The Green Remains (14 page)

Chapter Thirty-One

“Across the most vital precincts of the mind a flippant sprite of memory will sometimes skip, to the dismay of all philosophy.”

— Booth Tarkington,
Cherry

10:20
AM

Agnes sat with Kate in the lodge kitchen, going over the schedule for the upcoming week. They had to iron out staff assignments, days off and deliveries as well as complete draft menus that would be subject to last-minute changes if one of their suppliers let them down due to availability or the lack thereof; flexibility was the name of the game from Thursday evenings through Sunday lunches, when the Ramsey Lodge dining room was open to the public. Maeve was proving to be an asset, Agnes grudgingly acknowledged, and Kate was inclined to use her more and more to encourage her to learn the business. That was fine with Agnes. The kitchen was the only domain she wanted.

  “I have enough to do to keep my kitchen clean and get the food out on time,” she told Kate over and over.

  That chore finished, Kate sat back and recounted Nora’s run-in with Daniel Rowley the day before as they’d left Clarendon Hall.

  Agnes nodded after Kate’s recitation. “Be just like Daniel to run her over and not apologize.”

  Kate agreed and added: “What bothers me more—and I didn’t say this to Nora, so don’t go winding her up—was that I had the feeling he’d deliberately run her down. I didn’t raise it with her because I didn’t want to upset her, but I wonder if she had the same feeling.”

  Agnes raised an eyebrow. “Who knows what goes on in that head of Daniel’s? I swear, sometimes I get so angry I want to throw him out that back door. Then I feel sorry for him, no family left, living all alone in that hut up there, and I think: Agnes, the good Lord wants you to be nice to him, to show him some Christian charity.”

  She watched Kate sigh and shift in her seat. The poor girl must feel the weight of business ownership and all the responsibility that goes along with it, too, although her brother shared it; and her supposed to be planning her wedding, although Agnes hadn’t seen much planning going on yet.

  “You’re right, Agnes,” Kate said. “But I don’t trust him, and it bothers me not to have trust in one of my employees.” She ran her fingers through her cropped hair. “I have the feeling Daniel is capable of a lot more than we give him credit for.” She stood, thanking Agnes as she always did after their weekly meeting. “I’d better get a jump on that refinishing project if I’m to get it done.” She winked at Agnes and left the kitchen.

  Agnes smiled at Kate’s retreating back. Kate and Simon watched over her, especially after her own son emigrated to Canada. Her motherly demeanor toward the siblings became more profound every year. Their mum and dad would be so proud to see how they carried on. She’d happily added Nora to their little family and couldn’t wait for that bairn to be born.

  After checking a sauce recipe, Agnes had the rest of Sunday and all of Monday off to rest at home. She didn’t like to leave anything undone, and once she’d checked the pantry for the sauce’s ingredients, she shrugged into her cardigan and prepared to leave. You’ve become a creature of habit, Agnes girl.

  She looked around the spotless kitchen with satisfaction. Maeve would see to Monday’s breakfast and make certain the kitchen looked the same when Agnes returned to work Tuesday morning. The Barnum sisters, two dailies in their early twenties who did up the rooms, knew better than to invade Agnes’ kitchen when she was off. They delighted in shocking her with blue streaks in their hair and green or yellow nail polish, but both were diligent workers who tidied the rooms and changed linens industriously.

  Agnes smacked her forehead. She’d forgotten to tell Kate that the Barnum girls had called, citing car trouble. They would be more than an hour late by the time their older brother came home to give them a ride. She shook her head. Such forgetfulness at times.

  She looked out the window and saw Kate just outside the door to her studio, hands already gloved, hard at work sanding a dresser. Robbie Cole stood talking to her as she worked, his thick hair trapped by an orange baseball cap. Gillian’s son seemed interested in Kate’s project. She wouldn’t bother them; the girls would be here soon enough. She’d take a few clean towels into Nora’s room and head home, where she looked forward to leafing through that new cookbook her sister had sent from Edinburgh.

Chapter Thirty-Two

“It was to be the consultant physician’s last visit and Dalgliesh suspected that neither of them regretted it, arrogance and patronage on one side and weakness, gratitude and dependence on the other being no foundation for a satisfactory adult relationship however transitory.”

— P. D. James,
The Black Tower

10:28
AM

Nora had left Simon gaping at Tony Warner’s article and had taken herself to the lakeside to blow off some steam. She dutifully completed her walk, arms pumping, although she noted it was taking longer and longer each day to complete the circuit she’d chosen for herself early in her pregnancy and had shortened twice as her pregnancy advanced.

