I went through my nodding routine again. ‘Had you thought about a national TV appeal, on one of the crime programmes?’
Ramsey’s fat jaw tightened, he pushed out his thin mouth. ‘A decision will be taken in due course.’
And something told me it would be Agnew, and not Ramsey, who took it. I was tempted to press Agnew straight away, but I sensed it would be a mistake. ‘Anything on forensics?’ I asked.
Adopting the patient tone of a hard-pressed divisional commander, Agnew answered, ‘Mrs O’Neill, we have expended a great number of man-hours on this incident already, an incident, I don’t need to remind you, where we have no indication that any crime has been committed, nor indeed that any sort of mishap of any description has occurred. I can’t justify putting any more resources into the matter at the present time.’
‘No mishap, Superintendent? Surely it’s abundantly clear that a mishap has occurred. She took no clothes, has spent no money. No one has seen her, no one has heard from her. She has a child and husband she loves. I think that at the very least there must have been a mishap.’
Taking his time, or choosing not to reply, Agnew kept his impenetrable gaze on the dwindling knot of searchers. Finally he tipped his head towards them. ‘Certainly they don’t seem to be in any doubt that a mishap has occurred.’ There was no obvious irony in his tone. ‘And the marshes. They seem to think it’s the place to look, don’t they?’ Before I could work out what, if anything, he meant by this, he added, ‘Let’s hope they’re wrong.’ Turning his gaze back to me, he seemed to make up his mind about something, and with a glance at Ramsey, said, ‘I would have thought we could look into this TV appeal as a matter of priority, Mrs O’Neill. I would have thought that would be entirely possible.’
‘Excellent, Superintendent.’ Pushing my luck, I added, ‘And the forensics, you wouldn’t think—’
But Ramsey had subtly directed Agnew’s attention over my head towards Will, who was approaching fast.
He came to a halt close by my shoulder, frowning deeply, and said to Ramsey, ‘No news?’
‘Afraid not, sir.’
It was clear he’d expected little else. I told him about the possibility of a national TV appeal, but either it didn’t register or he didn’t hold out much hope for it because he nodded without enthusiasm.
He said rather briskly to Ramsey, ‘Well, unless there’s anything in particular, I’m going to go and join the search.’
‘Just one small pointy sir,’ Ramsey said in his oddly toneless voice. ‘I was wondering if you’d had a moment to go through your wife’s papers. Any bank accounts that might have been missed. Building society passbooks, that sort of thing.’
‘I’ve looked, yes, but it’s like I told you—there’s only the one account.’
Ramsey’s eyes did not leave Will’s face. I saw curiosity there, and keen appraisal, but little of the distrust that had so alarmed Maggie. ‘No savings accounts?’ he asked.
‘One.’
‘You’d know if there were withdrawals.’
‘I’d know.’
Agnew slid Ramsey a meaningful glance, clearly intended as a reminder.
With a small confirmatory nod, Ramsey turned his moonface back to Will. ‘Any place that might have sentimental associations?’
Still frowning, Will searched his memory. ‘I really can’t think of anywhere, no.’
‘Any place that might have childhood memories for her?’
‘Not particularly. She was brought up in London.’
A moment in which the mood seemed to tauten, then Ramsey said, ‘We’ll let you get on, then, sir. Needless to say, we’ll keep you in touch with any developments.’
As Agnew and Ramsey walked towards their car, looking for all the world like a couple from a before-and-after ad for Weight Watchers, Will said, ‘What do you thinks then, Alex? Have they got the faintest idea what they’re doing?’
‘Hard to tell,’ I began cautiously, as I watched Ramsey manoeuvre his considerable bulk into the driving seat. ‘They seem competent. Reasonably thorough. Though we’ll know just how thorough when we’ve checked on the London end.’ He gave a sharp rather desperate nod, and glanced restlessly over his shoulder at the search parties on the marsh.
I said. ‘I’ll need Grace’s photograph before I go.’
‘Go? Do you have to go? Yes, of course you must go.’ He touched a hand to his head, as if he wasn’t thinking straight. ‘They’re on the desk in my office, a pile of photographs. Take what you need. Must you go? Must you?’ But now it was a routine lament for a departing friend.
