“Here.” Lucy opened the top drawer of the dresser and furrowed her brow. “It’s gone. That’s odd.”
“Could she have moved the jewelry to a safe deposit box or a storage facility?” Anne asked.
“I suppose, but I can’t believe she’d get rid of her jewelry. She adored it.”
We left, shutting the door behind us—as Evelyn Villiers must have shut the door on her old life eighteen years ago. Perhaps it had been the only way she could survive.
Lucy stood at the entrance to her old bedroom. She glanced at us over her shoulder. “I’m not sure I want to do this.”
“We’re right behind you,” I said.
She pushed open the door and stepped inside. We followed, the thick wool rug, almost room-sized, muffling the sound of our feet.
Lucy reached out and touched the poster of Amy Winehouse.
“Unhappiness creeps up on you,” she said. “I didn’t know how unhappy I was until that night—the night father died. I’d never known real love, you see. Then I did, and just when all my dreams were about to come true, everything was torn away.” She walked to the window seat and picked up the floppy teddy bear, pressing it to her face before putting it back.
She shook her head as if to dispel the memories.
“There’s one more room we’d like you to see,” Anne said. “The room where your mother was sleeping.”
We entered the small room where Evelyn Villiers had spent her last night on earth.
“But this is Ertha’s room. I remember the furniture.”
“Is the photograph over the bed Ertha’s as well?” I asked. “Do you recognize the cottage or the river?”
Lucy shook her head. “Ertha had a painting over the bed—a tropical scene with a beach and palm trees. I used to fantasize about going there one day.”
I pictured the painting I’d seen at the Green’s cottage—a cove with a pink sand beach, bending palms, an impossibly blue sea.
Lucy touched the hollow of her throat. “Why would Mother move into Ertha’s room?”
Neither of us answered.
I showed Lucy the New Testament and the book of Suffolk legends I’d returned to the bedside table. She just shook her head. “She changed so much.”
The question was why.
“Look around. Take your time,” Anne said. “When you’re ready, we’ll be in the kitchen.”
“I’ll make tea,” I said, remembering the porcelain jar where the housekeeper, Mrs. Wright, had found the teabags. With any luck, the milk in the refrigerator would still be fresh.
Anne and I sat at the table, drinking tea and looking out toward the river. The water level had risen alarmingly, swamping the willows along the bank.
When Lucy returned, she seemed frantic, roaming the kitchen, opening doors and cupboards.
“Are you looking for something?” I asked her.
“My life. Something I remember, something that hasn’t changed.” She opened the cupboard beside the cooker and peered inside. “Everything seems strange, far away. This must be how people with dementia feel. I recognize what I’m seeing, but nothing feels real or right.”
“Did you ever help Ertha in the kitchen?” I hoped to focus her mind on something familiar, unfraught with emotion.
Lucy laughed. “The kitchen was Ertha’s domain, but she’d let me sit and watch her working. She’d tell me stories about her childhood on the island—swimming in the ocean, catching fish from her father’s boat. I envied her, growing up in that sunny world—in a big family with aunties and uncles and grandparents.”
“Why do you think your mother told Ertha to leave?”
“Did she?” Lucy raised an eyebrow. “That must have been after I left.”
I made a mental note to ask Yasmin if Lucy could visit Ertha. Seeing the old lady again might provide the anchor she needed to the past.
The wind had picked up. Outside the trees swayed in the driving rain. The branches of a forsythia bush tapped against the bay window.
“The new housekeeper told me your mother loved the river,” I said.
“I don’t remember that,” Lucy said sharply. She pulled out a drawer and began sorting through the contents. “I do remember her complaining about the damp. The government engineers did something to the locks downstream. It caused the water level to rise. She made father get rid of everything in the cellar because of the musty smell.”
“This rain isn’t going to help,” Anne said. “One of the sergeants said the foundation might need reinforcement. I’d have a contractor take a look if I were you.”
“I’ll probably sell the house. I could never live here—not after what happened.”
Was she talking about her mother’s murder or what happened eighteen years ago?
Lucy pulled a wide-bladed knife from the drawer. “Now this I remember. Ertha’s favorite knife. She used it to chop vegetables. I picked it up once, and she gave me a bollocking.”
I could see why—the knife was huge. “Lucy, you told Inspector Mallory you remembered cars coming and going the night before your aunt came to collect you. Have you remembered anything else about the cars or the people?”
“I suppose they came to offer condolences. I remember Mother arguing with someone in the back garden. She was angry.”
“A man or a woman?” Anne asked.
“I couldn’t tell. It was mother’s voice I heard.”
“Did your mother have relatives in the area?” Like a nephew who drove a dark van.
“I never heard of any.”
“How about your father?” Anne asked. “We know about your Aunt Winnie, but he also had a sister in Melbourne.”
“I never knew her.”
Lucy stopped dead. She reached out a tentative hand, not quite touching the countertop near the cookie jar. “This is where Mother left the letter for me.”
I wanted to comfort her, but there was nothing I could do to make the memory go away.
She pulled her sweater around her body. “Let’s get out of here.”
I drove Lucy back to the inn. On the way, she was silent, leaning her head against the glass and tracing the raindrops.
“Why don’t you come home with me tonight?” I asked. “At least for supper. You shouldn’t be alone.”
“I need to be alone,” Lucy said. “I have decisions to make.”
“Has
