The Green Remains (3 page)

Chapter Four

“‘My dear Charles,’ said the young man with the monocle, ‘it doesn’t do for people, especially doctors, to go about “thinking” things. They may get into frightful trouble.’”

— Dorothy L. Sayers,
Unnatural Death

10:20
AM

Detective Inspector Ian Travers from the Southern Base Command Unit unfolded his lanky frame from the car with practiced ease. He rambled over to Simon Ramsey, and the two men shook hands.

  “Nasty business, this,” Ian said. “Not a nice way to start your day.”

  Simon nodded. “Worse for Nora, finding him like that.”

  The two men approached a burly man standing by the scull, jotting notes into a tiny leather notebook with his meaty left hand. Ian was aware their movements were being watched by a large gathering of onlookers and reporters, held back by the police cordon.

  Ian knew Dr. Milo Foreman would already have examined the body
in situ
and dictated his initial findings into a voice recorder. The medical examiner was known in town as a cheerful man who enjoyed cooking and eating the results of his own efforts. His tiny wife encouraged his exploits, daintily sampled his fare and then cheerfully cleaned up after him. They ate out most weekends and were regulars at Ramsey Lodge. Thankfully, the fat cigar Milo favored did not make an appearance at the crime scene.

  “What have we got, Milo?” Ian asked.

  “You mean, what have
you
got, dear boy. I am only a vessel of knowledge for your labors, such as they might be. I interpret the body’s clues, and it is
your
job to find the answers.”

  Milo liked his discourse, but Ian was inured to the pathologist’s digressions. “Yes, but you always make my job so much easier.” In reality, Milo was notoriously difficult to pin down on specifics until he’d completed his excruciatingly detailed postmortem.

  The large man consulted his notebook. “You know it’s the Clarendon boy, I presume?” At Ian’s nod, he asked: “Parents informed?”

  “The chief decided to visit them himself.” Ian didn’t envy his boss this part of the job.

  “It’s nice for them to hear it from someone they know, rather than the village pipeline.” Milo turned a page. “To the job at hand. Cause of death, possible drowning, but not classic; can’t say more until I get him on the table. Time of death? Hmm, maybe between 7
PM
and 2
AM
. Difficult to say as he’s been in cold water. Can’t say more—”

  “Until you get him on the table, I know, Milo,” Ian said. “When is that likely?”

  “After the formal ID is done and I start my sauce, a nice Bolognese today. We don’t have much on just now. Let’s say I’ll see you around 3 at the Westmorland, shall we?” Milo’s eyes gleamed as though he was setting up a sherry party.

  Here is a man who thoroughly enjoys his work, Ian thought not for the first time—and shuddered.

  He and Simon left Milo and crossed the road to the lodge, dismissing the constable and using Simon’s back door to enter the kitchen. They found Kate urging Nora to eat a piece of toast. Nora stopped with the toast in midair, halfway to her mouth, and slowly lowered the slice to her plate.

  “You keep right on eating that, Missy,” Simon instructed, sitting down next to her.

  Kate rose to greet Ian. “Thank goodness you’re here.” He gave her a warm hug, and they sat down at the table. “Do you have any idea what happened to Keith?”

  Ian saw Simon give Nora’s shoulder a squeeze. She was pale, but she brushed the crumbs off her hand to shake Ian’s, her green eyes studying him. Now that he was here in his official capacity, Ian could feel the tension in the room increase. He felt it in every investigation, and this would be no exception. It came with the job, but his copper’s instincts told him this time the entire situation was going to be much worse.

  “Not much to go on yet,” he said. “I need to ask Nora a few questions. Perhaps you two should wait in another room while we talk.”

  “No, thank you, we’re quite comfortable here.” Simon draped his arm over the back of Nora’s chair.

  Ian hesitated and decided not to press the point. He brought out his notebook. “Nora, tell me exactly what happened this morning.”

  Nora described her walk, how she’d noticed the scull and pulled on it until she slid down next to it and found Keith’s body.

  Ian said, “And you pulled on it because … ”

  Nora shrugged. “Because it was there and it shouldn’t have been.”

  “So in your months here you’ve become an expert on how the lakeside should be?” Ian asked with a smile. He was rewarded with a kick under the table from Kate.

  Nora frowned. “There were no other sculls floating loose; all the other boats were neatly tied up. I thought I was saving it from floating away.”

