Frippe House

One

Pulling up outside the house, Becky looked up at it and frowned. It was a lot bigger than she had been expecting. The solicitor she had spoken to hadn’t been all that specific on the details of the property, but she had got the impression it was at least bigger than the tiny three bed terraced house she lived in with her two children. Daniel was only a few weeks shy of his eighteenth birthday, and Imogen was three months past her sixteenth. Now Imy’s exams were out of the way, they could consider whether or not they would be moving to the house they had inherited from Becky’s Great-Aunt Alice.

All summer, Becky had been mulling it over. Her house wasn’t really big enough for them all, particularly now Daniel’s girlfriend was staying most of the time. Becky’s plan had been for her to check out Alice’s home on her own for a few days, and then have the rest of the family follow down at the weekend.

Now Becky was here in Dorset, she was nervous about going inside the house. Built of stone and flint, it looked depressing, even though the sun was shining. The garden was certainly more than Becky could handle. All her life, she’d only had very small yards as outside space, but this place had a vast, sweeping lawn punctuated by immense trees. She knew one or two of them were oaks, but she wasn’t so sure about the rest.

Pushing her greying blond hair back from her face, Becky sighed heavily.

Ever since she had received the letter informing her of Alice’s death, she had allowed herself to think the future might be a bit more comfortable for her and her children. Now that spark of hope was fading to the same dull grey as the house’s walls.

Perhaps she should just sell the place. That would give her more than enough to buy a bigger house in her home town of Reading. For now though, she had to wait for the solicitor and then look over this monstrosity.

Rummaging in her handbag, she pulled out the packet of cigarettes that always ended up at the bottom and lit one, inhaling deeply as she closed her eyes. Once today was over with, she would know where she stood.

The sound of a car on the gravel driveway behind hers had her stubbing out the cigarette hurriedly. She got out quickly and looked at the other car. With the sun reflecting off the windscreen, she couldn’t see the occupant.

It was several long minutes before the driver got out. He looked to be in his thirties. Dressed in a smart suit, his dark hair was trimmed neatly into a non-descript style. He didn’t approach her though. He didn’t even look at her. Instead, he opened the rear door on the driver’s side.

Out stepped a tall, gaunt man of about seventy. With white hair and wearing a pale tan suit, he almost looked like a smart ghost, one that had decided death wasn’t a reason to neglect his appearance.

Ms Frippe? Alexander Kennet. The old man’s voice sounded papery, fragile. The smile on his face didn’t look like it was overly familiar with his features. It’s a pleasure to meet you at last.

Likewise, Becky lied. She’d rather be at home.

It’s a beautiful house, don’t you think? Mr Kennet asked as he crossed to her, leaning on a black walking cane. Alice was always very happy here.

As I told you before, I never actually met her. My grandmother only ever mentioned her once that I can remember, and that wasn’t in particularly flattering tones.

Mr Kennet nodded. The rift between them was a great source of regret for Alice. She often said she wished things had been different. But they were two very different people. Agatha, your grandmother, was always very . . . spirited.

That was an understatement. Becky’s grandmother had been loud, outspoken, and rude, but also fiercely protective of her family, very loving, and more rebellious than many of Becky’s peers when she was a teenager.

Smiling, Becky didn’t disagree with the solicitor.

Mr Kennet held his hand out to her, but instead of taking hers to shake when she did the same, he placed a large bunch of ancient looking keys on her palm. Perhaps we could go inside? he prompted.

Yes, of course.

Becky took a guess that the largest key fitted the black metal studded wooden door and slipped it in the keyhole. It took her several goes to turn the key. It didn’t want to turn and it took a lot of effort to get the aged mechanism to shift. The loud creak as the door opened was almost comically predictable, like a dodgy sound effect from a B-movie.

Becky stepped inside ‘her’ house for the first time. Despite the warmth of the day, inside was cool. The entrance hall was impressive, if dark. Wood panelled walls surrounded her, and old portraits hung on each of them. Becky had always vaguely known she came from a very old Dorset family, but it had never really seemed important. Now she was stood inside the home of her ancestors, she felt the weight of all that history weighing on her shoulders.

