The burial ground, an overspill from thechurchyard, had seen the interment of deceased parishioners since the early1890s. Just four weeks ago, Nellie had stood grieving as her husband,Leonard’s, body was added to their number. Yesterday afternoon aheadstone had been erected to his grave.
Nellie reached the grave and gasped. The white granite stone was exactly as ordered, but seeing her husband’s nameetched in stark black letters tore at her heart anew. She silently readthe inscription, tracing her bony fingers over the engraving as she read. In loving memory of Leonard Sageman, a loving husband, father andgrandfather. 2nd February 1890 – 17th July 1974.
Taking a step forwards, Nellie placed thelilies on the grave, leant in and kissed the headstone. A long, happy andadventurous chapter of her life was now closed.
She took a deep breath and left the burialground, making her way back along the road to Swan Cottage, the home that shehad lived in since 1915, when a life insurance policy had paid out followingCharlie’s death. She looked up at the cottage with happiness. Painted cream and covered with a scented wisteria, the cottage was where manysignificant events in her life had taken place: she and Leonard had married fromthis house; their son, Alex had been born here and, of course, it was whereLeonard had finally succumbed to pneumonia.
With a smile on her face at the thought ofseeing another birth here—in her lifetime—Nellie made her way inside thewelcome coolness of the cottage. She collapsed into her armchair in thelounge and exhaled noisily.
Alight tapping on the lounge window made Nellie sit up with a start. Theparticular rhythm of the tapping told her that her son was at the door. She stood up and caught herself in profile in the mirror above thefireplace. ‘Goodness, look at the state of you, Nellie Sageman.’ She regretted allowing herself to doze after her visit to Len’s grave, havingintended to have a tidy up prior to her visitor’s arrival.
She pulled open the front door andsmiled. In front of her was her sullen son, Alfred, and his daughter,Margaret, who cowered behind him like a terrified animal. ‘Alfred,’Nellie said in plain acknowledgement. She leant across to catch a betterlook at Margaret. She hadn’t seen her since the funeral and noticedimmediately how big she had suddenly become. ‘Hello, Margaret,’ shegreeted, extending her arms out and pulling her into a hug.
‘I can’t stop,’ Alfred barked. ‘Here’s her stuff. Telephone me once it’s done.’
Nellie watched, incredulous that she hadraised such a brute, as he waltzed off down the path, jumped into his blueAustin Mini and was off.
Nellie reached down and picked up theleather suitcase abandoned by Alfred and looked at Margaret. She waswearing a long flowing dress, which she guessed was her son’s ashamed way oftrying to conceal the bump. ‘You don’t need to look so terrified,’ Nelliewhispered. ‘Come on in, I bet you’re stifling hot.’
Margaret silently followed Nellie insidethe house.
‘Take a seat,’ Nellie said, gesturing tothe sofa and armchairs.
Margaret sat herself down in the nearestarmchair—Len’s armchair—and Nellie had to stop herself from asking her to movein case he came in from the garden. He’s not coming back…she toldherself.
‘Would you like a drink? Somethingto eat? I’ve been baking—fruit cake, Bakewell Tart, scones?’
Margaret shook her head, her gaze set tothe floor.
Nellie clasped her hands together and madeMargaret jump. ‘Right, listen to me, Margaret Farrier. You’re notgoing to spend the next few weeks here like a timid little mouse, okay? I’m not your father and I won’t treat you as he has done. So, I’m goingto make you a nice cup of tea and a piece of cake and when I come back, you’regoing to have a smile on your face and you’re going to say whatever it isthat’s bothering you.’
And with that, Nellie strode from theroom, desperately hoping that her tactic might bring Margaret out of herself-imposed shell.
ChapterNine
24th December 2014, Cadgwith, Cornwall, England
Thefire crackled noisily in the lounge, as the flames hungrily devoured greatchunks of seasoned oak. Margaret, with a bowl of porridge resting on herplump stomach, sat in her armchair, close to the fire. Juliette wasresting her head on Morton’s shoulder on the sofa opposite. Unblinkingand unthinking, he was transfixed by the flames. He had suffered anotherbad night’s sleep and his restlessness had woken Juliette. The briefconversation yesterday with his Uncle Jim had replayed in his mind over andover again all night long, like a song stuck on repeat. The more he hadthought about it, the more he had wondered if had imagined Uncle Jim’s suddenembarrassed discomfort, as he had tried to back-track from what he hadsaid. Could the lie that he had mentioned Aunty Margaret carrying withher for her whole life simply be that she was his birth mother? Ifhe trusted his instincts on the matter, as he so often needed to when carryingout his genealogical investigations, then that was not the lie to whichhis Uncle Jim had referred. Morton had had no further opportunity tospeak privately with Jim, leaving the remark niggling at the front of hismind. What had made Morton even more suspicious was Uncle Jim’s definitechange in demeanour following their conversation. He had sat in therestaurant yesterday afternoon barely uttering a single word and avoiding alleye contact with Morton. This morning Jim had scurried down to hisfishing boat at some ungodly hour. No, Morton had not imagined it, UncleJim had said something that he had realised afterwards that he shouldn’thave—something that his Aunty Margaret had yet to tell him.
‘Come on, then,’ Margaret said jovially. ‘Where’s today’s research goingto take us?’
Morton smiled. ‘Are you sure you’re not getting bored with allthis?’ He felt a subtle but definite nod of Juliette’s head on hisshoulder and inwardly smiled.
Margaret looked mortified. ‘No, no. I could do this all day. I just can’t believe how much there is on the internet nowadays. Amazingthat you can do all this research on a computer. You must never leaveyour house when you’re working on a case!’
‘If only,’ Juliette murmured. ‘He’d get into less trouble.’
‘There’s usually more to it, thankfully,’ Morton said. ‘Libraries,archives, churchyards—that sort of thing. There’s probably more that Ican find about
