by Marni Graff
Nora took a deep breath. “I believe Keith was really Julia and Edmunde’s child, and Rose was born to Antonia and Sommer. It’s right there if you’re looking for it.”
Across the table, Cook visibly stiffened. Silence. Nora sipped her tea and watched dust motes dance in the light over the kitchen sink. When she looked back at Cook, the woman’s tears splashed on the table in front of her.
Cook noisily used a hankie she withdrew from her apron pocket. She met Nora’s eyes and gave her a brief nod. “Twenty-eight years I’ve kept the secret. She was the sweetest little angel, a beautiful tiny babe, not a mark on her.” Cook’s resistance collapsed, and she poured out the story between sniffing and dabbing at her nose and eyes.
“Miss Antonia went into labor after news came of Sommer’s accident. Her sweet little girl was perfect but had underdeveloped lungs, they said, and only lived a few hours. The whole thing threw Miss Julia into labor that night, and she delivered a healthy boy by Caesarean, but something went terribly wrong, a bleeding complication, and she died hours later.”
Nora drew in a breath and touched Cook’s hand, encouraging her to continue.
“Mr. Edmunde was out of his mind with grief. He wouldn’t go to the nursery; he refused to hold the baby and said he wouldn’t take him home. Miss Antonia, she was filled with her own heartbreak over losing Rose and hadn’t left the hospital yet when Sommer was stabilized enough to transfer him down here. She divided her time those first few days between nursing the boy and staying at Mr. Sommer’s bedside until he was out of danger. Mr. Edmunde finally went to see his brother, and Mr. Sommer begged him to let them raise the boy as their own. He worried for Antonia’s sanity and could see Edmunde didn’t want anything to do with the babe.”
Cook shifted in her chair and paused to sip her cooled tea. She swallowed. “In for a penny, in for a pound,” she said, more in control now. “Mr. Edmunde agreed and used money and favors to ‘correct’ the birth certificates. I’m the only one who knew, besides the last vicar, who’s dead now.”
“What about the hospital staff, the nurses and such?” Nora asked.
“They knew Miss Antonia was the baby’s aunt, but he was only there for three days, and Saint Margaret’s isn’t around the corner. Then Gillian was hired for Mr. Sommer, and between us we managed pretty well. ‘Cepting at the beginning when Miss Antonia hovered over him and the baby day and night. At one point, we had to get in a night nurse because she wasn’t sleeping; she was afraid Keith would die from that no-reason thing—”
“Crib death, or Sudden Infant Death Syndrome,” Nora supplied.
“That’s it.” Cook’s tears had dried, and she stuffed the damp hankie back into her apron pocket. “We’d bring her the baby to nurse between resting or sitting with Mr. Sommer, and she gradually got her strength back. I think after a while, we all forgot he wasn’t theirs. That lad, he was such a blessing to them both … ” Cook ran out of steam.
“That explains the register change,” Nora said. “But how would the real facts have altered anything? Edmunde never remarried, so Sommer and then Keith would eventually inherit the estate after Edmunde’s death, instead of it going directly to Keith, right?”
Cook agreed as a bell rang in the kitchen. “That’ll be Miss Antonia, wanting her elevenses. She and Mr. Sommer always have their tea together. I’ll get theirs up to them.”
She rose to take the kettle from the warming plate of the Aga and prepared the teapot, resting it on a prepared tray on the counter.
Nora sprang up from her seat as quickly as her bulk would allow. “Let me take that up, Cook.”
“Don’t upset Miss Antonia with your snooping. Promise?” Cook pointed a finger at Nora.
“I don’t see how there’s a motive there for Keith’s murder, no matter who his parents are. It was more a matter of emotion at the time,” Nora said.
Cook handed her the tray. “You give me your word you won’t say anything? “ Cook admonished. “She’s too fragile.”
“I promise.” Nora raised her hand in a solemn Girl Scout salute.
Cook appeared satisfied and showed Nora how to use the elevator. “They’re upstairs today.”
Nora took the lift upstairs, and as she turned the corner, she wondered how she could get around her promise.
The door to Antonia and Sommer’s suite stood open, and Nora could see the parents sitting together on the small balcony off their bedroom, holding hands. The balcony overlooked the back lawn and gardens, and the view revealed the autumnal reds and golds of the birch, rowan and horse chestnut trees that lined the way to the purple fells in the distance. Blackbird calls competed with periodic fits of a singing thrush; thin trees in the garden bent to the breeze that was bringing in a low mist.
Nora thought it was a scene evocative of what Dorothy Wordsworth, William’s devoted sister, had called “a glorious wild solitude.” This harmonious connection to nature hit her squarely as she entered the room with the tray; it was a feeling she remembered from hiking in the hills of Connecticut. She collected herself and spoke quickly to ward off questions as she broke into the couple’s reverie.
“Hello, sorry to interrupt. I dropped in to see how you were doing and volunteered to bring this up for Cook. I hope you don’t mind.” This was reasonably close to the truth, Nora decided, hoping her color wouldn’t rise. Her son chose that moment to give her a hearty kick.
