33 Women: A gripping new thriller about the power of women, and the lengths they will go to when pushed...

by Isabel Ashdown

  ‘It’s got to be worth another look, Celine,’ Pip says. ‘This could be our one chance to prove Jem murdered our sister.’

  Celine feels the fury building up inside her again. The discovery has fanned the flames of her long-held rage. ‘OK,’ she says, simply.

  Una gathers up the glasses and slides the postcard into her back pocket, indicating that they should head back downstairs. ‘Don’t get your hopes up, girls, OK? But I’ll make a call to an old mate of mine tomorrow,’ she says calmly. ‘I’ll see what I can find out. And we’ll take it from there. Agreed?’

  As Pip follows Una down the steps, Celine pauses to cast her gaze around the inconsequential objects of her mother’s life. Picking up the photograph of Delilah, she follows them down and closes the trap hatch, wondering how it might feel to turn back the hands of time.

  5. BRAMBLE

  1976, Two Cross Farm

  Once the funds of my legacy had transferred to my bank account, Two Cross Farm became a centre of activity as we worked tirelessly to prepare our home for its first new residents.

  The four of us – Regine, Kathy, Susan and I – soon fell into a pattern of hard work, labouring from dawn until dusk each day, clearing the neglected house and sprawling gardens, breathing new life into the place, while Fern visited her contacts in London as she tried, and failed, to find a suitable sixth Founding Sister.

  ‘So many of them have the skills we need,’ she told us over supper on her return from another week away. We were sitting in the freshly painted dining room, around the vast ecclesiastical table Regine had haggled for at the local auctions, getting it at a knockdown price because of its unwieldy dimensions. ‘But none of the women I meet are right,’ Fern continued wearily, passing the bread basket to me. ‘Too many are overprivileged, or uncommitted or unfocused. It’s vital that our sixth Founding Sister has need of our sanctuary, and is a good fit.’

  We all agreed; it was vital. Since that first day here, the group had bonded, and despite our obvious differences there was a cohesive atmosphere of trust and purpose – none of us wanted to put that at risk. Only today, as we painted together in the upper bedrooms, young Susan had confided in me about the physical abuse she’d suffered at the hands of her mother – the one woman who should have been trusted to protect her. It provoked in me such a strong maternal response that, in the spirit of openness, I did something I’d never done before, and confessed the sins of my own father against me. Afterwards, that young girl and I laid down our paintbrushes and clung to one another, me a forty-year-old spinster, her a sixteen-year-old girl.

  ‘Anyway, I’m beat,’ Fern said now, looking pale and shadow-eyed as she poured herself another glass of water. ‘And I’m not going away again for the foreseeable future. Number Six will present herself to us in good time – I can feel it. Now, sisters, tell me about the building works!’

  We were all keen to share news of our progress, and Regine went first, proud as she was of our emerging garden. ‘Kathy and I have cleared the entire plot of weeds and overgrowth,’ she said. ‘Though the chance of anything actually growing seems slim to me.’

  Kathy smiled wryly, holding up her fingertips, dark-stained after endless backbreaking hours turning the arid soil, attempting to outwit the heatwave we’d been experiencing that summer. She leaned back in her chair to look out through the cloudy glass towards the lawn. ‘It’s like the Serengeti out there. Completely dry. Still, we can plan out the planting schedule, and prepare the ground. Do we have funds for a greenhouse?’

  Fern nodded.

  ‘Good,’ Regine said, purposely not looking in my direction. Although she never said as much, I sensed resentment at the fact it was my money we were spending. ‘And I’m gonna get one of the guys to build some raised beds before we kick ’em out. Might as well make the most of the muscle while they’re here.’

  Despite our idealistic vision to transform this place ourselves, much of the renovation work required was skilled, and there was a notable absence of female builders in this quiet corner of England. We’d had to accept that, for the short term, men would be admitted. In the past two months, stud walls had been erected, damp courses treated, plaster lathed and roof tiles replaced. Gradually the place was starting to take shape, and it gave me quiet gratification to know that my money – my father’s money – had funded it.

