Like an airborne pied piper it led its three followers towards the source of the scream. They zig-zagged past the vegetables and the greenhouse, round past the nettle patches to the patio behind Keeper’s Cottage, in pursuit of the beautiful creature they had longed to see for so long. There was another scream, and the name “Vanessa!”
Despite the terrible scene that awaited them, for two of them at least, the memory, the hideous memory, would always be glorified by the sight of the morning sun shining on those aubergine black wings, edged with gold.
Sometimes it is hard for the mind to make sense of what the eyes take in immediately. The screamer was Sandy, bent over Vanessa. Vanessa, in her black dressing gown, was lying face down on the patio. Her arms were stretched out and her skin seemed to have taken on a strange purplish hue. Thankfully they could not see her once beautiful face. The York stone all around her was stained dark red, and glittered with jagged broken glass. As the breeze lifted the folds of the flimsy dressing gown and made them flutter like wings above her body, it was obvious at once to all of them that Vanessa was dead.
Still magnificent in its flight, the Mourning Cloak circled once round the tragic scene then soared up over the hedge. By now no one had any inclination to follow.
Chapter Forty Six
The Butterfly Mother
“We don’t need to do this now, Hyslop,” said Sandy. “Not if you’d rather wait. There’s no hurry.”
Hyslop said nothing but gazed around Keeper’s Cottage.
“No one will be needing this cottage for a very long time,” said Sandy, watching Hyslop and following her gaze. “What do you think?”
Hyslop walked over to the little sofa and sat down.
“It seems so empty,” she said at last.
“Yes.” Sandy came and perched on the arm of the sofa. Her large blue eyes were full of sorrow and sympathy. “Yes, it does. Penny and I cleared most of your mother’s things. Everything’s in boxes and some time, much later, when you’re ready, you can look through it all.”
Hyslop was silent.
“As I said, there is no rush for any of it, you know. We can come back another time?” Sandy let the question hang in the air.
“I want to get my stuff, Sandy,” said Hyslop. “I’ll get everything from my bedroom now.”
Hyslop walked over to the foot of the tiny staircase, then turned back to Sandy.
“The patio,” she said. “Has it… ”
“The patio’s been cleared, of course, Hyslop. All the broken glass has been taken away. Everything. Long gone.”
It had not been the broken glass that Hyslop was thinking of. She recalled the terrible sight of her mother’s body lying there. She recalled the blood, darkly soaking the paving stones.
“I don’t want to go out there.”
“Well, of course you don’t. There’s no need for us to go out that way.”
“What… what’s going to happen to Northy?”
Sandy looked down at the floor for a while.
“I don’t know, Hyslop,” she said softly. “I really don’t know. It’s been suggested that he stays in a… well… a sort of special nursing home.”
“They’re blaming him, aren’t they?” Hyslop’s eyes blazed fire at Sandy, who could not meet her gaze. “They’re blaming him for my mother’s death. The police, I mean. Why do they keep questioning him?”
“Well, after a sudden… or… a suspicious death,” said Sandy, “they always want to ask questions. I don’t think anyone is accusing Uncle Northy of anything, but they just don’t know why his cyanide killing jar was broken into pieces all over the patio.”
“It’s not Northy’s fault!”
“No, sweetie, of course not. No one’s saying it is. But, it’s just something the police have to clear up. There was an extraordinary amount of cyanide encrusted on all those shards of glass, quite lethal amounts, and when Vanessa went out with bare feet and… ”
“Northy only wanted to kill The Camberwell Beauty,” said Hyslop. “He needed it for his collection.”
“Well, I’m sure he’ll have explained all that to the police.”
“It’s Hugo, isn’t it?”
“What do you mean, Hyslop?”
“It’s Hugo who’s accusing him, who wants him to be put away in a nursing home! It’s what he’s always wanted.”
“Hugo isn’t saying much to anyone at all at the moment.”
“Oh,” said Hyslop. She put her foot on the bottom stair.
“I’ll go up and get my things now,” she said.
“You sure you don’t want me to come up with you?”
“No. No, I’d rather just do it on my own. There’s not much, so I shouldn’t be long.”
“Well, I’m here if you need me.”
It was comforting for Hyslop to know that Sandy was downstairs, sitting on the sofa waiting for her, but she wanted to go into her room alone.
In truth, the little room held no memories of her mother, as she could not recall Vanessa visiting it much.
So much had changed since she had last been here, yet everything was just as she had left it. The top drawer was still half open in her little chest of drawers and Hyslop pulled it open and began laying out her clothes on the bed. She pulled out her suitcase from under the bed and opened it. There were her three childhood books, the old familiar books that she and Vanessa always took with them everywhere. Since her arrival in England and her new butterfly book, she had hardly looked at the old books.
