The Death of Mrs. Westaway(25)

Now that Mr. Treswick had pointed them out, she could see the magpies, sheltering in the yew tree copse. Two were on the ground, pecking at the berries. Four up in the branches. And the last, the one that had dive-bombed the car, was sitting on the porch roof in the rain, looking balefully down at them.

“What about seven?” she said lightly. “More gold?”

“No,” Mr. Treswick said with a laugh. “Alas not.” He climbed out of the car and hurried round with the umbrella unfurled. He spoke above the sound of the rain drumming on the fabric. “Seven is the last line of the rhyme. Seven magpies are for a secret never to be told.”

Perhaps it was the rain, or the wind that blew up the valley. But Hal could not help shivering as she took her case out of the car boot and followed Mr. Treswick, under cover of his umbrella, into the porch of Trepassen House.

4th December, 1994

I was sick again this morning, skittering down the steep stairs and down the long passageway to the toilet in my nightgown, kneeling on the cold tiled floor to heave up the last remains of yesterday’s dinner.

Afterwards, I brushed my teeth, huffing on my hands to make sure my breath didn’t have any telltale sourness, but when I opened the door to the corridor, Maud was standing outside, her arms crossed over the ratty old Smiths T-shirt that she wears instead of proper pyjamas.

She said nothing, but there was something in her expression that I didn’t like. It was a look of mingled concern and something else, I’m not sure what. I think it might have been . . . pity? The thought made me angry.

She was leaning against the wall, blocking my way, and she didn’t move as I came out and shut the bathroom door behind me.

“Sorry.” I shook my hair back from my face, trying to look unconcerned. “Were you waiting long?”

“Yes,” she said flatly. “Long enough. Are you all right?”

“Of course,” I said, pushing past her, forcing her to step backwards against the wall. “Why wouldn’t I be?” I called back over my shoulder.

She shrugged, but I know what she meant. I know exactly what she meant. I thought about the expression on her face, the way her flat black eyes followed me as I walked back to my attic. And as I sit here in bed writing this on my knees, watching the magpies swooping low over the snowy garden, I am wondering . . . how far can I trust her?

CHAPTER 11


* * *

Mr. Treswick led the way through a side entrance, into a vaulted vestibule tiled with red terra-cotta squares. Hal followed him in, shaking her head as the hiss of the rain was replaced with the hollow drip of water pattering from her coat, and Mr. Treswick’s umbrella.

“Mrs. Warren!” he called, his voice echoing along the long corridor. “Oh, Mrs. Warren! It’s Mr. Treswick.”

There was a silence, and then Hal heard, as though from a great distance, the click-click, click-click of heels on the tiled floor, each set of steps followed by an unfamiliar chink. She turned her head, and through the glass panes of the door to her left, she saw an old lady dressed all in black half walking, half hobbling along the corridor.

“Is that Mrs. Warren?” she whispered to Mr. Treswick, before she could think better of the question. “But she looks—”

“She must be eighty if she’s a day,” Mr. Treswick said under his breath. “But she wouldn’t hear of retirement while your grandmother was alive.”

“Is that you, Bobby?”

Her accent was broad Cornish, and the voice was cracked as a raven’s. Mr. Treswick winced, and in spite of her nerves, Hal was a little amused to see a flush of red on his gray-stubbled cheek. He removed his overcoat and coughed.

“It’s Robert Treswick, Mrs. Warren,” he called down the corridor, but she shook her head.

“Speak up, boy, I can’t hear you. All you young people are the same. Mumble mumble.”

As she came closer, Hal saw that she was using a cane, and the iron ferrule on the tiles was the chink she had heard. It gave her step an odd, uneven rhythm, click-click . . . chink, click-click . . . chink.

At long last she reached the door and paused to fumble with her cane, before Mr. Treswick sprang to hold the door open, and she hobbled through.

“So.” She ignored Mr. Treswick, and her surprisingly dark, bright eyes settled on Hal. There was an expression in them that Hal couldn’t read—but it wasn’t warmth. Far from it. A kind of . . . speculation, perhaps? There was absolutely no smile in her voice as she said, “You’re the girl. Well, well, well.”

“I—” Hal swallowed. Her throat was dry as dust, and she became suddenly aware of her defensive stance—her folded arms, her hair hanging down to shield her eyes. Think of the client, her mother’s voice in her head. Think of what they want to see when they come to you. She wished she had taken out her large thorn earring, but it was too late for that now. She forced a smile, making her face as open and unthreatening as possible. “Yes, that’s me.”

She held out a hand to shake, but the old lady turned away as if she hadn’t seen it, and she was forced to let it drop.

“They didn’t tell me if you were coming,” Mrs. Warren shot over her shoulder, “but I had a room aired in case. You’ll be wanting to change your clothes.”

It was a command, not a request, and Hal nodded in meek agreement.