Blood-Tied Page 4

  ‘It probably goes back to when we were kids. With both our names beginning with “E” if a letter was addressed Miss E Meredith, we didn’t know if it was for me or her. We’d squabble until your gran intervened.’ Esme laughed. ‘We’d stand there holding our breath while she opened the letter to establish whose it was. We had to ask people to address letters by our full name so there was no confusion. Your mum preferred the formality of Miss E Meredith so she made a right fuss about it. She complained that Gran should have thought about it when she chose our names.’

  Gemma shook her head. ‘She’s never told me that, even though I used to ask her why it mattered so much.’

  There was a moment’s pause while Esme guessed they were both reflecting on the things that Elizabeth never told people.

  ‘So what’s odd about this letter, then?’

  ‘It’s addressed to her full name. No “Mrs”.’

  Esme shrugged. ‘The writer obviously didn’t know her like you and I do.’

  ‘But if she only ever gives her name in the way she prefers, why would it be altered?’

  Esme was encouraged that Gemma was raising the question. Was this an indication that she might change her mind about learning more about Elizabeth’s attack?

  ‘What about official forms?’ said Esme. ‘You have to give your full name then.’

  Gemma scoffed. ‘You haven’t heard Mum on the phone, giving them an earful because they haven’t addressed her correctly.’

  ‘Why are we having this discussion?’ said Esme, sitting back in her chair. She put her glass on the table and fiddled with the stem. ‘Why don’t you open it and find out who the culprit is?’

  ‘Open it?’ Gemma looked aghast.

  ‘Well, wasn’t that the idea of going over there and collecting the post?’

  ‘Only the bills, the things that needed sorting out. The gas, electricity, that sort of thing. Not private correspondence.’

  ‘How do you know it’s not a bill?’

  Gemma looked at it. ‘Because it doesn’t look like one.’

  ‘But even if it’s not a bill, you can’t ignore private correspondence. I’m sure the person writing would want to know what’s happened so you’ll need to open it to contact them.’

  Gemma continued to stare at it but said nothing.

  ‘If you don’t open it I will,’ challenged Esme. She felt in a strange mood, somewhere between irritation and recklessness. Her feelings over the past couple of days had ranged from loss to hurt to confusion. And back again. In some ways Elizabeth had become a complete stranger. Who was this woman who had called herself Esme’s sister but who wasn’t? Perhaps opening her mail would help answer the mound of questions Esme was building. If so, she wasn’t going to turn the opportunity down.

  The two women stared at the envelope, the ticking of the kitchen clock the dominant sound in the room coupled with the gentle almost undetectable bubbling of the Bolognese sauce in the background.

  At last Esme couldn’t stand the suspense.

  ‘Give it here, for goodness sake,’ she said, reaching over and taking it out of Gemma’s hand. She dropped it on the table while she hunted around for her reading glasses. Gemma seemed to be in a daze. If she objected to Esme’s intentions she didn’t try to stop her. So there was a modicum of curiosity in there, after all.

  Esme turned the letter over and looked at it, front and back. The envelope was slim, white and businesslike with an address window. The postmark was local. Sadly, since the Royal Mail had dispensed with franking marks carrying the identity of individual posting locations, all local mail was now stamped Shropton, so there was no way of telling whether it had been sent from town or country.

  ‘For God’s sake, get on with it, if you’re going to.’

  Esme looked up at Gemma’s outburst and saw her gulp a mouthful of wine. Esme slipped her finger under the corner of the envelope flap and ripped it open. She took out the single sheet of paper and read it.

  ‘Dear Elizabeth,’ it began. The letter went on to thank her for her help at a recent fund raising event and was signed by someone who called herself the secretary of the Friends Association.

  ‘So who’s it from?’ asked Gemma, interrupting Esme’s reading.

  Esme took off her reading glasses and looked at Gemma. She realised she was shaking slightly. ‘I think we’ve found out what W.H. stands for,’ she said handing the letter to Gemma. ‘It’s from a residential home called Wisteria House.’

  ‘A residential home?’ Gemma took the letter as if it held a contagious disease.

