by Kayte Nunn
“I expect she’ll already be in the kitchen by now.”
“Yes, yes . . . I expect she will.” Richard suddenly felt himself to be at a loss and dithered about what to do first.
“Strong tea,” Jean instructed. “And I think she’s got some sugar squirreled away. Tell her to put two spoonfuls in. Heaped.”
When Richard reached the kitchen there was no sign of Mrs. Biggs and instead of putting the kettle on the range, he went to the pantry, where he knew there was a bottle of whiskey hidden somewhere on the top shelf. He sloshed a good inch into a mug and sat down at the table, dazed. He steeled himself to tell George. He could well imagine the man’s reaction, hoped it would not break either of them. He had to stay strong. He decided to tell them as a group, it would be kinder—to himself as well as the men.
He would also have to inform Robbie’s next of kin, his sister, and he had no idea what he might say to her to soften the blow. He felt entirely responsible. She had entrusted him with the welfare of her brother and he had failed her. The mug rattled, jittering against the table as he picked it up. He downed it in one gulp, wincing as the amber liquid flamed down his throat.
* * *
Later that morning after Richard had sufficiently recovered his wits, he summoned everyone into the parlor to explain the situation. Reactions ranged from the dumbfounded to the resigned. Wilkie couldn’t understand it, asking over and over why no one had noticed, most of all himself. “I thought we were friends,” he protested. “He could have confided in me if something was wrong, getting him down, you know.”
“Don’t blame yourself,” Richard said. “Often those people closest to a person still have no idea. Even I was unaware he was having suicidal thoughts. If blame rests anywhere, it should be squarely on my shoulders.”
“I have to see him.”
George’s voice was low and Richard noticed that his right leg was jerking as if it had been electrocuted, though George appeared oblivious to the movement. Richard wanted to place a reassuring hand on the man’s knee, but held himself back. He had to try and keep a professional distance, or he would lose control of himself and the situation entirely. He clenched his jaw. “I can’t stop you, but I don’t think it will help,” he replied, trying to sound calm.
“With all due respect, Doc, I’ve seen more than my fair share of dead bodies.”
“Precisely why I don’t think it is a good idea,” he replied.
“Afraid in this instance, I’ll keep my own counsel on that, if it’s all the same to you. And if I may, I would like to, to—” He stopped and caught his breath. Richard could see that George was trying not to break down in front of them all. “To prepare his things.”
“It’s rather unorthodox, but I don’t see why not.”
“I think that would be a good idea,” said Jean.
Esther remained quiet; Richard felt her eyes searching out his across the room. He flashed her what he hoped was a reassuring smile but kept his thoughts focused on George. He was the most at risk of all of them, would need careful observation and the most help.
As the others were leaving the room, Richard signaled to Esther to stay behind. The door closed and they were alone. “Are you sure you are okay?” he asked.
She nodded. “I can’t stop seeing his face . . .”
“I know. If it’s any consolation, I can’t either.”
Richard slammed his fist on the table, startling her. “I should have seen it,” he said. “I was his doctor. I was supposed to be helping him. Not this . . . I’ve been far too caught up with other things and in neglect of my duties.”
“It’s astonishing what we can hide from others, even those close to us,” Esther said, trying to reason with him.
“No!” he cried. “I am responsible for this tragedy. He was under my care. I should have foreseen this.”
He took a deep breath.
“I’m sorry you had to find him,” he said in a calmer voice. “What were you doing in the orchard at that time of the morning? It looked as though you were on your way to the beach, but that’s in the other direction.”
“Yes, I know. I . . . well, if you must know I thought I heard someone, someone crying.” She sighed. “I thought it was Teddy. My mind still plays tricks on me and even though I told myself it couldn’t possibly be, I had to go and look.”
“Oh my darling.” He placed a hand on her shoulder and she turned toward him. He breathed in her familiar perfume, and something else, something herbal, overlaying it.
