‘This is always a taxing day for us.’ Verity glances at her sister.
‘I know, and I’m sorry to have only added to it. Aside from your disappointment today … Are you all right, Constance? You seem, I don’t know …’ He changes tack. ‘Please, don’t let this house business unsettle you. I’ll oversee everything. You’ll have no worries over the expense. All of your finances are extremely healthy.’
‘Good, good.’ Constance takes an old, clay pipe out of the drawer, throws a pack of tobacco down on her writing desk and proceeds to fill it. Verity goes to speak in protest but clamps her mouth shut.
‘Constance. I don’t mean to belabour it, but are you quite sure you’re all right?’ James asks.
She coughs a bit and thumps her chest.
‘God, I miss tobacco.’
‘I think this change will do you the world of good,’ James says. ‘I’ll leave you now to ponder. We’ll speak next week about timings and I’ll make enquires about a house to let in close vicinity.’
Approaching them, hefty and endearingly affectionate, James embraces both sisters and squeezes their hands.
‘I am terribly, terribly sorry for your disappointment today.’
‘Thank you, James,’ Constance says.
Verity turns to her sister after James leaves. ‘You’re so pensive, Constance. I’ll heat up the pottage.’ Her voice trails off into the kitchen.
‘None for me.’ Constance stands by the windows.
She looks out onto the neglected garden. James is right. They should do something about it, who knows what or who has claimed it. The thing is enormous and its gnarled trees and creeping vines look as if they might crawl towards the house and strangle them. The house speaks to her; both day and night it cries for attention and mourns the absence of laughter and life. She is weary of its demands, just as she is weakened by constant disappointment.
Verity brings her a bowl of the special pottage.
‘I can’t eat it.’
Even the bowl, the same one from which Rafe once ate, upsets her today. She lets it sit untouched.
‘I think it may be time, sister.’
‘Time for what?’ Verity places the needle on a record. ‘Time for what?’ she asks again.
‘We don’t even know what he looks like. Turn that thing off, please. We’ve been searching for so long. We comb the streets of London for red-haired men, young and old. I don’t look at a man without a glance at his neck. He may have lost his chain. Perhaps he dyes his hair, just as we sometimes do. We watch the news, read the papers … what are the odds? What are the odds, Verity? I suddenly feel very foolish and every bit my age.’
‘We are never in sync with this, are we?’ Verity replies. ‘I’m not thinking of dying right now. It’s this house; it’s making you morose. We must do as James says. Secure it, freshen it up, get the gardeners in. You’ll feel renewed.’
‘No, it’s not the house. I need a sign, something, anything to give me a little hope. The smallest hope would satisfy me. We’ve failed at every attempt to follow Benedikt. He’s never going to lead us to the Fowlers. Let’s face it – we’re lousy detectives. London has beaten us; the immensity of it has swallowed us whole. We’ve been chasing a ghost. A lovely ghost of a boy.’
‘Constance, we mustn’t give up.’
‘I’m not giving up, it’s not a matter of giving up … I’m tired. Oh. Oh, it’s coming. Damn. Lemons, please sister. The sleep is coming.’
‘Thank God for that. I’m glad. You’ll feel better when you wake.’
Later in the evening, while her sister is lost in the wilds of a dreamless sleep, Verity begins a fast. Only water will pass her lips for twenty-four hours. The next morning, she sets off for Mass, which she attends everyday while on her mission for a miracle. She clasps her rosary and prays the joyful, luminous, sorrowful and glorious mysteries. Each night for two weeks she falls to her knees, entreating the saints for a sign.
By the end of the two weeks, she chants holy words in every breath she exhales. She prays for patience while she waits for Constance to wake and then, mindful that Constance always craves it after her sleep, Verity bolts out into the streets to purchase ingredients for a fish pie. She is dashing around single-mindedly, thinking of several stops she must make, when she passes the picture framer’s shop. Her attention is captured by a glint of yellow. She stops. Then she sees it in full. Her hand flies up, covering her gaping mouth. A wave of heat races to her face. She crosses herself and enters the shop wherein she gesticulates wildly, conducts a brief conversation and then turns back towards home as fast as she possibly can.
Her breathless run is futile. Two hours she must wait. She paces, thinks of phoning James, decides against it, and makes a tray of cheese and bread, for there will be no fish pie today. She prays, lights candles, brews tea, and finally takes the tray of food upstairs and sits by Constance’s bed and waits, nibbling on bread crusts.
Finally, Constance stirs.
‘Goodness, Verity. What are you doing?’
‘Sister, you must dress at once. Here are your drops. Stuff this bread and cheese down and then we must go. I have prayed and prayed and now my prayers have been answered. Hurry, sister, hurry.’
They are soon amongst the busy afternoon foot traffic of Park Street. Verity throws words at Constance so fast that she can scarcely understand. The greengrocer’s queue impedes them before they turn onto the high street. Verity talks a streak.
‘And he will not sell it. But of course you will make him change his mind. We must work out the provenance.’
‘You haven’t yet told me what it is! Slow down so that—’
Constance, still unsteady from having just