  She tried to clear her mind of heavy thoughts and concentrated on her breathing and on noticing the people and the world around her. A crowd of Asian students chattered happily as they passed her. Three older black women strolled with their arms linked and stopped to pat her belly for good luck when she paused to catch her breath. It was a glorious day with scudding clouds and the sun peeking out to shine across the lake.

  She found her favorite bench just across from the lodge and slumped on it, tired and suddenly disheartened. Tony Warner was a jerk, but he’d still managed to get under her skin. Looking out over the sparkling lake, she wondered why she’d ever thought this was a peaceful place. Maybe she was just the kind of person who could never expect to find contentment. As soon as the maudlin thought crossed her mind, Nora smirked at her melodramatic musings and gave herself a mental shove. She was usually upbeat and positive. Must be the hormones.

chapter twenty-nine

  The rising fells around her met the skyline in this land loved by Wordsworth, Potter, Coleridge and Ruskin. Her eyes searched the opposite shore, marveling at the craggy mountains that surrounded her as she thought of the different ways each writer had paid homage to the area. In some small way, her children’s books were a part of that. She understood the authors’ affinity for this place, where the majesty of nature was so powerfully displayed.

  The lake’s surface was already filling up with boats, canoes and kayaks. They reminded Nora of Keith’s last moments. She pictured his arms getting too heavy to guide the scull back to shore. With a catch in her breath, she wondered if he had had any knowledge in his final moments that they were
his last, and she trembled at the awful idea.

  An older couple shared a laugh in a paddleboat; they crossed in front of her and waved. They reminded Nora of her mother and Roger, and she waved back. Her mother had had a great love for her father, and when he’d died, she’d been alone for many years, but she hadn’t hesitated to nurture a new life and a new love with her second husband. Would Nora find that rare combination of partner, lover and friend that were the hallmark of the only kind of marriage she wanted?

  Nora pulled a strand of hair forward and played with it, rolling and unrolling it around her finger while her son danced inside her. She definitely would not be naming him Tony. As she considered Tony Warner’s article again, she knew it was precisely the type of tabloid coverage he excelled at; she shouldn’t have been surprised at all.

  In fact, she should have been anticipating it, once she knew he was there in Bowness. She really was slower on the uptake these days. Knowing Tony as she did, she should have known he’d twist Simon’s comments for shock value and to ensure a catchy headline.

  Nora started back across the road to the lodge, anxious for Simon to understand she didn’t blame him for that ridiculous article. Simon met her on the path, and they both started talking at once.

  “Simon, I wasn’t angry with you—”

  “Nora, I never said those things, not like that—”

  They stopped together. Nora shaded her eyes from the sun with the back of one hand and looked up at him. “I should have considered the source. Tony’s specialty is sensationalism.” She watched Simon’s shoulders relax.

  “I’m glad you know I wouldn’t say anything negative about you. I think you’ve been an absolute brick, the way you’ve handled yourself.”

  “Thanks.” She smiled and grabbed his elbow. “But I think we may have a murderer to catch. Let’s get to work.” She directed him back toward the lodge before he could protest.

Chapter Thirty-Three

“It occurred to Min that thinking about your family is like gardening. The mood hits you, the sun is beaming down, the smell of wet black earth coming in strong through an open window, and you say to yourself, Why not? I’ve got a few minutes. So you go out that door.”

— Karen Lawrence,
Springs of Living Water

11:15
AM

Glenn Hackney sipped tea, careful not to let his pinky finger get caught in the delicate handle of the bone china cup. His Auntie Maude who’d raised him had made tea in cups like these, ones his father had thrown in the rubbish after her death. “None of that chintzy stuff for us men,” his father had insisted, as though removing those cups would make all the difference in Glenn’s sexual persuasion. He could still remember the tinkling crash the porcelain had made as it hit the bottom of the wheelie bin. In the end, all the ales his father had quaffed had not made a whit of difference to Glenn.

  He looked around the library with its tall windows and shelves lined with plants. The room was showing its age, and some of the upholstery looked downright shabby, but there was no mistaking the grand lines of a well-built house. “Shabby chic” had come from somewhere, and this place had it in spades. His expert eye told him that despite the wear, the tables were all antiques. Too bad they would be missed if he were to return after dark. He wondered what kind of security system had been installed.

  “Delightful tea,” he commented. “Such a wonderful fragrance. I don’t believe I know the blend.”

  “We have it sent in from a London store,” Sommer explained. “It’s called Buckingham Palace Tea Party blend.”

  Of course it is, Glenn thought, smiling broadly without a hint of a sneer.

  Keith’s mother sat across from Glenn on a loveseat. She had blue circles under her eyes. When he’d arrived, she’d looked like she’d just awoken. She sorted through the contents of the carton he’d brought, as though a careful perusal of notepads, pens and the collected jumble people accumulate in their desks might give her a clue to Keith’s demise.

