My mother was tugging on my arm. ‘Where is Robert?’
I did not know. ‘I’ll find him,’ I said.
She matched my steps back down the empty aisle of the chapel. I wished she would not accompany me but did not feel I could dismiss her. Now that the church was no longer crammed with guests it looked huge and grand, a whispering gallery of all the moments in time and history the place had witnessed. Yet the whispering was real. I could hear it, soft but persistent.
‘I will not fail you. I’ll never fail you. I swear it.’
I found them behind a pillar on the south side of the transept where the sunlight fell through the window glass to make distorted puddles of light on the stone. The light was also on her upturned face, for Robert was taller than she. Once again, I was struck by her pallor and delicacy, so much at odds with the fierce will that showed in her eyes. They were standing very close together and their hands were clasped. I saw a strand of her red gold hair brush against his cheek.
My mother gave a sharp gasp beside me. Robert straightened; turned. I could not understand the expression I saw on his face. It was too complex, too far from anything in my experience. There was love and protectiveness, but not the lust I had expected. Nor did he look guilty or ashamed. He let go of her hands so slowly and then he bowed to her with elaborate charm.
‘I am sorry that you do not feel well enough to attend the wedding feast, madam,’ he said. ‘I will see you are escorted to your rooms.’
Elizabeth nodded. ‘Thank you.’ Her golden-brown gaze dwelt on my face for a moment, mercilessly devoid of warmth. ‘I wish you joy on your marriage, Mistress Dudley,’ she said, then slipped past me and disappeared into the shadows of the church.
Mother opened her mouth to speak and I pinched her arm hard to quiet her.
‘There you are, my dear,’ I said lightly to Robert, as though we had been married for years, as though there was nothing amiss at all. ‘Your father bids us to the feast. Once you have seen the Lady Elizabeth safely to her quarters, of course.’ And I stood aside to let him follow her down the nave and did not look at him at all.
Chapter 7
Lizzie: Present Day
Lizzie woke suddenly. In her dream she had been falling, the crystal gazing ball shattering in her hands, spilling blood across the flagstones of the floor. She lay still, gasping for breath, as her mind caught up with reality; her sweat-drenched pyjamas, the pounding in her head. She opened her eyes and saw the familiar outlines of her bedroom in the half light of an early autumn dawn. The thundering of her heart settled a little. She was at home, she was alone and she knew she ought to feel reassured but the dregs of the dream still lingered and her mind was shadowed with something formless and dark.
The day before had been vile. The lawyers had arrived to brief her at eight for her interview at Blackfriars police station at eleven. She’d only been listening to them with half an ear because really, Amelia Lester’s death had nothing to do with her and she was only helping police with their inquiries to build up a fuller picture of Dudley and Amelia’s life, or so she had told herself. She had toyed with her fruit juice whilst a smooth corporate brief told her the facts of Amelia’s death: that she had been found by one of the cleaners at the bottom of the stairs on the afternoon of 8th September. She had been alone in the house at the time except for a couple of members of staff who had been busy and had apparently heard nothing. Her neck had been broken and there were a couple of bruises on her face but she had no other injuries. That was as far as the facts went; the rest was just lurid speculation.
Lizzie had hidden her shock at hearing the stark details. It sounded a horrible way to die, so sudden and so lonely. She knew that the lawyers, like Bill, thought she was a cold bitch because she didn’t cry for Amelia. They were as practised at hiding their emotions as she was but she could see the disgust in their eyes. She knew she had to be strong, though. With Dudley in pieces there was no one else. She didn’t want Kat’s gossipy sympathy; from the earliest age she was accustomed to dealing with crap all by herself. She just wanted to get on with it.
When Lizzie arrived at the police station it was clear someone had tipped off the press. They had to fight their way through the crowds just to get inside. The legal team stuck to her like limpets, often jumping in before she had the chance to answer any very simple questions which Lizzie thought made her look guilty and stupid. By the time she left two hours later she was in a foul mood and had a blinding headache. Outside, the crowd had doubled in size; Dudley had arrived, looking attractively haggard and rumpled. His tired face had lit up when he saw Lizzie but Bill wouldn’t let her speak to him and shoved her into the waiting limo like a prison officer hustling away a convict.
