by Helen Smith
“No. It’s…I’ve got a big book, a sad face, running around or laughing or…Hold on. She’s showing me a tombstone. A cemetery.”
“I’ve got it!” said Dr. Muriel. She actually put her hand up. “I’ve never been to a séance before. It is like a game of charades! You’re at Highgate Cemetery—in London. That’s where Karl Marx is buried. The big book represents history. Then we had tragedy. Then we had farce. It’s a quote of his. History repeats itself, first as tragedy, then as farce.”
“Could be.” No one looked convinced. It didn’t seem relevant. Emily wrote it down anyway.
Joseph looked as if he’d just run the London Marathon. He was completely done in. “Yes, that’s it. History repeats itself. First as tragedy, then as farce.”
“That’s the message?” said Chris. “It doesn’t sound like Ed.”
“I don’t think it was Edmund,” said Joseph Seppardi. “It was something the lady wanted me to pass on.”
She had not long departed, and they were waiting for someone else to show, or for Joseph Seppardi to throw in the towel, when Emily noticed Madame Nova wheeling herself back across the road to the hotel. There was no sign of Hilary. Had they had a row? Emily knew that reconciliations could be difficult after long periods apart, but she hoped they hadn’t fallen out again.
Chris was getting restless, clenching and unclenching his fists. She glanced at him and he relaxed his hands and smiled. When she looked back, Madame Nova had already disappeared.
Although all of them would have said, when they first went into the room, that it would be impossible to sleep, it now seemed a good idea to turn in for the night. Combined with the long meditative silences and the whisky, the séance had had a soporific effect on everyone but Chris—and Joseph Seppardi, who was so tired, he looked as though he’d be ready for his grave sooner than his bed. They agreed to meet for breakfast, unless there was any news.
Dr. Muriel turned her phone back on. But there had been no call from Gerald. Chris checked his phone, too. No news, good or bad.
Emily was halfway down the corridor when she heard Chris call her name. He took her hand and led her to a recess where a fire extinguisher was stored next to an antique vase on a decorative table. There was room for the two of them to stand while everyone else wandered off to their rooms. “Where are you going after this?”
It was late. What did he have in mind? A late-night clifftop stroll with a wheelchair? Or something more romantic?
“I mean after we leave here—after Torquay.”
Emily was tired. Did they have to talk about it now? “I’m going back to London. Gerald’s booked my ticket for tomorrow. I’m back to work on Tuesday.”
“Ever fancy a life of adventure?”
Emily felt slightly defensive. Honestly, what was wrong with working in an office?
Chris smiled at her. “You know, I’d like to set up a traveling theater troupe, going from place to place, working with local actors, bringing entertainment to people who would really appreciate it. How’s that sound?”
It did sound quite interesting. She’d need to sleep on it. She’d need to save up and rent out her flat and…
“I think you’d be good at it, Emily. I’d love to work with you.”
“Could we talk about it tomorrow? I’m really tired.”
“Course!” He gave her the sweetest smile; he seemed so pleased. “I was thinking maybe the first stop should be Kenya.”
“Oh, Chris. No. I mean, I love zebras as much as the next person. No. I like my life in London.”
“Not just zebras. There are lakes and mountains and the Indian Ocean; giraffes and leopards and wildebeest…lots of wildebeest. Just”—he shrugged, poor Trina—“no tigers.”
Emily was so tired! “I don’t have an opinion about wildebeest. I do like giraffes.”
“I can’t do the commercial stuff. I can’t do London.” He put his hand on her shoulder and closed his eyes. He leaned forward. Was he going to kiss her? Or fall asleep on her? She took a step back.
“Good night, Chris.”
Emily went upstairs—alone—and dreamed a dreamless sleep. When she woke up, she knew who the murderer was.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
A BETTER PLACE
As they gathered in the restaurant for breakfast, Gerald told them the sad news. Edmund’s body had been found washed up on the beach at dawn. It was too early to determine the cause of death; the body had sustained some battering from the rocks in the water.
