Blood-Tied (6 page)

9

Reports on Elizabeth were encouraging when Esme next went to the hospital. Various tests had been carried out, the results of which, the house doctor said, allowed them a degree of optimism that Elizabeth might make a full recovery. The question they couldn’t answer was when. The burden of uncertainty hovered like a black cloud on a dull day.

A morning visit was becoming routine now for Esme. A pattern had been established which meant that Esme rarely saw Gemma, who had developed her own habit of coming up from theatre at the end of her day shift. Esme felt that they should reconcile matters between them, for Elizabeth’s sake at least, but she guessed that Gemma would only be receptive to the idea if Esme agreed not to pursue her investigation. And she couldn’t agree to that.

Elizabeth had been moved from the intensive care unit to a general ward, though continued to be monitored closely. That felt like progress of a sort. There was a physiotherapist at Elizabeth’s bedside when Esme arrived, working on Elizabeth’s limbs. She told Esme that inactivity was the greatest threat to her long-term recovery and keeping her muscles working was crucial.

When the physio left, Esme sat for a while, simply watching Elizabeth. The bruising was less acute, though the change in colour barely improved Elizabeth’s appearance. Esme had been assured that the bones were slowly knitting back together. Leads and tubes remained but the clutter had lessened. The atmosphere seemed calmer, more reflective, as though Elizabeth was taking stock and deciding upon her next move.

Since Esme had learned of Daisy’s death she had tried to imagine how Elizabeth had dealt with it. When Esme’s mother had died she and Elizabeth had leaned on one another, sharing their memories. That helped deaden the sense of severance from the past. How would Elizabeth have coped with Daisy’s death? Their past, however long ago Elizabeth had found her, would have been brief compared with that of a whole childhood. How had that affected her? Esme found that there was more she wanted to ask Elizabeth, that had less to do with her initial hurt at being lied to and more about the emotions of Elizabeth’s circumstances. And in a way it had changed the nature of Esme’s quest. It was no longer about discovering the truth for its own sake, but in order to understand Elizabeth.

Of course, there was still the issue of the attack and Mrs Roberts’s disquiet. Esme intended to deliver the photographs to Mrs Roberts later that morning. Whether there was a chance that the old lady would reveal anything about them was another matter, but Esme wasn’t going to give up. Not until she’d found out what was behind the argument in the park, and what Mrs Roberts was hiding.

*

Esme was greeted with the pungent smell of lilies when she arrived at Wisteria House. Christine Rowcliffe was arranging flowers in the reception hall. She glanced up as Esme came through the door.

‘Ah, Mrs Quentin,’ she said, pausing. ‘I’m afraid Mrs Roberts has got a visitor at the moment. I did say that you planned to drop by.’

‘Oh, don’t worry,’ said Esme, turning to go. ‘I’ll call in later.’

‘Er, actually…’ Mrs Rowcliffe put down the blooms and came over to Esme. She lowered her voice. ‘I don’t think she’d mind you interrupting her. Between you, me and the gatepost, I don’t think Mrs Roberts was that pleased to see her.’

Esme was immediately intrigued. ‘Who is it?’ she asked.

‘A lady friend. Well, I say friend. She’s not a regular visitor, though it’s not the first time she’s been. But she told me they go back years. Used to work together. But I don’t think there’s any love lost there.’ She shook her head to confirm her assessment.

‘Work colleagues, you say?’ Esme immediately thought of the photograph of the servants in front of the big house which she was holding, and instinctively glanced down.

‘Yes, from donkey’s years ago, so she was telling me. Oh, are those photographs?’ said the matron. ‘I love old photos, don’t you?’

‘I came across them while I was sorting through things at the cottage. I thought she might have missed them.’

Mrs Rowcliffe smiled. ‘Thank you for doing that for us. I did explain to Mrs Roberts that you saved our bacon, with us being so short staffed.’

Esme saw the matron’s eyes fixed on the pictures, as if she was eager to look but felt it inappropriate to ask to do so.

Esme put her out of her misery. ‘Would you like to see?’ She held them out to her. ‘Be careful with the one in the frame, the glass needs replacing.’

Mrs Rowcliffe barely glanced at the portrait of the young woman which Esme had replaced on its own in the frame but instantly seized upon on the staff photograph.

‘Goodness, do you think this is Mrs Roberts when she first worked in service?’

‘So she was in service, then. I wondered if that was the case.’

‘Yes, indeed and from what her friend’s just told me, they could both be on this photograph.’ Mrs Rowcliffe looked up at Esme with a smile. ‘Strange that you should come across this now when her old work colleague has turned up.’

