The Death of Mrs. Westaway(60)

“Bramble?” said Edward from behind her.

“Nettle,” Hal said briefly. She sucked at the side of her hand, feeling the bumps of the sting with her tongue. It was going to hurt.

“Ouch,” Edward said laconically, and Hal heard the crackle and flare of his cigarette as he inhaled.

“Tell me,” she said, more as a way of distracting herself from her stinging hand than from real curiosity, “what’s the building on the other side of the lake?”

“Oh . . . it used to be a boathouse,” Edward said. “Back in the day. I doubt you could get a boat across the lake now, too weed-choked.” He threw his cigarette butt behind him, and Hal heard it sizzle as it made contact with the water, sinking into the murky depths. “It needs to be dredged. It stinks in the summer.”

“I thought you never came here?” Hal asked in surprise. The words were out before she could think better of them, but Edward didn’t seem to have taken offense at her questioning. She heard him laugh, softly, behind her in the darkness.

“Bit of poetic license on Abel’s part. His mother did cut him off, you know. I think that for several years at least the whole ‘darken my doorstep’ stuff was quite real. But they had a bit of a rapprochement in recent years.”

“People often mellow as they get older, don’t they,” Hal said carefully. They came out of the trees, and Edward fell into step beside her.

“Maybe,” he said. “But I don’t think that was it. The impression I got was that Hester had become, if anything, more unpleasant. But Abel . . . well, he’s an odd soul. Rather too forgiving for his own good. He can’t bear to feel there’s bad blood between himself and other people. He’d do almost anything—swallow any amount of insults, walk over hot coals, generally abase himself—rather than feel there’s animosity. It’s not his most attractive trait, but it does make for an easy life in some ways. The last few years he came down here quite a bit.”

Hal was not sure what to say to that. The thought crossed her mind that Edward didn’t seem to like his partner very much. But perhaps it was just the effect of a long-term relationship.

As they crossed the lawn, Hal could see that the dining room was still shuttered and dark, and she was rather relieved when they reached the graveled path and Edward turned left, leading them along the fa?ade to the conservatory she had seen earlier that day, and in through it to the room where they had eaten breakfast.

The others were waiting, Harding seated in the wing chair at the head of the table, Freddie slouched low in his seat, playing on his DS, and the other two children surreptitiously checking their phones under cover of the tablecloth. Mitzi was seated between Abel and a chair that had Edward’s jacket slung over the back of it, discussing her plans for the journey home. Only Ezra was not yet there.

Hal sat quietly in a spare place next to Richard and tried to disappear into the background, but she had scarcely pulled in her chair when the door to the conservatory opened and Mrs. Warren limped in holding a huge crock of stew.

“Oh, Mrs. Warren!” Mitzi said. She jumped up. “Let me help you.”

“?‘Let me help you,’ she says.” Mrs. Warren put on a mincing version of Mitzi’s cut-glass vowels. She banged the pot down on the table, thin gravy slopping onto the cloth. “Didn’t hear none of that when I spent all afternoon chopping.”

“Mrs. Warren,” Harding said stiffly, “that was rather uncalled for. My wife was out attempting to sort out the business of my mother’s will, along with the rest of us. And if you feel the work of catering is too much for you, you have only to say and we’ll be glad to help you out.”

“I’m not having strangers messing about in my kitchen,” Mrs. Warren retorted.

“Really, Mrs. Warren, we’re hardly strangers!” Harding snapped, but Mrs. Warren had turned and left the room. “For heaven’s sake, she’s becoming impossible!”

The door banged shut.

“She’s very old, darling,” Mitzi said placatingly. “And she looked after your mother fairly devotedly. I think we can cut her a little slack on those grounds, don’t you?”

“I agree, Mit, but we must begin to get our heads around the problem of what we do with—”

He broke off as Mrs. Warren came back in with a plate of baked potatoes, which she thumped down, and then turned to leave without a word.

Mitzi sighed, and beckoned to Freddie for his plate.

“Come on then, let’s get this served up before it goes cold.”

The stew was gray and unappetizing, and Freddie’s face, as his mother handed him back a plate of gnarled brown lumps and a watery wash of liquid, was dismayed.

“Urgh, Mum, this looks gross.”

“Well, it’s supper, Freddie, so you’ll have to manage. Take a baked potato,” Mitzi said. She took Kitty’s plate and began ladling. Kitty picked up a potato with her fingers, and pulled a face as she put it on the side of her plate.

“Those potatoes are rock-hard. They look like dinosaur eggs.”

“For goodness’ sake!” Mitzi snapped. She put a plate down in front of Richard and then began to help Edward.

“I must say, it does smell a little unappetizing,” Edward ventured as she passed the plate to him. He took a piece of meat—beef, was Hal’s guess, though it could have been anything from mutton to venison—and chewed cautiously. “Do you think I dare ask for some mustard?” He spoke around the lump in his mouth.