  ‘Ted and Barry finished plastering in the kitchen today,’ Susan updated us. ‘And they’ve given the basement a thorough inspection now – if we get the damp course and ventilation sorted, they can’t see any reason we shouldn’t have the laundry room down there.’

  As well as helping with the painting, Susan had been put in charge of meals and refreshments for the workforce; being so young, she had an easy, guileless way of chatting to the men, of getting the best from them. It didn’t escape my notice, the way their eyes followed her as she fetched them their tea, and there were times when I wanted to march over and point out that the girl was young enough to be their daughter. But I knew that had never stopped a man before, and I let it slide, instead quietly anticipating the day we would close our doors to those men altogether.

  ‘So that’s the upstairs, the dining room and kitchen done,’ Susan concluded. ‘Just the hall to plaster now and they’ll be off in a day or two.’

  ‘Excellent,’ Fern replied.

  ‘I picked up a second-hand sewing machine and some plain fabrics in town yesterday,’ I offered, pointing to two large bolts of furnishing material leaning against the door frame. ‘This time next week, we’ll have curtains in all the windows.’

  ‘Wonderful,’ Fern said, and it struck me that she’d started to grow distracted. She lifted a napkin to her forehead and blotted away the perspiration there, dropping it on her half-finished meal and pushing her plate away.

  ‘The wood store’s going up tomorrow,’ Regine added, ‘so we can prepare ourselves for the winter ahead.’

  Abruptly, Fern stood, pushing her chair back with a scrape.

  ‘Are you all right, honey?’ Regine asked, making to get up too.

  ‘I’m fine!’ Fern barked. It took us all by surprise, and in apology she raised a hand, making it clear she didn’t want a fuss. All the colour had drained from her skin, and despite her deep tan she looked quite unwell. ‘Continue supper without me,’ she murmured, exiting the room. ‘I’m tired from my journey, that’s all.’

  For long minutes after she’d gone, we sat in silence, wondering whether to eat or not, hands folded on the scored wooden surface of the table, four women at a table fit for thirty-three. When Kathy started to serve up, Regine swore under her breath, and headed out through the French doors to the end of the garden and on to the river path beyond.

  ‘Shall I go to Fern?’ Susan asked brightly, as always looking for ways to put herself at our leader’s side. She worshipped Fern like a disciple.

  Kathy shook her head. ‘She said she wanted to be left alone, Susan. But she didn’t look good, did she? I wonder if I should take her a cup of tea?’ With this, she got up and headed for the kitchen to put water on the stove.

  I glanced at Susan across the table from me, seeing the helplessness in her expression.

  ‘Would you clear the table, Susan, there’s a dear?’ I said, keen to set her a distraction. ‘If you wash, I’ll be along to help dry up in a few minutes.’

  I watched her leave before I too left the dining room, to head along the hall to Fern’s room, the only bedroom currently inhabiting the ground floor. For long moments, I hesitated outside her door, worried she might think me intrusive.

  ‘Fern?’ I called eventually, resting a soft hand on the sanded wooden door. ‘Fern, can I come in?’

  When she hadn’t answered after several seconds, I eased the door slowly open and found her curled up on the single bed, sallow-skinned and, to my great concern, with a face wet with tears. It would be the one and only time I would ever see her cry, or ever see her anything less than resolute and strong. I perched at the edge of t
he mattress and put my fingers to her forehead.

  ‘You’re cold,’ I said, taking in the waxy sheen of her shoulders, the tremble of her lean body. I couldn’t stand to see her like this, so altered, so fragile. So very reduced. ‘Are you unwell?’

  With the slightest tilt of her head on the pillow, she rolled a dark eye towards me. ‘Bramble, I’ve had a vision,’ she replied.

  Against the leaded glass of her window, a branch of the willow tapped gently, though there was little breeze on that muggy summer night.

  ‘Is that what’s making you ill?’ I rose then and moistened a face cloth at the small corner basin, returning to place it over her forehead.

  ‘This isn’t illness,’ she said, now easing herself to a sitting position, bringing her bare feet to the floorboards. With shaking hands she ran the damp cloth over her face and neck, pushing her hair away, gathering herself. ‘This is epiphany.’

