Blood-Tied (4 page)

Esme took off her reading glasses and looked at Gemma. She realised she was shaking slightly. ‘I think we’ve found out what W.H. stands for,’ she said handing the letter to Gemma. ‘It’s from a residential home called Wisteria House.’

‘A residential home?’ Gemma took the letter as if it held a contagious disease.

‘But there’s something more. Towards the end. About who your mother was visiting.’

She watched as Gemma frantically scanned the letter, her eyes halting at the relevant line.

Gemma looked up. ‘Roberts, you mean? She visits a Mrs Roberts.’

‘Exactly,’ said Esme. ‘That’s the name on the birth certificate. My guess is she’s in regular contact with her birth family.’

5

Esme applied certain conditions to her work as a researcher. She wouldn’t touch any job unless its roots were fixed firmly in the past. Finding out about people already dead and what had gone before was by far a safer option than investigating current issues. It was far too easy in the contemporary world to stumble into dangerous territory. She’d seen the catastrophic results of that mistake and wanted no part of it.

One current project was the history of the Shropton Canal. Although there were contemporary aspects to the brief, it fitted her criterion of being associated with the safe, distant past of the Industrial Revolution of the eighteenth century.

She was already familiar with a rough history of British canal construction, having spent many childhood weekends walking the towpaths with her father, who had his own fascination with the subject. But she had known little of the Shropton Canal, which was of interest to her client.

Esme studied her notes, wondering how much information he required. She preferred it if clients explained their reasons for needing the information as it helped her compile a more relevant report, but he had not been forthcoming on that particular question. She scanned through the summary of what she had put together. The canal had been built in the middle of ‘canal mania’ when wonder of the new transport system was at its height, and was officially opened in 1797. By 1846 the arrival of the railways had begun its negative effect on the whole canal system. Shropton Canal was eventually left to deteriorate along with many smaller canals in the network. Her client was particularly keen to know about the enthusiasts’ society, which had been formed in recent years with the idea of restoring the canal. With the increasing popularity of canal-boat holidays, these societies were becoming more common. She discovered that The Shropton Canal Trust had recently won funds to conduct a feasibility study to determine the cost of carrying out a restoration project. There was every possibility that the old canal might flow once more.

Esme took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. She had been working since early morning and her brain was feeling distinctly addled. She decided to shelve the arduous task of documenting the current route of the canal, where it was still identifiable, opting instead to take advantage of the break between showers to benefit from some fresh air in the garden.

She was on her knees weeding at the front of the cottage when Gemma arrived unannounced. Esme sat back on her heels, hand fork in midair, alarmed by Gemma’s early departure from the hospital, and fearing the worst. Had the hospital tried to telephone but she’d not heard it ring? She froze, tableau-like, on her kneeling mat, staring towards her niece, bracing herself for bad news.

‘Don’t panic,’ said Gemma, as she climbed out of the car. ‘Change of plan, that’s all.’

Esme realised she had been holding her breath. She exhaled and got to her feet.

‘For a moment I thought…’ She shook her head. ‘Never mind.’ She dropped the fork on to the grass and peeled off her gardening gloves. ‘So what’s happened?’

Gemma held aloft a small black leather bag, swinging it as if enticing Esme to snatch it from her. ‘Mum’s handbag.’

‘Where did they find it?’ Esme gestured for them to go inside and Gemma followed Esme through the side gate to the back yard and into the kitchen.

‘Someone had handed it in.’ She shrugged. ‘For some reason they’ve only just made the connection that it might be Mum’s. Something about the person going on holiday and not realising the bag’s significance. Anyway, here it is.’

Esme ran the hot water tap and swilled her hands. ‘So was anything missing?’

‘That’s why I’m not at the hospital. I had to go and see if I could identify whether anything had been taken. Bit pointless. How am I supposed to know what Mum was carrying round in her bag?’

Esme agreed. She’d hardly remember what was in her own bag, let alone someone else’s.