‘Yes, isn’t it?’ Esme had the feeling it was one of many oddities. The friend not being welcome, the photograph of her and Mrs Roberts in their service days hidden behind another picture and left out of sight on top of a wardrobe, Mrs Roberts’s nervous behaviour. What did they all mean?

‘I do believe I’ve seen this house somewhere recently,’ said the matron, frowning. ‘Something very similar, anyway.’

‘I thought so too,’ said Esme. ‘Do you know where?’

‘Well, I’m just trying to remember. In the local paper, I think. Hasn’t some trust or other just taken it on to make a library or something?’

‘That may be it. I’ll have to ask around.’ Esme made a mental note to speak to Lucy. She worked in the county records office. She would know about any local history issue which had been in the press.

‘I’d be fascinated to hear all about “life below stairs” from Mrs Roberts,’ Mrs Rowcliffe was saying. ‘History is so much more interesting from those who lived it, don’t you think?’

Esme nodded. ‘Have you ever asked her about it?’

‘Once or twice, but she was most evasive. And then, of course, there was the journalist.’

‘Journalist?’

‘Well, that’s what I assumed he was. I saw an article in the paper a week or so later about domestic service in one of the National Trust houses nearby so I put two and two together. Of course I may have been mistaken.’

‘About what?’

‘Whether he was indeed a journalist,’ said Mrs Rowcliffe with an open-handed gesture.

‘But someone did come. To see Mrs Roberts?’

‘Yes, indeed. He wanted to talk to her about when she worked with the family he was researching. I don’t remember their name. She worked for them for a very long time, that I do know.’ She tapped the picture with her forefinger. ‘Probably right from when this was taken. In the 1930s, would you say?’

‘1937. You can just make out the date in the corner. So did Mrs Roberts talk to this journalist?’ Maybe if she could find out who he was Esme could glean some information from him.

Mrs Rowcliffe shook her head furiously. ‘Goodness me, no. On the contrary. She wouldn’t give him the time of day. Sent him off with a flea in his ear.’ The matron frowned. ‘She seemed most upset by his visit. I can’t imagine why she was so uncharitable with him.’

Esme was learning so much and yet only collecting more questions. Why would someone keep a photograph of when they were in service with a family and then be so reluctant to talk about them? Had something traumatic happened during her time there? Was that why a visiting friend from the past was such an unwelcome guest?

Mrs Rowcliffe was studying the staff photograph again.

‘So this must be when she was with the family,’ she said, emphasising ‘the’ as ‘thee’.

‘
The
family?’

Mrs Rowcliffe looked up and handed Esme back the pictures.

‘Yes, the one I mentioned, where she worked for years. That’s how she got her cottage, you know. The family left it to her.’

10

Lucy, reliable as ever, remembered the piece in the paper to which Mrs Rowcliffe had referred and promised to track down a copy. When she phoned back with the details Esme realised at once why the house was familiar. The project was to convert a dilapidated, fire-damaged old building into a new museum and library for a botanical trust, and the reason it had caught her eye was because the architect involved was an old friend of hers, Andy Patterson. She phoned him immediately and he’d suggested she should call in at his office. He might know something about the house’s history which would be useful to her. She had taken a copy of the photograph of the house to bring with her. She had felt a certain sense of duplicity in doing so but if she was to make any progress in her quest she needed some leads and this was the only one she had at the moment.

As Esme had feared, Mrs Roberts was unhelpful regarding the photographs. She confirmed that she was in the staff photograph but immediately looked as though she regretted saying anything. She made no comment about it being out of the frame. Esme explained she’d planned to replace the broken glass, and had discovered it when she dismantled the picture. Mrs Roberts nodded, but showed no further interest.

She’d been dismissive about the name of the house, insisting that it was a long time ago and best not to look back. Neither did she give anything away on the portrait of the young woman, only that it was someone she’d once known. She then announced that the visit from her friend had tired her and she intended to rest in her room. Esme stood and watched her shuffle out of the lounge. She felt frustrated, yet she was not surprised. The old lady had her reasons for keeping such information locked in the past and Esme’s curiosity was not good enough grounds for her to change her mind.

Esme sat in the swivel chair in Andy’s office waiting for the architect to emerge. She could hear the sounds of frenetic activity down the corridor. Telephones ringing, photocopiers humming and footsteps up and down the stairs as Andrew’s colleagues went to and fro carrying out their business. The hectic pace would suit Andy. He’d always done everything at speed, even at school, where Esme had first met him. Since her return to the area she had bumped into him at the history society she occasionally attended. He had been conducting a seminar on vernacular architecture. It was one of his passions.

