The Green Remains (17 page)

Chapter Thirty-Nine

“My regret

Becomes an April violet,

And buds and blossoms like the rest.”

— Lord Alfred Tennyson,
In Memoriam

7
PM

It was with a deep sense of misgiving that Jodie Halsey watched her father-in-law, Jack, walk down the hill, clutching the hand of her young son. Jack constantly complained the boy was too attached to her and needed toughening up.

  “He’s not a mot, he’s a boyo,” Jack had explained in his Cumbrian dialect. “An hour at the most.”

  “But no pubs!” she’d admonished. She could just picture Jack and his pal Daniel Rowley having a few too many whilst they forgot her boy altogether.

  “On me t’ol lass’s grave, I’d never drag a bairn into the pub.”

  After Jack swore on his mum’s grave, Jodie had relented. Her husband traveled frequently for work and wasn’t around tonight. The child seemed so anxious to go with his grandfather, too, clearly sensing an adventure, that it was hard to turn him down.

  Jodie decided it wouldn’t hurt for her to have an hour or two for herself. Maybe she’d take a hot bath and shave her legs for a change.

  She wanted to believe Jack’s promise, but as she ran the bath water, Jodie wondered how long it would take her father-in-law to find a way around his oath.

*

8:20
PM

Sommer Clarendon put his book down on the night table. He supposed it was too early to go to sleep, but he seemed to lack any stamina these last few days. Leaning heavily on his hands, he tried unsuccessfully to lift his hips enough to shift his weight. He reached for the bedside call button before remembering the district nurse had signed off and he was on his own for the night.

  It wasn’t usually a problem. The bag attached to the catheter that drained his bladder had been emptied; it meant his sleep was never disturbed. No, he thought wearily, his problem wasn’t sleeping through the night. His problem was fighting down the swarming images that kept him from falling into that blessed state of unawareness when white space surrounded him. He still remembered the time immediately after his accident, when he fought sleep for fear he wouldn’t waken. Now the sense of oblivion he equated with death would be most welcome.

  He heard Antonia in their bathroom, running water and closing drawers, and he called out to her. “Darling—could you help a minute, please?”

  The taps shut, and a moment later Antonia came to his bedside. Her face seemed composed, her hair brushed out around her face. The tie to her robe had come undone; the ends dangled at her sides. Just like my legs, Sommer thought. Aloud, he said: “Would you rearrange my legs for the night?”

  “Of course.” Antonia brought his covers down to the foot of the bed and raised each leg by the heel, slipping on sheepskin heel cups to prevent bedsores. She smoothed the crumpled linen beneath him while Sommer flattened the bed using the control clipped to his pillow. She lowered the rail at the side of the bed while Sommer used his trapeze to lift his weight. She untucked the draw sheet and pulled it tightly to eliminate creases, the bane of skin care. Sommer tugged the large reading wedge from behind his shoulders and slid it onto the floor, adjusting the pillow at his head. Antonia covered him and competently tucked in the sheet.

  “Thank you, my dear. You are my angel of mercy tonight.” His lips brushed Antonia’s forehead in their usual goodnight ritual when she leaned over him. Instead of raising the railing, Antonia climbed into bed next to him and rested against his chest as she had done in the wheelchair the day they’d been told Keith was gone. He could smell the jasmine shampoo she always used.

  Sommer closed his eyes, remembering when her hair fell to her waist, blonde and shimmering. He knew that if he were capable of achieving an erection at will, the memory of that scented hair would be all he needed. He longed for the intimacy they’d shared before her pregnancy and his accident. It had been so long, yet on occasion he could still summon the sweetness of those moments together when he woke up early.

  Sommer caressed his wife’s back, running his hand up and over her shoulders in soothing circles. Her silent tears wet his nightshirt.

  “I love holding you in my arms like this,” he murmured. She nodded and clung harder to him. “I’m so sorry this has happened,” he continued. “This is so very difficult for us, but we have to get through it, darling, and we will if we stick together. We’ve gotten through rotten times before, and we’ll do it again.”

  Antonia lifted her head from his chest, her wet eyes seeking his. “Children aren’t supposed to die before their parents. It’s unnatural.”