Bill and Kat took her off to some sort of ‘safe’ house after that, presumably a place Bill used for all the celebs he managed who blotted their careers with drink driving or drugs offences. Lizzie had never been there before and found it infinitely depressing. There was nothing to do except scroll through social media absorbing all the poison people were saying about her until she felt sick to the stomach. She didn’t want to look at it yet somehow, she couldn’t help herself. It was a compulsion. She tried to distract herself with music videos and films but she couldn’t concentrate for more than a minute or two, jumping up, pacing the flat, whilst Bill was endlessly on the phone or flicking through news coverage and Kat chattered on her phone to family and friends about all kinds of inconsequential things. By the evening Lizzie was at screaming pitch. Then Dudley did another press conference and they all crowded around the screen.
‘I’m innocent of any crime,’ Dudley said, so plaintive and puppyish with his sad face on. ‘The false accusations and fake news are truly hurtful at this difficult time. I can only hope that the police will swiftly exonerate me and I can be left to grieve in peace.’
‘I’m going home,’ Lizzie said, pushing aside the box of chicken tacos that Kat was offering her. ‘I’ve had enough.’ She wanted to see Dudley or at the very least, talk to him. She rang his number as soon as she got in the taxi but the call went to voicemail immediately. She felt annoyed that he was call-screening her along with everyone else.
‘Dudley,’ she said, when the tape beeped at her to leave a message, ‘I’m thinking of you. Call me when you can.’ But he hadn’t called back and when she rang again the line was dead.
Now she sat up in bed and reached automatically for the phone only to find that the battery was flat. Swearing under her breath she groped for the charger lead and plugged it in. In a minute she would try calling Dudley again.
The flat was quiet. That was unusual. In theory Lizzie lived alone but it never seemed to be like that. There was always someone hanging around; usually Kat or her family and friends, or Lizzie’s ex-bandmates, or Dudley with or without one of his brothers, or other friends, people whose connection to her was so tenuous that sometimes she had no idea who they were. Today however, there was a stillness about the place that would have frightened her if she had allowed herself to think about it.
Lizzie stretched and finding that she felt wide awake, got out of bed and wandered over to the huge windows that looked out across the river. She hadn’t thought to draw the curtains the previous night and the whole panorama of London was spread out in front of her in the sullen grey of a Monday morning, the dome of St Paul’s cathedral piercing the sky just to the north east. The river, greyest of all, shone like dull silk under the twinkle of a million lights from cranes, office buildings and vehicles. Although no sound penetrated the triple glazing up here, Lizzie knew she only needed to open the door and step onto the balcony to hear the roar of the city, to smell it and taste it. London was feral and she loved that about it. It helped her feel alive.
The TV remote was lying on the table by the window, next to her computer tablet. Lizzie felt her palms itch with the urge to pick up one or both. She wondered what people were saying about her this morning. None of it could be good, she was sure of that. Th
e compulsion to read the whole, horrible, sickening onslaught of comment felt almost too strong to resist. She didn’t know why she would want to torture herself with it knowing it would make her feel worse than she already did. For some reason she had become almost as much of a focus for public disapproval as Dudley had in the wake of Amelia’s death. People were so fickle. She’d gone from being the sweetheart of children’s TV to being a pariah.
When she gave in to temptation, opened her tablet and clicked on the news app, it was even worse than she had imagined. The story of Amelia’s death and the fact that she and Dudley had been questioned by police led many of the reports. Rumours and conspiracy theories appeared to be rife, suggestions that Amelia had been pushed down the stairs, reports that witnesses had seen someone lurking around the house that afternoon. It was all very sensational and Dudley seemed to be making matters a great deal worse for himself, protesting his innocence of any crime, giving interviews, sounding like an aggrieved child.
