‘Tell me, Elliot,’ she whispered. ‘For Christ’s sake, tell me this is a dream.’ She twisted back to look at the inspector. ‘How? How is this even possible?’
‘He hit a tree at the side of the road. We can only assume he was driving too fast.’
‘Elliot was an expert driver.’
The officer shifted from one foot to the other.
‘I … I need to sit down,’ Louisa said.
The man pulled up a chair and placed it beside the body. She sat down and bent forward, resting her head on the edge of the trolley. Margo was standing beside her and Louisa could feel her sister-in-law stiffen.
‘I’ll have to leave you,’ Margo said with a catch in her voice. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t … I think I need some air.’
Louisa nodded then heard Margo run to the door.
As the inspector and Margo left the room, Louisa closed her eyes. How could this be happening? One moment Elliot was Elliot – and now he was this. In the unnatural silence of the room she gulped back a sob and covered the awful sight of his neck with the sheet again. Now she understood why the inspector had wanted her to wait.
She gazed at Elliot’s face once more. She’d never forget the image for as long as she lived. And the way, despite his curling dark hair looking just as it usually did, he seemed like an imposter and the entire room felt as if it were a film set. There was nothing real about it. Nothing. She longed for him to open his eyes so she might see him alive one last time, so she could say a proper goodbye. But of course, he could not. He never would again. It was an impossible thought. Then she stood and wiped a smear of grease from his forehead and stroked back his hair.
‘Oh, my darling,’ she said. ‘How am I to go on living without you?’
And as she stared at him something pulled at her, something she’d never felt before. She saw herself standing right at the edge of a well, knowing she would be dragged inexorably into its depths. Struggle was pointless.
Louisa didn’t sleep though Margo stayed with her. All night, images of Elliot tormented her. The contrast between his living self, so full of energy, and his lifeless body was too much to absorb. She kept expecting him to suddenly sit up and say it had just been a joke. There you are, Lou, fooled you. Ha ha ha! She felt locked up inside herself and even though she wanted to cry, it was as if a perpetual lump had stopped up her throat. The tears wouldn’t come, nor would anything else; just a horrible feeling of blank disbelief and a loveless life opening out before her.
The inspector had promised to return at ten o’clock in the morning to give them the full details of what had happened. Until then Louisa had to go through the motions. Wash. Get Dressed. Brush hair. Drink coffee. Margo, meanwhile, was in floods of tears and apologizing constantly for them. Apart from Margo’s sobs, the house was strangely silent, as if the bricks and mortar had somehow absorbed the shock and were only just about holding the place together. The servants, always light-footed, were soundless, gently padding about, and even the cook, who was prone to raising his voice, kept his words to a minimum. The news had spread around the party after all, the evening before – bad news travelled fast – but Ashan and her father had managed to swiftly send the guests on their way.
When Margo telephoned Irene in Colombo just after dawn, her mother had been utterly hysterical. Neither of the younger women could explain why they had waited until morning, but it was as if they had both needed to assimilate the death a little bit more before having to deal with Irene. They didn’t know when she would come, or even if she would come, she was in such a shocked state.
Jonathan had stayed the night and now was full of comfort and practical assistance. Quite early on, the doorbell began to ring with people wanting to inquire after them and to offer their condolences. Although Jonathan suggested seeing them in her place, Louisa needed to take care of this herself, but she did ask him to sit with her. Then she went through the motions, serving tea, nodding politely at her visitors’ kind words while staring past them at the windows, where she watched the clouds slip over the sun. Mr Bashar, the librarian, came, as did Janesha from the grocery store, plus less welcome visitors, such as the chief flower arranger at the church, Elspeth Markham, who was something of a snob and a gossip. Louisa managed to find words to answer their questions. How are you coping, my dear? Fine, thanks. If there’s anything I can do. I’ll let you know, of course. If you need any help, anything at all. She just thanked them and asked them how they and their families were, listening to their voices but not hearing the words. And all the time it was as if she wasn’t even there. In her mind she was with Elliot, wherever he had gone. That pale, bloodied body was not him. She wanted the real Elliot, and could not comprehend she would never feel his touch again.
