The House at Helygen

by Victoria Hawthorne

Genres: Gothic; Historical Mysteries

Synopsis

An atmospheric historical suspense novel rich with familial secrets. The House at Helygen is a twisted tale of dark pasts, murderous presents and uncertain futures.

2019

When Henry Fox is found dead in his ancestral home in Cornwall, the police rule it a suicide, but his pregnant wife, Josie, believes it was murder. Desperate to make sense of Henry's death she embarks on a quest to learn the truth, all under the watchful eyes of Henry's overbearing mother. Josie soon finds herself wrestling against the dark history of Helygen House and ghosts from the past that refuse to stay buried.

1881

New bride Eliza arrives at Helygen House with high hopes for her marriage. Yet when she meets her new mother-in-law, an icy and forbidding woman, her dreams of a new life are dashed. And when Eliza starts to hear voices in the walls of the house, she begins to fear for her sanity and her life.

Can Josie piece together the past to make sense of her present, or will the secrets of Helygen House and its inhabitants forever remain a mystery?

Release date: April 14, 2022

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 352

Sample

2019

I watch my shadow disappear into the darkness as Helygen House blocks out the low winter sun. Leaves crunch underfoot as I make my way across the gravel, the wind whipping my hair into my face. The promise of winter is in the air, clouds the colour of slate drifting across the sky, and the breeze sends goosebumps rippling across my skin. I’d only grabbed a light jacket for my trip into town earlier, but now a shiver runs through me. I pull my scarf tighter and walk on through the shadow of the house.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and smile as I swipe the screen to answer it. ‘I’m almost there, Flick,’ I say without preamble. ‘You’re early.’

‘You’re late,’ comes the reply and I laugh. My friend could never be accused of being too subtle.

‘I’ll meet you by the willow tree,’ I say and hang up, tucking my hands into my pockets and lowering my head against the wind. It is fierce here, in the clearing between the house and the woods, and I try to move as fast as my bump will allow. The baby is heavy, sitting low against my pelvis, telling me that she is almost ready to make her entrance into the world. Not yet, little one, I tell her silently. You’ve got another six weeks to go.

I round the corner by the old stables and finally find shelter from the wind. I can’t help but glance up at the building beside me, with its decaying roof and wide weatherworn doors, which will be turned into accommodation to sleep up to eight people. I can almost see it now, and excitement fills me as I picture what it will be like. The bright, airy rooms, the four-poster beds and the beautiful bathroom suite I loved so much, Henry had it installed in our own bathroom too. We only moved into Helygen House a year ago, as we’d had to wait for the renovations to be completed on what is now our apartment, but it was worth the wait. My husband’s ancestral home still takes my breath away.

‘I could get lost here,’ I said on my first visit to meet his mother, not long before our wedding. I remember being astounded by the high ceilings and stunning architecture, and all of it surrounded by such beautiful grounds. There are more rooms than I can count, with hidden staircases and a library bigger than the flat I grew up in on the outskirts of Bodmin, which contains more books than I could ever read in a lifetime. ‘Why did you move away?’ I asked Henry. He only glanced at me, a wry smile on his lips, and said nothing. I can’t imagine what it must have been like, growing up here, but our daughter will. Helygen House will be her home, her inheritance, and I know it will outlast all of us.

Although it still needs a lot of work – particularly the west wing, which was destroyed by a fire a long time ago – I am utterly in love with this house. Henry had made plans to carve out a separate living space in the east wing, turning it into an apartment which is almost entirely independent from the rest of the house, with its own front and back doors. I’d like to say I had an influence on the design, but it is Henry who has the grand ideas, and we have both enjoyed seeing his vision come to life in our new home. I love sitting at the breakfast bar or out on the patio with a cup of tea, watching the lake glisten in the distance, the willow tree standing guard over the water. I’ve never felt more at peace than I do here, which I found odd at first. I’d never expected an estate like this to feel like home, but we are happy here, and our daughter will be too.

We wanted to think of a name for it, our apartment, to separate it from the rest of the house. We tried a few things but everything sounded like an Amazon TV show. Nothing seemed to fit. ‘Little Hely,’ I suggested jokingly when we were curled up on the sofa together, my feet tucked beneath Henry’s legs, the detritus of moving day still strewn around the living room.