  Ian nodded. “Okay, what happened then?” Beside him, Kate cleared her throat.

  “I screamed when I recognized Keith,” Nora replied, “and then Simon and Kate were there. Simon called for help on his mobile, and Kate sat on the bench with me until the constable arrived. I’ve been waiting in here ever since.” She tilted her head to one side. “Well, I did go into my room once to pee.”

  “And you’d known the deceased how long?” Ian asked.

  Beside him, Kate snorted. “Honestly, Ian, stop being so damned officious. We all knew Keith, deceased or not, and you know that.”

  “Don’t you and Simon have work to do?” Ian asked, giving Kate a studied look.

  “Actually, Ian, I’m enjoying watching you play detective,” Simon said.

  Ian paused, then decided to let it go. He knew Simon doted on Nora; it was rational he’d be protective. He noticed her massage her temples. “Kate, could you get Nora some paracetamol?”

  “I’m not surprised you have a headache, Nora,” Kate said. She rose and threw Ian a warning look.

  Ian heard her murmur “bloody ass” as she passed him. “Sorry, Nora, just doing my job. And I am sorry you had to find Keith like that.”

  Nora nodded. “I’m sorry you have to deal with this. You’ve known him so much longer than I have.”

  “I know Keith loved the lake,” Ian said. “Almost every weekend, I’d see him in his scull at some point. His death will affect the entire community.”

  “What’s the Clarendon family like?” Nora asked. “Keith told me he was researching their history for a book.”

  “I didn’t know about any book,” Ian said. “Clarendon Hall is that stone mansion farther down the shore, overlooking the lake. Both of his parents are still alive, but his father, Sommer, had a car accident around the time Keith was born. He’s been an invalid ever since.”

  “That must be the tragedy Kate mentioned,” Nora said. “Did he have any brothers or sisters?” she asked.

  “Just an uncle, also an invalid. I guess the accident ended the possibility of more children.”

  “His mother must have had so much to deal with, taking care of his father and an infant,” Nora speculated, cradling her belly.

  Simon smiled at that. “I don’t think caring for Sommer was ever a personal chore for Keith’s mum. But Antonia’s a nice lady—rather nervous, I might add.” He stood up and stretched. “No, the Clarendons have enough of everything except good luck. I’ll tell you their story later.” He ran his hand through his hair, and Ian caught his eye. “Sorry about that remark before, Ian.” He turned to Nora. “Ian’s ready to throw me out of here, so I’ll beat him to it and head for my studio. If he gets too rough, knock, and I’ll rescue you.”

Chapter Five

“Isabel lay on her bed in a fog of fatigue, too tired even to undress.”

— May Sarton,
Faithful Are the Wounds

11
AM

Nora walked Ian to the kitchen door and watched him cross the road to speak to the constable guarding the scene. A shaft of sunlight highlighted his flaxen hair. His tone had been softer this time around, more like the Ian she’d come to know.

  Kate had returned with her pills, then left immediately. After a few more questions, Ian had patted Nora on the back as he rose to leave, and Nora felt Kate’s influence on him.

  Agnes appeared in the doorway. “Give us a hug, hen.” She smothered Nora to her ample breast, her clean lavender scent filling Nora’s nose. Nora let herself sink into the embrace as close as her belly would allow. It felt good to be comforted. “I can’t believe it. And you the one to find him like that.” Agnes smoothed Nora’s hair and kissed her brow.

  “Thanks, Agnes. I’m fine, really. I still can’t believe it was Keith.”

  Agnes clucked. “Kate’s Ian will get it all sorted, just you watch.”

  When Agnes left, Nora glanced around the kitchen and cleared the table of her uneaten toast, wondering what she should do next. She approached Simon’s studio door and had her hand raised to knock when she heard his voice and realized he was on the telephone.

  “ … It won’t be soon, but perhaps after the holidays I can get away … ” The sweet affection fell carelessly from his voice.

  Embarrassed at overhearing his private conversation, Nora quickly walked to her own room. She closed the door and leaned against it, pushing away a shred of guilt from eavesdropping. Who wouldn’t? But whom was he hoping to visit in the spring? Months ago, when they were in Oxford, Simon had told her he loved her. Obviously, there was someone else to whom he had ties. She didn’t know whether to be hurt or angry.