“Please, bring a chair and join us, Nora.” Sommer recovered first, ever the gentleman. He looked down at his legs.
Nora understood he would have carried her chair out if that were possible. She set the tray on the small table between them and took a chair from in front of Antonia’s dressing table onto the balcony.
“I’ve just had tea with Cook, so have yours while it’s hot. Would you like me to pour?” She turned to include Antonia in the conversation.
Antonia’s subdued manner, as though she were seeing the world through a layer of dulling gauze that had descended over her, was instantly recognizable to Nora. Grief was a series of stages, and Nora had been surprised to discover she had traversed those stages in the wake of Paul’s death; perhaps insisting she would have been unhappy with him was actually a coping mechanism. She would never really know.
Intense empathy spilled over Nora, and with it came melancholy shame at ever having suspected these dignified people of murder. Quelling her guilt, she told herself they would be the first ones to want to identify Keith’s murderer.
Sommer asked about her book. She explained about sending the proof off as a step toward its impending publication. This was safe ground. “I’m always on the lookout for a story idea for coming books,” she noted. “Keith was so supportive of my books being set here on Lake Windermere.”
Antonia stirred at Keith’s name and made eye contact. The two women smiled at each other. “He loved books, our Keith. We read to him every night when he was little, both of us,” she explained.
Sommer added his own thoughts. “I couldn’t do a lot of things other fathers did with their sons, but I could read to him. He read on his own very early, you know,” he said, clear pride in his voice.
“I do know,” Nora said with warmth. “Keith was very proud of that. We talked about it one night in Oxford. He felt it gave him an edge over other boys when he went to school.”
Antonia brightened. “Thank you very much for telling us that. It’s something to hold onto.”
A comfortable silence descended over the balcony. Nora knew she couldn’t introduce the baby switching without compromising her promise to Cook.
Antonia broke the stillness. Her comment made Nora aware she had become a silent partner to their secret. “Do you know my most happy memory of Keith?” Antonia didn’t appear to expect either of her companions to guess. “It was the first time he called
me Mummy.”
Chapter Fifty-Nine
“In the end Jack Burdette came back to Holt after all.”
— Kent Haruf, Where You Once Belonged
10:50 AM
Ian felt exhausted. Things with Kate were pure crap, as his Gran used to say, and there appeared to be no joy to be had in any of his cases. As he reviewed the rest of the background checks that he’d asked for, one note caught his eye. Nothing else seemed to be of much use toward the three murders, but one item bore checking out. He asked the civilian at the computer terminal to track down a birth record in Scotland. “All routes of inquiry should be pursued,” he’d learned in training, justifying the request to himself as the door to the incident room banged open and Higgins rushed in.
“Sir, there’s been a reliable sighting of the missing girl in Windermere,” he said.
“Grab the keys and ride with me,” Ian instructed.
The young detective kept to the speed limit, just, as he drove them north of Kendal to the town of Windermere, filling Ian in on their destination.
“We had a call from the hostel with a description match on Anne Reed,” he said, pointing up the High Street. “That distinctive teal anorak gave her away.”
Ian hoped he was right. It would be nice to close this case with a positive result. They pulled in front of the Lake District Backpackers Lodge and entered the orange-painted haven of dorm beds (“laundry on premises”), used largely by international travelers and students on a strict budget. Ian knew the place, near the train station, had a good reputation and thought it was remarkably clean for this kind of housing.
Flashing his warrant card to the ponytailed man at the desk, Ian established he was the person who had called in to headquarters. The man pointed and said quietly, “Laundry,” motioning to the back room, anxious to remain uninvolved. Still, Ian acknowledged, he’d done his civic duty.
The sound of whirring machines, augmented by the smell of hot air, bleach and detergents, led the men to the laundry. At their entrance, a scrawny young man with too many earrings in his left ear nudged a slender, chestnut-haired girl, who folded clothes to the beat of the music in her ear buds. The wire led to an open black-suede backpack. Pulling the ear buds from her ears, the girl looked furtively toward the back door. Ian motioned to Higgins, who covered the exit.
“Excuse me, a word please,” Ian said pleasantly, his stiff smile indicating he would brook no argument. He flashed his card, introduced himself and Higgins, and pointed to a row of plastic chairs.
“We haven’t done a thing, not a bloody thing,” the girl said, but they sat, the young man draping his arm protectively around her shoulder.
“It’s fine, Peach,” he assured her. “We’ve nothing to hide. Always glad to assist the police with their enquiries,” he added cheerfully.
He’s a polite charmer, Ian thought, but then she was supposed to be a bright girl. “Do you have any identification?” Both nodded and produced driving licenses. “Peter Morris, age twenty, of Sawrey; Anne Reed, age seventeen, from Windermere.” He thanked them and returned their cards, wondering where the two young people had met. Some athletic event, he decided, noting the pile of folded clothes contained several brightly striped rugby shirts.
“Miss Reed, your mother has filed a missing person report in Windermere and is extremely worried about you.” In fairness, he didn’t know if the girl’s stepfather shared this sentiment.
