by Kirsty Ferry
‘I am sorry. This has all been an immense shock to me. I cannot quite grasp that she is dead. I shall now attempt to continue. The doctor was sent for and he came shortly afterwards. I do not believe she wished to die. I do not believe it was intentional. Daisy admired Mrs Rossetti, and I can only think she was distraught at the news of her passing that morning and wished to still her thoughts. I do not believe my Daisy meant to kill herself.’
‘What a bloody mess,’ said Becky, the tears running down her cheeks. The verdict was, in the end, suspected suicide. It should maybe have been ruled as accidental death, Becky thought; but as most of the witnesses, apart from Henry, had expressed in some way that the poor woman was mentally unstable, it was ruled as suspected suicide.
Henry, Becky thought, could clearly see no wrong in her. The poor, poor man. And Daisy herself – well, this gave a whole new angle to her possibly not being at rest.
Chapter Thirty-One
ALMOST NOTTING HILL
It was ridiculously early in the morning when Cori woke up. It took her a moment to realise where she was. There was a glow coming through the window which she realised was a streetlamp and a warm body next to her that she remembered was Simon.
The lamplight cast shadows on his face and she looked at his sleeping profile for a few moments. His fair hair looked darker in the shadows and his lashes were long and thick, almost resting on his cheekbones. He shifted in his sleep and turned towards her. He threw one arm around her and she closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. If only this thing with Daisy wasn’t happening – she could actually feel very happy here.
The spectre of Evan at least was finally erased. She’d never spent the night with anyone since and she’d almost forgotten what it felt like to feel warm and cared for and loved.
Cori opened her eyes and looked at Simon again. She imagined him lying in her bed in the mews house; imagined him amongst all the clutter and the cushions and the bright colours that graced her house.
Not one thing matched and she liked it that way.
Thinking of Evan, however, had unsettled her, because that led onto babies and Becky and, naturally, Daisy’s diary. And that way, as Shakespeare had once said, madness lay.
Angrily, Cori wriggled out from under Simon’s arm and threw the sheet off her body. She grabbed a shirt from the chair in the corner and pulled it over her head. It was Simon’s shirt and she closed her eyes, inhaling deeply as the scent of him wrapped itself around her.
She walked over to the window, covering the distance in three steps and leaned on the windowsill, twitching back the blinds and staring out over London laid out far below her. They said that New York was the city that never slept, but she would happily beg to differ. She could see taillights and headlamps weaving through the streets, the windows of far off buildings illuminating the skyline and she knew that on the paths below her people would be walking to wherever they needed to go at that time in the morning; to go to work or to go home or to find a coffee shop that was open 24-7 to try and chase their hangovers away before they had kicked in properly.
Cori found herself imagining what the city would have been like when Daisy and the PRB lived here.
‘I’ll show you, I’ll show you everything.’
Cori froze. The nausea began creeping over her again and the lights outside disappeared into pinpricks.
‘It didn’t all happen in London, though. We visited Hastings as well. I can show you the church where Dante and Lizzie married, and I can take you to Fairlight Downs. Dante’s friend, William Holman Hunt, painted it beautifully. Of course, I knew him better as William. I met him at Gower Street.’
The voice was conversational, rational. It was as if it was talking to her as a friend; a confidante.
‘You look a lot like Lizzie as well,’ it continued. ‘We have so much in common, Corisande. I am sure people used to mistake Lizzie and me for one another. I was in Dante’s company so frequently, it isn’t surprising.’
Cori clapped her hands to her ears. There was no escape. No escape from Daisy.
‘But poor Lizzie. She was so ill when they got married she had to be carried to the church.’
‘Shut up!’ Cori hissed. And then there was a crash from the room next door. Cori swore, sweat breaking out all over her body. ‘What are you doing here?’ she said, almost crying. ‘Go away!’
‘Come on, come and see what he’s doing,’ said the voice.