‘Little Hel,’ he responded with a grin, and it stuck, though not in Alice’s hearing. Henry’s mother lives in the main part of the building, which I have to admit I’m quite glad about. I’m not sure we could actually live together, though in reality she is only a stone’s throw away. If I had to describe Alice in one word, it would probably be prickly. She still employs a cook and a maid, and was unimpressed by our refusal to make use of her ‘staff’. The idea of having people cook and clean for me is so beyond anything I could ever feel comfortable with, and although Henry was slightly more used to such things, having grown up here, he agreed with me. Sometimes it feels as if Alice is from another time entirely; she doesn’t seem to live in the modern world at all.

The sun breaks through the clouds just as the lake comes into view, turning the water to diamonds. I can see Flick standing beneath the willow tree, her arms lifted towards the sky, bare despite the chill. Her blonde hair is pulled up into a high ponytail, her arms and bare feet still tanned from the summer. I watch with awe as she lifts one leg, bringing her foot up to rest against the opposite knee. She doesn’t even wobble.

‘You’ll catch your death out here,’ I say as I approach, lifting an eyebrow as she swivels her head to look at me without moving her body. ‘Show-off.’

Flick sticks out her tongue as she drops her leg and turns, slipping into her shoes and bending to pick up her rucksack in one fluid movement. ‘Just showing you the talent.’

‘Is that what you’re calling yourself these days?’ I lean against the trunk of the willow tree, my legs aching from my walk. ‘I feel like a sack of potatoes.’ I indicate my bump and grimace. ‘And my back is killing me. Who knew carrying another human would be such hard work?’

‘I’ve got some stretches for that,’ Flick says, opening her bag and pulling out a folder.

I smile. ‘You’ve got stretches for everything.’

She hands me a sheet of paper with a flourish. ‘You can thank me later.’ I glance at it, noting how much smaller the illustration’s bump is than mine, before she hands me another sheet. ‘Here’s the list of classes,’ she says. I run my eye down it. There are a few types of yoga – vinyasa, hatha, hot – and Pilates, all broken down by levels and intensity. Just looking at it makes me feel exhausted. ‘And this is what I’ll need. Mostly mats, resistance bands and some blocks.’

‘How many people per class?’ I ask, reading through the list.

‘No more than eight, I’d say.’

‘So The Hut would be big enough?’ I gesture towards the small building on the edge of the lake, the water reflected in the large window.

‘Definitely.’ Flick nods. ‘Did you bring the keys?’

I roll my eyes at her. ‘You are talking to a professional here.’

She snorts. ‘No, I’m talking to my friend who used to think a pasta bake was a gourmet dish.’

I shove her with my shoulder as we walk towards The Hut. ‘Can you swim as well as you can stretch?’ I tease. ‘That lake is deeper than it looks.’

‘Is that any way to speak to your best friend in the world?’ She grins. ‘Until the little one comes along, that is.’

‘Then you’ll be my bestest friend and my bestest babysitter,’ I say. Flick pulls a face, and I feel a rush of guilt at my light tone. I open my mouth to apologise but she waves me away, flashing me a bright smile that tells me to drop it. As happy as she is for me and Henry, Flick still finds these conversations difficult. I need to be more mindful of that.

We step inside The Hut and I reach out to switch on the light. It flickers once before illuminating the room. ‘I think we’ll need to put in new flooring,’ I say, looking down at the scuffed floorboards. ‘And some brighter lights. Do you know what colour you want to paint it?’

‘White,’ she says decisively. ‘Boring, I know, but it’s calming. Though I might do a feature wall, maybe something to tie in with the willow tree.’

I smile, picturing it. Flick is an incredible artist, and at first I wondered why she decided to become a yoga instructor when we graduated from university, but she has a real passion for it, particularly for helping people with chronic pain. This is probably the most exciting part of our project to revamp Helygen House. Once it’s been spruced up, Flick is going to be running yoga and Pilates classes from The Hut, plus some two-day retreats with accommodation in the yurts we’re going to erect in the clearing beyond. I remember Alice’s face when we told her, the way her lips pinched together when she said the word yurts. She isn’t a fan of some of our plans, but this is Henry’s house, and besides, he needs the money. We need the money. Renovating and running an estate of this size isn’t cheap, and these ventures will start to make Helygen House pay for itself.

