Delilah’s hand crept to her mouth. ‘Oh no.’
Livvy nodded. ‘Father – he was there . . . the shotgun . . . It was awful.’
‘You came home the night your father killed himself?’
‘Yes. Talk about bad timing.’ Livvy rubbed a hand over her face, as though erasing the memories. ‘I was standing there, not knowing whether to be relieved or sad, and then Mother appeared. She took charge. Ushered me away. Told me no one could know I’d been here. That they’d think I’d done it. That my fake death would look suspicious now . . . I could be tried for murder.’ She gave a weary sigh. ‘I left on the cruise ship two days later. When it arrived at its destination, I got off. And I never came back.’
‘Even though your father was dead?’ Delilah asked quietly.
Livvy’s smile was twisted. ‘Yes. Such an irony. We were finally freed from his tyranny and yet, thanks to our attempts to escape it, I was no longer able to come home.’
‘You weren’t prepared to take your chances with the police? To explain what had happened?’
‘I was. Mother wasn’t. She said she couldn’t bear for my life to be ruined any more than it had been already.’
‘Where did you go?’
‘Australia.’
Delilah looked over at Samson. ‘The postcards.’
He nodded. ‘They weren’t from Livvy’s penfriend as Jimmy thought.’ He turned to Livvy. ‘That was how you kept in touch with your mother, wasn’t it? Postcards and the odd Christmas card, supposedly from your old penfriend.’
Livvy nodded. ‘Mother didn’t even want that. She was so afraid someone would stumble on our secret and start making accusations. But I couldn’t leave her not knowing I was okay.’
‘Which is why you followed people on Facebook. To keep tags on what was happening at home.’
‘On Facebook?’ Delilah looked puzzled.
‘It was Jo Whitfield who mentioned it first,’ Samson explained. ‘She said something about a friend request from someone on the other side of the world she’d never heard of. When you accused me of being nosy the other day, I was already toying with the idea that Livvy was still alive, and it seemed so obvious – if you want to stay in touch these days, you use Facebook.’
‘So you found my fake profile,’ said Livvy, impressed.
‘Once I knew what to look for, it wasn’t hard. I started looking at the profiles of the women you were at school with. I searched their lists of friends, trying to find a common denominator. And there it was, a profile for a Vivian Walker. In Australia. I took a chance and sent her a message. And here you are. Although I have to admit, I thought it would take you a lot longer to get here.’
‘I was already in London. I knew Mother had died . . . there was a notice on the Craven Herald website—’ Livvy’s voice trembled and she took a deep breath before continuing. ‘I found out too late to make the funeral but something drove me to come home anyway, so I flew back a week ago. But I couldn’t find the courage to take the next step. And then I got your message.’
It had taken Samson an age to compose the brief lines, trying to think of the right words that would tempt Livvy out of hiding. Sending it to an unknown person through the medium of Facebook and hoping to God that his hunch was right.
‘“Come home. Jimmy needs you,”’ murmured Livvy. ‘You couldn’t have chosen anything more likely to get me back here.’
‘But how did you know Livvy was still alive?’ Delilah asked Samson.
‘Danny. He said we should be focusing on what was missing from the shoebox.’
‘What shoebox?’ asked Livvy.
‘Your mother left you a shoebox in her will. That’s what triggered all of this.’
Livvy’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘She put me in her will?’
Samson nodded. ‘She wanted us to find you.’
‘I thought you’d just found me by accident. I didn’t realise . . .’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Samson as tears sprang to Livvy’s eyes. ‘I didn’t explain when I contacted you. I thought it might frighten you off.’
‘So you don’t know what’s been happening, then? About the missing death certificate and our search for evidence that you were dead?’ asked Delilah.
Livvy shook her head. ‘I just thought you’d got in touch because Mother had died. I had no idea what she’d done.’ She wiped her damp cheeks with the shredded tissue in her hand. ‘Poor Mother. Carrying that secret to her death . . .’
‘It was her way of protecting you,’ said Delilah. ‘She wouldn’t want you to distress yourself over it.’