I said, ‘I’ll call as soon as I have anything from our investigator. Hopefully some time tomorrow, but Monday at the latest.’
‘Monday.’ He made it sound an impossibly long way off.
He leant forward and embraced me as suddenly and completely as he had done on the meadows, an impulsive all-enveloping hug that pressed my face hard against his shoulder, before turning away and setting off at a steady hike, head lowered against the bite of the wind.
The police car had stopped some way along the quay, beside the metalled surface of the lane. In the side window Ramsey’s face was twisted back to stare in our direction, his fat cheek almost touching the glass, as if he had seen something that needed a second or third look. Watching one of the search parties perhaps? Wanting another glance at Will? Or—I couldn’t believe it, but then again perhaps I could—agog at our embrace. Doubtless Ramsey was one of those all too predictable types for whom a hug between a man and a woman had only one meaning.
When I got back to the house there was no sign of Maggie in the kitchen, nor any reply to my calls. Searching for Will’s office, I put my head into the room opposite the drawing room which I had remembered as a musty place full of old books and frayed Persian rugs and a battered upright piano. Now, brighter books stood in orderly file along Palladian-style shelving with fluted mouldings and cornices, a shiny baby grand stood in one corner, the rugs were new, the carpet too, while to one side of the fireplace stood the latest-fangled wide-screen television.
The transformation of the dining room was equally dramatic. Where I had a memory of painted furniture against white walls, of a scrubbed-pine refectory table with high-backed chairs and bright curtains, there was now a rosewood reproduction antique table with a glassy surface, matching chairs, dark green silk wall hangings, brocade curtains and pastoral oil paintings lit by low-voltage spots. Again, I thought: Money. Perhaps five or six thousand for this room alone, if you counted the oils, perhaps double or triple that if you counted the furniture. I wondered where it had all come from. I hadn’t remembered Grace having money, but then in the old days I wouldn’t have been curious about that.
Passing through the kitchen I put my nose into various pantries and larders, all in immaculate order. In the back yard there was none of the clutter of the old days, no stacks of logs or kindling, no machinery or old tractors. Instead the outhouses were freshly whitewashed, the window frames gleaming with new paint.
A smaller outhouse had been converted into Will’s office. The blinking fluorescent light revealed a square room with three filing cabinets, copier, fax, and a metal desk strewn with papers. Posters and charts were fixed to the walls. Next to a chart of what looked like farm yields but could have been anything that fluctuated was a poster of a misty Tuscan landscape not unlike the one that had always hung in Maggie’s kitchen. Immediately above the desk was a cluster of photographs stuck haphazardly to the wall, most of Charlie: Charlie riding a bike, Charlie kicking a football, and—a moment of recognition and pleasure—Charlie in Pod, the pram dinghy which had carried Will and me on so many of our childhood expeditions. In some pictures Charlie was smiling, in others he was engrossed, but always there was an underlying sense of amiability, of an open undemanding nature.
The desk was untidy, with disorderly heaps of invoices and forms, letters and farming publications. The pictures of Grace lay in a scattered pile in the centre. I took the
one I guessed to be the most recent, an outdoor shot that looked natural and unposed, as if she had been captured on the instant of turning towards the camera. The harsh light exposed no blemishes on her skin, and her mildly enquiring expression revealed only the faintest trace of a line on her forehead. The overall impression was of freshness and beauty, of a person who would never show her age. Only her eyes had some other, more knowing light.
I found a blank piece of paper—not an easy task—and left a note for Will, describing the photograph I had removed and promising to return it shortly.
Seeing the phone, I sat down quickly and, finding the number I had noted from the 1471 call, dialled it.
A female answered with a jolly hello.
I said, in my secretary’s voice, I’m calling from the Dearden household. Someone phoned earlier—’
‘Oh, it must have been Charlie! Do you want to speak to him? He’s covered in glue at the moment, but I can wrap something round the phone—’
‘No, no. I wouldn’t want to bother him. No—I was just checking. Because of the call.’
‘Oh, he’s fine, just fine. We’re doing a montage, a forest scene. Charlie’s looks amazing. Very colourful.’