  ‘What was the vision?’ I asked her as I pulled an upright chair closer, so that our faces were level.

  ‘I have the answer to our sixth sister.’ She stared at me intently as I waited for her to continue. ‘I failed to locate a grown woman suitable to join us as a Founding Sister, and I began to wonder if such a woman does not yet exist.’

  I nodded.

  ‘And then I came to realise that no woman I met was without flaws – every one of them damaged in some way by her time in the world, as we all are – and I knew, we must have one sister without blemish or taint. We need an innocent.’

  It was hard for me to take in what Fern was saying, for a small part of my mind had made the leap. All that remained was for her to say the words. I gazed at her expectantly, noticing how the vibrant shine of her eyes was miraculously restored, as though the very essence of her was nourished by this epiphany she spoke of.

  ‘An innocent?’ I murmured.

  She reached out her hand to grasp mine, and I felt the jolt of her energy as it passed through me.

  ‘Yes. The sixth Founding Sister must be a child.’

  6. CELINE

  Present day

  The local police turn up early, just as Celine is helping Una and Pip load the camper van with bags to take to the charity shop.

  ‘That was quick, Una,’ Pip murmurs, shielding her eyes against the morning light as she watches the squad car approaching on the long driveway. ‘I thought you were going to call your guy after lunch.’

  ‘I am,’ Una replies. ‘This has nothing to do with me. I’ve no idea what this lot want.’

  Minutes later, they are assembled in the living room at the back of the house, and once again Celine is feeling that disquieting sense of events being taken out of her control.

  ‘We’re making routine enquiries in the area,’ the more senior of the two uniformed officers says, lifting his backside off the sofa to reach across the coffee table for sugar. He heaps two spoonfuls into his mug and sits again, stirring his tea in an infuriatingly unhurried manner. On the doorstep he’d announced himself as Sergeant Edwards, putting unnecessary emphasis on the ‘sergeant’, while the constable at his side muttered his own name uncertainly. They look completely out of place against Delilah’s William Morris scatter cushions, and Celine wonders if she’s imagining their discomfort or whether it’s real.

  She sits down on the facing sofa beside Pip and sips her own tea, hoping her silence will speed them along a bit. She hadn’t actually expected them to say yes when she’d offered them a drink. They’re waiting for Una to return from the kitchen, after she’d volunteered to settle Olive and Beebee with colouring pens and paper.

  Now, with a clap of her hands, she’s back, pulling up a high-backed chair and setting herself slightly apart, where she can see them all, feet planted wide. ‘What’s this about, sergeant?’

  She’s smart, Celine thinks to herself. In those few seconds – in that confident gesture, those words, Una has established herself as superior. They don’t know it yet, but she is: she outranks them both. When the officer frowns at her use of his title, Una disarms him with a winning smile. ‘Ex-force,’ she explains.

  The younger officer looks even more nervous now, and Celine figures he must be new to the job, because he fidgets, picking invisible lint off his trousers, waiting for his sergeant to speak first. God, they’re drawing this out.

  ‘Well, it’s fairly unpleasant,’ Sergeant Edwards eventually says, ‘and I can only divulge limited information – but a woman’s body was found yesterday afternoon, about a mile down the river from here.’ He passes a small studio photograph across the table, in which a young woman in her twenties poses with a baby.

  Pip puts her mug on the glass-topped table with a clatter. ‘Oh, God, that’s horrible. She was a mother?’

  The sergeant nods his head. ‘We found the photograph in her wallet, along with documents identifying her as a Robyn Siegle. Do you recognise the name? Perhaps you’ve seen her around the area lately?’

  Celine shakes her head. ‘Do her family know?’

  ‘Yes, the victim’s relatives have been informed.’

  ‘Victim?’ Pip says.

  The sergeant takes the photograph back without acknowledging her question.

  ‘Was it not an accident?’ Una asks. ‘A drowning?’

  ‘We’re not sure,’ the officer replies cautiously, at exactly the same moment the younger one says, ‘Probably not.’

  ‘O-kay,’ Una says, urging the sergeant to elaborate. ‘I take it you’re treating her death as suspicious, then?’