  ‘But there’s something more. Towards the end. About who your mother was visiting.’

  She watched as Gemma frantically scanned the letter, her eyes halting at the relevant line.

  Gemma looked up. ‘Roberts, you mean? She visits a Mrs Roberts.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Esme. ‘That’s the name on the birth certificate. My guess is she’s in regular contact with her birth family.’

  5

  Esme applied certain conditions to her work as a researcher. She wouldn’t touch any job unless its roots were fixed firmly in the past. Finding out about people already dead and what had gone before was by far a safer option than investigating current issues. It was far too easy in the contemporary world to stumble into dangerous territory. She’d seen the catastrophic results of that mistake and wanted no part of it.

  One current project was the history of the Shropton Canal. Although there were contemporary aspects to the brief, it fitted her criterion of being associated with the safe, distant past of the Industrial Revolution of the eighteenth century.

  She was already familiar with a rough history of British canal construction, having spent many childhood weekends walking the towpaths with her father, who had his own fascination with the subject. But she had known little of the Shropton Canal, which was of interest to her client.

  Esme studied her notes, wondering how much information he required. She preferred it if clients explained their reasons for needing the information as it helped her compile a more relevant report, but he had not been forthcoming on that particular question. She scanned through the summary of what she had put together. The canal had been built in the middle of ‘canal mania’ when wonder of the new transport system was at its height, and was officially opened in 1797. By 1846 the arrival of the railways had begun its negative effect on the whole canal system. Shropton Canal was eventually left to deteriorate along with many smaller canals in the network. Her client was particularly keen to know about the enthusiasts’ society, which had been formed in recent years with the idea of restoring the canal. With the increasing popularity of canal-boat holidays, these societies were becoming more common. She discovered that The Shropton Canal Trust had recently won funds to conduct a feasibility study to determine the cost of carrying out a restoration project. There was every possibility that the old canal might flow once more.

  Esme took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. She had been working since early morning and her brain was feeling distinctly addled. She decided to shelve the arduous task of documenting the current route of the canal, where it was still identifiable, opting instead to take advantage of the break between showers to benefit from some fresh air in the garden.

  She was on her knees weeding at the front of the cottage when Gemma arrived unannounced. Esme sat back on her heels, hand fork in midair, alarmed by Gemma’s early departure from the hospital, and fearing the worst. Had the hospital tried to telephone but she’d not heard it ring? She froze, tableau-like, on her kneeling mat, staring towards her niece, bracing herself for bad news.

  ‘Don’t panic,’ said Gemma, as she climbed out of the car. ‘Change of plan, that’s all.’

  Esme realised she had been holding her breath. She exhaled and got to her feet.

  ‘For a moment I thought…’ She shook her head. �
�Never mind.’ She dropped the fork on to the grass and peeled off her gardening gloves. ‘So what’s happened?’

  Gemma held aloft a small black leather bag, swinging it as if enticing Esme to snatch it from her. ‘Mum’s handbag.’

  ‘Where did they find it?’ Esme gestured for them to go inside and Gemma followed Esme through the side gate to the back yard and into the kitchen.

  ‘Someone had handed it in.’ She shrugged. ‘For some reason they’ve only just made the connection that it might be Mum’s. Something about the person going on holiday and not realising the bag’s significance. Anyway, here it is.’

  Esme ran the hot water tap and swilled her hands. ‘So was anything missing?’

  ‘That’s why I’m not at the hospital. I had to go and see if I could identify whether anything had been taken. Bit pointless. How am I supposed to know what Mum was carrying round in her bag?’

  Esme agreed. She’d hardly remember what was in her own bag, let alone someone else’s.

  ‘I said to the sergeant,’ continued Gemma, ‘“Would you know what was in your mother’s handbag?” He admitted it would be a long shot.’

  ‘But what about her purse, cards and so on?’

  ‘Oh that’s all there. Cash, credit cards, keys, the lot.’

  ‘So not a mugging then?’ Esme wasn’t sure whether that was good or bad.

  ‘They still say they’re keeping an open mind, but the sergeant said they have to consider whether she could have slipped and fallen.’