The girl colored but set a determined line about her mouth as she answered. “I’m seventeen, almost eighteen, and old enough to make my own decisions. She’s got the little ones to fuss over, him to take care of and I don’t need to be their babysitter any more. I’m allowed to have some fun and have my own life, you know.”
She glanced at her companion and blushed harder. “Besides, they didn’t understand how much Peter and I really love each other and want to be together the right way. He takes care of me.”
Ian sat back and rubbed his hand over his face. Legally, he could do nothing to force Anne Reed to return home, nor would he be able to convince these youths they were making a huge mistake running away together. At least he could tell her mother she was alive and looked well. “What are your plans?”
Peter pulled Anne against him. “We’re getting ready to head down to Weston-super-Mare, got a lead on jobs at the SeaQuarium there, right, Peach?”
“Down to North Somerset?” Ian asked. “You haven’t traveled very far in a week,” he noted.
This time it was Peter who blushed. “What kind of a blighter do you take me for? We were married last Friday, been having a proper honeymoon for a few days in Bowness, Peach and me, at Rose Cottage.”
Rose Cottage? It turned out there might be some joy to be had after all.
*
11:15 AM
Ian directed Higgins to speak with Anne Reed’s mother and reassure her that her daughter was safe and acting of her own accord. The newlywed reluctantly promised to call home that evening, probably in search of funding. He could imagine the teary reunion call.
He had his sergeant drop him back at the station and went directly to the incident room to check on his earlier request. He read the information that confirmed what he’d suspected, while one part of his mind replayed the unexpected information his careful questioning of the couple had elicited. It all came together now.
Yes, they’d admitted, they’d been at Rose Cottage when all of that fuss had occurred in the front arbor. They remembered having come in after dinner, close to 8. The arbor had been empty then.
“Did either of you know the dead man?” he had asked, a matter of form.
“No, sir,” Peter Morris had replied, eager to be taken as a compliant adult. “It really upset Peach here when we heard the sirens, didn’t it, luv?”
Anne’s pretty face had lost its color. “It was so sad,” she’d agreed. “Especially when he’d seemed so happy when we passed him.”
Ian’s pulse had quickened. It had been the connection he’d hoped for when he’d heard the couple had stayed at Rose Cottage. “Where was that, Miss—uh—Mrs. Morris?”
The girl had beamed at the use of her married name. “At the ice cream stand right near The Scarlet Wench. He and a bloke were sharing a nip from a grotty old flask.”
Ian had felt a surge of excitement. Simon had been nowhere in this vicinity; he would be able to clear him shortly. His copper’s instincts had told him this case would soon be solved. He had resolved to visit Kate at his first opportunity to plead his case. The conflict that had dogged him about doing his duty versus loving her had melted away. He was on firm ground now, thanks to the young couple.
Chapter Sixty
“ … watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places. … ”
— Roald Dahl
11:15 AM
Simon was pleased with how his painting was progressing. He’d had to paint in a different flower when the rare one he’d borrowed from Sommer had been taken into evidence, but since it had turned out to be an instrument of death, its presence would have been disconcerting. The art was a surprise for Nora. He hoped she would be pleased and not view his gift as interference or worse, as possessiveness. He meant it as an assurance of her strength and his support of her decision to raise her child alone. He hoped Nora would see it the same way.
He felt better now after getting real sleep. With only Tony Warner at the lodge to have breakfast, Sally and Agnes had coped and he and Kate had both slept in. Last night had been surreal. The stark interior of Kendal station was starting to become too familiar and had looked far more menacing at night. He’d felt a tremor of dread pass over him when he stepped inside. Kate had gripped his hand tightly. She’d remained at his side until Ian had showed her
to a small side room, allowing her to watch as Sergeant Higgins conducted the interview in the presence of his solicitor.
All of Simon’s fear had dissipated. If he were a serious suspect in Ian’s eyes, someone Ian really felt was capable of murder, Ian never would have allowed the woman he loved to watch while he took her brother down.
Simon had decided this was calculated to keep Ian on the right side of procedure as he tried to win back Kate’s love. Simon had answered the sergeant’s questions comfortably and felt relaxed as he recounted his movements over the last week, none of which had taken him in the vicinity of Clarendon Hall. As they had waited for Ian to excuse them, Kate had hugged him.
“See, that wasn’t so bad, Katy-did.” His use of her childhood nickname had made her beam.
“I was so afraid for you,” she had admitted. “I had the solicitor promise me you wouldn’t have to spend the night in a cell.”
“What? You thought I had something to worry about?” Simon had stood away in mock horror.
“Never,” Kate had grinned. “I just hate to see you caught up in this. Nora feels the same way. Let’s get some sleep.”
Thinking of Nora had him checking his watch. He decided to see how her morning had gone. When he got to her door, it stood open. The bed was neatly made, and Darby was stretched out on the soft duvet right in its middle. There was no sign of Nora.
“Down,” he told the dog and turned to leave with Darby slinking at his heels when he noticed the screen saver on Nora’s laptop, a montage of Connecticut: the hills and shore views from her hometown’s Main Street, a meadow in flower, a tall white flagpole with a huge American flag undulating in the breeze.