The Death of Mrs. Westaway(50)

Her footsteps swirled in the dust, and backing out slowly, she closed the door quietly behind her and made her way up the corridor.

At the next doorway she put her hand out to knock—but before her knuckles could make contact with the wood, she heard a voice coming from inside, and paused for a moment, unsure if she was about to interrupt a private conversation.

“. . . conniving little gold digger.” It was a man’s voice, one of the brothers, Hal thought. But she could not be sure of which.

“Oh, really, you are impossible.” A woman’s voice, Mitzi’s, clipped with impatience. “She’s an orphan, no doubt your mother felt sorry for her.”

“First of all, we have no proof of that whatsoever, we know nothing about this girl, we have no idea who her father is or was, or whether he’s still in the picture. For all we know, he could have put Mother up to this. And second”—it was Harding, Hal realized, as he raised his voice to speak over Mitzi’s exasperated protests—“second, Mitzi, if you had known my mother in the least, you would realize how very unlikely it would be for her to be motivated by anything as charitable as pity for an orphan.”

“Oh, Harding, what nonsense. Your mother was a lonely old woman, and perhaps if you’d been willing to let bygones be bygones the children and I might have got to know her a little better, and this whole situation—”

“My mother was a bitter, cruel harpy,” Harding shouted. “And any reluctance to let you and the children be exposed to her venom was entirely out of concern for you, so don’t you dare suggest that this situation is my fault, Mitzi.”

“I wasn’t suggesting that for a moment,” Mitzi said, and a placatory note had crept into her voice, beneath the irritation. “I understand your motives were good, darling. But I just think that perhaps it’s not really surprising at this point if your mother chose to pass over two sons who were completely estranged, and a third who kept his wife and children away for nearly twenty years. I can’t blame your mother for being a little hurt. I certainly would be! When was the last time we were down here? Richard can’t have been more than seven.”

“Seven, yes, and she told him he was a sniveling little coward when he burned his finger on the grate—remember?”

“I’m not saying she didn’t have her faults—”

“Mitzi, you are not listening to me. My mother was a bitter, poisonous woman and her one aim in life was to spread that poison as far and wide as she could. It’s exactly like her to continue to spread division from beyond the grave. The sole surprise is that she didn’t leave the entire place to Ezra in the hope that he, Abel, and I would end up in a bitter dispute over all this, and the whole estate would get swallowed up in legal fees.”

“Oh, Harding, that’s absurd—”

“I should have seen it coming,” Harding said, and Hal had the feeling he was no longer even really listening to his wife. “She wrote to me, d’you know that? About a month ago. No word of her illness, of course, that would have been too simple, too straightforward. Oh no. She wrote her usual letter, full of complaints, but her sign-off was different—that’s what should have told me.”

“Different, how?”

“She signed off, always, your mother. Always. Even when I was at boarding school, crying my eyes out every night. All the other boys’ mothers signed off with love and kisses, and ever your adoring mummy, and a thousand hugs. All that sort of tripe. But Mother—no. Your mother. That was it. No love. No kisses. Just a cold statement of fact. A perfect metaphor, in fact, for her life.”

“And the last time? Did she add something?”

“Yes,” Harding said. And he paused, a brooding silence that made Hal hold her breath, wondering what was coming. Not the love that Harding had waited all his life for, surely? The silence stretched, until Hal thought she must have missed whatever Harding was about to say, or that he had thought better of it, and she raised her hand, ready to knock and announce her presence, but finally Harding spoke.

“She finished, après moi, le déluge. That was all. No name. No sign-off. Just those four words.”

“Après what?” Mitzi sounded completely nonplussed. “After the . . . the rain? What on earth does it mean?”

But before Hal could hear Harding’s answer, she heard a voice at her back.

“Eavesdropping?”

Hal spun round, her heart thumping.

It was Harding’s daughter, what was her name? Kitty. She was standing in the corridor, twirling her long blond hair around one finger, and chewing something. When Hal didn’t speak, she held out a packet in one hand.

“Tangfastic?”

“I—” Hal swallowed. She spoke low, not wanting Harding and Mitzi to hear from inside the room. “I wasn’t—I mean, I didn’t mean to—I was about to go into the room, but they seemed—”

“Hey, no shade from me.” The girl threw up her free hand, the charm bracelet on her wrist jangling. “It’s the only way I ever find out anything around here.” She pulled out a jelly shape from the packet, examined it critically, and then popped it in her mouth. “Look, I kept meaning to ask, what are you?”

“I—I, what?” Hal swallowed again. Her mouth felt dry, and she flexed her cold fingers inside her pockets, digging her nails into her palms, trying to anchor herself. She was uncomfortably aware that the Pandora bracelet Kitty was wearing on her left wrist probably cost more than her own entire outfit, possibly more than her whole wardrobe. “What am I? I’m not sure what you—”