“What is that smell?” he asked as he raised her hands to his lips.
“Rosemary. For remembrance. I left a posy outside the back door. Could you tuck it into his pocket? I’ll look for Susie too. He’d want her with him.” He was touched by her thoughtfulness, and the fact that she had pulled herself together so quickly. She was stronger than he had given her credit for.
Esther drew him into her arms and they clung together, as if survivors of a shipwreck. He felt desire, too long held back, flood through him like a rising tide and he was powerless to resist her lips as she raised her face to his. Esther met him with equal fervor and he looked into her eyes. They held a promise. “Are you sure?” he asked, his breath ragged.
She nodded. “Nothing else matters anymore, nothing except this, this moment.”
It was irrational, but it was as if the only way to combat the heavy weight of death was to do something completely opposite, something life-affirming. He let go of the tight control he’d been holding on to for so many weeks. He was oblivious to the fact that someone might walk in on them, no longer cared even if they did. As if in slow motion, he undid the pearl buttons on her blouse and cupped her breasts through the fine lace of her brassiere.
Esther gasped and reached for him again, pulling him toward the chaise. They fell onto it, their bodies pressed against each other, legs and arms entwined, heat rising between them, consuming them. He ran his hands over her skin, lost in the feel of her, the satin of her skin, the softness of her hair, the delicate, familiar scent of her. Esther opened herself to him and they sought each other’s lips once more, his gaze locked on hers as he drowned in the depths of her violet eyes. The world around him contracted until all that mattered was them, in a moment that seemed to stretch forever.
* * *
“Sometimes I think that you are the only thing in this world that makes sense,” said Esther as they lay together afterward, entwined, sated.
“I know,” Richard said, smoothing her hair from her forehead, placing a kiss on the fine, smooth skin.
“But it can never happen again,” she said, resignation in her voice. She was flushed, her face as rosy as the tips of her nipples, her hair a wild tangle. She had never looked more beautiful to him.
“No,” he agreed, desolate even as he uttered the words.
“Nothing has changed. I must still leave.”
“I understand.”
It felt like the beginning of the end.
Chapter Forty-Five
St. Mary’s, Spring 2018
The accent on the other end of the phone was as thick as custard, and Rachel had trouble understanding it, not least because her head was pounding from the gin and tonics she had downed with Leah the previous night. She’d rung the Lostwithiel library, hoping they might be able to shed some light on the whereabouts of Dr. Creswell. She could only make out about every fifth word and had to ask the woman to repeat herself several times before she got the gist of what she was saying.
“So there was a family with the surname Creswell who lived in the area?” she asked.
“Yarp, ’appen there still is.”
“Thank you, thank you so much.” Rachel put the phone down, happy to have gotten that far. She would look the name up on the online phone directory for the area. But first, she had to wake her houseguest, who was snoring loudly in the spare room upstairs despite the fact that it was past ten o’clock.
The church bells sounded noon before she dispatched a rather
worse-for-wear Leah, who had inveigled a lift back to Little Embers from Tom at the co-op. She promised to call in on her as soon as she was back on the water. “I’d really like that,” Leah said, embracing her as she left.
Rachel sat down at the table and was surprised to find that her hands were shaking when she made the call. She’d found the listing she was looking for—there was a Creswell, Dr. R. living in Milltown, North Cornwall. She’d checked it out on an online map, and the village was pretty close to Lostwithiel. It looked like she had the right person.
“Hello,” she said when the phone was answered. “I wonder if I might speak to Dr. Richard Creswell.”
“Speaking.” The man’s voice was old, creaky, and he coughed loudly as soon as he had answered. “Sorry about that. How may I help you?”
“My name is Rachel Parker. You don’t know me, but I have some information for you,” she began.
“If you’re one of those wretched salespeople I’m not interested. Go away and bother someone else,” he said.
“No, no, it’s not that,” Rachel said hastily. “Please don’t hang up. Did you once know someone called Esther Durrant?”