‘I said to the sergeant,’ continued Gemma, ‘“Would you know what was in your mother’s handbag?” He admitted it would be a long shot.’

‘But what about her purse, cards and so on?’

‘Oh that’s all there. Cash, credit cards, keys, the lot.’

‘So not a mugging then?’ Esme wasn’t sure whether that was good or bad.

‘They still say they’re keeping an open mind, but the sergeant said they have to consider whether she could have slipped and fallen.’

Esme was aghast. ‘Surely if she fell she wouldn’t have been so badly injured?’

‘Or that it was an accident. Someone running from the park could have dashed past her and knocked her over and she hit her head on the edge of the step. Apparently there was a report of someone seen running away but then there was a load of kids leaving around the same time so they can’t be sure if it was significant.’

Esme frowned. ‘So which is it? Attack or accident?’

Gemma leant her elbow on the kitchen worktop. ‘With her handbag turning up intact, they think robbery unlikely.’

‘And the row?’

‘They didn’t mention it. If the police do think it was an accident and nothing was taken…’ Gemma sighed. ‘That’s it then, isn’t it?’

‘But what about the person she was arguing with?’

Gemma stood up straight. ‘No idea. Like you said right at the beginning, he probably dropped a fag-end and Mum told him off.’ She turned away and wandered into the living room.

Esme dried her hands and followed Gemma into the other room. Gemma was sitting on the sofa rummaging around in the bag.

‘There was one odd thing I did find, though,’ said Gemma as Esme walked in. ‘A set of keys I didn’t recognise. I didn’t tell the police, though. No need to get complicated. They might start off on some wild-goose chase again, imagining all sorts of things. In any case, I don’t know whether they’re meant to be there, do I?’ She held them out on her hand for Esme to see. ‘They’re obviously not for her house,’ she added, ‘because she’s got a latch. They’re the old fashioned sort.’

‘Mortice,’ said Esme. ‘Like here.’

‘But they’re not yours?’

‘No.’ Esme shook her head. ‘Wrong pattern. I think she’s got a spare set somewhere for emergencies, but I doubt she’d carry it around with her.’

Gemma dropped the keys back in the bag. ‘Oh well, no doubt all will become clear. Maybe she was looking after someone’s place while they’re on holiday. Perhaps they’re something to do with that residential home she was visiting.’

Esme was surprised that Gemma had brought up the subject of Wisteria House. She hoped it was a good omen. She perched on the arm of the sofa and took advantage of the timely opportunity. ‘I wanted to talk to you about that.’ Gemma looked up but gave nothing away in her expression. ‘I’ve arranged to go and visit Mrs Roberts.’

Immediately Gemma’s eyes flared. ‘You can’t.’

‘Of course I can. Mrs Roberts will be wondering why your Mum hasn’t been.’

‘That’s not why you’re going. You just want to dig the dirt.’ Gemma dumped the handbag on the floor with obvious irritation and folded her arms.

Esme hadn’t expected her plan to be greeted with enthusiasm but she was taken aback by Gemma’s hostility. ‘Don’t be so melodramatic, Gemma. I wouldn’t be telling the truth if I said I wasn’t curious, but digging the dirt’s a bit below the belt.’

‘Mum will tell you about it when she’s well enough.’

Esme knew she couldn’t possibly wait that long. How could she explain her feelings to Gemma? She didn’t seem to have the same yearning to find out as Esme did. She swallowed and tried to keep calm. ‘I’m sorry you feel like that, but I can’t wait until then.’

‘Or won’t.’

Esme stood up and wandered over to the desk. Tim looked out at her from his photograph. Get to it, Ferret, he seemed to say. That’s what he used to call her. He told her she was the best researcher he’d ever known. Esme smiled at the memory, then experienced a moment of disquiet on the consequences of her relentless digging. She pushed the thought away. Now it was she who was being melodramatic. This wasn’t the same thing at all.

‘It makes no difference either way,’ she said as calmly as she could.

