The Green Remains (13 page)

Chapter Twenty-Nine

“A few weeks ago, at a dinner, a discussion arose as to the unfinished dramas recorded in the daily press. The argument was, if I remember correctly, that they give us the beginning of many stories, and the endings of many more.”

— Mary Roberts Rinehart,
The Red Lamp

8:35
AM

The morning’s tea was English Breakfast, and Nora gulped the sweet brew down with relish, enjoying the toasty warmth of her bed. She could stay here all day, reading her name book, but an overriding sense of purpose fueled her out of bed when she remembered Keith’s work. She was curious to see what Keith had unearthed that she could use; more importantly, there could be a clue as to why he was poisoned.

  It was obvious that whether Ian wanted Kate to believe it or not, Simon was viewed as a potential perpetrator in Keith’s death. The idea that this might be ridiculous didn’t enter the equation, as she’d learned from Declan Barnes during Bryn Wallace’s murder investigation. Declan’s job had been to follow the evidence. That damned rare flower would force Ian to shine his spotlight on Simon.

  After a hot shower, Nora knotted her fluffy, blue robe around her. The chenille barely covered her huge belly, and Nora said hello and talked to her son as she rubbed Vitamin E on her taut skin. “I’m still working on your name,” she told him as she turned on her laptop and toweled her wet hair. “I’ll know it as soon as I hear it,” she promised.

  Nora’s compulsion for order led her to copy the contents of Keith’s flash drive onto her hard drive. She didn’t consider herself computer literate and harbored the nagging feeling that one day she would hit the wrong button, and all of her work would be floating in the ozone.

  Scrolling down through the opening pages of his manuscript, Nora read attentively. First was his dedication: “To Antonia and Sommer Clarendon, with love for the charmed life I’ve led on Lake Windermere.”

  Next was a list of acknowledgments, what appeared to be a compilation of authors and academics he’d read or consulted. Then, an opening epigraph to be used as a frontispiece:

At the little town of Vevey, in Switzerland, there is a particularly comfortable hotel; there are indeed many hotels, since the entertainment of tourists is the business of the place, which, as many travelers will remember, is seated upon the edge of a remarkable blue lake—a lake that it behoves every tourist to visit.

Henry James
, Daisy Miller
, 1878

This was Keith’s thesis, and an ambitious model to be sure, with its old-fashioned use of the word “behoove,” Nora thought, then kept reading. Keith’s copious research notes followed a tentative outline for proposed chapters. He indicated at the beginning of each new section the chapter into which he saw that bit fitting. There were quotations, blocks of text and reference notations punctuated by the staccato appearance of research still to be done, as in: “Wansell—Hundred Year Stone—Galava Fort.”

  Nora had no idea what that meant, but the work that seemed most complete concerned the history of the area and of the Clarendon family in particular. That made sense. Clarendon Hall library was probably filled with useful texts on that score. The ones she’d seen piled on the end of Keith’s desk were more about the entire area.

  She sat back and reflected on her impressions of the town. Bowness seemed to bustle with traffic and tourists already. She wondered just how many people had been keen on Keith’s idea to embellish the area with an artist’s colony that would make the town a place that would “behove every tourist to visit.” She might have to pencil in a visit to the tourism office.

  Nora’s stomach growled. With a glance at her watch, she put her laptop to sleep. As she dressed, she thought about her fireside chat with Simon and her revelation about her relationship with Paul. She knew what she had said was the truth, as the gauzy layer of disbelief that followed Paul’s sudden death lifted with the passage of time and she finally confronted her true feelings. It wasn’t comfortable, but it rang true, just as she thought it would when she came across her son’s name.

  Her khaki jumper would do for today, with a clean, green blouse that the jumper’s front hid. No one would know she couldn’t button it all the way down. As she tied her sneakers, she pondered what it was about Simon that allowed her to get to the heart of her thoughts. She admired his creativity, of course, but she responded to his quiet air of assurance and subtle humor.

  Val had told her Simon’s dark-blue eyes held the soul of an old man. They were so different from Declan Barnes’ grey eyes, which studied her and seemed to bore inside her, then lit up when he smiled, the corners crinkling with laughter.

  She was ridiculous, behaving like an emotional adolescent. The last thing she needed right now was a relationship, no matter how much the security of Simon or the allure of Declan appealed to her. She hurried out of her room, taking the time to lock the door behind her, a habit she was determined to develop now that she had Keith’s flash drive in her possession.

