All I had left to do now was make sure there was nothing in the cellar. Going down there was the last thing I wanted to do, but it had to be done. Then I’d take some final photographs, embed them in my spreadsheet, and save everything on a memory stick. Copies would go to DCI Eacles and the solicitor, Simon Crewe. Then I’d start on the valuations for probate.
“I’m going to toss out the food in the fridge,” Anne called from the kitchen, where she’d made a pot of tea—sugar, no milk. “Then I’ll have a look downstairs. I’ll let you know if I find anything.”
“Bless you,” I called back, rejoicing in my escape from rats and spiders. Anyway, given the mildew problem, it seemed highly unlikely that Evelyn Villiers had stored anything of value in the cellar.
I’d just set up two of the final objects to be photographed—a pair of Paris porcelain biscuit vases—when Anne appeared in the archway. “Kate.” She had a funny look on her face. “I think you’d better come see this.”
Crap.
Anne went first down the set of narrow, open stairs into the cellar, a low-ceilinged space under the rear portion of the house. I brushed a web away from my face.
“There’s a switch and some bare bulbs, but I don’t dare turn on the electricity.” Anne held a torch, the beam widened out to give maximum coverage. “We’ll have to make do with this.”
The smell was overpowering. “We’re taking years off our lives,” I said. “We should be wearing gas masks.” The cement floor was slick with wet mold. Ick.
We moved slowly, holding onto each other and trying not to bump our heads on the maze of scabbed ironwork pipes suspended from the ceiling. An old, unused brick boiler stood next to a modern steel version.
Anne shone her torch ahead of us. An abandoned coal bin held the remains of a wine rack, the wood swollen and furred with fungus.
The unmistakable sound of dripping water echoed in the enclosed space, making me think of wells—one of my childhood fears. I tightened my grip on her arm.
“Just over here,” she said.
The rear wall of the cellar had bowed inward, swollen by the damp. The cellar and the foundation of the house had been constructed of lime-mortared rubble. Here, below ground level, the stones were pocked with damp, sickly patches of black mold.
Something small and dark darted past us into the shadows.
Anne squealed. “A rat.”
I screamed, imagining a furry horde, waiting to attack.
Laughing to cover our nerves, we held onto each other. Anne aimed her light toward the rear corner of the cellar, where the back wall met the side wall to our left. A jumble of cardboard boxes had collapsed under their own weight, melding together in a pulpy pile.
“It’s the photo albums,” Anne said. “Look.”
I peered in. Sure enough, the boxes—or what was left of them—held photograph albums, stacks of them, their fabric covers thickly mildewed and encased in cracked and clouded plastic.
“Why would Mrs. Villiers store photograph albums down here?” Anne asked.
“No idea. Let’s see if any of the photos have survived. This album on top is probably our best bet.” I pulled on the box to reach it.
The soggy cardboard came away in my hand, releasing hundreds of tiny pale brown spiders that scattered in every direction, across the floor and over our shoes.
I screamed again, stamping my feet to get them off me. “Ew, ew, ew.” My skin was crawling. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Right behind you.” I felt her hands on my back.
But Anne had managed to grab the photo album.
We laid the soggy album on the kitchen table.
Anne opened it cautiously. I took a step back, half expecting another swarm of baby spiders to jump at me.
“The photos are ruined,” she said. And they were—sticking to the mounting paper and to each other. The coated paper had turned pulpy, the images dissolved like wet glue.
“The albums underneath will be even worse.” I pried another page loose and turned it.
“Did you notice the cover? It said 1994.” Anne was running a dish cloth under the water in the sink. She brought it over so I could clean my hands.
“Give me a minute,” I said, turning another page. “I want to see if any of the images are still visible. In 1994, Lucy would have been eight or nine. She should have some record of her childhood.” I turned pages, finding more of the same.
Not one of the photos had survived.
I spread my hands. “This is Lucy’s family history, her past—erased, dissolved, destroyed. Why would her mother do that? I don’t get it.”
“What a shame,” Anne said. “At least you tried.”
I’d reached the final page of the album.
“Wait a minute—look at this.” Attached to the back cover of the album was an opaque plastic pocket sleeve.
“That’s where you store photos until you have a chance to organize them,” Anne said.
I unwound a heavy string from the two metal discs and folded back the flap.
“There’s something here.” I drew out a five-by-seven family portrait, the image spotted with mold but still visible. A family of three. “That’s Wallace Villiers. I recognize the square jaw and head of thick hair. And there’s Lucy.” The little girl clung to her father’s hand and seemed to melt into the arm of his tweed jacket. Her thin face and small dark eyes were unmistakable. I looked closer. “But who’s the woman?”
“Evelyn Villiers.”
“No it isn’t.” I looked up. “That isn’t the woman I met.”
Anne examined the photo. “Are you sure—the photo was taken, what—twenty-five years ago? People