There was silence on the other end of the line and she thought that he might have hung up on her. “Hello . . . ?”
“What is it? What’s happened to her? Has she gone?”
“No, she’s still very much alive.” Rachel could have sworn she heard a sigh of relief. Either that or it was a crackle of static on the line.
“I’d like to come and talk to you about her if I may?” Rachel held her breath, hoping for a positive response.
“Wednesday, teatime. I’m better in the afternoons.”
She jumped at the invitation, such as it was. “Thank you, thank you, Dr. Creswell. You won’t regret it, I promise.”
There was a harrumph and then more coughing and the line went dead.
* * *
Later that afternoon, as cabin fever was starting to set in, Rachel went for a walk. The pain in her wrist and fingers had almost disappeared, as long as she didn’t use her hand too much, and she found herself craving some fresh air. The previous day’s drizzle had stopped and she looked out of the kitchen window into a bright, clear sky. Luckily, she had a pair of trainers with velcro fastenings, which, although they might not be as suited to the terrain as her new hiking boots, were at least easier to get on and off. Shoelaces were beyond her at the moment. She checked her map and decided that she would attempt a complete circumnavigation of the island.
She hadn’t gotten farther than the quay at Hugh Town when she was nearly mown down by a wild-haired woman wearing the same paint-covered fishing smock she’d had on the previous day, carrying a bag of groceries.
Leah again. She hadn’t yet made it back to Embers then.
“Hello!” she called out, expecting a warm reply.
“You!” Leah said when she reached her. “I was on my way to see you.” She glared at Rachel, her mouth set.
In that instant, Rachel knew right away what must have happened. She did her best to play things down, pretend innocence. “What’s up?” she asked. “Did you forget something?”
“What’s up? What’s bloody up? I’ll tell you what’s up. Some interfering outspoken little twerp got in touch with my dealer, didn’t they? There’s only one person who that could have been.”
Ouch. Leah was really angry. A small crowd had gathered, hearing her raised voice, but they kept their distance, not wanting to be sucked in to the argument yet keen to hear the particulars nevertheless.
“I can explain . . . ,” Rachel began.
Leah held up a hand. “Don’t even start. Amber at the post office said Max had been trying to reach me, had called her to leave a message. You know who Max is, don’t you?” She glared at Rachel, who nodded dumbly. “What gives you the right to poke your nose into other people’s lives? Hey? Who exactly do you think you are? I looked after you, saved your goddamn sorry Australian arse and this, this is the thanks I get? You spy on me in my own house, take no heed of my wishes, my strict instructions actually . . . And to think I imagined we might have been friends.”
Leah was now standing so close that Rachel felt her breath warm on her face. It had the unmistakable bitter aroma of gin.
“You need to learn to mind your own bloody business, girl.”
“I’m sorry, Leah. I thought I was helping.”
“Helping? What would you know about helping? You’re so sure that you know what you’re doing, aren’t you? That your way is right? You don’t give a shit about anyone or anything else.”
“That’s not fair,” said Rachel quietly. “I am sorry for going into your studio when you had asked me not to. It was wrong of me. But when I saw your paintings, I snapped a couple of shots of them without really thinking. Then when I was in London and saw your old gallery . . . well . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“Well what?” Leah asked.
“People should see those paintings, Leah, they’re amazing. I was really only trying to help.”
“Well it’s my work and I decide what’s best for me. Don’t ever think about interfering again.”
“Now then, what’s all this?” Jonah had materialized by Rachel’s side.
“Ask her, she’s the one who’s gone and caused all the trouble,” said Leah before swirling around and heading back toward the end of the quay.
Rachel had half-expected Leah to be upset when she found out what she’d done, but she was shaken by the anger of her response. And she minded now that she might have encouraged Leah’s drinking, as it doubtless made everything worse.
“You okay?” Jonah asked.
Rachel shrugged. “I guess.”
