No Mark upon Her

The door, in spite of its dilapidated frame, had some nice Victorian stained glass in pale greens and golds. When they stepped inside and Doug closed the door behind them, the watery sun came through the panes, making Melody think of the light in a spring wood. The original black-and-white-tiled floor was intact, and a staircase led up to what Melody assumed were the bedrooms.

Doug motioned her forward with a little theatrical bow, the light from the stained glass glinting off his glasses and giving his blond hair a greenish tint. “My humble abode.”

To the left behind the stairs, Melody saw a cupboard, and tucked next to that, a small toilet. Beyond that a door led into a tiny galley kitchen.

But on the right-hand side of the hall, two adjacent doors opened into the two rooms that ran the length of that side of the house. When she walked into the front room, she saw that the wall between the two rooms had been partially removed, letting light flood straight through the house, and in the rear, French doors opened onto the garden.

“Oh,” she said, on a breath of involuntary surprise. “It’s lovely. Small, but lovely.”

Doug nodded, flushing again with obvious pleasure at her response. “There’s a full bath upstairs, and I’ll use one room for the bedroom and another for an office. The kitchen needs new cupboards and worktops. And in here”—he waved a proprietary hand at the living areas—“a new carpet, and a bit of paint, of course.”

“Not going to stick with magnolia, then?” Melody asked, teasing. The walls were the color of curdled cream, with lighter patches where pictures had hung. Both sitting and dining room had fireplace surrounds that looked original, but the interiors had been boarded over.

Doug shuddered. “No. And definitely not gray. I’ve had enough gray to last a lifetime.”

“You could use the colors in the stained glass,” Melody said, considering. “With this light, it would be lovely. And you’ll have to put in some gas fires.” Melody walked to the back door and looked out. Steps led down to an oval of broken paving stones. Beyond that was a weedy patch of lawn surrounded on three sides by neglected beds.

Melody, who could live anywhere she chose if she accepted more of her father’s help, felt a stir of envy. Not that there was anything wrong with her mansion flat in Notting Hill, except that it felt nothing like a home. It was also on the top floor of her building, its only access to the outdoors a tiny balcony. And lately she had developed an unexpected urge to get her hands in the dirt, to smell growing things.

“I could help with the garden, if you like,” she offered, a bit hesitantly, turning back to him. “In the spring.”

“Have you ever in your life worked in a garden?” There was a hint of mockery in Doug’s voice.

“I suspect I know more about gardening than you do about painting and plumbing,” she said, equably enough. “I used to follow my grandparents’ gardener in Bucks around like a shadow. How hard can it be, compost and bulbs and things?” She studied him. “What about you? You grew up in St. Alban’s, didn’t you? Suburban mecca. Surely you must have had a garden.”

He shrugged. “I was at school except for hols from the time I was eight. My dad mowed the lawn with a rotary mower. It was his Sunday relaxation and he wasn’t inclined to share.”

Melody knew that Doug was also an only child, and that his father was a barrister from a well-off family that had put Doug down for Eton before he was born. But although Melody’s father could be autocratic, stubborn, and infuriating, he and her mother had always been generous with their time and attention.

She had a sudden vision of Doug as a lonely and awkward boy, with a father who couldn’t bring himself to give his little son the pleasure of learning to push a lawn mower.

Not wanting him to see compassion in her expression, she studied the fireplace surround, wiping dust from the mantel with a fingertip. “You’ll have to give a dinner party, once you’re settled,” she said.

“No table. And probably not much else for a while. The only things I’m bringing from the Euston flat are the bed and my audio stuff.”

Several comments sprang to Melody’s mind, but none of them seemed appropriate, and all made her feel the color start to rise in her face. God forbid she should start blushing as badly as Doug. “Fresh start?” she asked, instead, keeping her gaze averted.

“Totally. Only thing is, I’ve no idea where to begin.” He gazed round the room, looking a little lost, as if just now contemplating the enormity of the undertaking. Then he shoved his wire-framed glasses up on his nose and glared at her, as if daring her to contradict him. “I’ve been told I’ve no sense of style.”

“Hmm.” Taking in his off-the-rack suit and uninspired tie, Melody thought she might be inclined to agree, but she wasn’t about to say so. There was obviously history here. “Well, what do you like?”

“That’s the trouble.” He shrugged. “I don’t know. I hate my flat. It’s bare and depressing. And I hate my parents’ house. Dark, stuffy, and full of my mum’s knickknacks. Nothing was ever meant to be touched.”

“There should be a happy medium somewhere.” Melody turned slowly in a circle as she considered the rooms. She wondered what she would choose for herself if she wiped the slate bare of the hand-me-downs from her mum, the things that just “didn’t suit anymore” in her parents’ Kensington town house. “I’d start by finding some things you like and not worrying about whether they go together,” she said. “There’s a great auction room in Chelsea, near the power station in Lot’s Road. You could have a look, see what tickles your fancy.”

Good God, had she really said tickles your fancy? What was wrong with her today?

But Doug seemed oblivious to any innuendo. He nodded and said, as if it were a novel idea, “I suppose I could.”

“It’ll come right. You’ll see.” Melody felt suddenly claustrophobic, even in the empty rooms. “I think you’ve done brilliantly, Doug. I love the house. But I’d better be getting back to Notting Hill.”

“I promised you lunch,” he said.

“Oh. So you did.” She wondered if she could get through lunch without putting her foot farther into her mouth. “What did you have in mind?”

He grinned. “Something very appropriate, I think. Now that I know your deep, dark secret. It’s called the Jolly Gardeners.”

Shrugging off Tavie’s hand, Kieran popped the latch on Finn’s crate and hooked the lead to the dog’s collar. “I know who she is,” he said to Tavie, keeping his back turned. He hadn’t trusted his face or his voice, not since he’d heard Tavie say her name, dropping it so casually, like a stone tossed into the river.

It had taken a moment for the full weight of it to sink into his mind. Rebecca. Rebecca Meredith. He never thought of her as anything but Becca.

Nor did he automatically connect her with the last name Meredith, although of course he knew it, as any rower would. But Rebecca Meredith was a stranger to him, a woman who wore suits and went off to London on weekday mornings, worked in an office in a police station, left polystyrene coffee cups littered on a desk he’d never seen. A woman who had once been married to this man, Atterton. He knew now why Atterton’s face had seemed familiar. He’d seen a younger version in a few old photos, collecting dust at the back of a bookcase in Becca’s sitting room.

Rebecca Meredith was not the woman who rowed as easily as most people breathe, who laughed as she pushed damp hair from her eyes and lifted a boat to her hip, or pulled the sheet up over a bare shoulder gilded by lamplight.

“Becca,” he whispered. Please let it not be Becca. But he knew all too well that she took the scull out at dusk, and that the best he could hope was that there was some completely rational explanation for her disappearance. He was letting his mind play games, and that was a dangerous indulgence.

Finn pushed against him and licked his chin. He knew it was time to go to work, didn’t understand Kieran’s hesitation. “Good boy,” Kieran said, and stepped back so that Finn could jump down.

The dogs greeted each other with sniffs and wagging tails, but their attention came quickly back to their handlers. Tavie was watching him with an expression of concern that bordered on apprehension, so he forced a smile.

“You look like shit,” Tavie said. The smile hadn’t fooled her for a second.

“You’re always one for the compliments.” His stab at their usual banter sounded false even to him. “I’m okay, really.” He nodded towards the bag she’d taken from her kit in the truck. “Let’s get on with it. What have you got for the dogs?”