  In the pause which follows, Celine feels the tremor of her pulse quickening.

  The sergeant scowls at his younger colleague, saying, ‘Thank you, constable.’ Silence follows for a few uncomfortable seconds, as he narrows his eyes, appraising Una and the sisters.

  Celine looks at her watch. ‘I’m really sorry, officers, we’re expecting my mother’s solicitors to arrive any minute—’ It’s a lie of course, but she finds she suddenly just wants to get them out of the house, not to think about this dead young woman at the water’s edge. She makes a move to stand up, but the sergeant raises a halting palm.

  He addresses Una. ‘As you’re ex-force, I suppose I can be more straight-talking, Ms—’

  ‘Call me Una,’ she says, nodding encouragingly. She leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees, and the sergeant seems happy that clear lines have been drawn, whatever her past – she’s now a civilian, and he’s establishment.

  ‘We can’t be sure until further tests have been carried out, but because of the circumstances – the way the deceased was found, carefully arranged – we’ve good reason to think she may have been murdered.’

  Pip is silent, pale, and Celine doesn’t think she’s imagining the tension radiating from her. Is Pip thinking what she’s thinking?

  ‘Do you get much of this kind of thing around here?’ Celine asks, her confident tone belying her inner turmoil. ‘Arundel seems so sleepy – so peaceful.’

  The sergeant shakes his head. ‘No. It’s almost unheard of, to be honest. It’s going to shake the community, that’s for sure. Now, I don’t want you ladies worrying yourselves – but I do need to ask you if you’ve seen or heard anything unusual of late. Any strangers about the place? Any unfamiliar vehicles – or noises at night?’

  ‘What do you mean, “carefully arranged”?’ Pip interjects, her voice wavering at the end.

  Celine reaches out a hand, rests it on her sister’s knee, applies reassuring pressure to silence her. Carefully arranged. Those were the exact words the police had used to describe how their sister’s body was found all those years ago. ‘We only arrived a couple of days ago, officer,’ she says. ‘We’re just visiting.’

  ‘Oh, how’s that?’

  ‘This place belonged to our mother.’ She gestures to herself and Pip. ‘We’re only here to sort the house out and arrange the funeral.’

  Sergeant Edwards nods, offers his condolences, and asks each of them if he can take their full names and addresses, which the
constable jots down in his notepad.

  ‘I notice you have direct access to the river path via your property,’ he says, standing to gesture through the large windows, out across the rolling lawn. ‘You haven’t seen anyone hanging around down there at all, at the perimeter?’

  ‘No one,’ Celine answers.

  ‘Just the gardener,’ Una says. ‘You spoke to him yesterday, didn’t you, Pip?’

  Pip nods. ‘His name’s Harry. But he’s not a stranger – I mean, he’s been tending Mum’s garden for years. He comes twice a week.’

  ‘Which days does he come?’ the constable asks, finally finding his voice.

  ‘Mondays, usually – and I’m not sure which other days.’

  ‘We’ll need to speak with him too – PC Whitman, can you follow that up? Does Harry have a surname?’

  Pip shrugs, looks to Una and Celine, who do the same. ‘Sorry. There’s a noticeboard in the kitchen. We can check to see if his details are there before you go?’

  The constable makes another note. ‘That would be great.’

  ‘So, no unusual activity, no strangers spotted,’ the sergeant summarises. ‘And I don’t suppose you have security cameras here?’

  ‘Nothing so high-tech, I’m afraid,’ Una replies.

  ‘You said she was “arranged”,’ Pip persists.

  The sergeant nods slowly, his expression shifting as he works out how much he’s happy to reveal. ‘She was discovered by a dog walker a good mile down river from here. She didn’t appear to have been in the water, and yes, it seems she was laid out with some degree of care.’

  ‘On the river bank?’ Una asks.

  ‘There’s a little wooden pontoon, and, well, she was there. Laid out on the boards. It’s all rather—’

  He halts as Pip expels an unexpected sob, dropping her face into her hands. ‘I’m sorry,’ she murmurs. ‘It’s just …’

  As she tries and fails to gather herself, Una leaps into action, gently taking her hand and drawing her out of the room.