With them was a small Asian woman in a wheelchair. When the others had greeted Harriet, the woman rolled her chair up to the bed and took Harriet’s hand. Her thin face bore lines of pain, as if she’d been ill, but there was also something calm in it that Harriet found comforting.
“I’m so sorry about your mother, Harriet,” the woman said, her soft voice strained with the effort. “And I’m so sorry about what happened to you.”
Harriet didn’t understand who she was or why it should matter to her so much, but she nodded as if she did.
The woman looked relieved and smiled. She pulled something wrapped in tissue paper from her bag. “This is for you – not for here, of course, because you can’t light it – but for when you get home.”
Harriet couldn’t manage the tissue paper with one hand, so the woman helped her pull it away, lifting out a candle in a square of pale green glass. It smelled sweet and made Harriet think of something nice, but she couldn’t quite remember what it was. “Thank you,” she said, and the woman seemed pleased.
“We’d better let you get some rest,” said the priest, and as they moved towards the door her father came back into the room.
“Have you – Is there any news of her?” he asked the policewoman in a low voice.
“No, nothing yet,” she answered.
“And-” Her father shifted uneasily and rubbed at his chin. “Will I – Will there be… charges?”
“No,” the policewoman said again. “No, I don’t think so. You only took your daughter out of school, after all.”
When they’d gone, Harriet thought about asking her dad what he’d meant, but instead she drifted off to sleep again.
She had one more visitor, on the second day. Her dad had gone down to the canteen for coffee when Mrs. Bletchley sidled in the door, looking warily round the room. She wore what Harriet knew to be her best dress, and a smear of orange lipstick like a gash across her mouth.
She gave Harriet a brusque nod, then stood awkwardly at the foot of the bed. “Just came to say sorry about your mum,” she blurted at last. “A good woman, your mother. You shouldn’t forget it. She remembered them as was less fortunate than her.” Mrs. Bletchley nodded again, as if satisfied with her pronouncement, then frowned at Harriet. “Don’t suppose you’ll be coming to stay, now.”
“No,” Harriet answered cautiously. “I shouldn’t think so.”
“Well. There’s that, then.” Mrs. Bletchley turned away but stopped at the door. “You could maybe stop in sometime after school,” she said, not looking at Harriet, but there was an odd expression on her face.
Harriet struggled to cover her surprise. “I – yeah, okay, I suppose I could do that,” she said. Mrs. Bletchley made a funny sort of screwed-up face, then nodded once more as she went out, leaving Harriet to try to make sense of it all. When her dad came back, she didn’t mention the odd visit. It seemed, somehow, to be something that should be kept between her and Mrs. Bletchley… and her mum.
Her dad came to the hospital for her in his car, on the evening of the second day, and she saw that the back was filled with all the bits and pieces from his flat. They drove to Park Street, and when he pulled up in front of the house, Harriet saw Ms. Karimgee still working at her desk next door. She lifted her hand in a wave, and Ms. Karimgee waved back.
They went into the house in silence. Harriet walked from room to room, wondering what to do. None of the ordinary things seemed right. Where did she begin this new life, without her mother?
Hearing sounds from the kitchen, she went in and saw her father at the sink, doing the washing up. She stood, stricken with the realization that she’d never see her mum in that spot again, and the world felt as if it were caving in beneath her feet.
Her dad turned and saw her. He dropped the pan and dishcloth and came to her, scooping her into his arms. Cradling her carefully, so as not to jar her arm, he sat down in the kitchen chair and held her in his lap. Her head just fit beneath his chin, and she could feel his heart beating in his chest.
“We’ll be all right, won’t we, Harriet?” he whispered, smoothing her hair. “We’ll take care of each other.”
“Yes,” she said. “We will.”
Acknowledgments
Thanks are due to all the good people at William Morrow for their support and enthusiasm, especially to Selina McLemore and my brilliant editor, Carrie Feron.
Thanks as well to Nancy Yost, best of agents and friend, for her good advice and infinite patience; to Laura Hartman Maestro for bringing the book and its setting to life with her map; and to Canon Bill Ritson for his hospitality and knowledge of Southwark.
To those who have read the manuscript – Steve Copling, Dale Denton, Jim Evans, Diane Sullivan Hale, Gigi Sherrell Norwood, and Viqui Litman – thanks for your dedication, suggestions (and our many dinners at La Madeleine), and to Kate Charles, Marcia Talley, and particularly Diane Hale for your creative input.
Jan Hull provided moral support, as always. My husband, Rick, kept all my IT systems up and running, and my daughter, Kayti, kept my life running smoothly while I wrote. I’m sure I couldn’t have done it without you all.
About the Author
DEBORAH CROMBIE was born and educated in Texas and has lived in both England and Scotland. Her Kincaid and James novels have received Edgar®, Agatha, and Macavity Award nominations, and her fifth novel, Dreaming of the Bones, was named a New York Times Notable Book of the Year and selected as one of the 100 Best Crime Novels of the Century by the Independent Mystery Booksellers of America. She is a bestselling author in Germany, and her novels are also published in Japan, Italy, Norway, the Netherlands, France, the Czech Republic, and the United Kingdom. Crombie travels to England several times a year and has been a featured speaker at St. Hilda’s College, Oxford. She lives in a small North Texas town, sharing a turn-of-the-century house with her husband, three cats, and a German shepherd.
