The Tormented Read online

  ‘Good to meet you, Sister.’ Digby gave her hand a shake. His hand was weak, limp and slightly sweaty. ‘I’m from a Catholic family myself.’

  ‘Ah wonderful,’ Sister Veronica said more enthusiastically than she felt. The traumatic events of a year ago – when she’d become embroiled in the investigation of a horrific murder – still affected her, and she would never forget the disillusionment she’d felt upon stumbling on the corrupt private lives of several well-respected priests. The vast gulf between the ideology presented by some, and the actuality of their personal choices had shaken her faith in her church, and she now practised a private faith based on reverence of the universe, or God, or love or whatever you wanted to call it, and took all the dogma with newly opened eyes.

  Digby, she saw, was watching her as much as she was taking him in. Well, this could be interesting, she thought. We are both observers. A potentially potent combination. But what are we thinking about each other? Well, I know what I’m thinking, or trying to think about him, but why is he so interested in me? I’m just a harmless little old nun, surely. She took in the man’s brown-and-grey hair, which was several inches long and brushed back into a wolfish point. His nose, a giant affair, sat in pride of place above his small mouth and gently receding chin. There was a sense of weakness about him which was in tension with an intense personal control, brought to Sister Veronica’s attention as she watched his actions. He took off his coat in a robotic manner, before smoothing down all the sides, picking off any errant fluff and hairs that had become attached to it during his journey. Then he nodded at Ophelia and Sam to do the same. When they’d finished, a process done in silence, Digby laid the coat in Florence’s outstretched arms with the care of someone passing a baby at a christening, never smiling once, then motioned to the other two to do the same.

  ‘Would you like some dinner?’ Florence said, shifting the coats in her arms so she could motion down the corridor to the dining room. Raucous laughs and loud reproaches could be heard from behind the closed door. ‘There’s more than enough left. Do come and sit down at the table, the others will have to shift up and make room for you.’

  Ophelia and Sam both immediately looked at Digby. He gave a very small shake of his head, so slight it was barely perceptible.

  ‘Would it be all right if we have something to eat in the kitchen tonight, Florence?’ Ophelia said. ‘We don’t want to make any extra work for you, and I think Sam’s a bit too tired to sit with everyone after the journey.’

  ‘Absolutely, no problem at all.’ Florence bustled off down a different corridor. ‘Follow me, and I’ll get you settled. I’ll take your cases up to your room while you’re eating. You can have the peach room.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Ophelia, looking relieved, stepped lightly after her aunt without glancing at her husband, Sam clinging tightly to her hand all the time. Digby lined up the two suitcases he’d brought in until they were standing exactly next to each other, before following his family, his strides deliberate, almost swaggering, in a way that was at odds with his weak handshake. Gracious, what an intriguing match those two are, Sister Veronica thought as she watched his back view disappear. Ophelia’s well-tailored and beautiful, the kind of woman who should have so many options open to her in life, yet she seems strangely held in Digby’s thrall. He’s awkward and very closed, and there’s something odd about him. Well, if this house is good for nothing else, it’s a prime spot for people-watching, and I’ve always loved doing that.

  Not wanting to bump in to any other members of the household for a while, and knowing that her cousin was now busy settling the new arrivals in, Sister Veronica hovered in the large, semicircular hall, wondering if it would be best if she went back to her room – the blue room – to rest. But remembering her promise to Florence to continue their conversation, she circumvented the magnificent Christmas tree, breathing in a delicious waft of pine needles, to stare at the portraits of Florence and Giles’ ancestors that hung in heavy gilt frames on the wall. A rum lot, she thought. Not a group of smilers, that was for sure. But very well dressed and imposing.