  Esme was aghast. ‘Surely if she fell she wouldn’t have been so badly injured?’

  ‘Or that it was an accident. Someone running from the park could have dashed past her and knocked her over and she hit her head on the edge of the step. Apparently there was a report of someone seen running away but then there was a load of kids leaving around the same time so they can’t be sure if it was significant.’

  Esme frowned. ‘So which is it? Attack or accident?’

  Gemma leant her elbow on the kitchen worktop. ‘With her handbag turning up intact, they think robbery unlikely.’

  ‘And the row?’

  ‘They didn’t mention it. If the police do think it was an accident and nothing was taken…’ Gemma sighed. ‘That’s it then, isn’t it?’

  ‘But what about the person she was arguing with?’

  Gemma stood up straight. ‘No idea. Like you said right at the beginning, he probably dropped a fag-end and Mum told him off.’ She turned away and wandered into the living room.

  Esme dried her hands and followed Gemma into the other room. Gemma was sitting on the sofa rummaging around in the bag.

  ‘There was one odd thing I did find, though,’ said Gemma as Esme walked in. ‘A set of keys I didn’t recognise. I didn’t tell the police, though. No need to get complicated. They might start off on some wild-goose chase again, imagining all sorts of things. In any case, I don’t know whether they’re meant to be there, do I?’ She held them out on her hand for Esme to see. ‘They’re obviously not for her house,’ she added, ‘because she’s got a latch. They’re the old fashioned sort.’

  ‘Mortice,’ said Esme. ‘Like here.’

  ‘But they’re not yours?’

  ‘No.’ Esme shook her head. ‘Wrong pattern. I think she’s got a spare set somewhere for emergencies, but I doubt she’d carry it around with her.’

  Gemma dropped the keys back in the bag. ‘Oh well, no doubt all will become clear. Maybe she was looking after someone’s place while they’re on holiday. Perhaps they’re something to do with that residential home she was visiting.’

  Esme was surprised that Gemma had brought up the subject of Wisteria House. She hoped it was a good omen. She perched on the arm of the sofa and took advantage of the timely opportunity. ‘I wanted to talk to you about that.’ Gemma looked up but gave nothing away in her expression. ‘I’ve arranged to go and visit Mrs Roberts.’

  Immediately Gemma’s eyes flared. ‘You can’t.’

  ‘Of course I can. Mrs Roberts will be wondering why your Mum hasn’t been.’

  ‘That’s not why you’re going. You just want to dig the dirt.’ Gemma dumped the handbag on the floor with obvious irritation and folded her arms.

  Esme hadn’t expected her plan to be greeted with enthusiasm but she was taken aback by Gemma’s hostility. ‘Don’t be so melodramatic, Gemma. I wouldn’t be telling the truth if I said I wasn’t curious, but digging the dirt’s a bit below the belt.’

  ‘Mum will tell you about it when she’s well enough.’

  Esme knew she couldn’t possibly wait that long. How could she explain her feelings to Gemma? She didn’t seem to have the same yearning to find out as Esme did. She swallowed and tried to keep calm. ‘I’m sorry you feel like that, but I can’t wait until then.’

  ‘Or won’t.’

  Esme stood up and wandered over to the desk. Tim looked out at her from his photograph. Get to it, Ferret, he seemed to say. That’s what he used to call her. He told her she was the best researcher he’d ever known. Esme smiled at the memory, then experienced a moment of disquiet on the consequences of her relentless digging. She pushed the thought away. Now it was she who was being melodramatic. This wasn’t the same thing at all.

  ‘It makes no difference either way,’ she said as calmly as she could.

  But Gemma wasn’t calm. ‘You’re prying. Poking your nose into something that doesn’t concern you.’

  ‘Doesn’t concern me?’ Esme spun round. There was going to be no meeting of minds on this issue. She tried to appeal to Gemma’s sense of justice. ‘But she’s never told me the truth.’

  ‘She’s never told me either,’ protested Gemma.

  ‘But she’s still your mother.’

  Gemma looked away. They sat in silence for a moment while Esme allowed the implications of what she’d said to sink in.

