by Marni Graff
He was reviewing reports at his desk when the call came from the Windermere station that a young girl had gone missing. Eighteen-year-old Anne Reed had not returned home Thursday evening after an outing with friends. Her physical description was faxed over, and he studied the page, committing her details to his short-term memory. “Brunette; 165 centimeters height; athletic, slim build; experienced hiker.” Ian studied the color photograph. “Last seen wearing” would always remind him of Colin Dexter’s Inspector Morse novel of that title, as he read through her specifics: jeans, Saucony trainers, a pricey teal anorak and a black suede backpack her anxious mother said she “refused to be parted from.”
Additional information on the Windermere report indicated Anne was the eldest child of three; two younger siblings were fathered by a stepfather of five years with whom she seemed to get on. An excellent student, Anne was taking a gap year to decide on a major at college; she tutored and babysat for spending money and to save for her own car.
Anne Reed sounded like a nice kid. Ian hoped she hadn’t decided to act out or run off, but he knew there was a great likelihood she would never be found. He sighed at the enormous pain the loss of a child must inflict, a terrible rent that could never heal, left to fester by the lack of knowledge of her whereabouts. But then he thought of the Clarendons and wasn’t certain that knowing exactly what happened to Keith would help his parents with their grief. Ian stuffed the fax in a folder. One more child to worry about.
Ian worked hard and took great pride in being named a detective inspector, yet at times the inability to achieve a positive outcome haunted him. He remembered a case from the previous year, when a missing child had been found near a secluded tarn, dead from exposure to the elements. It had been difficult to reconcile that he could not always affect the outcome of a case, despite his team’s best efforts. He remembered how shocked his older brother, Gordon, a successful realtor in Carlisle, had been when Ian had told the family he wanted to be a detective.
“What’s it to be then, Ian? Deerstalker hat and pipe?” Gordon had roared with laughter. “And here I thought you just wanted to wear the plod uniform.” Still, his parents had been puffed up when he made detective inspector, and Gordon’s family had shown up for the celebration dinner. Ian knew his parents supported both their boys, but he also knew he would rise in their estimation when he produced a grandchild to match Gordie’s twin girls.
Thinking of his nieces brought him full circle back to Kate and the children he hoped one day to have with her. He’d left Ramsey Lodge without smoothing over her ruffled feathers, a situation he hoped to rectify shortly. He wouldn’t let her annoyance get to him; he was doing the job he was paid to do, after all. But he also wouldn’t let too much time go by without sorting things out with her—she was too important to him. When she calmed down, she might see she had overreacted and that this situation with Keith’s death and Nora’s involvement wasn’t easy on him, either.
He looked down at the report on the missing Anne Reed, a new priority, as was Keith’s death, an event that by its very nature would change his calm, well-ordered part of the world. Not just a life passing on from age or illness, but a young life, full of promise and unfulfilled ambition, and a member of the area’s most prominent family to boot. He’d already checked the computers for any form Keith might have collected—nothing surfaced. A clean record, then. What else could his death be but an accident? Ian would be thorough in his investigation, as usual, but felt confident at this stage that nothing untoward was likely to surface.
Then why did he have this feeling of apprehension?
Ian shook his head. He really was getting ahead of himself; he didn’t have enough information to answer his many questions. He jotted a list of interviews he would need his team to conduct, while part of his mind wondered how Kate was faring. She would learn that this job didn’t allow for being pleasant to witnesses. Nor, most of the time, was his work fun—like now, when he had to attend Keith’s postmortem.
*
3 PM
Milo’s sauce was simmering nicely in a large Crock-Pot in his office when Ian arrived at the pathology department at Westmorland General Hospital in Kendal. The aroma of a rich, tomato-based pasta sauce with basil perfumed the anteroom, barely covering the thick scent of cigar smoke and autopsy room odors, as Ian made his way to the autopsy suite. He knew Milo would share his concoction with his colleagues, pouring rations into clean glass jars before taking his slow cooker home. Ian didn’t know if he’d want to partake in a meal started anywhere near a pathology lab. He donned a paper suit and shoe protectors and entered the autopsy suite, where the other smells fell away and left him with the sharp scent of disinfectant overlaid with the cloying odors of death.
Keith Clarendon’s body, with its greenish cast and purple mottling, lay waiting on the stainless steel table. Ian tried to distance himself emotionally from the man he’d known who had resembled this corpse. Milo started dictating into a microphone that hung from the ceiling before Ian got the menthol gel under his nose and snapped on a mask.
“The body is that of a well-developed, well-nourished Caucasian male, twenty-eight years of age.”
Milo’s assistant, a quiet man with incredibly small hands, snapped a tape measure open smartly and compared it to the markings that ran down the table’s side. Milo consulted both marks and continued: “The body is 177.8 centimeters in length and weighs … ” Milo’s voice droned on in the external examination.
It was the mask that bothered Ian most. He had never understood how doctors and nurses who worked in the operating theater could breathe their own stale, hot air, in and out, for hours at a time behind a paper wall. He didn’t feel claustrophobic but was greatly relieved when he was able to drop the mask. Ian inhaled the menthol gel deeply. He was a firm believer in anything that helped to camouflage the repulsive, metallic scent of death.
