun by the looks of it, World War two probably.”
“Doesn't matter now. But it was lucky that Sir Clive wasn't here”
“He must still be at the Club.” Franco suggested.
“Yes, and he will probably not return until late this evening, we should clean up in here.” She set the twins to work, cleaning up the blood and gore of their mother's body. They cried, quietly, wiping away the tears and snot with their cleaning rags. Franco took pity on them, he carried Joan's body and laid it on her bed. Eve offered a little condolence,
“Sir Clive will see to her funeral, I'm sure he will give her a good send-off.” They nodded and dried their eyes, they never liked her anyway. With a look to each other they raised a question,
“When can we leave?”
“Richard will be getting hungry.”
Eve shook her head in amazement and spoke to Franco,
“Take them back to the house. I will wait for Sir Clive...” She favoured him with a smile, “...Come and collect me tomorrow.”