  He ached for her then more than ever, recalling the other tragedies they’d shared. “You have had to endure too many losses, my love.” He couldn’t ignore the pangs of guilt he’d felt since realizing the poison for Keith’s death might have come from one of his plants. Had the hobby he loved resulted in the death of his beloved child?

  He brushed his lips against Antonia’s hair. Her breathing slowed, and she fell asleep in the narrow hospital bed, clinging to Sommer, curled up under his arm.

Chapter Forty

“On an April night almost midpoint in the Eighteenth Century, in the county of Orange and the colony of Virginia, Jacob Pollroot tasted his death a moment before swallowing it.”

— Steve Erickson,
Arc d’X

8:40
PM

At The Scarlet Wench, Nora stared in awe at the manifestation of Simon’s ravenous appetite. Some people ate less when under tension; Simon was clearly one of those who ate more. She enjoyed her fish and chips but couldn’t finish the large serving. Simon ate his and the rest of hers. He eyed Kate’s remaining chips before paying the check and returning to the lodge to relieve Maeve, on desk duty.

  Nora and Kate stayed on at the pub, the cheerful noisiness a distraction, and watched a boisterous dart tournament to its end. Nora moved around the pub, straining to overhear any conversation regarding Keith. The dart game proved to be more popular.

  “Any movement on the name game?” Kate asked. “I’ve always liked the name Miles.”

  “Oh, dear,” Nora replied. “I remember a Disney cartoon I watched growing up, and I’m afraid I’d keep seeing Elmer Fudd!” The two women laughed.

  Kate took a call on her cell phone from Ian. He would be back in the area shortly and would stop at the station before dropping by the lodge. Nora saw Kate’s face tighten; her voice grew tense as she spoke to Ian. She shook her head.

  Nora hoped Kate and Ian would find a way past all of this. She knew how much they loved each other. It gave her more resolve to do something to unravel the mystery surrounding Keith’s death and release Simon from suspicions. Her mind went into overdrive. Surely there was something she could do to crack the case?

  They left the pub, and once outside, Nora groaned. Her legs felt cramped from sitting, and her son was particularly active.

  “You go ahead, Kate. I’ll walk slower and don’t want to hold you up. I need to get some of these leg cramps out.” Kate hesitated. “There are street lamps all the way to the lodge and tourists everywhere. I’ll be fine. Go.” She shooed Kate away and watched her disappear down the road.

  When she was certain Kate was out of sight, Nora took off her earrings, pocketed one, and stole back inside the pub. She approached the bar away from the tournament action and snagged an empty stool while she waited to catch the barman’s attention.

  “Yes, miss?” He looked pointedly at her bulge of pregnancy.

  “I don’t want a drink,” Nora hastened to assure him. “I wondered if anyone turned in a hoop earring like this?” She held out one of her braided gold hoops.

  “Let me ask the missus.” He turned toward the kitchen and bellowed, “Daisy.”

  Nora perched on the edge of the stool. The barman wandered back to watch the darts, checking the fill of the glasses he passed. A minute later, the kitchen door knocked open and a cheery-looking woman backed out, holding a tray in front of her. While she unloaded fish and chips in front of two patrons, the barman paused to speak to her and flicked his glance to Nora, who gave the woman a little wave. She nodded and, wiping her hands on a towel, came down the length of bar to where Nora waited.

  “Sorry luv, no one’s turned in anything tonight. But I’ll keep my eyes open when we sweep up at closing.”

  “That would be wonderful,” Nora gushed. “I’m Nora.” She held out her hand. “I’m staying at Ramsey Lodge for a while.”

  The woman looked uncertainly at Nora’s hand and finally gave it a vapid shake. “Daisy.” Then she tilted her head to one side and took in Nora’s full stomach. “You the lass found the Clarendon boy?”

  Nora encouraged her with a mournful smile. “Unfortunately, yes.”

  The woman grimaced. “How about a ginger ale? I’m having one myself.”

  “Maybe a small one,” Nora agreed. She watched Daisy pour their drinks.

  The woman put them both in front of Nora and crouched down to slide out from under the bar. “Move along down, John. Let me set a bit.” She hit the man sitting next to Nora on the shoulder, and he obligingly moved off down the bar.