The fluorescent glare of the overhead light obliterated shadows and left Keith’s body a study in sharp, unnatural colors. Ian fixed his stance with his hands clasped behind his back and breathed shallowly. He had developed an art to active listening during autopsies: concentrating on Milo’s receding hairline, he heard what the pathologist dictated without letting his gaze linger on the gaping body on the table. This allowed him to appear interested if Milo should look up. He knew the pathologist would draw his attention to anything pertinent, and he did when he opened the lungs.
“A dry drowning. See here?”
Ian nodded and glanced briefly at the bronchial tissue Milo held filleted for his inspection. He felt an expectation to contribute to the conversation. “Shouldn’t there be water if he drowned?” His eyes drifted back to Milo’s forehead as the man gave his assistant a piece of lung tissue to prepare slide samples.
“About fifteen percent of drownings are dry; no water in the lungs. You get a laryngeal spasm that closes the throat. This greenish skin is due to the blue-green algae he soaked in overnight, and those bites are from fish and other buggers that had a go at him, but see here—” Milo held out his right hand, and his assistant slapped a magnifying glass into it. Milo held up Keith’s right hand for Ian’s inspection.
Ian leaned in as Milo waved the glass around. “I would expect to see signs of a struggle if he’d truly drowned, broken nails or scratches from trying to get out of the scull if he’d capsized and tried to swim out from under it. But it’s as if he just let the water do him in—there’s nothing there at all, no effort on his part, and that’s pointing me in another direction. There’s extensive venous congestion on everything I’ve seen, and I expect to find dilated cardiac ventricles and myocardial hypoxia in the heart, a lack of oxygen to the cardiac tissue. I’ve seen this scenario before, in training.” The man’s eyes gleamed. “Have to run the toxicology, but I suspect sudden heart stoppage with respiratory arrest before the scull ever capsized, from an ingested
agent—we’ll rush the toxicology through to see what it might be. Let’s take a look at the heart and then the stomach contents, shall we?”
Let’s not, thought Ian, but he nodded solemnly instead.
Chapter Eight
“There is such a thing as hunger for more than food, and that was the hunger I fed on.”
— Robert Nathan, Portrait of Jennie
3:10 PM
Nora woke with a start. The afternoon light was casting shadows from the arched trellis in the garden onto the floor. She was surprised she’d slept so long. She rolled on her side, pushed up to get out of bed as gracefully as possible with her current bulk and used the bathroom yet again. Pregnancy had pushed her navel outward, and she wondered what her body would look like after she delivered. At the very least, it would be nice to look down and see her feet again. Nora splashed cold water on her face. After running a brush through her hair, she left her room.
The hall door to Simon’s rooms was slid open, but the large main room was empty, and his studio door was firmly closed. Nora walked to his kitchen area, looking out the window over the sink. Across the garden, blue-and-white police tape fluttered in a light breeze. One panda car still stood at the edge of the road. Most of the crowd had dispersed, although a few youths hung around the perimeter in a cluster near the one remaining news van, hoping to get their faces on the evening news. As Nora watched, the van doors opened, and a man climbed out and hoisted a video camera onto his shoulder.
There wasn’t much left to see, but even as this thought crossed her mind, the squad car door opened. Nora saw the constable signal, pointing to the shore. There was a raucous squeal of air brakes as a flat bed truck came into view and halted. The driver jumped down, and Nora watched him spread a large, green tarp across the empty bed. Once the two men conferred, they pulled on gloves and headed down to the scull, where the officer attached a tag to one of its ribs. They carried it easily between them up the shore to the truck’s bed, then wrapped the scull in the tarp and sealed it. The scull was secured to the flatbed using thick bungee cords, and a second tag was attached to the wrapped bundle. The constable signed the driver’s clipboard, and the truck roared off.
It was strange being an observer to the scene. Nora turned away, the rumbling of the truck matched by her empty stomach. Simon’s studio door remained closed. She wasn’t about to eavesdrop twice in one day to determine if he was inside, so she wandered over to the fireplace at the opposite end of the room.
Nora scanned Simon’s bookshelves on either side of the fireplace without absorbing any titles, trying to stop the pictures of Keith, alive and dead, in her brain. She gave the painting over the mantel a close inspection. It was a Carl Larsson print, with vivid colors of his Swedish homestead defining the pictured ornamented furniture. A blonde child with braids churned butter, while her younger sister tried to help. It spoke of domesticity and the comforts of childhood, and Nora felt a pang of hurt for her son, whose mother seemed to have Death sitting on her shoulder.
“Wonderful, isn’t it?” Simon had crept up behind her, Darby by his side. “He’s a big influence on my style.”
Nora reached down to rub the terrier’s ears. “My father used to say he wished modern writers could capture in a story as much as Larsson told in one picture,” she said and casually moved away before Simon could put his hands on her shoulders.
“Agnes left some sandwiches, if you feel up to going over the proof,” Simon said.
She watched him brush his sandy hair off his forehead in a familiar gesture as he said, “I’ll get us milk.”