This was indeed a memory of her mother. Hyslop picked up The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe and opened it to look at the familiar prize label at the front. She gasped as she did so.
An envelope fell out of the book. It was in her mother’s handwriting.
Hyslop laid the book down and picked up the envelope. Her hands were trembling so violently she could hardly hold it still. There was a single word on the outside of the envelope and that word was her name.
She stared at her own name, in her mother’s hand, for quite a while, then she opened the letter.
“Dear Hyslop,” she read. The letter was dated a few weeks earlier, the day before her mother had died. Hyslop’s hand trembled all the more. She had never received a letter from Vanessa before. What could it mean?
“By the time you read this I shall be far away, somewhere in South America, with friends that you have never met. I am sure I don’t need to urge you not to come looking for me. You shall never find me.”
Hyslop went back to the beginning of the letter and re-read this part. It made no sense. Why did her mother think she would be in South America?
“To be frank, you probably won’t want to find me. I have taken the money from your trust fund, Hyslop, but then it was never really yours anyway. I earned that money by marrying your father, and it was always meant to be mine. Believe me when I say that my marriage was harder work than you will ever know. Hugo helped me with the legal side of things and imagined that we had a future together, but I have left him to make things up with his little wife.
I have provided well for you, daughter. I chose Sandy and her community carefully. They are all crying out for someone to nurture, someone to look after, and they all adore you. I don’t need to tell you this – I’ve seen how you can wind them round your little finger. It’s as it should be – just as my powers seem to be waning, yours are waxing. I can leave you there in the certain knowledge that you will be happier with Sandy and the others that you ever were, or ever could be, with me.”
Hyslop paused here. A single tear petered down her cheek, but she wiped it away and continued reading.
“If you are clever – and you are, after all, my daughter – you should find yourself set up for life. That is more than I was at your age. I had to keep moving, had to keep one step ahead of the game, and it has been tiring all these years. At last I have my independence, the financial independence I should have had years ago, and I have left you in a place where you can achieve anything you wa
nt to. Just learn to smile more and charm people.
It’s amazing what you can achieve if you smile.
Goodbye, daughter. I won’t insult your intelligence by pretending to send love. It’s not an emotion I have ever felt, but I have never admitted that to anyone else before.
That’s quite a big deal I think, Hyslop.
Your mother,
Vanessa.”
*
Hyslop had no idea how long she stood there in the little bedroom, staring at her mother’s letter. Her hands were no longer trembling. She was acutely aware of her surroundings: the clothes laid out on the bed in neat piles, the books, the suitcase, the coil pots she had made with Sandy on top of the little mantelpiece, the dark green tiles, the dead woodlouse still curled up in the fireplace, and finally, the sound of Sandy’s footsteps on the stairs.
“Is everything OK, Hyslop? I can help if you want me to. What’s that you’ve found? A letter?”
“Oh, it’s nothing at all. Just a bookmark that I have had for years.” Hyslop put the letter back into the Narnia book.
“I’m nearly finished here, Sandy,” she said.
And smiled.
Acknowledgements
My heartfelt thanks must first of all go to Lesley Paton, whose support, friendship and nurturing made this book possible from the start. She provided the perfect blend of encouragement and constructive criticism all the way through the writing process and without her it would not have been written. I am also deeply indebted to David Dennis, current Chair of Butterfly Conservation, who introduced me to the world of butterflies in the first place. He not only advised on Lepidopteran details for this book, but was inspirational in his enthusiasm for butterflies and for the characters in my book at all times. He and Lesley were incredibly generous with their time and made me believe the book was worth publishing. They even sat up late proof-reading my manuscript!
Next, I should like to thank my friend (and fellow author), Lynette Kerridge, who provided valuable literary critique, specially at times when I was struggling with the writing process.
A major source of inspiration for me was (and remains) that masterpiece “The Butterflies of Britain and Ireland” by Jeremy Thomas and Richard Lewington. Every household in the UK should own one of these amazing books. Read all about the life histories of our native butterflies and marvel at the fantastic illustrations. You will appreciate summer walks as never before, and a butterfly will never be “just a butterfly”again.
I must also thank the following people who took time to read extracts and offer constructive advice: Ben Batten, Ian Bowie, Aileen Jones, Jacqui Kean, Janet King, Dinah Latham, Eleanor McDonald-Pratt, Moira McKenzie, Elisa Sibille, Candida, Freya and Zanna Spencer and Katherine Vincent.
Last, and certainly not least, I must thank Marc, David and Roy for their love and support throughout the writing of the book.
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The Summer of the Mourning Cloak Page 25