  “Thank you,” Nora said, sipping her soda. She didn’t have much room for more but wanted to be polite. More importantly, she wanted to mine Daisy for information.

  Daisy, it turned out, spent most of her time in the kitchen. Yes, she knew Daniel Rowley, Jack Halsey and a few of their cohorts liked to talk down Keith Clarendon’s expansion plans, but Daisy suspected that was just to make noise at the town meetings. Half the town hadn’t taken Keith seriously, to her mind, and the other half would have had a long wait before any of Keith’s plans were finalized and approved.

  When Nora brought up Simon’s name in connection with their work, Daisy beamed.

  “Such a nice lad and a good eater, too.”

  Nora nodded. That wasn’t quite the kind of information she needed. She put her head to one side. “Someone told me Simon and Keith had a fight here?”

  Daisy brushed the idea aside. “A small dustup, to be sure. I’ve seen worse in my years here. Now if you were talking about Edmunde Clarendon, that man could swing his fists at the slightest provocation once he’d had a drink in him.” The woman shook her head. “I kind of miss him. Quite a swagger he had. I hear there’s not much left of him now.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Nora admitted.

  Five minutes later, soda finished, she thanked Daisy and left the pub, her frustration level ratcheted up. That was a waste of time. She tried to shrug it off and headed toward Ramsey Lodge.

  Nora needed periods of time alone, intervals of not having to think hard or to carry on a conversation. She thought of it as rest time for her brain. Stepping carefully over the uneven pavement, looking in shop windows along the way, she admired the gay profusion of souvenirs: Kendal Mint Cakes, caps and tweed hats, china and crafts. Some of the shops were housed in buildings that still bore the mullioned windows and beamed exteriors of past centuries. She took a few deep breaths and emptied her mind. Window-shopping therapy.

  She was warm now, the bulk of pregnancy a thermal heater. She stopped to appreciate the display of soft leather jackets and coats at one shop and unbuttoned her sweater. A mewing sound caught her ear, and Nora cocked her head. It sounded like a lost kitten meowing for its mother.

  For the moment, she was alone on this part of the street. Nora listened intently. The crying was accompanied by sniffling, definitely of the human species. Following the noise up the narrow alley that ran beside Lakeland Leather, she came upon its source. A young boy with unruly brown hair sat on the loading dock, leaning disconsolately against a pole. His small face was streaked with tears. His sniffles stopped when he spied Nora, and he shoved a thumb into his mouth.

  “You poor thing,” she said, keeping her distance to avoid frightening him. “Are you lost?”

  The child frowned and considered this as he sucked harder. Nora noted he was shivering. She took off her cardigan and, stepping closer, held it out within the boy’s reach. “My name’s Nora. What’s yours? Would you like to borrow my sweater?”

  The boy hesitated, then grabbed the sweater and stood up. He found his voice as he wrapped himself in it. “It’s a jumper, and m’name’s Andrew but I’m called Andy ‘cus Daddy is Andrew, too. I’m not supposed to talk to strangers, ‘specially one wot talks funny like you.” He looked at the jumper and frowned again.

  Nora sidled closer. “I think your mum would want you to be warm, Andy.” He allowed her to roll up the sleeves until his fists poked through. “How old are you?”

  “This many.” Andy thrust three stubby fingers into the air.

  Nora nodded solemnly. “And you’re really not lost?” She looked around the empty lot for signs of adult supervision.

  Andy’s eyes filled up again. “See, Grampa Jack told me to wait right here, and I did. I’m not lost, I’m here. An’ I been waitin’, but he’s not come back—” Andy’s coherence deteriorated into a full rush of tears.

  Nora felt in her pocket for her mobile. “I think we should call a nice constable to take you home—”

  Andy leaned toward her. “I gotta pee, I want Mummy, I wanna go home!”

  She hugged him and helped him off the platform. “First things first, then.” She helped Andy unzip his tiny jeans and held the ends of her sweater back, then turned pointedly away as his stream of urine hit the pavement. The last thing she needed was to be seen anywhere near a child’s genitals in a dark alley. She heard him closing the zipper and turned back.

  “Right then,” she said brightly, adjusting the sweater, which fell to his ankles like a topcoat. “Let’s go to the road and see if your home is near here. We’ll call a policeman under a light where I can see my phone better.” She held out her hand, and the boy took it. Walking him back to the road, she paused under a streetlight.