  The tantalizing odors of a breakfast fry-up reached her as she entered the dining room. “Morning,” she said to an athletic couple who passed her as she strode across the room to her usual table. She stopped midstride as a familiar figure entered from the hallway. Nora saw with dismay that it was Tony Warner, dressed for a hike with a walking stick carefully arranged over one arm.

  “Tony—what are you doing here?” Even as she spoke, the knowledge of what he was doing there struck home.

  “Hello, old girl. Chuffed to see me? Some kind of mess you’ve stepped in, I see.” Tony augmented his malicious smile by turning his walking stick so Nora couldn’t fail to notice the colorful travel badges arranged like prize trophies along the shaft.

  Nora pointedly ignored the stick and walked him toward the main door, out of the way of guests trying to enter and leave the dining room. She tamped down her rising fury and spoke softly.

  “I’m not allowed to give any interviews, so you might as well pack your bags and head right back to your titled friends and their playmates.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so, Nora dear,” Tony replied, kneeling to retie one of his hiking boots. “You’ve been scooped without ever opening your mouth. I dare say no editor will run a blue pencil through any of these articles.”

  Leaving Nora without a fast comeback, he sauntered out the door.

*

9:20
AM

Nora tucked into scrambled eggs and bacon with whole-wheat toast. Sunday breakfasts were always later than usual. She was
determined not to let Tony Warner and his threats spoil her meal, and she poured another cup of tea. Kate waved to her from the kitchen, but Simon was nowhere to be seen.

  A tall, well-dressed young man rose from the table next to Nora’s, the local
Cumbrian Chatter
in hand, and stopped by her table. Nora looked up at him; she knew he was familiar but couldn’t place his face. The man studied the paper and then stuck his well-manicured hand in her face.

  “Glenn Hackney here. I believe you are Nora Tierney?” He grinned broadly.

  Recognition set in. Glenn’s mouthful of white teeth reminded Nora of Alice’s Cheshire Cat, and she was immediately suspicious of anyone who buffed his nails to that kind of high gloss. Still, she shook the proffered hand, knowing Glenn was a link to Keith’s background. “Yes. What can I do for you, Mr. Hackney?”

  “I wanted to extend my sympathies. Keith Clarendon was my colleague. Actually, I’m the manager at Worth’s Travel.” He put his hand on the back of the empty chair next to Nora and leaned in confidentially when she didn’t issue an invitation to sit down. “I’m here to comfort Keith’s family and to represent the agency at his funeral.” He rocked the chair back on its heels.

  Simon suddenly appeared at the table. “Morning, Mr. Hackney. Nora, thank you for waiting for me.” Simon placed his hand on the chair in question and pulled it out, sitting down next to her. “I see you’ve started without me.” He looked back up at Hackney. “I hope you enjoy your day, Mr. Hackney.” Simon picked up the menu, studying it as though he’d never seen it before, dismissing Glenn.

  Hackney righted himself. “I intend to, Mr. Ramsey,” came his reply. “Perhaps more than you or Miss Tierney.” He turned his attention back to Nora. “I’ve finished with the local paper. Would you care for it?” He handed the folded paper to Nora, turned on his heel and left the dining room.

  “Thanks for rescuing me, Simon,” Nora said. “I think you managed to annoy him.”

  “Then my job is done. He did seem pissed, didn’t he?” Simon agreed with a smile. “I have taken an instant dislike to our two most recent arrivals.” Simon rose and busied himself at the serving board, giving his order to a waitress and filling up his coffee mug.

  Nora turned to the paper that had been thrust at her. The
Cumbrian Chatter
chronicled fetes, social announcements and local news. Along the right side of the front page, the issue listed the times of various events associated with the St. James Anglican Fete in Support of Distressed Mothers and Infants to be held in Ambleside. The left-hand column discussed the wedding of Miss Cynthia Hepplethwaite to Mr. Dylan Crumbley. But it was the article and pictures in the center column that captured Nora’s attention. A large headline proclaimed:
Suspicion Surrounds Death of Clarendon Heir
.

  The accompanying photographs included one of Keith Clar
endon handing Nora her prize certificate the day she’d won the essay contest.

  Simon returned with a full plate and his coffee. He looked at the photo Nora scrutinized and frowned. “Sorry, Nora; there goes your privacy, I fear.”

  Nora noted the byline of the article with dismay. “Tony Warner! The sleaze himself!” She pushed her glasses up her nose and looked at Simon. “I say that with confidence based on personal experience.” She read the article out loud to Simon. “The glories of nature to be found in the Lake District were ruined recently by the grim discovery of a body floating at the edge of Lake Windermere.”

