“Are you okay?” Leo asked, clearly noticing her face, “Worrying about Tom?” He offered the reason tentatively, but not unkindly.
“Yes, sorry, I really should get back to the hospital,” she stood up to leave, “but thank you for the brownie, and the conversation.”
“Anytime,” Leo said, digging in his pocket for something, “Look, here’s my number. If you ever feel like chatting,” he handed her a business card with a mobile number on it.
“Thank you, I’m sure I will,” Paige replied, checking to make sure she had all of her things.
“Is that your jacket on that window seat?” Leo asked, gesturing to the light blue denim jacket Paige had left there, “I think it was the one you were wearing in the pub the other night.”
“Oh, thank you, you’re right,” she said, “I haven’t had a chance to go home and get more clothes.” She walked over and grabbed the jacket, “I hope to see you soon,” she added before turning to walk out.
Leo smiled and gave a singular wave, “Wishing Tom a speedy recovery,” he said.
Paige headed back down the road to the hospital, examining the business card Leo had given her with his number on. She smiled to herself and decided to add it to her contacts now. Filling in the details, she clicked “save” and put her phone back in her pocket.
As she rounded the corner to the hospital, her phone buzzed. Looking at the screen preview, she saw the unknown number again:
07764321123 – unknown number
17.36pm
I’m glad Ella’s name got your attention. This is my final message. For your own sake, do not work with Professor Hugh Eckland anymore. Keep yourself and your mum safe.
A friend x
Paige sighed audibly, partly in fear, and partly in frustration. Whoever was sending these messages must be following her or tracking her electronically.
This time the message mentioned her mum. She was filled with rage – who could possibly mean her mum harm? Was this a threat?
With anger burning in her, she called a taxi. If she had any chance of figuring out who was sending the texts, who had attacked her and who had killed Ella, she needed to start at the Ecklands. They were the link in all of this.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE TAXI DROPPED HER outside Eckland’s house and with somewhat frenzied knocking, she managed to bring Arlene to the door in a matter of seconds.
“Hugh’s out with a friend,” Arlene said, the same, vacant look in her eyes. Paige gave an inward sigh of relief – this would make her search a lot easier.
“I’m sorry, Arlene, I left something here – can I please go up to the study?”
“Of course, dear, is everything okay?” Arlene asked, but Paige barely paused in the door before heading up the stairs.
Calling back down she said, “I won’t be long, sorry!”
Paige shut the door to the study and heard Arlene’s footsteps recede into the kitchen. She moved through the room meticulously, hunting every shelf for a hint of Ella. If she had found one essay with Ella’s notes on, there must be more.
The trunk and all of its contents looked strangely innocent given everything she’d learnt; every scrap of Eckland’s writings were still casually strewn in its walls, daring her to dig through it.
And so, she did. Like a hungry wolf flushing out a rabbit, she moved through great mounds of papers, reading each one three times over for any hint of a clue. There were papers on Julius Caesar, notes from academic conferences, and more of Ella’s flowery hand annotating the margin of Eckland’s bleak poetry.
She was very aware of the time – even Arlene, in her dazed state, might notice that she had been up here for more than ten minutes. She flicked through every sheet, until the entire trunk was empty.
The light-coloured wood at the bottom mocked her; she hadn’t found a single thing. Paige thought back to the false top of the desk and returned to it. She must have missed something.
Inside was the piece of paper with the lioness stamp, just as before. Then she realised there had been a second piece of paper, one she hadn’t looked at before in her haste to question Eckland.
She pulled it out - a short poem, not dissimilar to Eckland’s other grandiose verses, but Ella’s marginal comments made her hold her breath.
In the space to the right-hand side of Eckland’s messy scrawl of verse, she read:
Why would you write this?
What if someone saw?
Paige’s heart leapt into her mouth, partly from once again reading the frantic thoughts of a ghost, and partly from fear. Each i was dotted with Ella’s unmistakable heart shape.
She turned her attention to Eckland’s poem.
Little girl turned lioness,
Lower your guard, embrace my caress.
‘She was taught desire in the street,
Not at the angel’s feet’.
Herded by endless yearning,
She took my hand, eyes burning.
Young and beautiful in a stranger’s arms,
Paying the rent with her open charms.
Taught desire in the streets... Paige thought, recognising the quote. With a quick Google she found the poem Eckland was referencing – ‘The Trap’ by Vachel Lindsay. The lines alluded to prostitution.
“She gave consent, you say?” Paige read Lindsay’s verse to herself. Trap... she remembered the first anonymous text she had received “Don’t read Trap”. Is Eckland involved in something like this? Why did the texter not want me to read this?
She felt more confused than she had before. Was the poem about Ella? She had clearly been upset by it.
Paige heard Arlene heading up the stairs and quickly shoved the piece of paper back in the compartment, popping it closed seconds before Arlene came in.
“Did you find what you were looking for?” Arlene asked gently, offering the mug of tea she had in her hands. Arlene, although a terrific cook, made truly vile tea.
“I did, thank you,” Paige said, holding up her sunglasses, hoping that Arlene wouldn’t have noticed that they had actually been on her