  She sighed. She didn’t have the right to either emotion. She was the one who kept Simon at arm’s length after their one coupling earlier in the year, just before she’d found out she was pregnant. He maintained he was ready to help her parent her baby. He also insisted he understood her reticence to commit to a relationship, knowing she’d been engaged to the baby’s father but on the verge of breaking it off when Paul had died in a plane accident.

  Kicking her shoes off, Nora climbed up on the bed and sank back against the pillows, looking around the room that had become safe and familiar. On her right, a door led to a closet and her bathroom; opposite her bed, a set of French doors led to a private flower garden and flooded her room with natural light. Her desk was set up at the left side of the room, and the alcove beyond it, used by the housekeeper as a sitting room, would be the baby’s nursery. At the back of her mind, neatly tucked away as a result of her usual survival mode, was the knowledge that living at Ramsey Lodge was a temporary matter.

  What a jumbled mess she’d become. Her emotions careened and crashed into each other in spectacular disarray. Nora cradled her stomach and thought of how much she loved the child she carried but hadn’t even met. She understood that Simon’s willingness to be a part of the baby’s life came from his love for her, but she questioned how much of that was real or was due to his romantic notions. At times, she thought she might kiss him or hug him spontaneously, but Declan Barnes’ face would rear up, and she would back off. She seemed unable to forget the Oxford
detective. But why was she thinking of any relationship except the one with her unborn baby? She felt huge, weighed down by a basketball she carried everywhere. Though everyone told her she was “carrying so well,” Nora doubted she looked sexy to anyone. She certainly didn’t feel sexy—just filled to the brim with emotions she couldn’t sort.

  Her thoughts turned to Keith’s mother and father, who had just been told their only child was dead. She couldn’t fathom what they must be feeling, and then she remembered Janet Wallace, Bryn’s mother, who lost her daughter and was bravely soldiering on with her life, even as its very foundation had been destroyed.

  Did she herself possess that kind of inner strength? Nora wondered. It was all very well to say you were going to be a good parent, but how did you know you would be one, despite the best intentions? You thought you’d done a decent job of it, as Janet Wallace had and as the Clarendons surely had, and then the life you had created was taken away from you in the space of a heartbeat. Sweat popped up on Nora’s brow. It was a horrific and frightening thought. Would she ever relax again?

  She couldn’t keep her thoughts from circling back to Keith. How could she possibly be involved in another murder, if that’s what this turned out to be? With a sigh, she sat back against the pillows. She’d not seen Bryn Wallace’s body except posed in the mortuary. Keith’s bloated, green face was right in front of her, no matter how hard she tried to forget it.

  Nora shook herself and rolled on her side. Drawing up a quilt from the bottom of the bed, she covered herself and closed her eyes, focusing on her breathing. She’d never mastered meditating, but she knew breath control would relax her. Her last thought before she dropped off to nap was of her son, blissfully swimming in his watery cocoon, unaware that death had touched his mother yet again.

Chapter Six

“ … Miss Winifred Grainger sat in the last of the lawn chairs that had not yet been put away for the winter, holding in her hand, which lay in the lap of her corduroy skirt, a black-bordered announcement.”

— Charles Jackson,
A Second-Hand Life

11:10
AM

Cook checked the time on the large school clock that hung on the wall, just over the door to the butler’s pantry, as she waited for the kettle to boil. The huge Aga stove never let her down, but today she’d been sluggish, and Cook was running ten minutes behind schedule for elevenses. Not that Sommer or Antonia Clarendon ever commented on such things. She was a regular part of their small family, preferring “Cook” to the usual address. It had the ring of a title to it, whereas “Mrs. Ewart” did not.

  A knock at the kitchen door startled her just as she was taking the kettle off the hob, and she pushed it off center and left to answer the door. Her round face lit with a wide smile when she saw her visitor through the window and opened the door for him.

  “Billy! What a nice surprise. Come in, come in.” The large man wiped his feet carefully and entered her domain as she bustled toward the stove. Cook’s chatter trailed away as she turned and saw the serious expression on her visitor’s face. “I was just going to pour elevenses, and I can get us each a cup … ”

  Detective Chief Inspector William Clarke didn’t have many people in his life besides his wife who called him “Billy,” but his mum and Cook were sisters. “I’m sorry, Aunt Elsie. I’m here on police business.”