Esme glanced at the clock on the wall. Andy was with a client elsewhere in the building but would be free shortly. Esme absent-mindedly picked up a booklet from Andy’s desk and began flicking through it, hardly focusing.

Instead she was wondering whether Gemma had moved any closer towards seeing how things were from Esme’s point of view. Perhaps she should try to talk to her again. She’d left a couple of messages on Gemma’s phone but her niece hadn’t as yet chosen to respond. Maybe she was expecting too much, too soon. Once Elizabeth’s condition improved, that would be the time to readdress their differences, when they weren’t under so much pressure.

The door flew open and Andy characteristically burst into the room, tie flung over his shoulder as if he’d done a hundred- metre sprint to get there.

‘Esme.’ He beamed. ‘Great to see you.’ He came round the desk and gave her a bear hug.

‘You haven’t learnt how to slow down yet, then?’ said Esme.

Andy grinned. ‘Slow down? What’s that? Never get anything done.’

‘I can believe that. You wouldn’t know how to function at a lesser speed.’

Andy sat down on the end of the desk. ‘So what can I do for you?’ He gestured towards the document in Esme’s hand. ‘Something about the Local Development Plan?’

‘What?’ Esme glanced down at what she’d been reading. ‘No, I was just browsing. Sorry, I shouldn’t be nosing at stuff on your desk.’

‘Oh don’t worry. That’s for public consumption. You can buy your very own copy from the local planning authority. Fascinating bedtime reading about where’s favourable for development. I’ll get you a copy for Christmas.’

Esme laughed. ‘I’ll pass, if you don’t mind. There’s plenty else I should be reading.’

‘So, fire away. You said something about a newspaper article.’

‘Yes, in the
Chronicle
a few weeks ago. Isn’t it your outfit that’s involved in that place which burnt down and is being renovated for some sort of research library? Some botanical trust?’

‘Markham House, you mean?’

‘Could be. I’ve got a photo of a house taken in the 1930s and it looks like the same place as in the newspaper, but I want to be sure.’ She dipped into her bag and pulled out the copy she’d made. She passed it over to Andy, who examined it with interest.

‘It certainly looks familiar. We could do with the other to compare it with.’ He picked up the phone. ‘There’ll be a photo on the file. Hang on, I’ll see if someone can dig it out.’ He gave the necessary instructions over the phone and replaced the receiver. ‘So how are things with you? Is this one of your research projects?’

‘Sort of.’ She didn’t want to go in to details. She changed the subject. ‘So how’s business?’

‘Oh, you know. Either getting thin and giving us palpitations over staff levels or too much work giving us…’

‘Palpitations over staff levels,’ laughed Esme. ‘It’s never nice and steady is it?’

‘No it’s not. I remind myself that when it’s busy, like now, I should be thankful but it’s exhausting. Talking of which, Esme, you look a tad done in yourself. You’re not working too hard, I trust?’

Esme was surprised at what he could read in her face. She told him briefly about Elizabeth.

He was shocked. ‘Poor thing. Hope they get the bastard.’

There was a brief knock on the door and a young woman entered. She acknowledged Esme with a nod. ‘Is this the photo you wanted, Andy?’ she said, passing him a manila envelope.

He took it and delved inside. ‘Is this the one which the press used?’

‘Far as I know.’

‘Thanks, Jill.’ The young woman smiled and left.

They compared the two photographs.

‘Well, it certainly looks like the same place,’ said Esme. ‘What do you know about it?’

‘Not a lot. I’m not involved, myself. One of the other guys is working on it. But what I do know is that there were heaps of documents found by the trust who bought the place. Most got passed to the Records Office, so you’ll have a field day browsing through it all. Just up your street.’

Esme returned her photograph to her bag. ‘I’d better get on to it then, instead of holding you up.’ She stood up.

‘Did you read the article?’

‘Not really. It was the photo I saw. I read the headlines and saw your name. Why d’you ask?’

‘The paper tracked down one of the members of staff who used to work there years ago. The gardener, I think. He might be able to give you an angle on the place.’

‘Now that really would be useful,’ said Esme with undisguised enthusiasm. Another member of staff might be able to throw some light on why Polly Roberts was so reluctant to talk about the old days.

She threw her bag over her shoulder and thanked Andy for his help. She couldn’t wait to get started.

*

Gemma walked over to the bed and watched her mother’s breathing for a moment or two. Was it less shallow than the last time she was here? The nurse said her fingers had twitched slightly yesterday, but though Gemma focused on them for a while she could discern no sign of movement.

A large vase of flowers on top of the cabinet in the corner of the room caught her eye. It was a beautiful arrangement of narcissi. They were almost white, lemony-sherbet in the centre. Surely they hadn’t been there yesterday or she would have noticed. She wandered over for a closer look.