  ‘I just don’t see why you won’t wait for Mum to tell you,’ grumbled Gemma.

  ‘You know what the doctors say. That could be weeks away.’ Or months, or years. Or never. But Esme left those words unsaid. Gemma knew what she was saying, surely. She was a nurse. She should have no misconceptions about Elizabeth’s prognosis.

  Esme looked pointedly at her niece. ‘I can’t wait around wondering, Gemma. Not if I can find out. Can’t you see that? I’m hoping Mrs Roberts can fill in some of the gaps.’ Gemma stared at the floor, saying nothing. ‘Aren’t you a little curious yourself?’ suggested Esme.

  ‘If Mum wanted to tell me, she would have. It’s like spying to go behind her back.’

  ‘It’s not. It’s different. This is a crisis we’ve been thrown into. If you want to survive a crisis you sometimes have to go down routes you wouldn’t normally take.’

  Gemma got up and walked over to the window. She stood with her back to Esme.

  ‘What if her past is linked to her attack?’ said Esme. ‘Don’t you think it might help to find out something?’

  ‘It won’t,’ said Gemma bluntly. ‘You’re just trying to justify your actions. Anyway, I just told you, the police think it might have been an accident, so there is no mystery.’

  Esme realised there was no way she was going to convince Gemma. She didn’t want to be convinced. She’d already made up her mind. It was a defence mechanism against the uncertainty she feared would compound her present insecurities. Esme sympathised but that was Gemma’s way of dealing with it. Confronting it was Esme’s.

  Esme turned back to her cluttered desk and absent mindedly began to arrange things in neat piles. ‘I’m going tomorrow afternoon, about three, after I’ve been to see your mum.’

  ‘Why should I care when you’re going?’

  ‘In case you change your mind. If Mrs Roberts is who we think she is, then she’s your grandmother.’ Esme looked round. ‘Wouldn’t you like to meet her?’

 
Gemma swung round and snatched up her coat from the back of the sofa. She stood in front of Esme, her chin up, her expression defiant. ‘I already know my grandmother. She died when I was fourteen.’ And she swept out of the room. Moments later Esme heard her car drive away down the lane.

  Esme looked across the room and noticed that Gemma had left Elizabeth’s reclaimed handbag behind. She picked it up and opened it. She took out the unfamiliar keys from inside and held them in her hand. Did these also have a part to play in unravelling the mystery of Elizabeth’s past? Perhaps tomorrow she would find out.

  6

  Wisteria House was an elegant building in the centre of the sleepy village of Bromfield. Esme guessed it had once been the rectory. No doubt it had become too large and too expensive to run as accommodation for the clergy these days. The current vicar’s residence was a badly weathered boxlike house next door, suggesting that the plot had once been part of the rectory garden. The old Georgian-style house possessed an air of authority which the new rectory would never achieve. Its solid stone walls had tall windows with low sills which looked out benignly across the land it surveyed.

  The risk of destroying the beauty and integrity of such a structure on its conversion into a home for the elderly must have been high, but the architect had managed to retain the dignity of the house’s origins, despite the numerous regulations and requirements there would be for such an establishment. The original style of multi-paned sliding sash windows had been retained and not substituted with plastic alternatives, which Esme always felt made a property appear as though its eyes had been poked out.

  The house was approached along a short drive opening out into a wide gravelled area in front of the building. Esme parked her Peugeot next to a large Volvo estate. She manoeuvred herself out of her car and adjusted her skirt. She had deliberated for hours about what to wear, cursing herself for being so sensitive on the subject. It was ridiculous, like attending a first job interview. Was she seeking approval from Elizabeth’s family, wishing to emulate the smart and sophisticated dress of Elizabeth? She hadn’t had to deal with such a question since they were teenagers, vying with an older sister who seemed to have complete confidence in her appearance. Had that been part of Elizabeth’s armoury, a form of power dressing to hide the underlying uncertainties? Or was the question irrelevant because at that time Elizabeth hadn’t known about her true identity? Esme dismissed her ponderings with impatience and tried to choose her dress according to the criteria she would use when meeting a new client.