TERESA STOOD AT HER SINK, WIPING the same plate over and over with a tea towel. After Jo’s call she’d sat for a long while on the edge of the sofa, the phone still in her hand. Then, stiffly, she had stood and searched out the dust cloth, and after that the vacuum.
It was Sunday. She always did her chores on a Sunday, to be ready for the week. Whenever she tried to fix her mind on the thing Jo had told her, the thought skittered away, elusive as a bat at dusk, and she returned to the familiar loop. It was Sunday. She did her chores on Sunday.
The strident buzz made her jump and the plate flew from her hands, clattering unharmed to the lino. It was a moment before she connected the sound to her doorbell, and then her heart leapt with hope. It had been a dreadful mistake, of course; she should have seen that.
Dropping the tea towel in a sodden heap on the floor, she wiped the damp palms of her hands on her jumper and hurried through the sitting room. She flung the door open and stared at Reg Mortimer, who stood with his finger poised over the buzzer.
In all the time they’d worked together, Reg had never come to her flat, though she’d had a few guilty and quickly squelched fantasies in which he had. She’d told herself often enough that Reg Mortimer floated through life like oil atop water—he was seldom ruffled, never shaken, and if anything stirred in the depths, he did a good job of keeping it to himself.
But today she hardly recognized him. The skin beneath his eyes looked bruised with exhaustion, his lips were bloodless and clamped in a thin line, and she saw that his raised hand shook slightly.
“Teresa, I … I thought Jo must have rung you.…”
So it must be true—his presence here told her that, as did the sight of his face. “Jo said …” She faltered, then swallowed, forcing herself to continue. “But I didn’t really believe it.”
He nodded, once, an undeniable confirmation. She stepped back and he came into the flat, closing the door behind him. For a moment they stood staring at one another, then Reg touched her shoulder awkwardly. “Teresa, I’m so sorry.”
That he should express concern for her, when he and Annabelle had been everything to each other, pulled the last prop from her fragile composure. She covered her face with her hands and began to weep like a child.
Reg gathered her into his arms, and it was not until her sobs had at last subsided into hiccups that Teresa began to take stock of her position. Her wet face was crushed uncomfortably into Reg’s knit shirt, just beneath his chin, while he rubbed the middle of her back with the palm of his hand. He smelled faintly of sweat and aftershave—and with that thought she realized with horror that her nose was running and she hadn’t a tissue. She pulled herself free of his arms and turned away. “Oh, God, I’m sorry. I’m a mess.” Sniffing, she groped blindly for the box of tissues on the coffee table, knocking it to the floor.
“It’s all right. You’re fine.” He retrieved the tissues and pressed a wad of them into her hand. “You have a good blow, and I’ll make you a cuppa.”
“But I … but you won’t know where—”
“I’m sure I can manage that much in your kitchen. Sit down, please.”
Teresa sat, because her rubbery knees threatened to give out if she did not.
She heard the opening of cupboards and the burble of the kettle, and a few moments later Reg reappeared, cradling a mug. He lifted a brow as he sat down beside her and transferred the mug to her hands. “Tea bags? What heresy.”
“Only for emergencies.” Teresa attempted a smile, but the tremble in her lip threatened to betray her. She sipped gratefully at the tea, even though it was too hot and too sweet.
“Then I’d say this qualifies.”
She glanced at him. “I should have known yesterday morning, when she didn’t show up for breakfast with Sir Peter. Annabelle would never have missed that meeting without letting us know. I should have realized—”
“Don’t torment yourself over it, Teresa. Nothing you could have imagined would have helped Annabelle. She was already dead.”
“They’re sure?”
“As sure as the police are likely to admit about anything.”
“But you knew, didn’t you? Jo said you went to the police, that was how they identified … her body. You knew because you were closer to her.…” She touched his arm in a gesture more familiar than she could have imagined an hour ago.
He stood abruptly. “I don’t believe that. It was logic, that’s all. I knew what you knew—that she’d never have missed that meeting, not unless … And I knew she hadn’t come home.”
“But you were together—”
“Not the whole evening.” Moving restlessly to the balcony door, he looked out. “After Jo’s party she asked me to meet her later at the Ferry House. But she never came.”
“But …” Teresa stared at his back. What he was telling her didn’t make sense, but she didn’t feel she could push him. “The police … did they say how …”
Reg shook his head. “No. Didn’t they tell Jo?”
Teresa hesitated. This must be horribly difficult for him, she knew, but surely he’d thought of nothing else, and perhaps she could set his mind at rest. “Only that they didn’t believe she’d been … you know … assaulted.”
“And that’s supposed to make it more acceptable?” His tone was bitter. “Along the lines of ‘she led a full life’?” Seeming to sense her shock, he turned towards her, shrugging in a gesture of apology. “I’m sorry. I know that sounds horrible, but just now … nothing seems any consolation. She’s gone and—” He turned away for a moment, then spun round and came back to the sofa. Sitting on its edge so that he could see her face, he took her hand and gave it a squeeze. “Don’t mind me. I’m just feeling bloody.” He smiled and released her hand. “I went to see William this morning.”
With horror Teresa realized she’d not even thought of William, had not thought of anyone’s grief other than her own, until Reg had appeared at her door. “How was he?”
“Shocked. We talked a little.”
“About Annabelle?”
Reg turned her empty mug carefully on its coaster. “And the business. He’s asked me to look after things for a bit. But I can’t manage without your help. Things are going to be difficult enough as it is.”
A jolt of alarm shot through her and she sat upright. “You didn’t tell him what we meant to propose to Sir Peter?”
“Of course not. But we’ll not be able to keep Hammond’s out of the red for much longer without taking some sort of action—”
The phone rang, startling them both. Teresa stared at it as if a serpent had appeared without warning on her coffee table.
“Hadn’t you better answer?” said Reg.
She lifted the phone slowly and pushed the talk button. “Hullo?”
She listened for a moment, then said, “Yes. Right. Half an hour.” She clicked off and looked at Reg. “It was the police. They want me to meet them at Hammond’s.”
LEWIS AND THE THREE OTHER REMAINING children sat on the cold lino in the hall of the village’s Women’s Institute. The two girls were thin and plain and wore spectacles, and fat Bob Thomkins had blubbed so much that his face had come out all splotches.
The adults had come in one or two at a time, walking among the children as if choosing from damaged groceries. They’d taken the smallest and prettiest children first, often separating siblings who had pleaded to stay together. A kind-looking lady in a flowered dress had chosen Simon Goss, shaking her head regretfully when the little boy had clung to Lewis’s hand and cried. So sorry, she’d said, she could only take the one, and she’d a son the same age as Simon.
Lewis had known hunger often enough, and grief, when his baby sister, Annie, had died of the smallpox—but he had never in his ten years felt unwanted. The only thing that gave him a small bit of consolation was that no one wanted the teachers, either, and Miss Jenkins and Miss Purdy looked as forlorn as he felt.