  “I was hoping to find that lovely fountain pen with the gold nib we gave him for his twenty-fifth birthday,” she explained with a shoulder raised in apology.

  Glenn could have told her it was a fruitless search. He helped himself to another piece of buttery shortbread. “Your cook is an extraordinary baker.”

  “I’ll tell her you appreciate her efforts,” Sommer said.

  “Cook has been with us for years and years,” Antonia said. “I don’t know what we’d do without her.” The mother put the carton down on the floor. “It was very kind of you to bring this to us, Mr. Hackney.”

  “Don’t give it another thought, Mrs. Clarendon.” He’d combed the contents of Keith’s desk as he’d packed the box, and neither the information he’d been looking for, nor the knowledge Antonia craved had been in Keith’s desk.

*

11:30
AM

Robbie Cole waited on the corner by Ramsey Lodge for his mother, his attention on the fells that rose beyond the lake. He’d spent time talking with Kate Ramsey, gaining pointers from her as she refinished an old dresser.

  “It’s a surprise, Robbie, so keep it under your hat,” she’d said. “You have to always sand in the direction of the grain,” she’d explained. “After it’s done and I’ve cleaned the dust off, I’ll be painting it and then add a poly finish and let it cure.”

  Kate was so generous with her information. He liked that in people, being willing to share. Looking across the lake, Robbie enjoyed the way the dry-stone walls wriggled through the land, creating a living patchwork when seen from a distance. Up close, he knew there were grass tracks, stiles and cattle grids. He loved this place. He had the true good fortune to live in an area where one day could bring the weather of all four seasons.

  Robbie hadn’t traveled far yet, and he looked forward to that, too, but he also knew he would always return here. The peace and grandeur of this spot were so much a part of him that he felt a twinge of uneasiness as he’d pretended to be a fan of Keith’s promotional ideas. He hadn’t had a choice: Clarendon House was his mother’s livelihood, after all, and the family had always been very kind to him and his mum. But he brightened at the idea that now the whole subject would likely be dropped.

  There was a slight tug on his sleeve, and he turned to see his mother, out of uniform and dressed in a shapeless dress and sneakers. Her cheeks were flushed, and she was out of breath.

  “Mum! I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.” Robbie’s look was fond. His mum was really his best friend.

  “And not spend my half-day with you?” Gillian linked her arm through his. “They have company up at the Hall anyway. Cook can handle that. Did you finish your assignment?”

  Robbie nodded. “Sent it off this morning as a PDF. Really easy. I checked the spelling before I sent it.”

  His mother was pleased. “I knew that online course would be good for you. It’s a great way to build up credits. You always did like to work at your own pace. Now, where do you want to eat lunch?”

*

From the bottom of the garden, Kate watched the animated exchange between Robbie and his mother. Gillian had always been a devoted mother. Kate wondered how she’d managed after being widowed while still pregnant and left alone to raise a child. Nora would soon be facing that same challenge. Kate didn’t envy her the role.

  She fully recognized how fortunate she and Simon were to have had a stable family life, although she knew there was no such thing as normal family. Her mother, a social worker, had taught her it was just a matter of the level of dysfunction.

  All families had eccentricities or secrets or skeletons hiding in closets. Her own Grandpa Ramsey had liked to sleep in the nude, right until the day he died. She had a childhood memory of her parents hastily struggling to put pajamas on his stiff body before the doctor arrived the morning he was found dead. In the end, they pulled a nightshirt over his head, pinning his arms to his sides, covering him up respectfully but not fooling anyone, “I expect the undertaker has seen worse,” her practical mum had pronounced. She and Simon had laughed over it as teens, and the memory still brought a smile to her face.

  A pang of sorrow ran through Kate. She missed her parents fiercely, especially in the evenings after their guests were settled. She and Simon used to do their homework around the oak table that stood in the public drawing room now. It was the first piece of furniture she’d helped Dad refinish, peeling away layers of grime and old paint to reveal the inner beauty that lived in the wood. Mum enjoyed her sherry and Dad his single malt while they talked about improvements to the lodge and her mother paged through magazines, searching for new recipes.

  Kate bent to her task, guiding the sander carefully in the direction of the grain. Helping their parents at the end of their lives was a gift she knew she and Simon would never regret. She felt she and Ian might form the same kind of competent team. This business of him questioning Simon unsettled her, but she put it aside because she knew Ian took his job seriously, and she wouldn’t have it any other way. She sometimes came down hard on him about his job because she wanted to be certain he found joy in his work. There had to be joy of some sort, not just dogged determination, to make it all worthwhile.

  Kate straightened up. Just how dysfunctional was she, she thought, to expect Ian to find joy in murder?