The constant stream of visitors was beginning to wear her out so eventually she let her father take over and, detached from the reality of Elliot’s death, she went into the garden with a large gin, bothering with the tonic but not with the ice. Who cared if it was lukewarm? It was the alcohol she craved. Only alcohol would allow this almost catatonic state to continue. Only alcohol could stem whatever might be edging closer. She thought vaguely about a funeral. But it seemed a shadowy unlikely sort of thing, quite unlike the parties she was fond of throwing. Unable to cry, she judged herself for her lack of feeling. Wasn’t she supposed to weep and wail, fall into a faint, rail at God, collapse into a sobbing heap? Wasn’t she supposed to do something? Anything? She felt hungry but at the same time it was as if she and her body had parted company; it was a hunger that could never be assuaged by food. All her attention was focused on one single question: how could the world go on as normal? How could people go about their daily lives, complaining about this or that, when all that mattered was life itself?
Just after ten, when the inspector arrived with the local doctor, Louisa felt herself growing inexplicably hot, her palms sweating as she struggled to suppress a rising sense of panic.
Margo showed the two men into the dining room while Jonathan continued to receive their well-wishers’ condolences in the living room. Margo had just come off the phone to her mother again. Elliot had been the apple of Irene’s eye, her darling boy, the one positive in what had turned into a somewhat disappointing life. Louisa shot Margo a commiserating look and her sister-in-law gave her a wan smile.
The two women sat together on the sofa opposite the officials.
‘I suppose you’d better tell us,’ Margo said.
‘Well, as you know, there are bends on the road to Colombo. Mr Reeve crossed the bridge over the inlet to Rathgama Lake, and soon after a fisherman spotted the car coming around at speed, then it veered off the road and crashed into the tree. He may have swerved to avoid an elephant or a bullock cart. The witness wasn’t sure about that, but he raised the alarm. Unfortunately, by the time help arrived it was too late. I’m so sorry. We haven’t yet been able to establish whose car he was driving, but there was no passenger in the car with him.’
Louisa bent her head for a moment and then looked up again. ‘But why was he driving somebody else’s car? Can you tell me that?’
11.
A couple of days later the funeral had already taken place. You couldn’t hang about in the heat of the tropics; the bodies went off too quickly. In a kind of trance Louisa had managed to organize everything from the order of service, to the floral tributes of scarlet hibiscus, while Margo had been the one to inform Elliot’s friends on the plantations and in Colombo. Irene had wept copiously, while Harold had remained stoic, intent on supporting his wife. Louisa had watched him putting an arm around Irene, murmuring in her ear, trying to make something that could never be all right, all right. He wore a constant look of resignation, and kept polishing his glasses with his handkerchief, as if that might wipe away the pain he was so hopelessly attempting to disguise. Both Margo and Louisa had remained dry-eyed. At the end of the service, as they stood with Jonathan in the church doorway, they shook hands with friends and accepted their sympathy.
The turnout was on a grand scale. Sudden, premature death would do that, Louisa thought, whoever had died. But the truth was that Elliot had been popular; with such a winning smile and easy manner, people were drawn to him. Louisa recalled the times when Elliot’s eternal optimism had been a bit tiring and then immediately felt guilty to have thought it, especially today.
The only notable absence was Elliot’s sailing partner, Jeremy Pike. She had always thought he had valued Elliot’s friendship, and they had spent so much time together. At least Leo McNairn from the cinnamon plantation had come. He held her hands in both his large ones and looked into her eyes. The compassion in them shook her.
‘I am so terribly sorry for your loss,’ was all he said and, though she struggled to maintain the mask of calm dignity, she felt her tears welling up. Not here, she said to herself. Not in front of everyone. He moved away and by the time Louisa had thanked everyone, she felt exhausted.