‘No!’ said Cori. ‘I won’t.’
‘You have to,’ it said. ‘Come with me.’
It was as if she was taken there.
Her feet moved one in front of the other and she found herself at the bedroom door. ‘Please stop it,’ she sobbed. ‘I don’t know what you want. Why can’t you leave me alone?’
‘I’m not going to hurt you!’ said the voice. ‘Just come with me and you can see it. I told you that we have so much in common.’ Then the voice hardened. ‘Of course, he’s doing it all wrong. I’ll have to do something about that. But I want you to see it first.’
Cori realised she was in the small corridor outside the bedroom, heading towards another white, featureless door. As she stood in front of it, the door opened and she jumped, ramming her fist in her mouth to stop herself from screaming.
Something small and furry shot out of the door and brushed past her bare ankles, mewing loudly. The cat. Of course, it was the cat knocking something over in there. With shaking hands, she felt around for a light switch on the wall. Her fingers settled on the cold plastic fixture and pressed down on it. The room was flooded with light and that was when Cori got another shock.
The room was a mess. An utter tip. Much like her house was. There were canvases stacked up against the wall and palettes full of dried paint lying around on various surfaces. Brushes of all sizes stood upright in glasses and half-squeezed tubes of paint were piled up beside them.
An easel stood by the window and Cori walked over to it. She could barely move in the tiny room and wondered briefly how Simon had actually thought he could clear this room and locate a futon. She didn’t know where he would have put all the contents if she had decided she wanted to sleep there. She stepped over artists’ materials and sketchbooks and broken pieces of charcoal and finally stood in front of the easel; and what she saw on the canvas made her gasp.
Simon had recreated the famous Ophelia picture by Millais, but it was so very different. The strokes were looser and the background not so detailed. He had, instead, concentrated on the girl who lay in the water. The girl looked very, very familiar. She had long, red, curly hair and greenish-blue eyes. Her skin was white, with a faint blush on her cheeks and she had a nose that was very, very like …
‘It’s me!’ whispered Cori, touching the painting carefully. It was painted in oils and she could feel the smooth peaks and rougher textures beneath her fingertips. It must have taken him a while – and he’d done it all from memory. Knowing how much he loved the original, it was no surprise that he had managed to convey the river as perfectly; but to recognise herself in that painting and to see how much care had been taken with her likeness was indescribable. But it actually made Cori’s skin crawl to imagine Daisy prying around the flat and discovering it first. Maybe Daisy had even been there when … when they were … ugh! The thought was unbearable.
Daisy’s response was a low chuckle. ‘Never mind about that,’ came her voice again. ‘What are we going to do about this picture?’
‘Nothing,’ Cori said, turning back to the door. ‘We’re not doing anything. Why am I even talking to myself like this?’
‘You’re talking to me,’ said Daisy. The door clicked shut, centimetres away from Cori and, too terrified even to scream, a strangled gurgle came from somewhere deep in her throat. She spun around, suddenly conscious of a strange light in the tiny room.
A vague outline of a tall, slim girl in a silvery-white dress stood in front of the easel. She turned her head towards Cori and smiled. She reached out a hand and extended h
er forefinger in the direction of a paintbrush. Cori saw it lift, then it was as if the girl was guiding it somehow. It dipped gracefully into a pot of white paint and somehow threw itself at the canvas.
‘No!’ cried Cori, finding her voice. ‘You can’t!’
‘I can and I will,’ said Daisy. She reached out her other arm and pointed it at Cori. Cori felt herself stumbling backwards until she was pinned against the door. ‘He’s done a lot of things correctly, but he hasn’t got this right.’
It was like a black, depressive fog had descended on Cori; it was even more intense than the horrible feeling Daisy’s otherworldly laudanum had brought on in the park. Her stomach cramped like someone had taken a corkscrew to her intestines and twisted her insides around it. Cori involuntarily bent double, fighting against the urge to throw up, yet simultaneously fighting for air as her lungs constricted within her chest.