  The entrance hall, an arresting half-moon space, had several doors and corridors fanning off it that led to different parts of the big house, as well as a staircase that curled up and away to the first floor. Sister Veronica looked around at the space that could have been so welcoming and inviting, but instead, still held the austere coldness she remembered from her childhood. She’d always been too scared to go upstairs alone then, asking her mother to accompany her to her room, or waiting for one of the cousins to lead the way. The house had always seemed a place of ghostly memories not quite put to rest; the severe portraits, the dark walls, the dim corridor lights, the abandoned back living room – now unused and forgotten – that mad old Henrietta used to hold court in. But perhaps that was just her overactive imagination, she thought. Her mind went to the current family, all alive and well, most of them braying and shouting at each other. So many people were in the house she sometimes had to take stock of who belonged to who. There was Florence and Barnaby, of course, children of mad old Henrietta. Their younger brother Tarquin had lost his life to cancer several years ago, bless his soul, his wife Marina following him to the next life soon after. Magnus, Florence and Giles’ only son, had two children, Coco and Wilfred. Barnaby and Cecily had two children, Araminta and Lucie, and Lucie and Neil had the boys, Ryan and Nathan. And then beautiful Ophelia, Tarquin and his wife’s adopted daughter, who’d lost both her parents young, and her little boy, Sam. And then old Maud, Giles’ cousin, who didn’t have a partner or children. So including Digby, Rufus and herself there would be eighteen of them at the house for Christmas. Gracious, quite the gathering. The constant company would take some getting used to. She turned her attention to the decorations on the tree, finding a warmth and comfort in their familiar festive designs, wondering what the dear sisters were doing in their Soho convent back in London.

  Then a door opened somewhere, and she heard two low muttered voices. Immediately curious, but not wanting to be seen, she stayed very still, hardly daring to breathe.

  ‘Don’t start all that again.’ It was Giles, his low voice sounding a lot less jovial than at dinner. ‘I’ve had enough of it. And at the dinner table too. Anyone could have heard. Terribly bad form.’

  ‘Well stop it then,’ Rufus’ voice said, his tone frustrated. ‘I know what you’re up to, Giles, and I’ve already told you to stop but you didn’t listen. You need to make it right. Things are going to get bad for you if you ignore me again.’ He was talking louder than Giles, probably due to the wine, Sister Veronica thought.

  ‘Godammit, keep your voice down, man,’ Giles hissed. ‘I’ve told you before, you’ve got it all wrong. And how dare you come into my house and threaten me. Who do you think you are? I’ll tell you, you’re a rogue, and I’ve a good mind to throw you out right now.’

  ‘Then you’d have to explain why you did that to everyone else, wouldn’t you?’ Rufus’ voice was angry now. ‘But honesty has never been your best attribute has it, Giles? That’s been proven extensively. By all means, throw me out. And I’ll take great pleasure in telling everyone what you’ve been up to.’

  Giles growled, saying nothing.

  ‘I’ll give you until tomorrow evening,’ Rufus said. ‘And no longer. You need to make this right, Giles, and if you don’t then–’

  Another door opened and faster footsteps came down a corridor.

  ‘Giles?’ Florence’s tired voice called. ‘Darling, is that you? Do come to the kitchen and say hello to Ophelia, Digby and Sam, they’ve just arrived. I can’t remember you saying that they were coming today, but maybe you did. My head’s so foggy at the moment.’

  ‘I’ll be there in a moment, dear,’ Giles called, his voice lighter. He said something low to Rufus that Sister Veronica didn’t catch, then his footsteps could be heard getting closer as he approached the hall. The corridor leading to the kitchen also led off the main entrance hall and
Sister Veronica started up the staircase at once, not wanting Giles to know she’d overheard anything. Reaching the top step, she padded along the soft carpet to her bedroom, thinking hard. So a family secret was revealing itself already. Dash it all, she’d been hoping the sixth sense feeling she’d been suffering wouldn’t come to anything, but now it pulsated with strength throughout her body and mind. Rufus had been accusing Giles of some sort of wrongdoing. Was whatever they’d been referring to the matter upsetting Florence so much? Aware of her promise to her cousin that they would find a time to chat later that evening, Sister Veronica opened her bedroom door, wondering if she would ever be able to talk to Florence privately with so many relatives swarming around. She’d have to find a way, she decided. Florence had been so close to disclosing whatever it was, they’d just need a few more minutes alone together, and she’d make that happen one way or another.