“Sure,” she said, sitting down at the table and watching him pour two glasses; he brought them over with a plate of sandwiches. Until today, she’d had a ravenous appetite and had carefully watched her weight. Now she hardly felt like eating, but she knew she had to keep nutrients coming for her growing baby. She picked up a sandwich and nibbled on it to keep Simon, the baby and her stomach quiet.
They sat across from each other and passed pages of Nora’s first book back and forth. Their trip to Oxford the past summer had secured a contract with a publisher who specialized in children’s literature, and The Secret of Belle Isle would hit the shelves in time for the holiday buying season.
That contract had been the highlight of a trip fraught with jeopardy and murder, and she flashed on scenes from that investigation: Janet Wallace being informed her daughter, Bryn, had been murdered; the anguish of her best friend being considered a serious suspect in Bryn’s death; the moment the murderer had been revealed, placing Nora and the baby in peril; and always, the face of Declan Barnes, who came to mind whenever she thought of Oxford. Her son kicked hard, bringing Nora back to today and the work in front of her.
“I thought you were going to eat,” Simon said, pointing to Nora’s half-eaten sandwich.
Nora sipped her milk and studied the page in front of her. Simon’s illustrations caught the different demeanors of the fairies who lived on Belle Isle in a round house, under the root of a huge, two hundred-year-old rowan tree. Head fairy Daria lived with the wise elf, Cosmo, and the strong gnome, Logan. The smaller fairies were named Dove, Sky and Tess. In this first book, Nora had Tess getting into trouble.
“I don’t see any text errors or typos yet,” she said as she inspected each page. The bits of sandwich she’d eaten sat heavily in her stomach, and she regretted eating them.
“I’m happy with the color transitions,” Simon announced. “There’s no bleeding, either. Nigel Rumley’s printer is as good as he promised.” He finished his sandwich and reached for another.
Nora couldn’t help but smile. “Mr. Argyle himself,” she said, referring to the eccentric publisher’s penchant for colorful tartan socks.
When Simon rose to refill his glass, Nora held the rest of her sandwich under the table. Darby obliged by gobbling it up. “Simon, thanks for all your help this morning,” she said to cover the dog’s gulping noises.
“You’re most welcome.” He shut the refrigerator door. “I’m cutting you some slack today, but by tomorrow I hope your appetite will be back. Darby will get fat on your handouts and—” A brisk rap at the kitchen door stopped him.
When Simon opened it, Ian was on the doorstep. Nora noted the set of the detective’s shoulders and his sober expression, but Simon seemed oblivious to Ian’s mood.
“Hallo, Ian. Come to cart one of us off?” Simon clapped Ian on his back and pulled out a chair for him.
Ian remained standing. “I need to speak with Nora again. I’ve just come from the autopsy.” The detective hesitated. “There was no water in Keith’s lungs, what Milo called a dry drowning. He’s running tox reports, but it seems Keith may have taken drugs to commit suicide.” Stress lines trenched Ian’s brow. “The other theory is that he was deliberately drugged to drown—and that makes this a case of murder.”
Chapter Nine
“Blessed are they that mourn; for they shall be comforted.”
— Saint Matthew (Matthew 5:4)
3:15 PM
“The beige stone building called Clarendon Hall was built by an early Clarendon landowner in the Tudor period. Although a massive fire destroyed parts of the interior, later generations of the family rebuilt it, using parts of the existing stone outer walls and retaining the massive fireplaces and the remaining linenfold paneling. This wide staircase splits the marble-floored entry hall, and our tour today will take in the rooms on the left side of the house: the formal drawing room, an elegant dining room that seats twenty and the ballroom with its musicians’ gallery. I’ll point out many interesting features and valued antiques. Balls and dinner parties were regularly held here, and Saint Margaret’s Hospital still uses the facility for its annual charity gala … ”
The docent was a good one, and Sommer had regretted having to interrupt her talk ea
rlier to cancel the tour. It couldn’t be helped, and the woman’s eyes widened when he’d discreetly explained his reasons. After speaking with the tour director, the guide hurriedly shepherded the surprised people through the dining room to exit a door on the far side of that room without pointing out any interesting features.
That had been right after DCI Clarke left. The hours from then until now had been some of the toughest he’d endured. Sommer waited while his nurse, Gillian Cole, opened the door to the private family library. All of the doorsills had been removed years ago after Sommer’s accident, which allowed him to glide effortlessly from room to room in his wheelchair. He used his toggle switch to move past Gillian and manipulated himself next to his wife, who sat in her usual chair. Early on he’d christened the motorized chair “My Carriage,” and the name had stuck as he continued to update the models.
Behind them, the window-filled wall let in the light his prized rare plants craved. Sommer checked his collection daily, misting some, snipping away at others, the flowers arranged on low, slatted shelves he could reach. Sommer raised rare orchids, South American lilies and several African species unseen in England. He had been the subject of several magazine articles and was known in Cumbria as an authority on rare plants. Other than doctor’s appointments, the infrequent outings he and Antonia took were usually to area garden shows. It was one of the few activities he could enjoy with his incapacitation.