‘Aye,’ said Ida Capstick, patting Livvy’s hand with firm strokes. ‘The lass is right. Just be thankful Marian left thee in her will. Tha’s been given a way out of all of this.’
‘Thanks to a shoebox,’ said Livvy with a hiccup of a laugh at the absurdity of it all.
‘A shoebox full of clues,’ said Samson.
‘So explain how you knew Livvy was alive thanks to some postcards, a rag doll, a pair of shoes and a jewellery box?’ Delilah smiled at him, trying to lighten the atmosphere.
‘Like I said. Danny Bradley pointed out that not everything in the box might be relevant. And that what was missing might also be important.’
‘The engagement ring.’
Samson nodded. ‘Mrs Thornton gave it to Livvy the night she left town for good. Am I right?’
‘Yes.’ Livvy looked surprised. ‘Mother didn’t have any money at the house. So she told me to sell it. To help finance my new life.’ She stared at Samson. ‘That was it? You worked out I wasn’t dead because of an empty ring box?’
‘Not quite. There was also the matter of Mrs Larcombe at the house on North Park Avenue. She denied any knowledge of you when Mrs Atkins at the salon enquired where you were after you failed to show for work. If you had really been dead, why would Mrs Larcombe tell people she’d never heard of you? It made me think she was hiding something.’
‘She was hiding me,’ murmured Livvy. ‘We thought we could get away with telling people here that I’d died in Leeds. But for those living over there – it would have been too easy for them to uncover the truth. So as far as they were concerned, I just moved on.’ She shook her head. ‘So many lies. Over so many years. And yet you unearthed the truth so easily.’
‘I wouldn’t say it was easy,’ said Samson with a wry smile. ‘Your mother didn’t exactly leave an obvious trail. In fact, if it hadn’t been for Ida, I might never have spotted the clues.’
‘Me?’ Ida sat up in her chair, chin sticking out. ‘There’s nowt I’ve said that caused any of this. I’m not one for gossip.’
‘It wasn’t gossip, Ida,’ Samson said, hands out to calm the indignant cleaner. ‘It was something you said about Livvy’s mother. When you told me why she’d stopped writing to Livvy, you said that Mrs Thornton would die for her daughter. But she wouldn’t allow her daughter to die for her.’
‘Aye. And what of it? That woman had a heart of gold. Just a pity she married such a wastrel.’
‘It made me think,’ continued Samson, turning to Livvy. ‘About all the ways you can die for someone. Like giving them up, so that they can have a life free from an abusive father. I’m sure being separated from you was torture for your mother, a small death every day. But she did it so you could be free. And then continued doing it because she feared the consequences if the truth came out.’
Livvy broke down into fresh tears, Ida putting her arm around her and stroking her back.
‘Enough,’ said Delilah softly, taking pity on the sobbing woman. ‘I think we’ve talked enough about the past for now. It’s time Jimmy was reunited with his big sister and put out of his agony. And it’s time,’ she said looking at Samson, ‘that Sergeant Clayton was told to stop the search.’
Samson organised a taxi to take Livvy up to the farm on Bowland Knotts, while Delilah showed her to the bathroom so she could wash the worst of her grief off her face. Then they gathered at the back door to see her
off.
‘It’s good to have thee home, lass,’ muttered Ida, embracing Livvy once more. ‘Bruncliffe’s in need of folk like thee.’
‘Thanks,’ said Livvy, kissing the older woman on the cheek. Then she held out her hand to Samson. ‘And thank you. Both of you,’ she said, turning to Delilah. ‘If it hadn’t been for your tenacity . . .’
Delilah put her arms around her, hugging her tightly. ‘You were worth the effort,’ she said, making Livvy laugh.
‘I’ll walk you to the taxi,’ said Samson as Livvy pulled up her hood, tucking her distinctive hair under its cover.
With Ida and Delilah waving them off, they turned right out of the gate, Samson having asked the driver to wait on a side street out of sight of prying eyes, knowing the speed with which news of strangers travelled around Bruncliffe.
‘Thanks,’ Livvy said again as they walked down the ginnel. ‘It feels so much better getting everything out in the open.’
Samson paused, Livvy stopping alongside him. ‘Everything?’ he said.