Waves and waves of dizziness came at her, and her body suddenly felt like lead. Her legs crumpled beneath her and it was a hundred times worse than the worst drunken state she had ever been in. With no Becky to hold her up this time, she slid onto the floor semi-conscious, the image of the girl standing at the easel fading and the sound of the paintbrush slapping relentlessly against the canvas.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Simon stretched in bed. It was the first time in a long time that he could ever remember falling asleep with a smile on his face and waking up with one too.
He lay still in the May morning, just listening to the birds outside the window, followed by the roar of a jet engine streaking across one of Heathrow’s flight paths. Ah, well. You couldn’t have everything.
He rolled over, fully expecting his arm to land on and subsequently curl around Cori’s soft, warm body.
Instead, his arm landed on cold sheets and empty space. ‘Cori?’ He sat up, looking around the room. Ridiculous – it’s not like she could have got lost in the room. Or even, for that matter, in the flat. Maybe she was in the bathroom. Yes – that might be it. He swung his legs out of the bed and listened carefully. He couldn’t hear the hum of the shower or the boiling of the kettle. So where on earth was she?
He padded out into the tiny hallway and peered into the kitchen and lounge. Nothing. The bathroom door was wide open and the second bedroom door was firmly shut. Well, there was no way she could be sleeping in there. In fact – he looked around the place – there was no way she could be anywhere. There was still one cup in the sink, the cat was staring at its food bowl meowing pitifully and there was no sign of … of anything. No overnight bag. No coat. No clothes. Nothing.
Simon swore and hurried over to the door. The chain was hanging loose from the doorframe, and he always slid it shut. In fact, he knew he had done that last night, when they had walked in. He placed his hands on the doorframe and his forehead on the door feeling the chill of it against his skin.
She’d gone. Just like that. After everything they’d shared last night. Simon swore again, more loudly this time and stepped away from the door. There had to be a reasonable explanation for it. She wouldn’t have just walked out on him. Would she?
He headed into the bathroom and switched the shower on, going through the motions of his daily routine without even thinking about it. Then he had a horrible feeling in the pit of his stomach. The second bedroom. He usually left the door ajar so Bryony could come and go as she pleased. The cat loved lying on a pile of soft cloths he kept in there. Hadn’t the door been shut tightly when he looked earlier?
What if Cori had seen the painting? The other Ophelia? He knew he had been taking a risk painting it without asking her permission and he hadn’t even mentioned it to her last night. He had meant to; he had meant to take her in there and approach it properly – but what if she’d seen it by mistake and thought he was some nutjob obsessional person? That he had invited her back to kidnap her or keep her prisoner until he finished the most detailed parts of the girl’s face?
‘Oh, please, no,’ he said. He crossed the corridor in a few steps and threw open the door, his heart pounding and his mouth dry.
Nothing. There was nothing out of place. There was no sign of anyone having been in there at all. He walked over to the painting and ran his fingers across the girl’s dress, then traced her hair with his forefinger. Now he knew what that hair felt like for real, covering the pillow next to him, tangled in his fists.
He stared at the painting a moment longer, frowning. He leaned forward. He thought that collection of white daisies at the bottom of it was a bit too in your face now. He’d painted far too many, hadn’t he?
That’s what happened when the mood just took you over and you painted without really seeing what it was on the canvas. It was all in your mind and in your heart, and when you looked at it afterwards, you sometimes saw things like this. Sometimes, they were happy accidents, like the way the sun dappled Cori’s hair, or the way her hands unfurled a little in the water, her fingers trailing amongst the flowers.
But today, seeing those daisies in daylight, he realised they weren’t exactly his best work. He couldn’t worry about it now. He would worry about Cori instead. Where the hell was she?
He walked into the lounge and picked up his phone from the dining table. He hoped she had texted him or called him, but the screen was blank; just his usual dull, boring screen saver which he hadn’t even personalised – not even with a picture of Bryony.