But Gemma wasn’t calm. ‘You’re prying. Poking your nose into something that doesn’t concern you.’

‘Doesn’t concern me?’ Esme spun round. There was going to be no meeting of minds on this issue. She tried to appeal to Gemma’s sense of justice. ‘But she’s never told me the truth.’

‘She’s never told me either,’ protested Gemma.

‘But she’s still your mother.’

Gemma looked away. They sat in silence for a moment while Esme allowed the implications of what she’d said to sink in.

‘I just don’t see why you won’t wait for Mum to tell you,’ grumbled Gemma.

‘You know what the doctors say. That could be weeks away.’ Or months, or years. Or never. But Esme left those words unsaid. Gemma knew what she was saying, surely. She was a nurse. She should have no misconceptions about Elizabeth’s prognosis.

Esme looked pointedly at her niece. ‘I can’t wait around wondering, Gemma. Not if I can find out. Can’t you see that? I’m hoping Mrs Roberts can fill in some of the gaps.’ Gemma stared at the floor, saying nothing. ‘Aren’t you a little curious yourself?’ suggested Esme.

‘If Mum wanted to tell me, she would have. It’s like spying to go behind her back.’

‘It’s not. It’s different. This is a crisis we’ve been thrown into. If you want to survive a crisis you sometimes have to go down routes you wouldn’t normally take.’

Gemma got up and walked over to the window. She stood with her back to Esme.

‘What if her past is linked to her attack?’ said Esme. ‘Don’t you think it might help to find out something?’

‘It won’t,’ said Gemma bluntly. ‘You’re just trying to justify your actions. Anyway, I just told you, the police think it might have been an accident, so there is no mystery.’

Esme realised there was no way she was going to convince Gemma. She didn’t want to be convinced. She’d already made up her mind. It was a defence mechanism against the uncertainty she feared would compound her present insecurities. Esme sympathised but that was Gemma’s way of dealing with it. Confronting it was Esme’s.

Esme turned back to her cluttered desk and absent mindedly began to arrange things in neat piles. ‘I’m going tomorrow afternoon, about three, after I’ve been to see your mum.’

‘Why should I care when you’re going?’

‘In case you change your mind. If Mrs Roberts is who we think she is, then she’s your grandmother.’ Esme looked round. ‘Wouldn’t you like to meet her?’

Gemma swung round and snatched up her coat from the back of the sofa. She stood in front of Esme, her chin up, her expression defiant. ‘I already know my grandmother. She died when I was fourteen.’ And she swept out of the room. Moments later Esme heard her car drive away down the lane.

Esme looked across the room and noticed that Gemma had left Elizabeth’s reclaimed handbag behind. She picked it up and opened it. She took out the unfamiliar keys from inside and held them in her hand. Did these also have a part to play in unravelling the mystery of Elizabeth’s past? Perhaps tomorrow she would find out.

6

Wisteria House was an elegant building in the centre of the sleepy village of Bromfield. Esme guessed it had once been the rectory. No doubt it had become too large and too expensive to run as accommodation for the clergy these days. The current vicar’s residence was a badly weathered boxlike house next door, suggesting that the plot had once been part of the rectory garden. The old Georgian-style house possessed an air of authority which the new rectory would never achieve. Its solid stone walls had tall windows with low sills which looked out benignly across the land it surveyed.

The risk of destroying the beauty and integrity of such a structure on its conversion into a home for the elderly must have been high, but the architect had managed to retain the dignity of the house’s origins, despite the numerous regulations and requirements there would be for such an establishment. The original style of multi-paned sliding sash windows had been retained and not substituted with plastic alternatives, which Esme always felt made a property appear as though its eyes had been poked out.