Chris hugged Emily as if he was trying to comfort her. She could feel his heart beat and smell the soap he had washed with that morning.
Whatever the cause of Edmund’s death, it was newsworthy. The press were outside: print journalists, radio news teams and broadcasters from network television.
“Poor Peg,” said Gerald. “I can’t help thinking she would have loved the press attention. We can only hope she finds some way—wherever she is—to ensure her positivity book is given as much coverage as Edmund’s.” He was trying to make light of it but his voice was choked. “I will just need to ask you to be cautious if you put anything on Twitter. Our recent updates will be raked over and used in articles about the tragedy.” He had the Sunday newspapers in front of him. “Most of it’s online, given that Edmund’s body has only just been found. But we can expect longer pieces in both the broadsheets and the tabloids tomorrow.”
At other tables beyond theirs, the conference participants continued with their preparations for the day. They knew that Edmund was missing and Peg had died—Trina’s death, as it was the death of a young woman not directly connected to the conference, had been kept from most of them—and they were subdued, chatting quietly, respectful of the tragedy around them. But their lives moved at a normal pace.
The lives of those affected had slowed down to an underwater pace, everything distorted and surreal, words formed but not reaching the hearer, every breath just bubbles, nothing making sense. They were like marbles in a machine that had been constructed by a child for its entertainment, rattling along on their clockwise journey—and then suddenly spiraling counterclockwise in this particular part of it, while all the other marbles went clockwise. Sooner or later they’d be going clockwise again, unless they got caught in this bit of the machine and never progressed beyond it. It was difficult to know what would come next if you were only a marble and not the machine’s maker.
Those Emily counted among the counterclockwise, underwater marble people were Tim and Sarah—sitting with the Colonel and Joseph Seppardi—and Gerald, Chris and Dr. Muriel, who were sitting with her.
“I wish we knew what happened to Edmund,” said Sarah.
“Emily knows.” Dr. Muriel looked over at her friend. “Don’t you?”
Chris stretched his legs out and folded his arms, emphasizing how big and tall he was, like a cat preparing for a fight. “It isn’t suicide? I can’t believe it’s suicide.”
Emily took a moment to put her thoughts in order before she began to explain what she knew. “Everyone who saw the image of Edmund Zenon walking on water had a different reaction to it. Even if they didn’t agree on what might happen, they all knew when it would take place, and where: Easter weekend. Torquay. From the moment those posters went up, Edmund’s fate was sealed. Three people were murdered because of what that image suggested to one person who saw it.”
“So it was someone in Torquay?” said Sarah.
“It wasn’t just people in Torquay who saw it. The image was projected onto the Royal Festival Hall in London, right by the Thames, in the heart of the city. It was…well, if you were a person with deeply held religious convictions, who had an estranged sister living in Torquay, it would seem like a call to action. Especially if a person who had been a big part of your life in recent years had decided to leave you to go to Africa, and you were looking for guidance about what to do next.”
“Hilary!” said Tim. “Where is Hilary?”
“I don’t get it,” Sarah said. “Where did Trina fi
t in?”
“Hilary practically fell over her in an underpass in Waterloo, right after she’d seen the image of Edmund on the Royal Festival Hall. She thought if she recruited Trina and used her as a stooge during the Pledge and Plunge sessions by the sea, she might encourage others to join in. She might revive the Colonel’s spirits and encourage him to stay in England for another tour in the summer. I think that signs from God are just like any other signs—like messages from the spirit world, if you believe in them. You have to know how to interpret them. So Hilary picked up Trina and brought her to Torquay, not quite knowing what she was going to do when she got here, but thinking Trina was part of the plan. But when the Colonel decided he would still rather go to Africa, she became expendable. In fact, when the Colonel used Trina’s education as a reason why Hilary should stay behind, Hilary decided to get rid of her.”
“No!” said Sarah. “I can’t believe it. Who would do something like that?”
“It’s not as bad as it sounds, if you believe you’re sending someone to a better place.”
The Colonel stood up. “This is all wrong. You can’t make these accusations while Hilary’s not here to defend herself. I’ll go and find her.”
