Chapter Twenty-Six
I met Lucy in the lobby of the Premier Inn. She’d changed into a pair of gray slacks that had seen one too many washings, and an unflattering puff-sleeved blouse. I know—I’m the last person to accuse someone of ignoring fashion, but it seemed Lucy went out of her way to melt into the background. With her dark hair and sallow skin, she needed a bit of color.
“Come on,” I said, taking her arm. “We’ll share my umbrella.”
The rain had kept up a steady drumming since mid-morning, weighing down the landscape along with everyone’s spirits. We dashed to my car, parked just beyond the covered portico. Lucy slid into the passenger’s seat. I started the engine and flipped on the windshield wipers.
On the drive to Long Barston, I steered our conversation toward neutral waters. I asked her about Belfast. She asked me about Ohio. What I really wanted to know was what she and Tom had talked about after I left them at the pub, but I decided she’d had enough drama for one day.
I was wrong. She wanted to talk about it.
“Tom is a kind man. He went out of his way to make me feel comfortable.” She settled back in the seat and grinned. “Dishy too.”
I grinned back. “No arguments here.” I waited a moment, then added, “It must have been hard for you, talking about your father’s death and what happened afterward.”
“The whole thing’s like a nightmare. I’m sure I was in shock. Father was dead. Colin left without a word. Mother was treating me like a pariah.”
“She blamed you.”
“I blamed myself.”
“You weren’t responsible for any of it. Sometimes, when we’ve thought a certain way for a long time, it’s hard to change. But you weren’t to blame, Lucy.”
She made a noncommittal sound.
“How about some music?” I turned on the radio, letting her think about what I’d said.
When we arrived at Rose Cottage, Vivian was rolling out dough for a meat and veg pie. We peeled off our coats and shook them out in the small flagstone side entrance.
“I’d forgotten how rainy it is in Suffolk,” Lucy said, finger-combing her damp hair.
“Typical English summer.” Vivian rubbed her nose with the back of her hand, leaving a smudge of flour. “Disheartening showers interrupted by gales of disappointment.” She wiped her hands on a tea towel. “Almost finished. You two make yourselves comfortable in the parlor.”
Fergus padded after us, circling his basket an unnecessary number of times before settling down with a grunt. I peered out the window toward the park. On Blackwater Lake, a flock of emerald-headed ducks had hunkered down in the water lilies.
Lucy crouched beside Fergus’s basket and stroked his head. “Inspector Mallory was especially interested in the inquest.”
I was too. The morning after the inquest, Evelyn Villiers had sent Lucy to her aunt’s in Essex. “Did something happen at the inquest?”
“After that my mother shut herself in her room. I thought it was because of Colin. He tried to talk to her, tried to give her some kind of note. I think he was apologizing, asking for forgiveness.”
“And she refused to listen?”
“Not just refused. I think she would have attacked him if her solicitor hadn’t rushed her away.” Lucy stood.
“Come on, sit down.” I patted the empty place beside me on the small sofa.
Had Evelyn Villiers experienced a mental breakdown? Losing a husband is traumatic—I know better than most—but Evelyn Villiers’s reaction had been extreme. She’d refused to sleep in their bed, to occupy the rooms they’d lived in together, to wear the clothes she’d worn with him or the jewelry he’d given her. She couldn’t even bear to see the child they’d borne.
I’d heard of extreme reactions to grief—women who thought they were going mad, felt they’d become different people living in the same body, fantasized about throwing themselves into the grave along with their husband’s coffin. Evelyn Villiers’s reaction sounded more like anger, as if she blamed her husband for leaving her. She might have received medical treatment if someone had intervened, but Lucy was too young, and Ertha had been dismissed. According to Sheila Parker, she’d refused to answer Winnifred’s phone calls.
“How did your Aunt Winnie know to come for you?”
“Mother must have telephoned.” Lucy sat with her elbows on her knees and her face in her hands. “Aunt Winnie arrived the next morning and said I was to go with her. I refused, threatened to run away. I told her Colin wouldn’t know where to find me. In the end, I went. No choice, really.”
“But wasn’t Colin living near your aunt in Dunmow Parva?”
“He had been, but he’d taken a room in a house near Little Gosling to be closer to Hapthorn. Actually, Father talked about him moving in, redoing the apartment over the garage. That ended when the painting was stolen. I think Mother forbid it. Anyway, Colin disappeared after the inquest. He wouldn’t answer his mobile. None of his friends knew where he was—at least not the friends I knew about.”
“You said several people came to the house the night of the inquest. Do you remember who they were?”
“I wasn’t paying attention. I was frantic trying to locate Colin. I phoned everyone I could think of, but no one had seen him or heard from him.”
“How was your mother in the morning?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t see her. She left me a note.”
“Did you keep it?”
Lucy gave me a pained look. “Why? She made her intentions crystal clear. ‘You’re no daughter of mine. Your aunt will see to your future.’” Her face crumpled.
Fergus lumbered to his feet and padded over to her chair. He put his paw on Lucy’s knee, and she reached down to pet him. He licked her hand. “After all these years,” she said, “I still find it hard to accept. Mother and I were never close like some mothers and daughters, but I always thought she loved me a little.” Lucy raised her chin. “Could you send a letter like that? Nothing about