Lizzie put the tablet down and turned away from the window. She had rehearsals for Stars of the Dance that morning. The show was going ahead and Lizzie was determined to be there. She was a professional and it was work, whatever Bill’s advice. A car was coming for her at ten. She felt a pang of nerves at the thought of facing everyone. Not that it mattered; she had a horrible feeling that when the time came for the public vote, she would be sent home from the show. The cutesy little dance routines that had played up her fun and wholesome image suddenly seemed to jar horribly with the reality of Amelia’s death.
The shower was hot, refreshing, and yet Lizzie’s mind still felt fuzzy and disconnected in some way. The nightmare lingered, reminding her of Amelia and Dudley’s wedding and the sense of terror as the crystal smashed and she’d felt as though she was falling. Was that how Amelia had felt in those brief few seconds before she broke her neck? Cold sweat broke out over Lizzie’s body and she grabbed a towel and wrapped it tightly around her.
She gathered her stuff together automatically and shoved it into her bag. She needed something to help her focus this morning. She needed to ground herself. She glanced at the drawer in her bedside table but then she hesitated. When she had touched the perfume bottle two nights ago nothing had happened; she had been unable to connect to her mother’s memory or derive any comfort or reassurance from the link to the past. Suppose that happened again? She used her gift of psychometry so rarely. It was secret and precious. If she reached out and failed, she knew she would feel even more empty and alone than she did now.
She slid the drawer open. It was full of a mixture of lip salve, ear plugs, pens, crumpled tissues, a writing pad, headache pills… Her fingers touched a plastic wrapper and she pulled it out from beneath the pile of litter, a programme for an iconic rock concert in the 1980s. Really she should treat it better, but she needed it near her when she slept and somehow it felt appropriate for one of the few mementoes her mother had left her to be tangled up with lipstick and tissues and powder.
She took the programme out of the plastic bag, her fingers sliding over the smooth cover. For a moment nothing happened and the gap of time left a moment for her to worry that the gift – if that was what it was – really had left her. But then the sensations came to her. It was not simply a vision; it felt as though she was actually there. She could feel the sun on her, fiercely hot, and the spray of water that hit her bare arms like a cold shock. She heard the roar of the crowd and sensed the electric atmosphere about her. The world was alight. She felt excited, pulsing with adrenaline and intense pleasure.
She was Annie Bowling, twenty years old. There was so much she wanted to do, so much of life to explore. A boy was sitting beside her; she was holding his hand but they could not keep still; the music was around them and in them. It was a part of them and they were a part of the whole, and they leaped up and danced and kissed, and Lizzie could feel the tumble of emotion inside; the love, the happiness, the sweet sense of fun, a life that was simple and easy…
Lizzie opened her eyes. Her cheeks were wet with tears. The feeling of happiness was fading away now leaving only an echo of emotion. She touched the programme one more time: LIVE AID, 13 JULY 1985. At the bottom, beneath a picture that was still crayon bright, were the words ‘This programme saves lives.’ It had certainly saved hers on more than one occasion. Connecting to the mother she had never really known, knowing that there was a time when her mother had been happy, when her life had been uncomplicated and exciting, gave Lizzie strength.
Carefully she put the programme away in its bag and slipped it back into its place beneath the make-up and the pills. She felt bereft but steadier too. When she came out of the bedroom, Kat was in the living room, perched on the leather sofa, waiting to go to the dance studio with her. Kat had her own key to Lizzie’s flat and came and went as she pleased. In the past Lizzie hadn’t minded. Kat had been a part of her life for ever and it seemed natural. Today, though for the first time it irritated her that Kat would just walk in unannounced, essentially doing her job as she had done it for the past ten years or more.
I’m an ungrateful bitch, Lizzie thought, and gave Kat an extra-warm hug to make up for her thoughts.
‘Are you ready to go, babes?’ Kat was looking very smart, from which Lizzie judged that the press must be outside. She made no reference to Lizzie flouncing out on her and Bill the previous day, taking it in her stride the way she had dealt with so many other dramas in Lizzie’s life.