The house was approached along a short drive opening out into a wide gravelled area in front of the building. Esme parked her Peugeot next to a large Volvo estate. She manoeuvred herself out of her car and adjusted her skirt. She had deliberated for hours about what to wear, cursing herself for being so sensitive on the subject. It was ridiculous, like attending a first job interview. Was she seeking approval from Elizabeth’s family, wishing to emulate the smart and sophisticated dress of Elizabeth? She hadn’t had to deal with such a question since they were teenagers, vying with an older sister who seemed to have complete confidence in her appearance. Had that been part of Elizabeth’s armoury, a form of power dressing to hide the underlying uncertainties? Or was the question irrelevant because at that time Elizabeth hadn’t known about her true identity? Esme dismissed her ponderings with impatience and tried to choose her dress according to the criteria she would use when meeting a new client.

In the event she settled for a mid-calf-length bright-green skirt, a plain cream sweater and a scarf, emerald and turquoise, with tiny green beads stitched in wavy rows which Gemma had bought her for Christmas. Esme decided that the outfit had the right balance of smart, which she didn’t do very well, and casual, which was more in keeping with her usual style.

She had taken trouble, too, over her make-up. She had been taught the effective techniques to soften the appearance of the ugly scar on her cheek but she had neither the patience nor the inclination to become a daily slave to the procedure. There were occasions, however, when she made use of the know-how and she had judged this to be one of them. While not concealing the disfigurement completely, it went a considerable way to lessening the shock to those she was to meet for the first time. She had become accustomed over the years to the different responses people gave. They ranged from embarrassment to audacity. She had learnt that a confident smile took the edge off people’s discomfort, though it had been a long time before she felt able to react in such a way. To those who were bold enough to ask the inevitable question, ‘an accident’ usually sufficed and by the time the questioner had absorbed the information he or she had invariably accepted that Esme had no intention of elaborating, as by then she would have steered conversation elsewhere. None of these strategies had come quickly or easily but over time they had been achievable. Only those closest too her were aware of the truth and the effort it had afforded to her to come this far.

Taking a deep breath Esme crunched across the gravel and walked through the orangery which served as the entrance. She turned the handle of the partly glazed door at the end and stepped into a long hallway. There was a door to her left, through which she could hear the sounds of clattering crockery. Unusual to have the kitchen at the front of the house. A compromise to a successful conversion, or designed purposely so that staff could assess the comings and goings in and out of the home?

As she paused on the threshold, the kitchen door opened and a slim middle-aged woman with short hair, wearing a white uniform emerged. She smiled on seeing Esme.

‘Can I help you?’

‘I’ve arranged to visit Mrs Roberts. I spoke to Mrs Rowcliffe on the telephone.’

The woman nodded and stepped across the hall. She tapped on a door to Esme’s right, opened it and put her head inside.

‘Christine, someone to see Mrs Roberts.’

‘Thanks, Marion,’ said a disembodied voice. ‘Do send her in.’

Marion stood back and gestured for Esme to enter the room. A striking woman, tall and very erect, walked towards Esme and held out her hand.

‘How do you do? Christine Rowcliffe, matron.’

Esme shook her hand and introduced herself. The matron indicated a chair in front of the large wooden desk which dominated the room, and retreated around the other side. She sat down opposite Esme and smiled.

‘Matron’s a bit of a dated title these days, I know, but my residents seem to like it.’ Her curly dark brown hair bounced on her head as she nodded.

‘It’s becoming more fashionable again, I think,’ said Esme.

‘Quite.’ Mrs Rowcliffe rested her elbows on the desk and wove her fingers together. ‘And you are Mrs Holland’s sister? How is she?’ She leaned over and looked at Esme intently, which at first Esme found disconcerting.

‘Still unconscious at the moment, I’m afraid. We just have to wait and hope for the best.’ Her head had been spinning that morning as the consultant had been explaining the various tests and procedures they would be carrying out over the next few days to assess Elizabeth’s development and prognosis.

Christine Rowcliffe shook her head slowly. ‘We are all most concerned for her. She has been such a support since Mrs Roberts’s loss.’

