‘Yes, I see – or superstitious offerings, perhaps?’ Kevin said. ‘Children’s shoes are quite common, aren’t they?’
‘Probably. So, did you find anything?’
‘I’m afraid not. That is, not that I heard about. I wasn’t here every day, of course, while they were doing it, but I’m sure the builders would have mentioned it if they’d found anything…’ Kevin looked at her crestfallen expression and smiled nervously. ‘I am sorry to disappoint you…’
‘Oh, no… it’s just, these incidental finds are a particular passion of mine,’ Leah said, woodenly.
‘Would you like to take some pictures? For your book?’ Kevin asked.
‘Great, thank you,’ said Mark.
A short while later they stepped back out into the cold daylight; Kevin Knoll locked the chapel and took his leave. Leah and Mark walked slowly back to where they had parked their cars. Leah had the tantalising feeling she was beginning to get somewhere, was beginning to track down the story behind the soldier’s letters, and the thought of losing momentum again was almost unbearable. While she had the ball rolling, she had a purpose. When it stopped all the vagueness, the limbo state of her life became obvious again. A heavy feeling of pointlessness; the needle of her inner compass swaying drunkenly to and fro. If Hester Canning had got locked into just such a state – if her life had got stuck on one particular thorn of a problem, never to be worked free, then perhaps it was fate that, in working it free, Leah could unlock her own life at the same time. And she wanted to be able to hand a complete report to Ryan when she saw him next. She wanted to succeed, and give him a name.
As if reading her mind, Mark spoke. ‘Shame. I thought we were really starting to get somewhere then. So, have you got a deadline for this investigation?’
‘Not exactly… the sooner the better. I… my contact at the Commonwealth War Graves Commission is here in the UK in about ten days’ time. I said I’d meet him and hand over whatever I’d found out.’ Leah kept her eyes to the front as she said this, and was trying so hard not to give herself away that she felt self-conscious, as if her every inner thought was written large across her face. To her dismay, she felt heat in her cheeks, and sensed Mark’s gaze, thoughtfully taking all of this in.
‘Your contact?’ he echoed, and left the question hanging between them. Leah sniffed. The breeze and bright light were making her eyes water and her nose run. She thought about changing the subject, and about saying nothing. Neither seemed appropriate, somehow.
‘My ex. He got in touch a few weeks back, for the first time in ages. He’s been working over in Belgium, near Ypres, and they found the body – the soldier’s body. When he found Hester’s letters, he called me in to investigate.’
‘Your ex? An ex, or the ex?’
‘Oh, quite definitely the ex. My friends are furious with me for going over there. But it’s the story I’m interested in. Truly. I’ve been so blocked since… well, for a while. Having something to work on again is… just what I needed,’ Leah said, quite truthfully.
They stood in silence for a while, by the parked cars. Mark was frowning, thinking.
‘It’s meant to be the same process as grieving, you know. Breaking up with a long-term partner. You supposedly go through all the same phases – shock, denial, anger, depression, acceptance…’
‘Really? I’m not so sure. When somebody dies, they can’t butt back into your life half a year later and kick you off that neat trajectory, after all.’ She shook her head.
‘True, true. Better not to see them again, I suppose, until you’ve been through it all, and come out the other side,’ he said carefully.
‘Now you sound like Sam. My best friend,’ Leah said. She stared along the busy Bath Road for a few seconds, squinting at the cars pushing impatiently by. ‘But that’s just life, I suppose.’ She shrugged. ‘The best-laid plans, and all that.’
‘Sorry. It’s none of my business.’ Mark looked away and pulled his car keys out of his jacket.
‘It’s OK,’ Leah said. She changed the subject. ‘Mark, about what your dad said – do you really think there was a murder at The Rectory?’
He raised his eyebrows, the sun making his grey eyes pale, as glossy and hard as polished granite. ‘If there was, I never heard anything about it.’
‘But he did say it was some big family secret.’
‘He also thought you were Mandy Rice-Davies.’
‘Yes, but what if there was? That would be bad enough for Hester to write those letters about, wouldn’t it? She keeps mentioning guilt and a crime and her silence making her complicit, doesn’t she? And finding something in the library?’
‘It would be bad enough, for sure. But it’s equally possible that Dad was remembering an episode of Inspector Morse…’
‘I don’t think so. He seemed… really convinced. Excited, just like a child would be if they overheard the grown-ups talking about something like that.’
‘Well, who do you think was murdered?’
‘I’ve no idea. But I mean to find out.’
‘Shall we walk somewhere for a while? I feel like some fresh air,’ he said.
They made their way south along The Broadway, over the railway crossing at the station, and down onto the towpath beside the canal. The cloudy green water slid silently by, flat and smooth. The path was busy with cyclists and joggers, dog walkers and young mothers. They walked eastwards by unspoken consensus, back towards Cold Ash Holt. The sun blanched the water-coloured sky and soaked the landscape with a sudden warmth that made the air muggy with moisture. Leah stripped off her jumper and tied it around her waist, only for Mark to pull it free again, throw it over his shoulder.
‘You’ll ruin it that way. The sleeves will stretch,’ he said, absently.
‘Sorry,’ Leah said, bemused. A few narrowboats were moored near town, but they soon left them behind to walk between high banks of vegetation. Trees to the north of the water, fields of spindly brown stalks, as high as their shoulders, to the south. Yellow catkins gyrated in the breeze, and each and every twig ended in a shiny bud; waxy, ready to split. The horse chestnut blossoms were almost out – tall candelabras of fresh green stems, the white flowers still furled, waiting. A breeze scudded westward along the water’s surface, so that it felt as though they were moving faster than in reality.
About a mile out of town they turned south across one of the fields near the village, where the stream had been marshalled into neat, manmade cuts between the gravel pit lakes. They watched the water birds, squinting as the sunlight shone from the water’s surface. There was nobody else in sight now, and no noise.
‘It’s strange to think how much this has all changed since your great-grandmother was here. None of these lakes. The A4 still just the London Road, with hardly anything on it that wasn’t pulled by a horse,’ Leah said. She felt so close to the woman, when she read her letters. Could almost hear her voice. Then she looked around and found herself a hundred years, a whole world, away. ‘And The Bluecoat School, full of children, full of life. It looked kind of sad today, didn’t it? Sitting there with all that traffic thundering past it.’
‘Well, that’s what the council is trying to change. There’s a charitable trust now as well, raising money to extend it and use it as community space,’ said Mark distractedly, snatching up a long stem of grass and picking last year’s dry seeds from it, a thumbnail full at a time. High above their heads two buzzards circled, their faint cries carried down on the wind for a split second, and then blown away.
‘Are there any pictures of Hester? Or Albert? Back at the house?’ Leah asked suddenly.
‘I don’t think so. Sorry. I think I remember some from when I was a child, but… I haven’t seen them for years. It’s possible Dad got rid of them. When the dementia started he did some odd things. We could look, if you like?’ he offered. Leah nodded. She was putting her piece together already, though there were more blanks to fill in than filled. A long article, with pictures, and extracts from the letters. Laying it all bare, making it all clear. And without thinking about it explicitly, Leah felt she would be doing this for Hester Canning; a favour for a long-dead stranger.