stirred the hair. But the gully was deep and the whole scene was in shadow. It was like looking at a painting a long way away.
‘James,’ she said. ‘Climb back. Darling, come here to me.’ She didn’t think she’d be able to make it down and most of all she wanted to stop him screaming. Her voice seemed to wake him from a spell and he turned and clambered back towards her. She took him in her arms, looking over his head at the figure in the pool.
If Lily had been wearing the peasant dress of the previous day, Felicity might have recognized her, but she was convinced that this was a stranger. She stood, her arms clasped around her son, frozen. She knew there were things you should do. She’d seen the medical dramas on the television, doctors thumping on the chest and breathing into the mouth. But all that seemed beyond her. Small and ridiculous objections came into her head.
Then the rest of them turned up. And they seemed no more able to act than she was. She had a horrible temptation to laugh at the four of them peering down into the bowl of rock. Then James pulled away from her and looked up into her face.
‘Mum,’ he said, his voice quite controlled now, just a little unsteady as if he was struggling for breath. ‘What’s Miss Marsh doing in the pond?’
And that was when she saw quite clearly that it was Lily.
Chapter Eleven
They were all sitting at a long table on the veranda at Fox Mill. It was dark and the scene was lit by fairy lights, which Felicity must have strung up along the outside of the house earlier in the day, and one fat candle, almost burned down now. Gary was feeling seriously weird. He thought this could be a stage set. Opera. The whole evening had that sense of melodrama. He could imagine some fat lass wandering in and belting out a tune, arms outstretched towards the dark garden. He sometimes did the sound for opera at the City Hall. Bits of it he quite enjoyed, but it was so over the top that you could never pretend it was real, could you?
He was drunk. He’d made an effort to cut down lately. It wasn’t like the old days, just after Emily had left him. Then, the only time he was properly sober was when he was out birding. But tonight he had an excuse. Peter’s birthday. And being involved in a murder. He pictured the body, spread out like a starfish just under the water, covered with flowers. It made him think of a collage, something you might see hanging on the wall in the Baltic Art Gallery in Gateshead. Bits of net and lace cut into pieces, seaweed and shells. Beautiful. If you liked that sort of thing. He reached out and topped up his glass from a bottle of red, pleased that his hand didn’t shake and none of it spilled.
Felicity served the meal and it was amazing, just as it always was. A big pot of chicken smelling of lemon and herbs. He didn’t know anyone else who could cook like her. Since he’d met up with Peter, he’d thought this was what he wanted – not just the food, of course, but the family, the wife. That was what he’d imagined when he’d proposed to Emily. Now he wondered if it was all too good to be true. It was as though they were part of a show. The Calvert family at home. I could do the sound, he thought, and imagined clipping the mic into the top of that simple black dress she was wearing. Her skin would still be warm. He’d be close enough to smell her perfume, the shampoo she used. He thought they’d all had dreams about Felicity, especially when she was younger. Even now they all fancied her. Sometimes he caught Clive staring at her, his mouth slightly open. He wondered if Clive had ever had a woman. Gary had offered to take him into town a couple of times, but Clive always refused. Perhaps he preferred fantasies of Felicity to the real thing.
It was late to be eating, even for him and he was used to meals at strange times. They’d had to wait for the police to arrive at the lighthouse, explain who they were, give their names and addresses. Then there’d been the walk home. Across the table from him, James, Felicity’s son, was almost falling asleep over his food. The boy roused himself at one point to talk about the dead woman.
‘What do you think happened to her?’
‘I don’t know,’ Felicity said. ‘Some dreadful accident.’
Gary knew that wasn’t true. All the adults knew it was no accident. The flowers showed this death had been intended.
‘If she’d come to live in the cottage,’ James said sulkily, ‘she’d have been able to help me with my homework.’
Gary didn’t know what lay behind that comment and was too pissed to work it out. Felicity persuaded James to bed then. She put her arm around him, almost carried him into the house, and the men were left alone. Somewhere behind them a tawny owl screamed in the tall oaks up the lane. The dark shadows of bats flew in and out of the light. Other occasions, other birthdays, this was the time Gary loved best. The four of them sitting together after the meal, relaxed in a way he could be with no one else, sometimes quiet, sometimes following a conversation about old glories or making plans for the future – trips abroad, the definitive book about the county’s birds. Tonight, though, there was an awkwardness. It was as if the dead young woman lay on the table between them, dripping seawater and demanding to be remembered.
‘What did James mean?’ Samuel asked. ‘Was the dead woman going to come and live here?’
‘No!’ Peter said. ‘It was just the boy being foolish.’
And they lapsed again into an uneasy silence.
Then Felicity came back and cleared the table. She brought out a plate of cheese and offered them coffee. Peter opened another bottle of wine. She took her place beside him. Samuel returned to the dead woman and how James had known her, but this time the question was directed at Felicity.
‘Her name was Lily Marsh,’ she said. ‘She was a student teacher at James’s school.’ She was about to continue but was interrupted by a shout so loud that it made them all start. Gary could feel his pulse racing, wondered if he was old enough for a heart attack, thought again that he should drink less. He wasn’t ready to die. Not now.
‘Hello! Anyone at home?’ The voice was deep and brusque. Gary wasn’t sure if it came from a man or a woman. A figure appeared at the French window that gave on to the veranda. A woman. Tall and heavy, but wearing a skirt. She’d switched on the light in the room and she was silhouetted in front of it. ‘You shouldn’t leave your front door on the latch like that,’ she continued in the grumbling tone of a teacher talking to idiots. ‘Even when you’re home, you never know who might walk in.’
They all stared at her, still shocked. She stepped down towards them until she’d reached the table. The candle shone upwards onto her face. She paused before she spoke again. Gary thought this was someone else who liked a drama.
‘Inspector Vera Stanhope. Northumbria Police. Senior Investigating Officer in the case of that lass you found tonight.’ She pulled out the chair where James had been sitting and lowered herself cautiously onto it. It was a director’s chair with a wooden frame. The canvas creaked. Gary watched closely, expecting a ripping, tearing sound. Perhaps she was expecting it too. This was a woman who’d be able to carry off farce. But the canvas held and Vera continued cheerfully, turning to Felicity. ‘I understand you knew her. The young woman who died, I mean. Weren’t you just saying…’
Felicity answered, hesitating at first. She kept looking at Peter. Gary wasn’t sure what that was about. She repeated the sentence she’d begun before Vera Stanhope’s dramatic entrance.
‘Her name was Lily Marsh. She was a student teacher at my son’s school, the primary in Hepworth. She turned up here yesterday, on the bus with him. It seemed that James had said she could live in our cottage until the end of term. Without consulting us, of course.’
‘You didn’t tell me,’ Peter said.
‘There was nothing to tell. She looked at the cottage and left.’
‘You’d said she could stay, then?’ Vera Stanhope asked.
‘I don’t think either of us came to a decision. I couldn’t even tell if she liked the place. She said she’d think about it.’ Felicity turned to Peter. Gary could tell she was willing him not to make a scene, not to get all arrogant and pompous. Gary loved Peter to bits, but he could do pompous better than anyone he knew. ‘Of course if the girl had decided she was interested, I’d have discussed it with you before deciding whether or not to rent. James really liked her.’