As if she knew Simon was thinking about her, the cat meandered over and meowed even louder, wrapping herself around his legs. Automatically, he bent over and ran his fingers from the top of her head, along her spine, to the tip of her tail. She arched her back and began purring, then nudged his leg after a moment or two, apparently reminding him she was the most starving cat in the history of the world.
‘Yeah, yeah,’ he said, walking over to the kitchen, the cat keeping pace. ‘Where did she go then Bryony? Do you know?’ The cat meowed and took up her vantage point at the bowl, looking up at him expectantly. ‘You think I should call her, Bry?’ he asked, putting his phone down and scooping food into the cat’s bowl. ‘What’s that? You do? Yeah?’ He straightened up and stared out of the tiny window that looked out onto the balcony. Somewhere out there in London was the girl he loved. And, surprising even himself, he realised that he couldn’t just stop the feeling. He knew he should be angry and upset and all the other emotions the situation demanded, but he just felt lost; and he knew there had to be something else going on. He turned back to the bench and eyed his phone.
Damn it, he was going to call her. And if he couldn’t speak to her, he was going to drive around to her house and see her that way. Come hell or high water, he was going to find out just what was going on.
Chapter Thirty-Three
SOUTH KENSINGTON
Becky just couldn’t work. Despite the fact she had her laptop and had access to Lissy’s Wi-Fi, as well as any space in the house she wanted to work in, the words just wouldn’t come.
She had chosen the dining table with its big, beautiful window where the sun streamed in and its view out over the neat, little square, with Old Brompton Road seething in the distance; but she hated it. She longed to go back to Whitby, to sit amongst her muddle of papers and piles of notes and, yes, to even find herself amongst Jon’s well-meaning stream of constant hot coffee, which inevitably grew cold as she lost herself in her work. But it was hopeless to try and settle to anything here.
She thought much of it was to do with reading that inquest last night. She’d hardly slept in the end, what with all the unpleasant thoughts continually whirling inside her head and the baby bouncing around like it was on a trampoline – which was probably the result of drinking the red wine. Even now, it seemed to have a fist or an ankle somewhere up near her ribcage and be relentlessly kicking or punching her insides as if it had just discovered an exciting new game.
After one particularly well-placed thrust, Becky pushed her chair away from the table and stood up, walking over to the window. She sta
red out at the road and the traffic and carefully placed the tips of her fingers against the windowpane. Maybe a bus would go by and judder the window and cause a bit of a diversion for her. Yes, she was willing to do anything for a bit of procrastination. Well, a bus did go past, but the window never budged and Becky moved her hand away sighing.
She looked around her and realised suddenly what part of the problem was. It was just too damn sterile in there. It was unsettling and she hated it. There was nothing, absolutely nothing out of place and she felt like she was intruding by trying to use the space effectively. At least at home, she could wander down to see Jon or help out in the studio or go for a walk over the cliff paths to blow the cobwebs away. What could she do here? And, more to the point, what could Jon do here?
At present, he was apparently off taking pictures, but she had no idea where he actually was. Lissy was at the gallery and Becky was supposed to be working. But, worst of all, she had no idea what else she could do for Cori – she had seen that the girl was having a horrible experience and that too was part of the problem.
Simon, however, had reported late last night that Cori was much better and had decided to spend the night at his place. Lissy had practically jumped for joy and Becky had at least been able to relax a little, knowing that was the case. But that newspaper report they had found still troubled her. Daisy Ashford didn’t seem to be at rest at all; which was an odd thing to think, but somehow Becky knew that was the issue.
And she still felt completely trapped in this beautiful apartment. She knew she should be out there doing something, but what? She looked out of the window again and then her heart skipped a beat. Walking along the path out of the square was Jon, laden down with his camera equipment, his hands in his pockets and looking as if he hadn’t a care in the world. In fact – she squinted her eyes – was he whistling?