  3

  Ophelia closed her eyes. She was listening to Digby reprimand Sam for his lack of table manners. The poor boy was only four for Christ’s sake, he was doing his best. But there was no point in her intervening at this stage, she had learnt from bitter experience only to fight the bigger battles, the ones that compromised her and Sam’s safety in some way.

  She thought back to when she’d first had a conversation with Digby, at a work Christmas do at a Covent Garden pub in London. They’d both been working at McBain’s Publishers then, she was still getting over her recent split with Danny the wannabe musician, and had made a vow to herself that her next boyfriend would not be another charming sex-pot with an alcohol problem who was always a little bit more interested in becoming famous and getting another drink than he was in her. She’d just turned thirty and had a deep yearning to settle down with a steady partner and start a family. This desire had turned into a bit of an obsession, and her longing for a child had become overwhelming. She suspected that the fact she was adopted and had always felt like she never really properly belonged to her family may have something to do with wanting a family of her very own so badly; a unit to belong to that wanted her as much as she wanted them. But most of the men she knew were still happy playing the field, very vocal about how they were no way ready for children, and her last two boyfriends had been a lot of fun, when they were sober, but not marriage material.

  Then she met Digby. He worked on a different floor in McBains, a tall Victorian building in Pimlico. She’d passed him a few times in the corridor, and he’d always looked serious, never smiling at her, and they’d never actually been introduced or had any reason to speak. The Christmas party night was different. Digby, on his second glass of red wine, seemed like a different person to the solemn man she’d seen before. He was smiling at a silly story someone was telling, still quiet, but obviously enjoying himself. She caught him staring in her direction a few times. Usually if a man did this – in her experience – their next move would be to come over and talk to her, try to charm her with their drunken ramblings. But Digby didn’t, just stayed where he was, shooting her the occasional glance. Once he smiled at her and gave a little wave. Ophelia had found his reticence strangely attractive, attributing it to a deeper sense of chivalry and shyness in him.

  An hour later, emboldened by the two vodka and lemonades she’d drunk, she’d worked her way across through her drunken colleagues to where Digby was standing. It was out of character for her to be so forward, but something in his reticence made her bold.

  ‘So, I hear your name is Digby?’ she’d said with her best ravishing smile. Their conversation had lasted for the rest of the night, and she’d been struck by his knowledge of the world and interest in literature. Danny had hated reading, always lying on top of her book if she’d tried to read a chapter or two in bed, pulling silly faces at her until with a sigh she’d closed the book and given her full attention to him. But Digby was different, she’d never met anyone like him before and she’d been entranced. Especially when he’d said he wasn’t interested in short relationships, and that he was looking for a long-term, permanent partner. She could tell he was interested by the way his eyes didn’t leave her from the moment she’d struck up conversation. Could this be it? she’d thought to herself. Could Digby and I be soulmates? Now, six years later, she knew that the answer to that question was no. But Digby now had a hold over her that no one else knew about. She was trapped in his clutches and there was nothing she or anyone else could do about it. She just had to keep playing his game, and try not to go completely mad.

  She opened her eyes. Sam’s face was white, anxious, staring at her, imploring her to say something. Digby was saying that he was going to sit there and eat the last quarter of the sandwich on his plate, even if it took hours.

  ‘Well, I don’t think we have to stuff Sam so full of food that he throws up like last time,’ Ophelia said lightly, standing up. ‘He has such a slight build, his stomach’s probably not that big. Come on, Sam, let’s go and get you settled for the night.’