‘Sure.’ Lizzie picked up her gym bag. She still felt jittery and vulnerable, not wanting to face the waiting cameras. She straightened her shoulders. If Jules was here her cousin would tell her to get some steel in her backbone.
They went out into the foyer and Kat called the lift. It was so quiet in here, protected, soundless, a padded box. It was almost a shock when the lift doors opened and one of Lizzie’s neighbours, a hedge fund manager called Natasha, stepped out and smiled at her.
‘Hi, Lizzie,’ she said. ‘I guessed the paps were all here for you.’
‘Sorry,’ Lizzie said, cringing a little. ‘I seem to be bringing the place into disrepute.’
Kat looked up from her phone in surprise as though anyone would find press interest a problem and Lizzie and Natasha exchanged another smile as they passed.
There was silence again as the lift descended. Kat seemed engrossed in WhatsApp. Lizzie tapped her foot. The lift doors opened. Lizzie stepped forward.
‘Whoa!’ Kat caught her arm at the same moment that the noise and chaos hit like a tidal wave. Normally the security guards kept the press firmly outside the building but today the elegant marble-floored foyer was full of people. At least three uniformed security officers were struggling to restrain a slight, blond youth in jeans and a grey hoodie who was fighting them off as though his life depended on it. Jason, the normally imperturbable duty manager, was shouting urgently down the phone whilst people flooded in from the street, taking pictures and videos.
‘I want to see Lizzie Kingdom!’ the boy was shouting. ‘I know she’s here. Let me see her!’
‘Sir—’ one of the security guards was saying. ‘I’m asking you to stop fighting and lower your voice—’
‘Shit,’ Kat said. She had frozen on the spot, her hand still resting on Lizzie’s arm. ‘That’s Johnny Robsart, Amelia’s little brother.’ She hit the doors open button and tried to drag Lizzie back into the lift but it was too late; it had shot off back up to the top floor. ‘Shit,’ Kat said again, ‘this is a mess.’
Johnny struggled out from beneath the weight of security and stared straight at Lizzie. She could see in the teenager the child she had met just the once, at Amelia and Dudley’s wedding. The planes and angles of his face had sharpened and he was painfully thin. The wide hazel eyes she had thought she remembered had darkened to blue and reminded Lizzie of Amelia, although Amelia had always referred to her eye colour as lilac. Johnny’s skin was so white it was almost translucent and there were purple smudges beneath his eyes. For one long
moment they looked at each other and Lizzie felt the shock of his grief and anger like a physical blow. Then as he started forward towards her, one of the guards caught him in an arm lock and wrenched him backwards.
‘For God’s sake,’ Lizzie said, ‘let go of him—’
‘Lizzie!’ Johnny shouted. ‘Help me!’ He started to cry. ‘I only want to talk. I need your help…’ His voice broke on the words.
Lizzie flinched. She saw Johnny try to turn his head away to hide his tears but the way that the security guard was holding him made it impossible. His raw vulnerability was on show for all to see. He twisted from one side to the other, desperately trying to free himself. It was painful to witness so much distress and for one terrible moment it struck a chord deep inside Lizzie, drawing her back, reminding her of the dark suffocating press of her own grief when her mother had died, a grief she had pushed away for so many years until finally it had refused to be ignored. She swallowed hard and tore her gaze away from Johnny, stepping back, bumping into Kat in her eagerness to get away from the scene and the memories it brought with it.
‘Let him go,’ she said. Her words came out hoarsely and she cleared her throat. ‘If he needs to talk to me then let him.’
‘I wouldn’t advise it, Ms Kingdom.’ Jason had come to stand beside her. ‘Mr Robsart is disruptive and could be dangerous. The police are on their way.’
‘Lizzie!’ Johnny yelled over his shoulder at her as they dragged him away from her. ‘Please! Let me talk to you.’
‘He needs help…’ Kat said, putting an arm about Lizzie. ‘Come away, hon. Let the professionals deal with it. You need to get to the studio. We’ll be late—’
The Forgotten Sister Page 6