Chris stood up, ready to stop him leaving. “You mean you’ll go and warn her.”
“What about the predictions about drowning?” Gerald asked Emily. “You’re not saying those originated with Hilary?”
“No. But the Colonel’s right. We should go and fetch Hilary. And Madame Nova.”
Tim pointed out of the window at the bay below them. “You won’t get hold of Madame Nova. I had no idea she was keen on surfing. Chilly weather for it, mind. Jolly windy, too. It’s a wonder that cloak’s not flapping about all over the place.”
They looked out of the window and there was Madame Nova, kneeling on a surfboard on the sea, leopard-skin cloak wrapped around her, hood up, using an oar to paddle herself out to deeper water. The assembled members of the press had also spotted her. Journalists, broadcasters and photographers stood on the path above the beach, recording and commenting on her progress.
“Maybe she’s looking for Edmund?” said Gerald. He didn’t sound convinced. “She might not know his body’s been found. Anyone speak to her or Hilary this morning?”
“Something’s up!” Tim exclaimed. “What has she done with Hilary?”
They ran out of the Riviera Lounge and up to the room the two women had shared temporarily, collecting Mandy Miller from Reception with her master key along the way; marbles rattling counterclockwise, bumping into each other and propelling themselves upwards, up the stairs, not knowing what they would find next, and whether it would make them feel like rolling all the way back down again.
“Whatever’s happened, it can’t be good,” said Dr. Muriel, stick in hand, huffing up the stairs.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
OPHELIA
There was no sign of Hilary in the bedroom she had shared with Madame Nova the night before. The sheets on the twin beds were rumpled. Madame Nova’s mohair coat was thrown carelessly over a chair. There were empty bottles of red wine and half-empty bottles of pills on the floor, and bangles and earrings and a jar of night cream on a bedside table.
Emily and Dr. Muriel exchanged a heavy look and went to the bathroom. Dr. Muriel used one end of her stick to push open the door. There was a pleasant, tumbling sound, like an artificial waterfall in an expensive Thai restaurant. It got louder as the door swung open.
There, in the bath, was Madame Nova, in a high-necked, long-sleeved white nightgown—borrowed from Sarah, presumably. She was lying in about an inch of water, with the taps still running.
Madame Nova! But wasn’t she…? Well, if she was here, then who was on the surfboard paddling out to sea? It took a few moments for everyone to try to make sense of this.
Chris got closer. “She’s alive. She’s pretty groggy, but she’s still with us.”
Emily turned the taps off. Chris and Gerald pulled Madame Nova from the bath in her nightgown. Dr. Muriel wrapped her in towels. Sarah steered her to the bedroom, instructing her to put one foot in front of the other and keep moving, and then they laid her on one of the beds.
“M’all right,” said Madame Nova, eyes still closed, voice slurry. She had a bruise above her eye and a cut on her lip. “Juss leave me alone.”
Mandy Miller dialed 999.
“Did Hilary do this to you?” Emily asked Madame Nova.
Madame Nova’s hand went to her forehead, exploring the lump that had come up there. “Couldn’t stay with me in Torquay. How could she? We had another falling out. S’OK, she’s gone.”
“Why did you fall out last time?” Sarah asked her.
“It was after her daughter died,” Emily explained.
“Hilary didn’t…she didn’t kill your child?”
“Don’t be so melodramatic!” Madame Nova said, eyes still closed, arms flung about, somewhat melodramatically. “Said she was in a better place, ’s all. Insensitive. You know what it’s like, Sarah. I couldn’t cope with it.”
Gerald went to the bedroom window. It was at the front of the hotel, overlooking the sea. “What on earth is she doing out there? I presume that’s Hilary. Is she making her escape? I mean, where would she hope to get to? Next stop’s France, isn’t it?”
“She might make it to Guernsey,” said Dr. Muriel, joining him. “Oh, hold on. She appears to have stopped.”
