Blood-Tied Page 2

  Esme tried to assess the facts rationally. It seemed possible that the argument was merely the figment of someone’s vivid imagination. Elizabeth could simply have been reprimanding someone for dropping litter. That was more Elizabeth’s style. The witness could have misinterpreted what she saw and embellished it. That seemed a reasonable assumption.

  But that didn’t explain the locket.

  As they pulled into the drive of Elizabeth’s house and got out of the car, Elizabeth’s friend and neighbour, Brenda, called to them, waving from her doorstep. She had obviously seen their arrival from the kitchen sink because she was peeling off a pair of pink rubber gloves as she tottered across her driveway to speak to them over the hedge.

  ‘Gemma, dear, we were so shocked to hear about your mum,’ said Brenda, shaking her head, her grey, permed hair remaining rigid despite the breeze. Gemma updated her on Elizabeth’s condition.

  ‘We’ve come to sort out a few things,’ she explained. ‘Deal with Mum’s post and stuff.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Brenda, nodding gravely. ‘But I ought to tell you about the man who called round a few days ago.’

  ‘What man?’ said Esme abruptly.

  ‘Tony saw him while he was in the garden.’ Brenda eagerly turned her attention to Esme as Gemma appeared uninterested. ‘He was at the front door and Tony called across to him, you know, could he help, sort of thing?’

  ‘So what happened?’ Esme threw a glance at Gemma, wondering why she was being so offhand.

  ‘Well, it was a bit odd, really,’ continued Brenda, getting into her stride. ‘ ’Cause, like an idiot – he cursed himself afterwards – Tony said, “were you looking for Mrs Holland?” and the man immediately jumped on it, as if he hadn’t known it before. You know what I mean, he said, “ah yes, that’s it, Mrs Holland”. Well, of course Tony then felt really stupid. I mean he could have been anyone. Casing the place, sort of thing. I feel a right fool, he said to me. Tony that is, not the man. He left then. Wouldn’t give his name. Said he’d come another time.’

  Esme frowned. ‘When was this?’

  Brenda shook her head. ‘That’s just what I was saying this morning to Tony. I really can’t remember which day it was. We were trying to think.’

  ‘So before Elizabeth’s…’ Esme found it difficult to know what word to use. Attack? Mugging? Accident? ‘Before what happened to Elizabeth?’ she said, at last.

  ‘Oh yes, before then, definitely.’

  Esme immediately thought of the argument. Was there a connection?

  ‘Oh don’t worry, Brenda,’ Gemma said, dismissively. ‘It’s probably nothing.’

  But then Gemma knew nothing about that information. Esme realised that she must tell Gemma about the quarrel as soon as she got the chance.

  ‘I’m really sorry, dear,’ Brenda was saying. ‘We do come over of an evening and draw the curtains, put lights on and that, so it looks like there’s someone in, you know.’

  Gemma thanked her and Brenda went back indoors.

  ‘What do you make of that?’ asked Esme, as soon as Brenda was out of earshot.

  ‘Tony’s over-active imagination,’ said Gemma decisively. ‘He reads too many crime novels. He’d see a conspiracy in the milk delivery.’

  ‘Except there was one thing the police said,’ began Esme.

  ‘Yes, I know, that she was meeting someone,’ snapped Gemma. ‘Isn’t that what we’re here for?’

  Esme looked at Gemma’s dark expression. ‘You sound as though you don’t approve?’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘But it might help catch them.’

  ‘I don’t see how poking about in my Mum’s house is going to catch a mugger in a town forty miles away.’ She turned towards the car. ‘You go ahead. I’ll be there in a sec.’

  Esme watched her walk away. With Gemma so prickly, perhaps now wasn’t the time to mention the argument, but how would she take seriously what Brenda had told them if she remained in ignorance? Esme turned and went over to the house.