Her gaze dropped to the floor, then her chin lifted and she stared at him. ‘You guessed?’
He shrugged. ‘Not straight away.’
‘Do you think anyone else will?’ she asked, bottom lip trembling.
‘Probably not. They’ll be so caught up in having you back.’
‘It was an accident . . .’ she whispered. ‘It all happened so fast. He was there. Cleaning the gun.’
‘And he saw you?’
She nodded. ‘He went into a rage. Knowing we’d deceived him. He started loading the gun . . . All I could think of was what he’d said to me the night Red died and I knew he was going to kill me. So I threw myself at him. Trying to get the gun off him.’ Her voice dropped even lower. ‘It was an accident,’ she repeated, ‘a horrible accident . . .’
‘And your mother?’
‘She was in the house. She came running when she heard the shot—’ Livvy broke off and Samson took her hand in his.
‘She knew straight away, didn’t she? That you couldn’t come back. That with you dead, she could pass off your father’s death as a suicide caused by grief. But with you alive, there would be reason to suspect murder.’
Livvy nodded, too upset to speak.
‘So she let you stay dead in order to let you have a life. And even in death, she left things so that if there was any blame, it would fall on her.’
‘I don’t know if I can live with that . . .’ whispered Livvy. ‘Letting her take the blame, if it ever comes out.’
‘You have to,’ Samson said. ‘You owe her that.’
She nodded, glanced down at her hands and then back up at him. ‘Will you tell anyone?’
Samson laughed softly. ‘Not me. I’m the world’s best secret-keeper.’
Relief washed over Livvy’s face. ‘Thank you. For everything.’ She stretched up on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. Then she turned and walked towards the waiting taxi.
His last image of her was of that auburn hair, spilling out from underneath her hood as she twisted on the back seat of the taxi to wave goodbye.
When he got back to the office, Ida could be heard up on the top floor, finishing off the cleaning; Delilah was sitting at his desk, staring at the anonymous letters.
‘It’s all so obvious now,’ she said, looking up as he entered. ‘These were never meant to conceal Livvy’s death. They were written to protect her secret. The fact that she’s alive.’
Samson nodded. Waited for her to make the connections he had made, once he realised that the missing piece of the puzzle was the most obvious one – the lack of a dead body.
‘She was seen,’ Delilah continued. ‘Home when she shouldn’t be. When she was supposed to be dead.’
He nodded again. He knew she was working through it all. The gun. The carefully crafted letters. The intruder at Quarry House, driven by the shock of hearing Livvy’s body had been found when they knew it wasn’t possible. The attempt to remove the shoebox in case it gave the game away.
He saw her hand move to her mouth. A gasp of realisation.
‘Oh my God! What are you going to do?’ she asked.
‘First I’m going to shower and change into something more suitable,’ he said, gesturing at his running kit. ‘Then I’m going up there. And before you ask, you’re not coming. This one I need to do alone.’
For once, Delilah Metcalfe didn’t argue.
The farmyard was quiet. He parked the motorbike and walked across the yard. From within the barn he could hear the faint sound of a radio over the bleating of lambs, the silhouette of Oscar Hardacre visible stooping over a sheep pen.
Samson veered away towards the farmhouse, opened the back door, shouted a greeting and went in. Through the porch and across the hallway until he reached the kitchen door. Turning the handle, he entered the welcoming room, with its cluttered sideboard and the smell of baking.
‘Oscar’s in the barn.’ A lone figure, standing by the sink. ‘He says he’s willing to talk.’
Samson shook his head, reaching into his pocket. ‘It’s not Oscar I’ve come to see. I wanted to talk about these.’
He placed the letters on the table, the mishmash of coloured letters garish against the wood.
A glance at the letters. A worried frown. Hands working nervously.
‘I’ve worked it out,’ Samson said gently. ‘It took me a while. The rifle, you see. I didn’t think—’
‘That a woman could fire a gun?’ said Annie Hardacre with a small smile.
Samson smiled back. ‘Not quite. But I must admit, when Delilah said shooting ran in the family, I didn’t think of you.’ He glanced towards the trophies on the sideboard. ‘How many of those are yours?’