“What was all that about?”
“Long story. I’ve got some apologizing to do when she’s calmed down I reckon.” Rachel nearly didn’t tell Jonah her news about Dr. Creswell. After the confrontation with Leah, she wondered fleetingly if her other project too would be seen as unwelcome meddling. Perhaps she should cancel her plans, refocus on work, keep her head down. She weighed the possibilities in her mind before deciding that as she had agreed to help Esther, she was obliged to carry on with her plan.
“You, however,” she said, “are just the person I need to see.”
“I am?”
“Yes. I’ve found him. Dr. Creswell. He’s still alive and he lives in Cornwall.”
“No kidding, really?”
“I know. What are the odds? We had a bit of a chat and I asked if I could come and see him about Esther, that she’d asked me to help track him down.”
“I see. So when are you going?”
“Next Wednesday. I’ll get the train from Penzance I guess, though I’m not sure how close the nearest station is. Would you like to come?” she asked.
“Let me see if I can swap my shifts around. I could drive too. Hiring a car would make the whole trip a lot easier.”
“That’d be a big help,” she admitted. “But are you sure?” She felt suddenly uncertain of her request, that she might be asking too much of him.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” He blew out a breath of frustration. “Perhaps I’m just being nice, Rachel. Can’t a person be nice without an agenda anymore? Anyway, I’m not coming just for you—I want to meet the man who wrote those letters.”
She didn’t answer, ashamed that she’d questioned his motives.
Chapter Forty-Six
Cornwall, Spring 2018
The house was a modest one, a cottage tucked away down a lane that led off from the village’s main street, but they found it easily enough. It had a white front and dark slate tiles on its steeply sloped roof and twin gable windows that stood out like a pair of watchful eyes. The front garden was a mass of yellow blooms.
“Narcissi,” said Jonah. “Just like on the islands.”
“They smell divine, don’t they,” said Rachel. “And they’re such a cheerful color. It’s hard to be sad when you look at them.”
Togeth
er they walked up the front path but Rachel hesitated when they reached the door. “Are we doing the right thing?”
“You’re having second thoughts? Now? Isn’t it a bit late for that?”
“What if it’s better to let sleeping dogs lie? You saw what happened with Leah.”
“Yes, you still haven’t explained about that.”
She waved him away. “Later.” Still, she hesitated.
“Come on, Rachel, I’ve never seen you scared of anything, don’t disappoint me now.”
“I’m not scared. Learning the value of caution perhaps, but not scared,” she said.
“Well, I for one haven’t come all this way to chicken out.” Jonah reached for the bell and gave it a decisive ring.
They waited. And waited.
Rachel was reaching into her pocket for her phone to try and call the doctor, when the door slowly opened.
“Miss Parker?” The man in front of them must have once been tall, but stooped slightly now, his shoulders curved inward. He was thin in the way old people often are, their muscle tone diminished and the skin sitting slack over their bones. But he still sported a thick head of hair and, perhaps surprising for a man in his nineties, had bright, inquisitive eyes that swept sharply over the pair, assessing her.
She nodded. “I’ve brought a friend with me, I hope that’s all right. I can’t drive at the moment, you see.” She indicated her bandaged wrist.
“You’re two more visitors than I usually get in a week,” he said. “Come in, come in.”
“I’m very pleased to meet you,” Rachel said once they were inside. He had ushered them into a room at the front of the house, where a large cat was warming itself in a patch of sunlight on the window seat. The walls were lined from floor to ceiling with books and a pair of old leather Chesterfield sofas faced each other across a coffee table that was also piled with books.
“And I you,” he replied, a polite expression on his face. “Now tell me again what this is all about?”
Rachel explained about working on St. Mary’s and being shipwrecked on Little Embers. When she mentioned Esther’s name, the doctor flinched, as if to hear it still caused him pain. She’d been on the brink of mentioning the letters, but seeing his discomfort, she faltered.