  She unlocked the front door and picked up the post from the mat. She stepped inside and stood for a moment in the hall. Elizabeth’s house was a large Victorian semi-detached property, brick built with a steep roof. Brenda and Tony’s was the mirror image. Esme had never liked the high ceilings but Elizabeth had told her it gave the property elegance. There was never a snug feeling in the house, as far as Esme was concerned. It was too reserved, with too much space for cosiness. Esme preferred the full, almost cluttered, feel of her low-beamed cottage, with packed bookshelves and the eclectic mix of well-worn furniture. Elizabeth’s tastes were unfussy and functional, and in Esme’s eyes, clinical. Elizabeth would argue they had style.

  Gemma joined her, a bottle of milk in her hand. She held it up.

  ‘Cup of tea?’

  ‘Good thinking.’ Esme smiled. Gemma seemed to have got over whatever irritation she’d expressed a moment ago, at least for now, though Esme guessed that mentioning the confrontation might provoke its return. But Esme felt they shouldn’t dismiss this latest information out of hand and Gemma could only appreciate its significance if she knew the full facts.

  She trailed Gemma into the kitchen. ‘Joking apart, you don’t think Tony’s mysterious caller might be connected?’

  Gemma huffed, as if to consider another unknown curiosity was the last thing she wanted right now. Esme hesitated. If they did discover that Elizabeth had been meeting someone it would create an opening to mention the episode with the unknown man. She decided to defer the matter for the moment.

  Gemma slammed down the teapot on the worktop with such a thump that the lid clattered and threatened to jump off.

  ‘You look tired,’ said Esme with concern. ‘Did you sleep at all?’

  Gemma sighed. ‘Fits and starts.’ She placed her hands flat down on the counter, on either side of the teapot, and leant towards Esme. ‘Is this weird for you, too? Doesn’t it seem odd to you to be standing here, making tea in Mum’s house, the two of us, without her being here?’ Her forehead was furrowed, her mouth turned down at the corners.

  ‘Of course it does,’ said Esme. ‘It’s bound to. The whole thing does. It will work itself out.’

  ‘You sound like me in my nursing role, talking to distressed relatives.’

  ‘Then take some of your own advice.’ Esme turned away. ‘Come on. Get on with that tea, then let’s see if we can solve the mystery of who your mother was meeting…’

  ‘If anyone.’

  ‘If anyone,’ echoed Esme. She scanned the kitchen. ‘Let’s start with the obvious.’ She walked over to the notice board on the wall and inspected it. A business card for a window cleaner, a shopping list pad with a single word ‘matches’ written on the top sheet and a flyer for a forthcoming event at the local library. They were all neatly and geometrically arranged next to the calendar. Esme took the calendar off its hook. She stared at it for a second and then flicked back through the pages.

  Gemma came and looked over her shoulder. ‘What is it? Have you found a name?’

  ‘Nothing so specific, only the initials, W.H.’ Esme prodded a finger on the page. ‘But on the very day.’ She turned back to the previous month. ‘And there, and again there.’ She looked up at Gemma. ‘So who’s W.H.?’

  ‘Address book.’ Gemma hurried into the living room. The telephone was on a small table by an armchair. Elizabeth’s address book was neatly stored in a small shelf underneath. Gemma pulled it out and began scanning through the entries.

  ‘I’ll finish making the tea,’ said Esme, turning back to the kitchen. She flipped the switch to re-boil the kettle.

  While it did its magic she speculated about the initials. So, who was W.H.? Friend? Lover? Why only put their initials? Surely you’d write the person’s first name? Was this the person she was quarrelling with? On the other hand it could be an aide-m
émoir of some sort. But for what?

  The kettle boiled and she warmed the pot, swilling the hot water around and tipping it down the sink. Water the Hostas, Hyacinths, Heathers? She dropped the teabag into the pot and poured on the water, racking her brain to think what other things came to mind. Women’s…something? Something Holiday?

  She sighed. It was pointless to try and guess what it might be. They needed more to go on. She picked up a tray from behind the bread bin and put the teapot down on it. Two mugs followed into which she slopped some milk and then she took the tray into the living room. The room was spotless and smelt of gardenias or something equally cloying.

