not discuss, that her sister would never accept a penny from her. He told her that she was in no state to make decisions (she was looking very unwell, he thought, and her face had come out in a rash) but she would not listen. He brought out every argument he could summon, but in the end she declared, exactly as her aunt had done a few weeks earlier, that if he would not do as she asked, she would go to another solicitor. 'I can't stay in London,' he remembered her saying, 'I have to get away, and I want you to look after things for me.' Very reluctantly, he agreed. She signed the will, and promised to keep in touch with him.
By the time I came to see him, Mr Pitt was already anxious about her safety. Even more alarming than her silence was the fact that no money had been withdrawn from her account. He alerted the police, and advertised repeatedly, asking anyone who knew the whereabouts of Anne or Phyllis to contact him, all without result. Of course we did not know that your mother had emigrated to Australia, which explains her silence. So much grief, as I have often reflected, sprang from that one quarrel between your mother and her aunt. Such a pity-but I must get on.
As the years passed with no news of Anne, I remained closely in touch with Mr Pitt. He was in his sixties when I first met him, and when ill health forced him to retire, he prevailed upon me to assume the role of executor. (There was no Pitt the Younger, you see, that was part of the joke.) After he died, I took my business to a Mr Urquhart, who proved unsatisfactory, and thence to Lansdown and Grierstone, with whom, as you can see, I have remained ever since. I was advised by Mr Urquhart that, as nothing had been heard of Anne for more than seven years, I ought to commence proceedings to have her declared legally dead, and take possession of the estate. This, of course, I refused ever to contemplate.
I should have mentioned that when the police came to search the house, they found nothing amiss, and concluded that Anne had simply packed her things, locked up the house and left. Mr Pitt, I know, was much troubled by the fear that she might have made away with herself; I have never allowed myself to believe that she would do such a thing, just as I have never ceased to hope that she is still alive. But I confess that not knowing has caused me much torment. I seem to have spent the greater part of my life waiting for news of Anne. And now, quite suddenly it seems, I am an old woman, and must think about my own will as well as fulfilling my duty to the estate.
I am very tired-so much emotion revisited-and must make an end of this long letter. Writing it has stirred, once again, my passionate yearning to
I wonder, therefore-since you will be in London very shortly-whether, before you come down to see me, as I very much hope you will, you would be kind enough to look over the house for me, just to see if anything turns up in the way of letters, notebooks, diaries and so forth. As a professional librarian, you will I am sure be interested in the Ferrier family library, which contains several thousand books. I am afraid the electricity was disconnected many years ago, and the garden is dreadfully overgrown, but it will be high summer when you arrive. Mr Grierstone will have the keys waiting for you at Bedford Row. And please feel free to follow your instinct wherever it may lead. Perhaps it is merely an old woman's fancy, but I feel there is a destiny at work here, and that if anyone is ever to uncover the answers, it will be you.
I am very much looking forward to meeting you.
Yours most sincerely,
Abigail Hamish
Lansdown and Grierstone
Commissioners for Oaths
14A Bedford Row
London WC1N 5AB
12 July 1999
Dear Mr Freeman,
We have received your letter addressed to our client Miss Abigail Hamish. I regret to inform you that Miss Hamish has suffered a slight stroke and is undergoing treatment in a private nursing home. It may be some weeks before she is well enough to reply to your letter, or to receive visitors.
In the meantime, however, we are instructed to make available to you the keys to the house at Ferrier's Close 34, Heath Villas, Hampstead. These may be collected at the above address at your convenience, on presentation of appropriate identification, such as your passport.
Yours faithfully,
Giles Grierstone
From: [email protected]
Subject: Alice is fine and sends you all her love
Date: Tue, 20 Jul 1999 20:12:46 +0100 (BST)
Dear Gerard,
Alice asked me to email you as soon as I could (I'm the ward sister) to tell you that the operation was a complete success. Mr MacBride says she'll have to lie completely still for the next forty-eight hours to let the sutures settle down. She says she'll write to you as soon as she's allowed to sit up.
I hope you don't mind me saying, but I think it's so romantic, the two of you having waited so long. Alice is so beautiful, we all love her. I'm sure you'll be blissfully happy together.
Must dash,
Parvati
FROM THE LANEWAY OUTSIDE, ALL I COULD SEE OF FERrier's Close was a mass of rampant foliage, towering above a weathered brick wall. The wall itself was at least ten feet high, shrouded at the top by overspilling branches, holly and buddleia and rampant blackberries. A solid wooden door, reinforced with iron straps, was the only entrance, just as Miss Hamish had said. Further along to my right, the lane was cut off by the stone wall of another house, with a third wall, painted white, running back behind me. Though most of the houses in the Vale opened directly on to the narrow streets, the occupants of this corner (somewhere on the western side; I had lost my bearings among the twists and turns and narrow passageways that had brought me, circuitously, to this cul- de-sac) clearly cherished their privacy. Luxury cars, stained with sap and bird droppings and humped up on the pavement, were the only evidence of occupation.
Just on two o'clock. The walk up from Hampstead Heath station had been uncomfortably hot, but here beneath the overarching canopy, the air was cool and damp. I had been in London just three days, and already I felt more at home than I ever had in Mawson. The transformation was extraordinary. On Saturday afternoon, after settling into my new, clean, high-rise hotel near St Pancras, I had wandered for hours through leafy streets and squares, breathing deep lungfuls of warm, diesel-laden air as if I had just arrived at a mountain health resort. People no longer avoided eye contact with strangers. The mountains of garbage had shrunk to a few isolated middens. Even the dogs seemed to have cleaned up their act.
I STROLLED UP TO THE END OF THE LANE AND BACK, WEIGHing the heavy bunch of keys in my hand. No one would know there was a house hidden behind the massive trees, some of them sixty or seventy feet high. I wondered how high they had been when Abigail Hamish had stood shivering here, just a few months short of fifty years ago, at the end of autumn. Most of the branches would have been bare.
Miss Hamish, as I had learned from Mr Grierstone's secretary a few hours ago, was now resting comfortably and would be in touch with me as soon as she felt well enough. She wasn't up to visitors, but I could certainly send her some flowers; they would be happy to arrange that on my behalf.
And for the first time in my life, I knew exactly where Alice was. In the National Hospital for Neurology and