‘Sounds amazing,’ I tell her as she wanders around the space. ‘Whatever you want.’

‘This may need a bit of updating too,’ she says, poking her head into the small bathroom. ‘Maybe some lockers and changing benches. Oh, and parking. Will there be access? You know some of my clients can’t walk too far.’

I nod. ‘We’re going to put a gate in up there.’ I point out of the window. ‘There’s already a dirt track leading down from the road, we just need to create a small parking area, probably on that end.’ My finger follows the track down towards a clearing beneath a cluster of trees to the right. The road must have been used for deliveries in the past, or anything else the owners of the house didn’t want coming to the front door. Sometimes it strikes me that this house is so full of history, with such a vibrant past. There’s so much still to discover.

‘Great!’ Flick says excitedly. ‘I can’t believe this is happening, Jose. It’s going to look amazing.’ She twirls around in the middle of the room and I laugh. ‘When do we start?’

I run through my mental checklist. The yurts are on order – we’ve gone for three to begin with, which can sleep up to four people each – and I need to check on when the gate is being installed, but there’s no reason why Flick can’t start working on The Hut now. ‘Whenever,’ I tell her. ‘Send me a list of what you need later and I’ll order it.’

‘Who’d have thought it?’ she says, still grinning. ‘Felicity Daniels and Josephine Corbyn, kick-arse businesswomen.’ I laugh. ‘Oh, sorry, Josephine Fox,’ she adds with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes.

‘You know I didn’t change my name.’ I shove her playfully, remembering Alice’s horror when we told her that I wouldn’t be taking Henry’s surname, her hand fluttering to her throat as if we had just delivered a shocking piece of news. I suppose we had, to her. She didn’t understand how two people, so different on paper, could be together.

‘Have you thought of a name yet?’ I ask Flick as we leave. ‘For the classes?’ I pull the door shut behind me and twist the key in the lock before holding it out to her.

She takes it with a smile. ‘How about Relax with Flick?’ she suggests, then shakes her head. ‘I’m no good at names.’

‘I’m sure you’ll come up with something fabulous,’ I say with a wink.

‘Feel Fabulous with Flick? I like it.’ She rolls her eyes then glances at me. ‘What about you?’

It takes a second before it clicks and I place a hand on my stomach. ‘We’re torn between Louisa and Beatrix.’ I wrinkle my nose. ‘You can guess which one Alice wants.’

Flick snorts. ‘Who cares what Alice wants?’

I smile, knowing Flick doesn’t understand the tenuous relationship I have with my mother-in-law. I like her, for the most part, but there are so many things we don’t agree on. Sometimes it feels like they’re all stacked up between us, keeping us from getting closer. The one thing we really have in common is Henry, and our love for him.

The sun is brighter now, casting a slight warmth across my face. Flick holds out a hand and touches the willow tree as we pass as if she is saying goodbye. I notice the scratches on her arm, the tell-tale sign of her recurring anxiety. Has she been worrying about this new venture? Or is something else bothering her?

‘What about Willow?’ she says, turning to me before I can ask questions. ‘Willow Louisa Fox. Or even Beatrix as the middle name. It has a ring to it, and Alice couldn’t complain either.’

I pause, considering. It does have a ring to it. I smile at my friend. ‘I think you’ve just chosen my baby’s name,’ I say, linking my arm through hers as we make our way back towards the house. ‘But it’ll be Corbyn-Fox. Willow Beatrix Corbyn-Fox.’

She grins. ‘A name fit for a princess.’

‘And for my daughter too.’

*

I wave Flick off, watching as she turns her car around and drives out of the gate, gravel skittering beneath her tyres. The sun is once again hidden behind a cloud as I turn and walk back towards the house. I check my watch and decide there’s just enough time to grab a late lunch before Henry’s due home from his meeting. I can’t wait to tell him about Flick’s ideas for the studio. I remember when I first mentioned the idea of yoga and meditation retreats to him, and he tilted his head in that way he does when he’s considering something but isn’t quite convinced. It didn’t take much for him to agree, though. Flick had already drawn up sketches of the yurts, The Hut in the background and the lake spread out like a blanket. She has a way of bringing things to life, and I could tell that Henry saw it as I did. But Alice took a bit more persuading. She has lived here since her brother died back in the eighties and she’s used to being in charge. Henry inherited the estate when he was just four years old, which is when Alice moved into Helygen House with two small children in tow. ‘Why didn’t your mum inherit? Why you, when you were so young?’ I’d asked when Henry told me his uncle had died without a spouse or children, and he almost looked ashamed when he told me the history of the estate.