Back home, when the truth of what had happened finally punched her in the chest, she phoned Gwen at the tea plantation. She needed to confide in someone, and yet she didn’t want to speak to anyone here in Galle. In a halting voice, she told Gwen in more detail what had happened to Elliot and, though it was hard to say the words, it did make them feel more real.
‘If it would help,’ Gwen said, ‘you’d be welcome to spend a bit of time here. We’re in a very peaceful spot, and it might save you from having to face people while you’re feeling so raw.’
‘That’s very kind. Can I think about it and let you know?’
‘Of course. I am so very sorry.’
Louisa gulped back a sob and got off the phone. The raw pain of losing Julia had never gone away. Never would. And now this too. And that was when she began to cry. Everyone had been so kind, but she’d been so determined not to believe the evidence of her own eyes that it was only now, when she understood he wouldn’t be coming home any more, that she allowed herself to feel it. She went to her bedroom, drew the curtains and curled up on her bed, hugging her pillow and sobbing until her eyes felt swollen and her face was puffy. She cried for her own loss, but she also cried for Elliot himself. To be cut off so young, deprived now of ever having the chance to be a father. Nothing about this was fair. And when she was finally silent, all emotion spent, it was then she heard his voice. Saw him talking, laughing, making love. See. Not dead. Not dead at all.
The world she now inhabited shocked her, as did the fact she could somehow, inexplicably, still be alive while he was not, and so she tried to talk to him. But he was gone again and his absence was something so big, so terrifying, she could not comprehend it. How was it possible to be and then not to be? But strangely, the absence was not an empty space. It was full of images and memories and the feelings attached to those, as well as the feelings that sprang from knowing there would be no more memories. She spoke to him out loud. Where are you, Elliot? Where have you gone? But there was no answer. And when she asked him why he’d lied about going sailing when he was really going to Colombo, and driving somebody else’s car too, the silence curdled inside her. And in that silence, she imagined awful things.
12.
The transfer of the proceeds from the sale of Louisa’s shares – a considerable sum – to Elliot’s own account had been completed several days before he died. And now, just a fortnight after his death, Louisa had a meeting with her accountant and the solicitor who had drawn up Elliot’s will. Of course, she knew the contents already, but the process had to be endured and it would be crucial to quickly pick up the financial reins of her new life.
The solicitor was a bright Sinhalese called Silva, the nephew of their old family solicitor, now retired. A slight and serious-looking man, he was young but seemed very keen. She had given him permission to visit the bank in Colombo on her behalf and bring back statements summarizing how much remained in her own account and in Elliot’s, so she’d know where she stood. Usually she would have had to go to the bank herself but, under the circumstances, the bank manager, an old family friend, had agreed to release the statements.
Their accountant, Bob Withington, was someone they’d known for years, and now the three sat together in what had been Elliot’s study. It had seemed a good idea at the time but, surrounded by Elliot’s things, Louisa wished she’d taken up their first suggestion of convening the meeting in Colombo.
Once the will had been read, Margo had coffee brought in and the two men exchanged pleasantries. Basically, Elliot had left everything to Louisa, minus the balance of a separate deposit account, which was to go to Leo McNairn.
‘It’s just a trifling sum, but do you know why your husband might have wanted to leave money to this particular beneficiary?’ the accountant asked.
‘I have no idea. He runs a plantation called Cinnamon Hills. Elliot had shares in the business there, so maybe he intended buying more?’
‘I didn’t realize that,’ Silva said. ‘Do you know where the share certificates are?’
‘Surely he lodged them with you?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Well, they’re probably here somewhere.’ She pointed at a mahogany filing cabinet. ‘I’ll make time to go through that soon.’
‘Now, Mrs Reeve – Louisa,’ the accountant was saying. ‘The bad news is your husband’s main account was virtually empty.’
She frowned. ‘It can’t have been. I had only recently transferred a large sum to him.’
‘Yes, I see the transaction here.’