  Digby narrowed his eyes but said nothing, remembering what had happened three nights before, when he’d made him sit and eat every single vegetable and potato left on his plate. It had taken two and a half hours until he’d stuffed the last piece of broccoli in, and then the little boy had stood up and immediately vomited his meal on to the floor, before bursting into hysterical tears as he thought his daddy would tell him off. Ophelia had been the one who’d cleared the mess up, put Sam to bed, sneaked him up half a sandwich so he didn’t go to sleep hungry while Digby was roaring about how the boy had misbehaved and should go to bed on an empty stomach. She always tried to give Sam small meals, giving him secret snacks in between. But Digby liked to give him a full plate, then taunt him with tales of how when he was a boy, he wasn’t allowed to leave the table without eating every single thing, and received a rap on the knuckles if he ate too slowly. Florence had made Sam a very generous cheese sandwich with thick slices from a farmhouse loaf, obviously trying to be kind and feed the boy well. But Ophelia’s stomach had sunk at the sight of it, knowing what was going to happen. No matter, her and Sam were up and away from the table now. She hoped Digby would stay downstairs while she put their lovely boy to bed, giving her and Sam a chance to spend much appreciated time alone together. She took her son’s hand and led him towards the door.

  ‘Don’t undermine me in front of the child,’ Digby hissed in her ear, making her jump. ‘You always do that. The problem with you is that you have no logic, no reasoning. Sam needs to toughen up and you keep getting in the way of it, like always. Your parenting is awful, the boy has no hope. But then we know how useless you are, don’t we, Ophelia?’

  Ophelia marched straight on, pulling Sam behind her. She’d heard it all before many times, and Digby’s words no longer made her obviously upset. They just added to the intense feelings of dread and fear that had paralysed her insides for the last four years, that had been there so long she’d got used to them. It had been hard enough to get him to come to Chalfield Hall, he always said he hated her family, that they were all lunatics with no common sense. She’d expected him to treat her badly as a punishment, because that’s how he operated. It seemed her fears would be realised. The only way she’d got him to agree to the visit was by reminding him how much they could inherit one day, if they kept in Florence and Giles’ good books. Money was like a carrot on a stick to Digby, he always wanted more of it but never seemed to be able to earn the amount he desired from his own work.

  ‘There we go,’ she said soothingly to Sam, as they walked up the corridor. ‘Let’s go and find the bedroom Florence has given to us. Doesn’t the peach room sound lovely?’ She often hoped her feeling of dread wasn’t in some way transferred to her son, that she was protecting him from what was going on between her and Digby as much as possible. She knew he lacked confidence and was scared of his father, but every day she tried to fill him with as much joy and love as she could. She hoped this would be enough for Sam to grow up happy.

  Digby stood watching his wife and boy leave
, his hands in his pockets. It was only right that he punished Ophelia, he knew, because of what she’d done four years before. He would never forgive her for that. And far from receding, his feelings of resentment and detestation towards her were getting stronger as the days passed. He knew what he was going to do next.

  4

  Sister Veronica smiled. Wilfred had been telling her about different types of dinosaurs for the last half an hour and her head was reeling with all the intricate facts he’d imparted. She felt quite dizzy with her new knowledge about the size of the Apatosaurus, the feeding habits of Velociraptors, the German name for the Archaeopteryx, and the carnivorous tendencies of the Megalosaurus. She was hoping that he would stop talking so intently at her soon, the boy had hardly taken a breath and left no room for her to contribute to the conversation, but there was something rather appealing about his innocence – much younger than his fifteen years – and enthusiasm so she did her best to keep nodding with interest at his endless Cretaceous and Jurassic details while her eyes scanned the room.

  She and Wilfred were sitting on the chaise longue in the corner of the large front living room. She’d dared to brave the throng again after hearing voices collect downstairs. The brief rest on her bed had done her the world of good, and she was now ready for another instalment of family life. She could always sneak away for more respite later if needs be.

  Various points of soft lighting made this room much cosier than the rest of the house, she thought, where dark oak panels, small windows and narrow passageways abounded. Lucie’s husband Neil had arrived with their two boys Ryan and Nathan a little while ago. The two tall lads, still clad in their muddy rugby clothes, had grunted greetings at the assembled throng before sinking into a sofa. Lucie had fussed around them initially, getting them snacks and drinks – apparently they’d had a McDonald’s dinner en route, Filet-O-Fish burgers, of course, and a spicy bean wrap for Neil – ignoring Rufus’ jibes that she was a helicopter parent. The two boys hadn’t looked up from their phones since.