I press a hand against my stomach, smiling at the memory of Henry changing the order of succession, as we jokingly called it. We both made a will when I fell pregnant, mainly driven by Henry’s confession that, historically, only male heirs could inherit Helygen House. The idea of all the Fox girls – Henry’s older sister India, and even his mother – being passed over in favour of their male relatives left an impression on me, and so we made a will to change things. To ensure our child, no matter the sex, would inherit Helygen House.

‘Do you think your dad will like your new name?’ I murmur as I push open the front door to Little Hel, my hand still on my stomach. As I wipe my feet on the mat and hang my jacket up on a hook behind the door, the tumble dryer in the small utility room to my right emits a beep, the lights flashing to show the cycle has ended. I open the door and breathe in the burst of warm air and the scent of fresh towels before moving into the hallway. I hear a skitter of claws on tiles and smile as Ivy bounds out of the kitchen, her tail wagging as she prepares to jump up at me. She’s started doing that more as my pregnancy has progressed, as if she can smell the child inside me and is desperate for her to come out and play.

‘Ivy and Willow,’ I say as I lift my hand to tell her to sit and scratch behind her ears. ‘It’s got a nice ring to it. Are you ready to be a big sister?’

She suddenly turns and bounds a few feet away before stopping and cocking her head at me. She does this when she wants me to see something, to make sure I’m following her, and I frown. ‘If you’ve brought something in again . . .’ I murmur, remembering the time she dragged a rabbit onto the patio a few weeks ago. It was still alive and apparently unhurt, thanks to her gentle golden retriever mouth, but utterly petrified. It didn’t seem to understand that Ivy just wanted a friend to play with.

She barks, the sound too loud in the quiet house, and I feel my pulse quicken. ‘All right, I’m coming.’ I follow the dog through the hall and into the kitchen, watching her disappear behind the breakfast bar. I open my mouth to call her name then stop, my legs suddenly full of lead as I take in the scene before me.

Blood is splattered across the tiles, droplets splashed against the wall. There are red pawprints too, from where Ivy must have walked through it to greet me. I look behind me and notice faint marks on the floor tiles and along the hallway. When I turn back, it feels as if time has slowed down, my pulse pounding in my ears, my brain unable to make sense of what my eyes are seeing. Ivy’s head pops around the breakfast bar and she gives a low impatient woof, but my eyes have found what is lying on the floor beside her and suddenly I can’t breathe. The air leaves my lungs as I drop to my knees, blood rushing in my ears. There, just visible behind the breakfast bar, is a hand coated in blood. Henry’s hand.

My husband is dead.

I’m so cold.

My teeth chatter as I watch several uniformed officers sweep into the house, their heavy boots leaving mud on the floors. I only cleaned them yesterday, I think, and then I remember what else is staining the tiles and nausea rises again.

Alice is beside me, quiet for once, her face pale and drawn. Usually she would be taking charge, barking orders in her posh voice, but I am grateful for her silent presence now. I used to tease Henry about his accent, and how, for a Cornishman, he sounded remarkably like someone from the Home Counties. ‘Boarding school beat the Cornish out of me,’ he would say with a wink. Pain hits me in the guts at the memory and I double over, gasping for breath. Henry. Henry is dead.

I feel a hand on my back, then something being draped over my shoulders. ‘That’s it,’ a voice says, warm and comforting and as Cornish as my own. ‘Take some deep breaths.’ After a few moments, when the world has stopped spinning, I look up and see the face of a paramedic, her bright pink hair pulled into a messy bun on top of her head. She has a tattoo of a rose on her forearm, a name written beneath that I cannot read. A child? A parent? A husband or wife? Someone special enough to be inked on her skin forever, a part of her. She smiles at me. ‘All right, maid. You’m all right,’ she says, and I want to wrap myself in her words, to believe that everything is all right, that my husband isn’t lying dead in our kitchen, half of his face missing from a gunshot wound.