‘Half of that money was to pay off the outstanding sum for acquiring the Print House, so I’m not surprised that’s gone. I’m expecting the deeds in the post any day. But the other half should still be in there.’
He shook his head.
‘So where did the money go?’
‘It seems your husband withdrew it in cash.’
‘Then it must be somewhere here.’ She waved vaguely at the room. ‘Though I don’t know why he would have taken it out so soon.’
‘There was also a legally binding contract for a loan he had taken out but not paid back,’ the solicitor said.
‘I don’t understand.’
‘He had borrowed money from the bank and the sum is still owing. It will have to come out of his estate.’
Louisa was again surprised and fought the urge to simply leave the room. She’d had no idea Elliot owed more money. He’d only ever admitted to a few gambling debts.
‘Are you all right, Mrs Reeve?’ Withington said.
No, she thought, I am not. Her mind raced and, as she imagined Elliot’s hand caressing her hair, his lips moving over her skin, she felt a tremor.
Irene and Harold had returned to Colombo, but Margo was staying on to support Louisa, though Louisa secretly thought it was because her sister-in-law found it less painful dealing with her than her mother. Louisa thought about Harold, with his thinning hair and toothbrush moustache. His defeated expression didn’t prevent him from somehow managing to remain kind. He must have been handsome once, like Elliot, but now he was a faded man, and Louisa felt a sense of pity whenever she met him. His constant attempts to soften his wife’s sharp comments often fell on deaf ears, but it didn’t stop him trying. That he loved Irene, for all her faults, was never in doubt. Louisa felt sure he was the reason Margo and Elliot were as decent as they were. But poor Margo, who had cried a great deal at first, now seemed to have settled into a controlled kind of practicality. Louisa hoped she wasn’t bottling up her feelings.
As it happened, Margo had waited in the garden while Louisa had been with the solicitor and accountant. Then, after they left, Louisa went straight outside to join her.
‘Heavens!’ Margo said. ‘You look pale.’
‘Could you get me a brandy?’
While Margo went indoors Louisa sat and blankly watched the wind rustling the leaves overhead, thinking over what she had been told. A strong scent of jasmine drifted across from the hedge and the canna lilies glowed bright yellow and red.
Margo came back a
nd passed a glass to Louisa who sipped the liquid, grateful for its soothing amber warmth heating up her insides. She felt uncertain, wanting to talk to Margo, but at the same time feeling disloyal to Elliot. There had to be good reasons why he’d withdrawn the money, why he’d taken out a loan, and why he hadn’t lodged the plantation shares with the solicitor, as you would normally do. But whatever the reasons were, he hadn’t involved her. In the end, she decided to tell Margo what had happened.
‘There’s probably a simple answer, but I need your help.’
‘Anything.’
‘It seems Elliot emptied his entire account before he died. I need to search his study for the cash.’
‘Gosh. Very well. I’ll help you look.’
‘Not only that, I also need to find his share certificates for Cinnamon Hills. I thought the solicitor would have them but he knew nothing about it, so they must be here too.’
Once back in the study, Louisa opened the safe and found it empty but for the usual few notes and some of her jewellery. Then she glanced around. Elliot’s study wasn’t tidy. His desk was strewn with papers and letters, so while Margo examined those, Louisa began the laborious task of ploughing through his filing cabinet. She found two of the drawers held duplicates of transactions at their gem polishing and cutting centre and only the top drawer contained anything personal. She had expected to find a life insurance policy but, so far, there was none. She did find some old letters from Irene but no share certificates and no cash. There were several cardboard storage boxes on one of the shelves so they divided them between them and began trawling through the contents, but found nothing there either, except more polishing and cutting records.
Margo tried all the drawers of the desk, but again there was nothing of note. ‘But where else might he have secreted the share certificates?’ she said.
‘I’m sorry to ask, but do you think you’d be able to check his chest of drawers in our bedroom? I haven’t felt ready to touch his personal things yet.’
The Sapphire Widow Page 7