‘Her loss?’ Esme wondered if Mrs Rowcliffe was party to the relationship between her sister and Mrs Roberts but concluded that if Elizabeth couldn’t tell her own family it would hardly be the subject of casual comment. Perhaps Elizabeth had allowed Mrs Rowcliffe to assume she was a family friend.

‘Yes. And of course she’s been such a help in clearing Mrs Roberts’s cottage and sorting out everything. Packing it up for the sale. Not an enviable job at the best of times.’

‘No,’ agreed Esme. It was strange to be talking to someone about a part of Elizabeth’s life about which Esme knew nothing. But unless she was prepared to explain the circumstances she had to maintain the pretence that she was aware that Elizabeth was a regular visitor.

‘We are extremely grateful for what she’s done,’ the matron was saying, ‘and it’s so good of you to come and see Mrs Roberts.’ She smiled broadly at Esme.

‘I thought I’d call in and explain what happened,’ said Esme, wincing as she recalled Gemma’s cutting comments about digging the dirt. Esme was determined not to feel guilty that she had come. Surely under the circumstances it was reasonable to be curious? And as she had said to Gemma, her visit might throw some light on what had happened to Elizabeth.

‘She was most concerned to hear of Mrs Holland’s accident. She’ll be interested to hear the latest news, I’m sure.’ She stood up. ‘Shall I take you to her?’ She inclined her head to one side, her hair bobbing over too.

Esme rose from her chair. ‘Thank you. She knows I’m coming?’

The matron strode over to the door and opened it with a flourish. ‘Of course. This isn’t a boarding school, Mrs Quentin, where the staff vet what’s acceptable for the inmates.’

‘No, of course. I wasn’t implying –’

‘Oh there I go again,’ said Mrs Rowcliffe, tipping her head back to give a whoop of a laugh. She began to walk down the hall way, bidding Esme accompany her. ‘Don’t mind me. Bit of a hobby-horse of mine, I’m afraid. You’d be surprised by how many people think so. If one finds that physically one is too worn out to look after oneself, it’s bad enough that one has to live dependent on others. Here at Wisteria House we take pride in our philosophy, to remember that however dependent in body, our residents are independent of mind.’ She halted at an open door. ‘Here we are. I’ll introduce you.’

The matron led Esme into a stylish and spacious sitting room with a soft-green carpet. Across the other side of the room long drapes hung at tall windows, tied back with wide sashes. The matron marched across the room and approached an elderly lady sitting in a chair facing the garden.

‘Mrs Quentin’s here to see you, Mrs Roberts.’ She turned to Esme. ‘I’ll leave you to become acquainted and go and organise some tea.’ She strode off.

Esme smiled. ‘Hello, Mrs Roberts. I’m Elizabeth’s sister, Esme.’

Mrs Roberts was a slight woman with bright blue eyes, neatly dressed in a wide-pleated navy chequered skirt and a pale yellow twin-set, a string of small dark-blue beads around her neck. Her hair was almost white, pulled off her face and tucked into a French pleat at the back of her head.

The old lady took Esme’s hand in wide flat fingers and shook it firmly. Her hands were surprisingly large, disproportionately so, considering her build. Could this be Elizabeth’s mother? Esme found herself looking for a likeness, a clue that confirmed her assumptions but saw nothing. She wasn’t even sure she was one of the images in Elizabeth’s locket. She felt disappointed.

The old lady smiled. ‘Pleased to meet you, dear.’ She indicated a chair opposite and Esme sat down.

‘Mrs Rowcliffe explained why Elizabeth hadn’t been to see you as usual, I understand,’ said Esme.

The old lady’s smile faded into the folds in her long face. ‘An accident she said.’ She laid her hands in the lap of her skirt.

‘I’m afraid she’s still unconscious. But we’re hopeful she’ll come round soon.’

‘Dear, dear.’ Mrs Roberts shook her head slowly.

Esme hesitated. Now she was here, she was uncertain how much to tell the old lady. Should she explain about the suspicions behind the incident? It might be better that she and the matron continued to believe it was an accident, not an attack. But that would negate one of her reasons for being here, to find out if there was a connection.