  She looked around for somewhere to put the tray. Unlike in her own home, there were plenty of empty surfaces. There were no discarded newspapers and magazines on table tops, piles of reference books with markers sticking out of them or half-read paperbacks face down on the arms of the sofa. She walked over to the middle of the room and placed the tray on the vacant coffee table.

  Gemma sat in the armchair, her nose buried in Elizabeth’s address book.

  ‘Any luck?’ asked Esme.

  ‘Nothing under W or H, or anywhere else that I can see.’

  Esme nodded towards the bureau. ‘There might be a clue in there somewhere.’

  Gemma made to get up. ‘Hang on,’ said Esme. ‘Let’s have a think while we have our tea.’

  ‘What sort of a think? We haven’t learnt anything yet.’

  ‘That’s what I mean. We don’t even know if W.H. is a person. It might be a reminder to do something.’ Esme stirred the pot. ‘You know, like –’

  ‘William Hill!’ interrupted Gemma. ‘She was going to place a bet.’

  They both laughed out loud at the absurdity of the image of Elizabeth walking into a betting-shop. The emotional strain they had both been feeling for the past few days dissipated in a burst of uncontrollable giggling.

  It was Gemma who recovered first. She rubbed her hand across her face and sighed. ‘You don’t realise how much our faces must have been in a constant frown for the past few days. These muscles had almost forgotten how to work. Should we be laughing at a time like this?’

  ‘Don’t knock it. It’s good therapy.’ There was a few moments silence while they both reflected on Esme’s comment.

  Gemma took a deep breath. ‘So, where were we?’

  Esme considered. ‘W.H. is on the calendar regularly and she’s not been attacked before, so perhaps that means that W.H. is completely irrelevant.’

  ‘Or if she does have a friend with the initials W.H. he or she isn’t usually aggressive.’

  Esme gave Gemma a wry grin. ‘Thank you, Gemma, for that pearl of wisdom.’ She gave the teapot a last stir and replaced the lid. ‘If W.H. is a friend she was meeting we still need to find out who it was though.’

  ‘Do we?’

  Esme gave Gemma a wary glance. She poured the tea and passed Gemma a mug. When Gemma made no further comment Esme continued: ‘Telling the police that W.H was written on the calendar won’t be any use to them unless we do find out, will it?’ She reasoned.

  ‘No,’ said Gemma with emphasis. Esme looked at her. Now what?

  Suddenly Gemma slammed down her mug on the tray and stood up. The hot tea splashed over the rim and Esme instinctively recoiled.

  ‘This is stupid. We should be sitting with Mum, not poking around in her house. How’s this going to solve anything?’

  ‘Because we don’t know what she was doing in Shropton,’ said Esme gently. ‘Because if she was meeting someone, he or she might have seen something.’

  ‘So why haven’t they come forward?’ Gemma folded her arms defiantly.

  ‘Maybe they don’t know it’s happened.’

  ‘So what use will they be?’

  ‘Because the more witnesses there are who were around at the time the more chance there is of identifying the culprit.’

  ‘We know the culprit. The police have a witness, you said. They’ll have a description. They just need to find him. And we need to stop faffing about here.’ She wandered over to the window and stared out on to the front garden.

  Esme sipped her tea. Gemma had always had a temper. As a child, and particularly when she was a teenager, Gemma had often been inclined to fly off the handle. But Esme hadn’t witnessed such an outburst in recent years. It was an indication of the strain Gemma was under.

  Esme finished drinking and put the mug back on the tray. ‘OK, out with it. What’s bugging you?’

  Gemma spun round. ‘I don’t like this.’

  ‘I don’t like it any more than you,’ agreed Esme, ‘but if we can help the police find out –’

  ‘That’s just the point. Why do they need to know about Mum’s private life? She hasn’t done anything wrong. She’s the victim, not the criminal.’