The Frippes had lived in this tiny hamlet in the parish of Hinton Parva, just outside the quaint market town of Wimborne Minster, for countless generations. Now Becky could see the faces of those generations all around her. She shivered.

As you can see, the house hasn’t been altered much. This is just how it was when your grandmother grew up here. All the features are original.

Thinking this could easily turn into a historical tour of the house, Becky made a move towards one of the closed doors of the entrance hall. She turned the large, tarnished brass handle and had to give the door a little shove to get it open.

The room looked like it was some kind of dayroom or parlour. But all the chintz furniture couldn’t dispel the depressing atmosphere. Heavy red damask curtains covered the window almost entirely. She immediately wanted to open them and let some light in, but she would wait until Mr Kennet had left.

Of course, you know of the ghost? he asked.

Ghost? Becky glanced up at him, amused.

Of course. No house can reach the age of this one without collecting at least one ghost. She’s quite harmless though. If I remember the details correctly, she was your grandmother’s great-great aunt, Honoria Frippe. Spurned by her lover, she slit her own throat. It’s said she only appears to those who will be betrayed by their lover. Alice told me she saw Honoria just before her husband began to have an affair with one of the maids.

What happened, with Alice’s husband, I mean?

Once his dalliance became common knowledge, he left Alice. She was never quite the same after.

I’m not surprised, Becky muttered. She’d been down that road herself. Did you know Alice for a long time?

All my life, Ms Frippe. Her passing has left a large hole in my life no one else will ever be able to fill. The way he said it made Becky wonder if there had been more between Mr Kennet and Alice than simply that of a solicitor/client relationship.

You and Alice were close? she ventured hesitantly.

Her husband was my older brother, Ms Frippe. Roland always had a bit too much of an eye for the ladies. After he betrayed Alice, he was cast out of my family and I never saw him again.

If you don’t mind me asking, how come Alice kept her maiden name? Shouldn’t she have been Alice Kennet? She couldn’t tell how the man felt about the loss of his brother, so decided to back away from that particular subject.

Roland took the name Frippe when they married. Alice’s parents didn’t want the family name lost. The Kennett’s are also an old family, but not from the same social sphere. Alice married beneath her.

Becky frowned at the man’s dismissal of his family, not sure how to take his view of his ‘inferior’ status.

Shall we continue? Mr Kennet asked, indicating they should leave the room.

Allowing Mr Kennet to lead the way, Becky took in the details of the rooms she was shown around, though they did begin to merge into each other after a while. With five reception rooms and six bedrooms, four bathrooms, and all the cupboards that were large enough to be classed as single bedrooms in a modern house, there was a lot to take in. Maybe she should draw herself a map of the place so she didn’t get lost too often.

Last of all, Mr Kennet led the way to the attic. It was stuffed full of old furniture, most of which looked like it could be worth a small fortune once all the dust was cleaned off. The solicitor explained the attic had once been the servants’ quarters, but no one had lived in them for a good seventy years. He added that when he had come here as a child there had only been one housekeeper living-in and a couple of cleaners who had come in several days of the week. Becky could easily see the house would be a lot of work to keep clean and added that fact to her list of reasons to sell the place. She didn’t want to spend the rest of her life a slave to dust.

Once they had been round all the rooms, Mr Kennet suggested they went to the library and settled up the paperwork. This, apparently, would include Becky hearing a reading of Alice Frippe’s will.

The library wasn’t all that large, but it was stuffed with books, and not all of them old ones. It looked like Alice had been an avid reader of fiction right up until the end. Along with Barbara Cartland and Phillipa Carr, Becky also spotted Ian Rankin and Bernard Cornwell on the shelves. It looked like she did have at least one thing in common with her ancient relative. Maybe she would scour the shelves for books she wanted to keep before she cleared the house out and sold it.

Mr Kennet took a seat in a worn, brown leather wing-backed chair and hitched his trousers up to cross