Esme looked round at the sound of rattling crockery. A young woman was carrying a tray across the room towards them. She placed it on a small occasional table and then carried both over to the two women. Mrs Roberts gave a friendly smile to the girl.

‘Thank you, Abigail, dear. Most kind.’ The girl returned the smile and retreated.

Mrs Roberts looked sharply at Esme. ‘How’s Gemma taken it?’ she asked.

Esme was taken aback by the question. Although Gemma might have decided that she was unwilling to acknowledge Mrs Roberts, there was no reason why Mrs Roberts wouldn’t know about Elizabeth’s family. Before Esme had collected her thoughts to answer the question, Mrs Roberts confounded her with another.

‘Elizabeth never told you about us, did she?’

Esme looked into the old lady’s bright eyes. ‘No,’ she admitted eventually. There was nothing else to say. And it was a relief that she didn’t have to continue the charade.

‘She was going to tell you soon, I think.’ Mrs Roberts lifted the lid of the teapot and peered in. ‘It was on her mind.’

The old lady’s casual manner implied that the matter was of little importance and for a brief moment Esme felt irked by the misapprehension. But then she realised that Mrs Roberts might not be fully conversant with all the facts. While she may have been aware that Esme and Gemma didn’t know that Elizabeth had got in touch with her birth family, she might not realise that they were ignorant of the adoption itself.

‘You haven’t asked how we found out,’ Esme said.

‘But you did, and now you’re here.’

Esme was puzzled. Wasn’t she curious? She watched as Mrs Roberts focused on stirring the pot, her mind drifting back to the dilemma of whether or not to mention that they’d first thought that Elizabeth had been attacked. Or should she say nothing, now that the police weren’t treating it as such? She sighed inwardly. This was ridiculous. She was going round in circles.

She wondered suddenly what Mrs Roberts’s reaction would be if she told her.

‘It may not have been an accident,’ said Esme, more abruptly than she had intended.

Mrs Roberts looked up from the pot and stared at Esme, the spoon in her hand hovering in midair, as if confused by the sudden change in direction.

‘What, dear?’

Esme swallowed. ‘When Elizabeth was first found, the police thought she’d been attacked.’

The spoon clattered on to the tray and Mrs Roberts’s hand went to her throat. She grasped her beads and looked straight at Esme. Esme could see the panic in her eyes.

‘To be fair, they’re not sure,’ she continued hastily, alarmed at the old lady’s reaction. ‘The police thought at first that she’d been mugged because her handbag wasn’t with her. Since then it’s been found and nothing was taken, so it could have been an accident, someone running past and knocking into her.’

Mrs Roberts’s expression remained disconcerting.

Esme immediately felt guilty. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. I know what a shock it was to us.’

The old lady began to shuffle the crockery on the tea tray, evidently trying to compose herself. Her hands were shaking and the porcelain clinked as she placed cups in their saucers. ‘No, no. Of course you should have told me.’ She tried to smile. ‘As you say, it is a shock.’

‘Well, you don’t expect these things to happen, do you?’

‘No, you don’t.’

Mrs Roberts fell silent. She abandoned the organisation of the tea tray and slumped back into her chair.

‘Shall I pour?’ suggested Esme.

Mrs Roberts nodded. Esme dribbled some milk into the cups and picked up the teapot. She poured out the strong brew and with her thoughts on the remedy for shock, lifted the sugar bowl with one hand and gestured with the spoon. Mrs Roberts gave a brief nod. Esme spooned in the sugar and stirred.

‘Do the police know who did it?’ asked Mrs Roberts, sitting forward again.

Esme couldn’t decide whether it was an odd question to ask so directly about the perpetrator or whether she was simply looking for anomalies which didn’t exist. ‘They have one of those photo-fit pictures of someone Elizabeth was apparently having an argument with earlier on.’