  True as that was, it made no difference. Esme was well aware of that. Victim or not, the very crime itself brought unwanted attention into the lives of those involved. But Esme didn’t want to get into a row about side issues. And although she sympathised with Gemma’s need to protect her mother, she had her own curiosity to satisfy. Why had Elizabeth been in the park at that time? Why hadn’t she said she was in the area, as she usually did? And who were the people in the locket? The questions tormented her like grit in a shoe.

  *

  The old lady was aware that she was being discussed. She watched out of the corner of her eye from her armchair in the residents’ lounge until the two staff members glanced her way. She turned her head with deliberate intent and gave them a withering stare. It had the desired effect. They looked uncomfortable and departed.

  She sighed. She knew they meant well and that they were worried about her but she disliked the loss of privacy and independence since she had moved here. There had been no alternative and she knew it, but she resented the tendency to patronise, to equate frail body with frail mind and to believe that all the elderly residents were of the same character and had the same requirements.

  She chastised herself. She was being unfair. They weren’t really like that. She couldn’t have tolerated it if they were. But now and again a situation would occur which would irritate her to the bone and this was one.

  The man’s visit had alarmed her but by the time she had collected herself and put the façade in place it had been too late. Abigail had already noticed her distress. Of course she had immediately asked if everything was all right. At least she hadn’t gone gossiping behind her back. But despite protestations to the contrary, Abigail wasn’t convinced and now she was passing on her worries to others. The old lady knew she would be under scrutiny for a while now. She must try to behave normally.

  She sighed. What could she do about it, anyway? And there might be nothing to worry about. She could be over reacting. But the past seemed to have an uncanny way of catching up with her when she least expected it. It had happened before.

  Perhaps it was time to talk to Elizabeth. Yes, that was it. Elizabeth’s clear-headed, no nonsense approach was what was needed. Of course it would mean she would have to tell her everything. Could she do that? What would Elizabeth say? Would she be horrified? She shuddered slightly. She might have to take that risk, if she wanted Elizabeth’s help.

  Stop it, she told herself. It may never happen. Don’t need to cross that bridge yet. But perhaps the time had come to tell Elizabeth anyway. Perhaps it would be good for her soul to share it, after all these years. But she knew she was being dishonest with herself. She knew perfectly well that she would only tell if it became unavoidable, because the idea of confessing disturbed her to her very core.

  *

  Esme suggested they commit an hour to a search of Elizabeth’s bureau and if nothing came to light in that time, they would conclude that there was nothing to find. Gemma had readily agreed, having already made it clear that she didn’t expect to fin
d anything.

  ‘At least we can tell the police we looked,’ added Esme, which had earned a withering look from Gemma.

  Gemma chose to start on the top drawer and took it over to the dining table. Esme dragged a chair up to the bureau and sat herself down. The divisions were all neatly organised. The first appeared to be letters from friends. No W. H., though. The next held letters needing to be answered. Bills filled the next, headed notepaper the next one and unused envelopes on the far right. Under the pigeonholes the drawer was full of pens, pencils and highlighters. There was nothing out of the ordinary. What did she expect to find? Confession to a crime? Love letters?

  Gemma’s voice made her jump. ‘Esme, what do you make of this? It doesn’t make sense.’

  Esme went over to the table and sat down next to Gemma. Adjusting her reading glasses she peered down at what Gemma was studying.

  ‘It’s a birth certificate, isn’t it?’ said Gemma. ‘I thought it was you who’d done all the family history stuff. Whose is it?’

  Esme frowned. ‘It’s not one I recognise. Rosie, girl, no father’s name, mother’s name Daisy Roberts.’ She peered at the document. ‘Can’t quite make out the address, can you?’ She sat back and took off her glasses. ‘Roberts.’ She shook her head. ‘Haven’t come across that name before and I’ve done both sides of the family. Where did you find it?’

  ‘It was in an envelope. Nothing written on it. I almost didn’t look inside. Who could it be?’

  Esme put her glasses back on and returned her attention to the piece of paper. Suddenly something caught her eye and she felt her stomach lurch. She stared, trying to deny what the document was telling her. Her face grew hot and she felt her heart thudding inside her ribcage. Surely it wasn’t what she thought?