Mr. Flood's Last Resort(85)

“But when she explained about the family connection I said I was more than happy to help.”

“Thank you.”

“Your mother said that you are writing a family memoir about Mrs. Flood’s philanthropic work.”

I don’t know what to say, so I just smile.

“Your mother, she sounds—”

“She’s from Rotherhithe.”

“Rotherhithe?”

I distract her with a few quick questions. “They visited often, my aunt and uncle?” I ask. “In their caravan?”

“I’m sorry, that was before my time. But Máire Doherty would know; she’s been here for years.” She hesitates, smiling apologetically. “Will you also be writing about your cousin?”

“My cousin?”

“Marguerite,” says Mrs. Chapman. “Although she was known as Maggie Dunne when she lived here of course. She went under her mother’s maiden name.”

One and the same: Marguerite Flood, Maggie Dunne.

“Of course,” I say. “And Maggie had blond hair.”

Mrs. Chapman nods. “I understand that Maggie changed more than her name while she was here.”

“Before she disappeared.”

Mrs. Chapman frowns. “I’m really sorry,” she says, and looks like she really is.

She pats me lightly on the arm. “I’ll go and find Máire for you.”

On the wall opposite, the Pope and his crowd of bishops look down at me with mocking faces. Retrospect, I mouth.

*

MáIRE DOHERTY has a strong flavor of nun about her, the non-terrifying kind, who wear socks in their sandals, do Internet surfing, and drink cappuccinos. She’s a thin woman with an unflattering haircut pitched somewhere between Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music and an Amish elder. There’s a small bump on her nose, and her eyes, like those made from currants on a gingerbread man, are set in a deeply lined face.

She’ll see right through me with those sharp little eyes.

I’ll act sober and try not to lie unconvincingly.

“You’re here about your aunt?”

I nod.

“Will we go and sit outside, Maud? It’s such a fine day.”

*

THE GARDENS at Holly Lodge are still in bloom: blown roses, blousy dahlias, and bronze chrysanthemums. Late-flowering clematis scrambles around French doors that lead into a dining room. I look inside. Several of the residents are still eating, and the tables are being cleared by a short woman in a plastic apron who is making a big point of scraping the leftovers into a dustbin.

I walk with Máire along a path through neat stepped lawns. We sit down on a bench overlooking a pond. A nymph in a nightie gazes down into the water, her expression placid. Around her feet stony-eyed fish cavort. I recognize her as a more modest relative of Bridlemere’s nymph. Instead of a conch shell she holds a jug against her hip, the spout dipped slightly.

“That’s a lovely fountain.”

“Your aunt put that in. She built that wing too.”

Máire motions towards an ugly extension to the right of the building. Otherwise the home is three-storied with legions of windows: an old, purpose-built sanatorium.

She glances at me. “So you’re writing a memoir, about your aunt’s charity work?”

I nod with conviction. “Did you know the Floods well?”

“I did.”

“You knew Marguerite?”

“I worked with her.”

The old gardener rounds the house with a kneeler and a bucket. He gets down to weed the flowerbed.

“What was she like?”

Máire looks out at the fountain. “Maggie was very bright; she could be utterly charming.”

“But she was a handful?”

“She was challenging.”

“She wasn’t too fond of her brother?”

Máire glances over at the gardener and lowers her voice. “Now, it wasn’t as simple as that, Maud.”

“No, I don’t suppose it was. So, the last time you saw Maggie was—”

“The morning of 20 August 1985.”

“The day she went missing?”

Máire pauses. “Yes.”

“Were the Floods visiting at the time?”

“They’d returned home the week before.”

“And Maggie was never found?”

“No.”

“What happened?”

Máire’s wrinkles rearrange themselves into a frown, her currant eyes all but disappearing. “I believe Maggie ran away. She’d been doing it for years, despite all the measures we had in place. Mostly she’d return under her own steam. But this time she didn’t and the police failed to find her.”

“Did she leave with anyone?”

“There were sightings, of parked-up cars and strangers in the grounds, that kind of thing. The police investigated every lead.”

“And they found nothing?”

Máire looks at me. “That’s just it, Maud. Not a trace of her.”

*

WE SIT in silence, watching the progress of the gardener.

“How did Mary take it?”

The gardener gets up and drags his kneeler and bucket to a spot farther along the flowerbed.