‘How lovely. Thank you.’
Ringing off, I sat back for a moment and imagined Charlie calling home and hearing my voice. With the scene on the marsh fresh in my mind, the vision of Will’s shocked face burnt on my memory, I wondered if by some awful chance I had sounded like Grace.
Straightening up, my eye was caught by a letter protruding from a particularly precarious heap of papers. The letterhead, graphic-designed and conspicuous, announced: Wickham Estates. I couldn’t help noticing that the letter began Dear Mr Dearden, Reference: Gun Marsh Tenancy.
In the house there was still no sign of Maggie and, leaving a further note on the kitchen table, I let myself out.
It was strange to think of Wickham Lodge without Aunt Nella. Born in the house shortly after it was built in 1908, she had lived in it continuously until her death eighty-five years later. Driving in through the gates, passing between the dark laurels and onto the gravel sweep, a part of me still expected to see her battered estate car standing there like a tank from a forgotten war, still looked for the yellowing holland blinds in the tall windows, hanging like ancient banners, still got out of the car bracing myself for the onslaught of the five hysterical spaniels, their muddy paws clawing at my legs, their coats reeking of long walks and damp bedding.
Instead, there was a fresh layer of gravel on the drive, no blinds at the windows, new paint on the frames, and, parked casually in the middle of the semi-circular sweep, a shiny red Mercedes coupe. This, I guessed, was Edward’s—he’d always liked sporty cars—while the pale blue Golf tucked unobtrusively into a corner next to a flowerbed was almost certainly Jilly’s. I didn’t pretend to understand how she stayed with my brother, though I admired her for persevering with him, in much the same way that one admires a faithful animal for refusing to abandon a bad master.
I rang the front doorbell, like the visitor I was, and heard the deep bark of Edward’s Labrador. A minute later Edward swung the door open, wearing an irritated expression that did not improve on seeing me.
‘I would have called,’ I said, ‘but I didn’t know I was coming until late last night.’
‘I’m just going out,’ he said, as if I and the rest of the world should have been aware of this fact.
‘Oh, well. It was just on the off-chance.’
As so often with Edward, his brusqueness was followed by a grudging retreat. ‘There’s still some coffee in the pot, if you’re not going to be too long.’ Without waiting for a response he strode back into the house.
‘I thought you’d be out shooting,’ I said, closing the door and following him across the hall.
‘Shooting?’ He flung an incredulous look over his shoulder. ‘Shooting?’ he repeated on reaching the kitchen, and rolled his eyes as if I were quite mad.
‘I thought you went every weekend.’
‘Alexandra, where do you come from? What planet do you inhabit? The season ended three weeks ago. I’d be arrested!’
‘Oops.’ I put on a stupid face. ‘Forgot.’ He sighed heavily, ‘What planet?’ before filling a mug from a cafetiere and pushing it across the table towards me. He slid sugar and milk after it, then perched himself on a high stool, lit a cigarette, and crossed his arms, as if to hear what I had to say. He had put on a bit of weighty I noticed, which was no bad thing for someone who had always been on the skinny side, but his eyes were puffy and his skin sallow, and I wondered if he wasn’t overdoing the smoking or the drinking or both. ‘Well?’ he demanded. ‘Will Dearden asked me to come down.’ He made an exaggerated show of amazement. ‘Good God, why?’
‘Well, Grace Dearden has disappeared—’
‘Yes, yes, I know that! But why involve you?’
‘Because he wants me to make some enquiries for him. And to liaise with the police.’
‘But why you?’
‘Well, this is my fields Ed,’ I said. ‘This is what I do, among other things.’
He was shaking his head, oddly furious. ‘Seems nuts to me. I mean, what good are you going to be from London?’
‘Hopefully, as good as I’d be anywhere else.’
‘Jesus, Lex, what the hell are you thinking of? You should have kept well clear.’
‘I don’t see why.’
‘Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? This guy’s our tenant.’
‘Your tenant, Ed. This estate’s nothing to do with me. Anyway, why should—’
‘Okay, okay,’ he interrupted aggressively, ‘Your brother’s tenant. I mean, close enough. Family, for heaven’s sake.’
