The Death of Mrs. Westaway(40)
Whatever had happened in this room, whatever the past of this house, it didn’t matter. What mattered now was getting through today without giving herself away, and finding as much information as she could about Maud. Once she had that—a birth date, perhaps, even a middle name, if she could somehow come up with a plausible way of finding the information—she could escape back to Brighton and forge a birth certificate that would convince Mr. Treswick. Touch wood.
Touch wood. She knew what her mother would have said to that. In fact, she could picture her so exactly, the wry shake of her head, the smile quirking at the corner of her mouth. Suddenly Hal longed for her so much that it was like a physical pain around her heart.
Never believe it, Hal. Never believe your own lies.
Because superstition was a trap—that was what she had learned, in the years of plying her trade on the pier. Touching wood, crossing fingers, counting magpies—they were lies, all of them. False promises, designed to give the illusion of control and meaning in a world in which the only destiny came from yourself. You can’t predict the future, Hal, her mother had reminded her, time and time again. You can’t influence fate, or change what’s out of your control. But you can choose what you yourself do with the cards you’re dealt.
That was the truth, Hal knew. The painful, uncompromising truth. It was what she wanted to shout at clients, at the ones who came back again and again looking for answers that she could not give. There is no higher meaning. Sometimes things happen for no reason. Fate is cruel, and arbitrary. Touching wood, lucky charms, none of it will help you see the car you never saw coming, or avoid the tumor you didn’t realize you had. Quite the opposite, in fact. For in that moment that you turn your head to look for the second magpie, in the hope of changing your fortune from sorrow to joy—that’s when you take your attention away from the things you can change, the crossing light, the speeding car, the moment you should have turned back.
The people who came to her booth were seeking meaning and control—but they were looking in the wrong place. When they gave themselves over to superstition, they were giving up on shaping their own destiny.
Well, if there was one thing Hal had learned, it was that she would not be caught in that trap. She would shape her own life. She would change her own fortune. She would make her own luck.
CHAPTER 17
* * *
The drawing room where they had sat last night was empty, the ashes in the grate cold, three abandoned whiskey glasses on the table. But the hum of a vacuum cleaner sounded from somewhere deep inside the house, and Hal followed the sound, along a tiled corridor lined with stuffed birds of prey poised beneath dusty glass, and through a room laid for breakfast. There were boxes of cereal, a tub of margarine, and a bag of cheap sliced bread laid out next to an ancient toaster.
Beyond that was a conservatory full of grapevines and orange trees—or at least, it had been, at one time. There were no orange trees left, but the labels on the pots still bore their names—Cara Cara, Valencia, Moro. A few vines remained, their thick, gnarled stems rising from the ground, but they had almost all died. The leaves were yellowed, and a few bunches of raisin-like grapes clung to the stalks. The only living things were the thin strands of grass that clung tenaciously between the bricks of the floor. It was very cold, a chilly draft blowing from somewhere and making the withered leaves on the dead vines flutter and rustle; looking up, Hal saw that one of the panes in the roof had smashed, and the wind was blowing through.
The vacuum cleaner was loud now—and coming from the room on the other side of the conservatory, so Hal pushed through the dead vines and opened the door at the far end.
The room was some kind of sitting room, very dark, and furnished with a Victorian level of clutter—all tasseled curtains and side tables and overstuffed sofas. In the middle of the room, standing on the hearthrug, was Mrs. Warren, her stick laid to one side, pushing the hoover back and forth with grim determination. For a moment Hal thought about retreating, but then she reconsidered. She still needed information on Maud, and this might prove the perfect opportunity—a quiet interlude, one-on-one . . . it would be much easier to control the conversation, bring it round to what she wanted to know. And she could use Mrs. Warren’s age and slight deafness to her advantage—old ladies usually loved to reminisce, and it would be easy to cover any slips by pretending Mrs. Warren had misheard what she had said.
Hal coughed, but the housekeeper did not hear her over the sound of the motor, and at last she cleared her throat and spoke.
“Hello? Hello, Mrs. Warren?”
The old lady swung round, the hoover still going, and then switched it off.
“What are you doing here?” Her expression was accusing. Hal felt herself quail a little in spite of herself.
“I—I’m sorry, I heard the hoover, and I—”
“This is my sitting room, private, d’you see?”
“I didn’t know.” A mixture of defensiveness and annoyance rose up inside her. “I’m sorry, but I couldn’t have known it—”
“You should have known,” the old lady snapped. She clicked the hoover back into its upright position, and picked up her stick. “Coming here, swanning around like you owned the place—”
“I wasn’t!” Hal said, goaded out of politeness. “I wouldn’t do that at all—I just didn’t kn—”