The Death of Mrs. Westaway(75)

“Abel,” she said slowly as they pulled out of the space. “I—I wanted to thank you again, for that photo of my mother. I don’t have very many pictures of her at my age and it means . . . well, it means a lot to me, that’s all.”

“That’s all right,” Abel said easily. He glanced in the rearview mirror, and then put the car into gear. “You’re very welcome. I don’t have many pictures of that time either, unfortunately. I had more, but they didn’t always come with very happy memories, so I didn’t keep as many as I should. But I’ll have a check when I go home, see if I can find any more. If there’s any with your mother in, you’re welcome to keep them.”

“Thank you,” Hal said quietly. They were winding through the narrow streets behind the station when she plucked up her courage.

“Abel, can I ask something?”

“Of course.”

“Who—who took that photo? The one you gave me?”

“Who took it?” Abel frowned. “I’m not certain. Why do you ask?”

“Oh . . .” Hal’s stomach turned as they rounded a corner slightly too fast. “I don’t know. I just wondered.”

“I honestly can’t remember. . . .” Abel said. He was still frowning, and he rubbed at the bridge of his nose as though giving himself time to answer. “I think . . . yes, I’m almost sure it was Ezra.”

Hal swallowed, feeling like she was taking her life in her hands.

“It wasn’t . . . it wasn’t . . . Edward, was it?”

“Edward?” Abel glanced sideways at her in the darkness of the car, the unearthly green light from the LEDs on the dashboard making his expression strange and hard to read. “Why on earth would you say that?”

His voice was suddenly completely unlike that of the warm, solicitous man she had grown to know over the last few days. There was something cold and bitter in it, and Hal felt herself grow very still, like a mouse that has seen a snake rise up from the grass. She knew suddenly and with certainty that it would be very, very stupid to mention the diary.

“I—” She had no need to make her voice sound small. It was already a squeak in her throat. “I—I don’t know. I just wondered.”

“It was Ezra,” Abel said flatly, turning back to the road, closing off the discussion.

But that could not be true, Hal thought, as the car swung around the corner. Ezra was in the photograph.

“It’s just—” she tried again, but Abel cut her off, and this time his voice was cold with what sounded like anger.

“Harriet, that’s enough. It wasn’t Edward. I didn’t know him back then. End of story.”

You are lying, she thought. His name is in the diary. You must be lying. But why?

CHAPTER 33


* * *

When they arrived at Trepassen House, Abel parked the car and Hal followed him round the house to the main entrance. There were no lights visible, and the house looked almost deserted, the blank windows like black, expressionless eyes. Hal had a sudden premonition of how it might look in twenty, thirty years’ time—the roof caved in, the windows cracked and broken, leaves gusting across the rotting parquet.

“We’re back,” Abel shouted as they entered the main door, his voice echoing along the corridor, and Hal felt her stomach flip, before she could analyze why. But when the drawing room door opened and Harding’s head came out, she realized. It was Mrs. Warren she was afraid of. Before she had time to dissect the realization, she found herself in Harding’s stiff embrace, her cheek against his tweed-upholstered shoulder, as he patted her awkwardly and uncomfortably firmly on the back of the head, like a cross between a Labrador and a child.

“Well, well, well,” he said, and then again, “Well, well, well.” When he pulled back, Hal was astonished to see that his jowly face was ruddy with some kind of suppressed emotion, and his eyes were watering. He dashed at them, and coughed. “Mitzi will—hrumph! She will be very sorry to have missed you, but she has already left to drive the children back home. They have school tomorrow.”

“I’m sorry,” Hal said humbly. “I’m sorry to have missed her too.”

“Edward had to leave too,” Abel said. Hal felt a sharp pang of something, quite different from the vague guilt she had felt at the sound of Mitzi’s name. She realized that she had been hanging on to something—the prospect of seeing Edward, looking into his eyes, trying to find something of herself in his face.

“I’m sorry,” she said again. “Is he—will he be coming back?”

“I doubt it,” Abel said. His face was rather grim, and he seemed to realize it suddenly, and make an effort to shake it off. As he took Hal’s coat he forced a smile, a rather insincere one. “Unless we get held up here for another weekend, which I sincerely hope we won’t.”

“Have you eaten?” Harding put in. “I’m afraid we have all had supper some time ago, but there’s tea in the drawing room and I could ask Mrs. Warren for a sandwich. . . .”

He trailed off a little doubtfully, and Hal shook her head emphatically.

“No, please, I’m absolutely fine. I ate on the train.”

“Well, come through and have some tea, at least. Warm yourself up before you go to bed.”