‘So?’
‘Well…’ He gestured impatiently. ‘We’re in dispute, aren’t we?’
‘In dispute?’ I stared at him. ‘I knew nothing about this, Ed.’
He was going to challenge me on that but quickly thought better of it. If I knew nothing about the dispute, it could only be because he hadn’t told me. ‘Oh, he’s been haggling over a price for the Gun Marsh,’ he said dismissively.
‘What do you mean?’
‘The Gun Marsh,’ he repeated heavily, as if I were being particularly dim. ‘Tried to sublet the tenancy, if you please. Well, I soon put a stop to that! He had no right, no right at all. Could have taken him to court for deception.’ Taking my bewilderment for doubt, he insisted crossly, ‘I tell you, I could have taken him to court!’ When I nodded my understanding he continued in a tone that was hardly less aggrieved, ‘And then he wanted a ridiculous price to let me have my own land back! It almost went to arbitration. We’ve only just settled. Took months. And the concessions I’ve made—bloody generous. And the thanks I get? He’s mucking about, not returning documents on time, not signing things. Just to cause the maximum bloody inconvenience and disruption. I ask you! These people.’
I still couldn’t get over it. ‘Will’s giving up the marshes?’
‘Just the Gun, not Thorp.’ He snorted, ‘He needs the money.’
But at that moment no explanation, however logical, made any sense to me. The Gun Marsh had been farmed by the Deardens for four, maybe five generations. I couldn’t imagine Will giving it up except as a last and desperate resort. Money seemed a paltry reason, avoidable somehow, or at least capable of postponement. I took a long and troubled breath. ‘Well, I’m sorry you’ve been in dispute, very sorry indeed, but it’s not going to affect my being able to act for them.’
‘But the Deardens, for heaven’s sake,’ Edward muttered reprovingly. ‘You should have kept clear.’
‘I think that’s for me to judge, Ed,’ I said, in a neutral tone.
He shrugged in the way he had shrugged as a child, with a flash of anger quickly succeeded by an expression of superiority, as though the whole matter were really beneath him.
‘Anyway,’ I said, ‘I thought you were lending the garden to Grace Dearden for her fes
tival.’
‘That was different.’
I raised my eyebrows. ‘Oh.’
‘I agreed to it before all this bloody nonsense came up.’
I remembered the diary. ‘You had a meeting with Grace on that Wednesday, I gather.’
‘Not a meeting.’ He gave me an irritated look, as though I had got this wrong on purpose. ‘She wanted to come up here and look at something—I’ve forgotten what it was, the size of the lawn, the access to the field, something like that—and I told her to make herself at home, walk around all she wanted, I wouldn’t be here, couldn’t be here, but just to go ahead and make herself at home. No, no—not a meeting. ‘
‘Ah. She’d put your initials in her diary, that was all.’
Rapidly losing interest, he dismissed this with a flip of his fingers. ‘Oh, yes, while you’re here…‘he said, in an affectedly offhand way. Without further explanation he swung off his stool and went out of the room, leaving me to wish that time had done more to smooth his feathers. They say that the wounds of childhood never heal, that in adulthood such hurts can be rationalized but rarely forgotten, and Edward certainly seemed to prove the point. It would have been easy to put all his pain down to Mother’s death when he was sixteen, almost as tempting to blame Pa for uprooting him from school and friends two years earlier and taking him to a remote corner of Cornwall. But I knew it went beyond that, that Edward’s relationship with Pa had broken down in some irrevocable way when he was ten or eleven, that nothing had ever been right for Edward after that, and this was why I felt bound to stick by him, why I let him push me further and harder than anyone else. I did it because there was no one else for him apart from Jilly, no one else who understood his history.
He returned with a typed letter which he slapped down in front of me. ‘Just needs your signature.’
The letter was written in the names of Edward and myself, and addressed to the Falmouth solicitors Pa had appointed as executors of his estate. It made a formal application for a full disclosure of Pa’s assets. According to the letter, Edward and I believed that a substantial sum might have been overlooked in the calculation of Pa’s assets. It referred to two bank withdrawals by date and amount, and requested all relevant information.
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