I will never be able to scrub that image from my mind. I can never unsee it, the mess of Henry’s beautiful face, the way his body is lying unnaturally against the tiles, one arm flung out, his wedding ring glinting in the light.

Hot tears spill down my cheeks. I taste salt in my mouth and gag, imagining it is blood, his blood. I drop my head down again and sob into my bump, whispering an apology to our daughter who will now never get to meet her father, who will never sit on his shoulders to see over a crowd, or feel his gentle fingers putting a plaster over her grazed knee. She will never listen to him read her a story, will never giggle at the silly voices he would have put on for her. She will never look for him in the audience at a school play, relief flooding through her when she spots his smiling face, full of pride. She will never feel his love, his warm, all-consuming love that promised to give her the world, and that would never have let her down, ever.

Henry is gone, and my daughter no longer has a father, and I feel myself crack down the middle, a splinter that will never heal.

*

‘Mrs Fox?’

I lift my head to find two men standing before me. They are not wearing uniform, but I can tell they are police officers. Detectives, perhaps, as this is a crime scene. The thought fills me with hope. A crime has been committed here, and someone needs to pay for it. I realise I am rubbing my hands together, skin chafing, and clamp them between my knees.

‘Yes.’

I turn to see Alice standing, her hands smoothing down her long skirt. The men exchange a glance and one clears his throat. Alice is the only Mrs Fox here, but it is me they will want to speak to.

‘I’m Henry’s wife,’ I say, instead of explaining. My stomach lurches at the tense but I do not correct myself. I cannot think of him in the past, not yet. Not ever. ‘I’m Josie.’ I clench my fingers together, my bump heavy and uncomfortable, the baby wriggling around inside me as if she knows what is happening. She can feel my emotions, my grief pouring into her, and I feel a wave of guilt. I’m so sorry, I tell her in my head. I’m so, so sorry.

‘Josie,’ one of the men says, taking a seat opposite me. Alice sits back down, her forehead wrinkled. ‘I’m DS Fergus, and this is DC Jones.’ The other man sits beside him and pulls out a notepad. ‘Please accept our sincere condolences for your loss.’

The words hit me like a blow, for they describe so perfectly what this feels like. What this is. A loss. I have lost my husband, lost the future we dreamed of together, the years of laughter and arguments and pride and love, all gone. The picture of us as a family of three, our daughter growing from baby to toddler to teenager to adult, standing between us in family photos, my hair greying, his thinning, our faces showing the signs of a life well lived. All of that has been snatched from us, wrenched from between my fingers and thrown to the wind.

I see Alice’s lips grow thinner as she watches the men, waiting for them to speak, to tell us something of note. Their silence is deafening. We will not like what they have to say. ‘What is it?’ I ask finally, my voice stronger than I expected. I see the men straighten, their eyes widening as they take me in, this grieving widow. This heavily pregnant, grieving widow. They don’t know how to deal with me. I don’t know how to deal with me.

‘Josie,’ DS Fergus says gently. ‘We need to ask . . . Was your husband suffering from depression?’

I sit back, his words forcing the breath from my body. ‘Depression?’ I echo. I try to swallow but my throat is too dry; it aches with unshed tears. ‘No, no. He wasn’t suffering from depression.’

‘He was under a lot of pressure,’ Alice says, her voice high and clear. I stare at her, my mouth open, my mind struggling to catch up.

‘And your name is . . .?’ DC Jones asks.

‘Alice Fox, Henry’s mother,’ she answers primly, as if he should have known.

He scribbles down her name. ‘What do you mean by “under a lot of pressure”?’

‘Precisely that. He was always so busy, what with the running of the estate and his newfangled plans.’ She sniffs. ‘He was running himself into the ground.’

‘So would you say he had been . . . troubled, lately?’ DS Fergus asks.

‘No,’ I snap as Alice nods. I grasp her arm, feeling the scratchy wool of her cardigan beneath my fingers. ‘No. What are you talking about, Alice?’

She doesn’t look at me as she shifts away, and my hand falls from her arm. ‘As you can see,’ she says stiffly, ‘my daughter-in-law is due to give birth very soon. Preparing for a new baby is stressful, and perhaps he . . . Well. Perhaps Henry wasn’t ready.’

I am stunned. I always suspected that Alice had never truly warmed to me, unable to see past my council house and st. . .