They all went to the window. The coastguard’s boat had been launched from the harbor and was now wump-wumphing over the waves in Hilary’s direction. She was crouched on the surfboard, facing the hotel.
Emily said, “It was Hilary who walked into the water last night, dressed in Edmund’s stage clothes.”
The group at the window turned to look at Emily as they made sense of that.
“No!” said Sarah.
“Of course!” said Dr. Muriel. “How clever.”
“She stole the top hat and cape from the bar on Friday night—they were lying about because people had borrowed them to dress up in them. Remember Philip, pretending to be Fred Astaire?”
“I do,” admitted Dr. Muriel.
“When Hilary walked into the water last night, she relied on people only glimpsing what was happening, and making assumptions about what they were seeing, filling in the gaps if necessary.”
Gerald nodded. “We thought it was Edmund, of course, because of the trick by the pier.”
“She did a one-woman, low-tech version of that trick: slipping into the water, shedding the top hat and cape, and then creeping back to the hotel across the road, coming in through the door by the swimming pool.”
Dr. Muriel had enjoyed her morning swim every day at the hotel. “There’s nothing odd about someone coming back from the spa with wet hair,” she said. “So no one would suspect her if they saw her once she got inside.”
“And outside,” Emily said, “if anyone was paying attention, they were looking for a magician, not a middle-aged woman in ordinary clothes. She borrowed Edmund’s reverse-disguise thinking for that, too.”
“But where was Edmund?” said Tim.
“She had already killed him.”
“No!” said Sarah. It was her default reaction.
Emily suspected Sarah didn’t yet want to believe that Edmund had died, whether in the water or elsewhere. “I don’t know this, I’m guessing, but I think Hilary went up to his room and presented her hypothesis, the way she did with Peg, showing how someone could sneak up with a garrote…and then she choked him. Or maybe she drugged him or hit him over the head with something heavy. Anyway, she killed him and put him in the wheelchair, and she dressed him up in Madame Nova’s hooded leopard-skin cloak and sunglasses. He’d be too difficult to move once rigor mortis started to set in, but she’s a strong woman—she ought to have been able to get him into the chair while he was still warm. Then she wheeled him to her room and left him there while she dressed up in his stage clothes, went down in the elevator, and
then walked out on the rocks and into the sea, pretending to be him.”
“But why?” asked Dr. Muriel. That was her default question.
“She was trying to make sense of her life. She was trying to reconcile with her sister, but her sister kept rejecting her. She had allied herself to the Colonel, but the Colonel had decided to leave her. She felt called to do something, but she wasn’t sure what. She only knew—or at least, she believed—that Edmund’s walking-on-water picture was some kind of challenge. I think she felt…Look, I was thinking the other day that most of us like being useful. For most people, that doesn’t mean much more than holding the door open for the next person, running an errand for someone who’s too old or too sick to do it themselves, maybe volunteering for a charity from time to time. For Hilary, being useful meant sending people to a better place.”
“But why pretend to be Edmund?” Dr. Muriel said.
“To outwit him. To show that she was better than him. She was always following other people. Always copying their blueprint for a better life. She wanted to take Edmund’s trick and use it against him.”
They watched Hilary, out at sea, still paddling.
“It is odd,” said Tim. “The way her cloak hangs straight down like that. Has she got something in the pockets?”
“What about the late-night walk?” Chris prompted. “Last night, with Madame Nova, while we were in Edmund’s room for the séance.”
From the bed, eyes closed, Madame Nova said, “Wharrever I did, ’m sorry.”
Emily reassured her. “It wasn’t you. Hilary pushed Edmund’s body out to the top of the cliff in a wheelchair last night, dressed up to look like you, and she tipped him into the sea. After she’d got rid of the body, she wrapped herself up in your leopard-skin cloak and put on the sunglasses, wheeled herself back in through the basement and came up in the elevator. You were probably sparked out drunk, so Hilary could have come and gone without you noticing.”
“Wasssn’t drunk,” said Madame Nova.
“How did Hilary get her into the bath this morning?” said Tim. “Took two men to get her out of there.”