  Cook’s hand flew to her mouth. “Not your mum, Billy?” Her color drained, and he hastened to her side.

  “No, no, Mum’s fine, really. Sit down, Aunt Elsie.” He helped her to one of the chairs lining the long table at one end of the kitchen. “It’s about Keith. I didn’t use the front door because of the tours, but it’s really the Clarendons I’ve come to see.”

  “Oh, Billy, whatever’s happened to the boy? I didn’t see him this morning and thought he’d gone out early in that fast car of his—was he in an accident?”

  DCI Clarke hesitated. “I really should talk to his parents first, but you’re almost family to them, and it seems unfair to keep you hanging.” He squeezed her hand. “I’m going to need you to be very strong for Miss Antonia, Auntie. Keith’s dead.”

*

Ten minutes later, the tea tray was loaded, and Cook had composed herself. With her nephew trailing behind, she pushed the teacart into the morning room. Sommer Clarendon sat in his motorized wheelchair next to the large window and perused the paper. His wife, Antonia, stood near the doorway in front of a glass étagère, rearranging a collection of Dresden porcelain figurines. The mail sat on a round table, where one place was left open for Sommer’s wheelchair. It was a scene of quiet domesticity Cook knew would soon be ruined. Her breath caught a hitch she covered with a cough before she could sob.

  “There you are, Cook, just as I was feeling thirsty. And William! How nice of you to drop in.” Sommer seemed genuinely happy to see their visitor. “Come to visit your aunt? How’s your mother faring?” The two men had served on more than one Southern Lakes community committee together.

  “Quite well, Sommer. But I’m afraid I’m here on official business.”

  Antonia stepped to the table and sat down; Cook thought she was steeling herself. Sommer folded his newspaper. Cook held her breath as her nephew’s eyes flicked between the two parents. She felt sorry for this part of his job; there was no good way to do it.

  “I’m very sorry to tell you Keith drowned in the lake last night,” he said. His pause allowed them to absorb his statement. Cook saw Antonia’s astonishment.

  “No! That’s not possible.” Antonia’s hands flew to her mouth. “You must be mistaken.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m afraid there’s no question it’s Keith,” the chief said.

  Antonia stared at him a moment longer in the shocked silence. Then her chair scraped back, and she rushed from the room. A second later, her footsteps clattered up the main stairs.

  Cook took out the hankie she’d stuffed in her apron pocket to stifle a fresh bout of tears. Sommer lost his color and looked away. She could see the muscles in his jaw working as he took in the news and fought his own tears.

  “What happened?” Sommer finally asked.

  Her nephew gave a succinct account of what was known at this point. Cook had to admire her nephew in his official capacity, composed even as they heard Antonia running back down the stairs. There were no more traces of the freckled lad he’d been. “I’m afraid someone will have to formally identify his body.”

  Sommer waved the thought away with a grimace and closed his eyes briefly. He hit the arms of his wheelchair in frustration. “I’ll have Gillian drive me down shortly in the van. We need a little time—I have to be with Antonia first.”

  The chief nodded as Antonia burst into the room. “His bed’s not been slept in.”

  Cook watched Antonia’s eyes roam from face to face, not wanting to accept the truth. The mother’s face was white and her body trembled. Cook took Antonia’s arm and led her to a chair at the table. “Let’s sit, and I’ll pour, shall I?” Her words felt thick in her throat.

  Antonia woodenly allowed Cook to lead her to the table and push her into a chair, her eyes glazed over. Cook caught her nephew’s eye and nodded, and he sat down next to Antonia in what he couldn’t have known had been Keith’s chair. Antonia flinched.

  Sommer wheeled himself over to the place that was always left open for him. Cook poured tea for them all and left the cream and sugar on the table, trying not to cry openly, her heart hammering.

  “Please sit down, Cook,” Sommer said, gesturing to the last chair. He drew a ragged breath. “What happens now?” he asked the detective.

  Before Clarke could answer, Antonia jerked upright and stood. “What happens now? Our lives are over, Sommer, that’s what happens
now
.” Cook rose, but before she could make her way around the table, Antonia had dashed to the set of glass shelves. Raising her arm, she swept it quickly across the shelves, one after another, sending her collection of Dresden figures to shatter noisily on the floor.