  “Look around, Andy. Do you know where we are?” Nora asked.

  “Town,” he answered proudly.

  “Very good, yes. Let’s try this, shall we?” She punched in 999, the United Kingdom’s emergency number, as another angle occurred to her. “Andy, what’s your family name?”

  “Halsey,” the boy answered.

  Nora had a sinking feeling “Grampa Jack” was Daniel Rowley’s drinking pal. One call, and a few minutes later, a patrol car pulled up to Nora and Andy, waiting under the streetlight as instructed.

  “Andy Halsey, your mum is worried sick,” the young constable said through his open window. A woman with wet hair and wearing jeans and a “Full Monty” T-shirt jumped out before the car was fully stopped.

  “Mummy!” Andy cried, running from Nora’s side and leaping into his mother’s arms.

  “Thank God.” His mother buried her face in Andy’s hair, then raised it to meet Nora’s eyes. “Thank you.”

  Nora nodded.

  The constable was the same one who had answered Simon’s call when Nora found Keith. “You seem to have a knack for finding lost people, Miss Tierney,” he said, reaching into his pocket for his notebook.

  Nora launched into another statement to the police. “He said his grandfather left him earlier this evening at the loading dock behind the leather store and never came back.”

  “I’ve had years of experience with Jack,” the constable said. He spoke briefly to Andy’s mother, sitting in the back of the patrol car with the boy on her lap. Then he radioed in to have The Scarlet Wench checked out by a colleague. “Let’s see where you found the boy,” he said to Nora and followed her up the alley to the loading dock, his flashlight sweeping from side to side.

  “He was sitting right here,” she said and pointed.

  The constable continued his sweep, picking out a large commercial rubbish bin. He walked over to it, with Nora a few steps behind. Icy sweat broke out between her shoulder blades. The constable lifted the metal lid and played his light over the contents.

  It must have been emptied earlier in the day; little remained except for a few slimy carrier bags stuck to the bottom and the heavy scent of decay. He led the lid drop, and the resounding thunk startled Nora, calling the policeman’s attention to her presence.

  “Please don’t follow me, Miss Tierney.” He pointed his flashlight back at the loading dock and played the beam underneath it.

  Nora walked away, her eyes getting used to the darkness. Hulking shapes appeared, casting menacing shadows. She looked toward the end of the alley and saw a gate in a fence for delivery lorries and bin removal that let out onto a back road running behind the shops.

  Nora watched the constable search the fence’s perimeter. She heard another patrol car pull up out front on the main road to help in the search, radio squawking its arrival. Before she was ordered back to the main road, she walked hastily toward the gate, letting herself out onto the back road.

  The air seemed fresher here, and she leaned back against the gate, postponing Simon’s inevitable grilling, her own fault because she’d stopped to help a little boy—but she knew Simon would say it was because she couldn’t keep her nose out of other people’s business.

  A sign on the guesthouse across this back road identified it as the Rose Cottage B&B for the rose vines that wrapped lazily up and over an arbor at the entrance to its tiny front garden, Nora assumed. The vines were now past blooming except for a few browned tips. Her eyes swept admiringly over the pretty trellis as she pictured it in full bloom but stopped abruptly on a dirty white trainer.

  Someone had lost a sneaker. She started to cross the road toward the arbor when she heard the gate opening behind her, then stopped midway when she saw the sneaker was still firmly attached to its owner’s leg.

  The smell of vomit and alcohol reached her. Surely this was the irresponsible Jack Halsey, lying slumped on the garden bench in an alcoholic stupor. Nora felt a surge of anger at the grandparent who’d abandoned his little grandson.

  Looking back toward the fence, Nora recognized the female constable from Saturday who’d guarded Simon’s door. Fervently hoping Jack was stinking drunk, Nora pointed wordlessly to the extended foot.

  The constable’s beam swept the inside of the trellis, revealing the ghostly face of a small man slumped into the corner, ignorant of the heavy thorns that pierced his scalp and neck. A crushed wafer cone in a paper sleeve lay by his knees. Leaving a trail down into his lap, dried vomit stood out against his denim shirt, arriving in a white pool of melted ice cream.