‘Most of them. I keep my hand in.’
‘I’m grateful,’ said Samson wryly.
She looked contrite. ‘I was going to hit the bodywork, but you ducked down, offering me a better target with the window. It meant less damage to Delilah’s car.’
Samson was struck by the consideration for Delilah, even as the act was intended to threaten.
‘She nearly drove him mad,’ Annie was saying, looking out of the window towards the barn where her son was working. ‘Livvy Thornton. She was all Oscar talked about. All he thought about. And then she just upped and left . . .’ She turned back to Samson. ‘He was distraught. Obsessed. It wasn’t healthy.’
‘And when Livvy died?’ Samson asked. ‘Things got better?’
Annie nodded, fingers twisting in the folds of her apron. ‘Yes.’
‘Which is why you wanted her to stay dead.’
A sharp gasp gave her away, even if he hadn’t already guessed the truth. ‘You know? How—?’
‘I found her. In Australia.’
‘How is she? Is she well?’ The concern was genuine.
‘She’s fine.’ He wondered how much more to press. Whether it was better to leave the rest undisturbed. Another secret for Bruncliffe to harbour. But Annie Hardacre, after twenty-four years, had the look of a woman who wanted to share the burden. ‘You saw it all,’ he said.
A slight nod. As if words didn’t come easily after all this time guarding them.
‘You went up the path to the house for some reason and saw Livvy, alive when she was supposed to be dead. And her father . . .’
‘He was shouting at her. Goading her. Then he started loading the gun—’ She wiped a hand across her eyes, tears on her cheeks. ‘I’ve never regretted not telling. He deserved it.’
‘You helped her escape. Possibly even helped Marian stage the suicide.’
She nodded, more forcibly this time, as though unashamed of her actions. ‘Marian was a wreck. We got Livvy out of the way and then . . . sorted things. No one ever guessed.’
‘So when you heard we were investigating the lack of a death certificate for Livvy, you panicked. Worried that someone would uncover the truth.’
‘Yes.’ There was a flicker of guilt in Annie’s face for the first time.
‘Worried, too, that Livvy would come back?’ asked Samson gently. ‘And ruin Oscar’s life all over again.’
A hand went to her mouth, stifling a quiet sob. ‘I didn’t know what to do. I just wanted to stop you. I would never have hurt you.’
Samson crossed the kitchen and put his arm around the woman. ‘It’s okay,’ he said, ‘it’s okay.’
Oscar Hardacre didn’t notice the motorbike for some time. A couple of ewes lambing and feeding time for the orphan lambs – it was enough work for two, with his father off up the fells rounding up more sheep. Deciding to ask his mother for help, he emerged from the barn and in the bright sunshine saw the gleaming chrome and scarlet paintwork of the Royal Enfield. The back door opened and his mother appeared with O’Brien.
They exchanged a few low words, then the detective threw up a hand in greeting as he crossed to his bike. Oscar nodded in reply, aware that his mother was coming towards him.
‘What did he want?’ he asked brusquely, watching the departing motorbike.
His mother looked at him, a look of concern. And love. He shifted uneasily.
‘Well?’ he asked.
‘Livvy Thornton,’ his mother said, words so quiet he had to strain to hear them. ‘She’s alive, son. And back in Bruncliffe.’
Oscar stared at the ground. The solid concrete of the farmyard. The familiar sound of the sheep behind him. The sun warm on him. He felt it all shift slightly. Then resettle.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Good. Best get on and get these lambs sorted.’ He walked off, feeling the weight of her worry on his back. Then he stopped, turned, went back to her.
‘I signed up for that bloody speed-dating session,’ he muttered.
He knew she was smiling as he returned to work.
Jimmy Thornton was just in from feeding the yows. He’d taken off his boots and overalls and was drying his hands at the sink in the utility, savouring the smells of baking coming from the kitchen.
‘Swear I heard a curlew on the moor,’ he shouted through to Gemma, who was pulling a cake from the oven.
‘Like heck,’ she retorted with a smile. ‘You’re hearing things. They’re a good couple of weeks off yet.’
Date with Mystery Page 34