A card was tucked inside. It read: ‘Looking forward to chatting with you again soon.’ She turned it over. There was no name. She frowned. Who would send such a gorgeous bouquet of flowers and then not say who it was from? Maybe the flower shop made a mistake and missed off the name. It was an odd message. Surely a friend would make some comment about getting well soon, or some similar sentiment. Chatting? It suggested gossiping, chitchat, having a natter. Not something Gemma identified with her mother’s activities.

A disturbing thought occurred to her. That person she was seen arguing with – was the word ‘chatting’ a reference to the argument they had been having? She spun round and walked over to the nurses’ station. A young fresh-faced nurse was on the telephone. Gemma hadn’t seen her before. Perhaps she was agency staff. Gemma paced up and down until she’d finished her call.

‘Who brought the flowers?’ asked Gemma before the nurse had replaced the receiver.

‘No idea. I only came on duty at two. I can ask. Was there no message?’

‘Yes, but it’s a bit odd, and there was no name.’ She held the card out towards the nurse, who took it from her and read it.

‘Yes, I see what you mean.’ She handed it back to Gemma. She smiled. ‘Maybe it wouldn’t need a name if your mum could read it.’ Clearly she’d been briefed as to who Gemma was. ‘Maybe it was an “in-joke”.’

‘Why write an in-joke to someone who’s still unconscious?’

‘True.’ The nurse slid off her chair. ‘I’ll go and see what I can find out and let you know.’

Gemma nodded. ‘OK. Thanks.’

She wandered back into her mother’s ward and pulled up a chair by the bed. Watching her mother made her think of Esme and this obsession with seeing things where there was none. Trouble was with Esme, if she got her teeth stuck into something, she was terrier-like in her tenacity. She’d always been like that, apparently. Gemma remembered comments her mother had made about it getting her into hot water. At the time she hadn’t understood what she’d meant. She’d probably been too young. Now she could see how it could happen.

Gemma shifted in her chair. Had her reaction to the flower message been caused by Esme creating doubts in Gemma’s mind? Her mother was here because of an accident, which had been misconstrued as something more sinister. That was all. Wasn’t it? Or was that just wishful thinking, because she couldn’t deal with the idea of anything else? She felt a flash of irritation. Esme’s assumptions were clouding her own reasoning.

She sighed and glanced at her watch. Only eight o’clock. It felt like the middle of the night. She rubbed her eyes and slid herself down in the chair so she could rest her head on the back. In a couple of minutes she was feeling drowsy. No problem. She might as well take a nap if her body was telling her to. She let her mind drift.

She had no way of telling how long she had been dozing but it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds. She woke with a start, and with the distinct impression that someone was in the room. She sat up, blinking, expecting to see the nurse returning with information.

‘Did you establish anything?’ said Gemma groggily, but the room was empty. She shifted in her chair and looked towards the door. Had someone just left the room? She forced herself off her chair and staggered to the door. She snatched it open and peered frantically up and down the corridor.

The nurse she had spoken to earlier was walking towards her from further up the ward.

‘Did you see anyone, just then?’ asked Gemma.

‘No, why?’

Gemma looked back down the corridor. The swing doors at the entrance to the ward were twitching slightly. Had someone just gone through them? Gemma dashed down the passageway and burst through the doors. The lift was closing but she was too late to see whether anyone was inside. She banged her hand on the call button, but the lift carried on its journey. The lift next door gave an audible indication that it was on its way.

‘That’s no bloody use, is it?’ she shouted at it. She turned to see the nurse at her shoulder.

‘You OK?’

Gemma sighed. ‘I think there was someone in Mum’s room.’

‘Do you want me to call security?’

Gemma shook her head. ‘To say what? I was half asleep in the chair. I could be dreaming for all I know. That’s why I wanted to see if there was anyone. To see if it was my imagination.’ She began to walk back up the ward.

‘Sorry. I didn’t see anyone.’ The nurse fell in step along side her. ‘And I’m afraid I drew a blank with the flowers. No one saw them arrive. They were left at the nurses’ station while my colleague was called to a patient. He found them when he got back a few moments later.’

‘Phantom flower deliverer and now phantom visitor.’ Gemma wrinkled her nose. ‘Ah, well, thanks anyway. It’s probably nothing.’ She watched as the nurse went back to her duties. Was she making something of nothing? For goodness’ sake, she was getting as bad as Esme, seeing mysteries where there was none. She mustn’t let it get to her.

She marched into her mother’s room and glared at the flowers. Then she hoisted them out of the vase and shoved them, blooms downward, into the dustbin.