  Nora paused and looked at Simon over the paper. “What a maudlin beginning. Edits needed right there.” She continued: “No discussion is needed, noted Ramsey Lodge proprietor Simon Ramsey, on what he characterized as ‘a miserable death’ that involves both himself and writer Nora Tierney.”

  Nora sat back, stunned. Why would Simon say they were involved? He’d made it sound like they were somehow responsible for Keith’s death. Simon saw her face and picked up the paper, skimming the front page.

  “What a bloody ass!” Simon threw the paper down.

  Nora pushed her chair back. “I’m taking a walk.”

  “Nora, wait—”

  She ignored Simon and left the dining room before she said something she’d regret.

Chapter Thirty

“‘Matrimony was ordained, thirdly,’ said Jane Studdock to herself, ‘for the mutual society, help, and comfort that the one ought to have of the other.’”

— C. S. Lewis,
That Hideous Strength

9:30
AM

Gillian watched Sommer Clarendon wheel himself over to the mahogany table and carefully replace the portable phone in its charger. She tried to allow him as much independence as possible. For the life of her, she didn’t know how he managed to stay in such a pleasant mood during his dreary daily routine, confined to a motorized contraption with no end in sight; his only outings were to garden shows. Despite what Gillian knew must be his crippling grief over losing Keith, Sommer had completed his morning exercises as he always did, with the concentration of someone preparing for a marathon. But perhaps staying alive
was
a kind of marathon for Sommer.

  Gillian wondered what it would be like to be the wife of an invalid. She tried to imagine going through life knowing your husband would never improve from his disability and pondered how that would affect wanting to get up each morning. With the entire physical aspect of the relationship removed, what held Antonia and Sommer together? Quiet conversations and decent meals didn’t seem like much of an exciting daily routine.

  Gillian wasn’t unhappy she didn’t share her life with a man. Her son and her work were enough to keep her busy and satisfied. Her evenings at home were sometimes too filled with television and books, but she was physically tired at the day’s en
d
and had the knowledge she’d been useful and worked hard.

  Sommer swiveled his carriage to face his wife, ignoring his precious plants. Gillian didn’t know if he could ever regain the sense of joy they used to provide him. Today they seemed to mock his loss.

  Antonia stood before the windows of the library, looking down the fell at the shimmering surface of the lake and at Belle Isle beyond.

  Sommer cleared his throat. “That was Mr. Hackney from Worth’s, dear. He has Keith’s belongings from the Oxford office and has come to Bowness to deliver them.”

  “Sometimes I think I can see the Round House on Belle Isle from up here,” Antonia said.

  Sommer caught Gillian’s eye and frowned. “I’ve told him to come by later.”

  Antonia turned to Sommer. “Wordsworth felt it was the first Lake District house built solely to beautify the country—did you know that?”

  Gillian saw the way the light behind Antonia lit her hair, making her fair curls appear translucent. Her pupils were huge dark spots against her wan skin.

  “Keith told me that,” Antonia continued. “He said the house always reminded him of a large tea canister.” She started to laugh, a high, unnatural tinkle.

  Sommer grimaced and motioned to Gillian. “Antonia, please—”

  “Antonia, please,” she mimicked him cruelly. “Please what, Sommer? Please don’t tell you stories about Keith? Please don’t laugh anymore now that our boy is gone forever?” Tears ran down her face, and she threw herself onto a worn brocade chair, grabbing a gold velvet pillow that matched the fading drapes and pressing it into her eyes.

  Gillian padded over to the sobbing woman. “Time for a lie-down, Mrs. C,” she said. Her firm voice brooked no argument. She tugged gently on the woman’s shoulder.

  Antonia’s sobs petered out. She sniffled and stood, allowing Gillian to lead her from the room. Pausing beside Sommer, Antonia lifted a hand to caress his shoulder. “I was good yesterday when the women came, and today when the police were here I held it together. I’m trying, Sommer, really I am … ” Her voice wound down to a whisper.

  “I know you are, dear.” Sommer reached for her hand and brought it to his face. He turned it over and kissed her palm, folding her fingers over the kiss to enclose it as a talisman.

  As she guided Antonia out of the room, Gillian glanced back at Sommer. He’d wheeled himself over to the window where Antonia had stood. Gillian decided he was searching for signs of the Round House and the beauty Wordsworth knew dwelled in their community. It was a beauty lost to him now.