Chapter Thirteen

The banister glinted, leading up into darkness. There was no welcoming glow from the second floor. No strains of Debussy drifting downward.

Kate thought of her sneakered feet resting on a seat reserved for the late Dana Andrews and grinned. It was good she hadn’t agreed to fish and chips. She really was tired. She should have waited to try out the tools tomorrow.

“Great-aunt Roselyn?” Kate’s voice echoed back at her. She placed the pick hook and the screwdriver on the side table. Carpeted stairs creaked beneath her feet as she walked up them.

The sitting room was dark. Kate slid her hand along the wall, searching for the light switch.

Someone was standing in the corner of the room. A woman wearing a wide-brimmed hat. It was angled low, hiding the woman’s face. Fabric fluttered in the breeze.

The window was open. As Kate glanced toward it, the shutter cracked against the brick siding of the house. Swung closed again, clattering against the frame.

Kate found the switch, turned on the light. Just the old dressmaker’s dummy. Not a woman. Relief weakened her knees. The hourglass figure of the padded torso was visible beneath the shawl. Her aunt must have moved the dummy. Added the hat. Fine straw and handmade roses. Another hat for her collection.

“It’s me,” Kate called. Was she ill? Or not home at all?

A damp draught spread from beneath the door to the tower. Kate moved around the roll-top desk, the rosewood rocking chair. She yanked the window up higher, straining against the heavy glass. Caught at the shutter, latched it to the hook on the wall. A gust of wind pulled at her hair, whipping it into her eyes.

Something pale moved amid the apple trees below. A figure in white.

A woman in a nightgown. Cap sleeves, bare arms. The fabric billowing behind her. Orange-hued light flickered against the silhouette. A candle cupped in the woman’s hands. A small flame within glass. Gray hair hung loose to her shoulders. Too difficult to see the face, from that distance, lit from below. Shadows hollowing the eyes. But Kate knew who it was.

Why was she outside, dressed like that? What was she doing? “Aunt Roselyn!”

The figure disappeared beneath boughs heavy with ripening fruit. Insubstantial golden light filtered up between the leaves.

There she was again, at the back of the orchard. A vivid specter against the trees. The woman turned, moving across the grass. Slowly, at first. Then more quickly. The dress flowed around her, catching at her legs. The flame flickered with the motion. Suddenly, it was gone.

There was only the night now. Heavy, opaque, and filled with things unseen.

Kate lowered the window. The mannequin swayed on its wooden stand. Kate turned, found the stairs, took them two at a time.

She went to the kitchen and grabbed a glass from the cupboard. Filled it from the tap and gulped the cool water.

The French doors opened. Her great-aunt stepped inside. Strands of wet grass clung to her feet. The hem of her nightgown was damp and streaked with dirt. Hair hung in tendrils over her shoulders, clung to her temples and neck. Splotches of bright color marked her cheeks. She still held the extinguished candle in her hand, a pool of gold wax in the holder. Kate caught the scent of beeswax.

“Oh, hello, dear,” Great-aunt Roselyn murmured. It might have been a meeting at a garden party.

Kate set the glass down carefully. “Are you all right?”

“Naturally.” She looked down at herself ruefully, and smoothed the fabric with her free hand. “I suddenly had the urge to get a breath of fresh air. I didn’t realize the ground would be so damp. Sneaking out to walk the grass barefoot. I felt like a girl again. So exhilarating.” She smiled and moved past Kate toward the hall. “I’m embarrassed you caught me indulging my whim. I hope I didn’t give you a fright.”

The woman who normally conformed to all the rules, all the conventions, suddenly decided to traipse the orchard alone in her nightgown? “Of course not,” Kate said.

“Now I really shall retire to bed.” Roselyn walked across the tiles, leaving dirty footprints in her wake. She paused, turned back. “It’s hard, Kate, finding the empty shell of a human being. I know that only too well.” Light caught the curve of a wistful smile.

“Who did you find?” Kate waited. Her heart beat against her ribs.

“It was long ago, but you never forget.” Her aunt’s gaze was lost in the darkened orchard outside. “Love is what it is. You’ll learn that in time.”

“The person who died, was it someone close to you?”

Great-aunt Roselyn turned abruptly. The glass Kate had been drinking from was at the edge of the counter. Her wrist grazed the side and the glass tipped. Water spread across the counter, dripped onto the floor. “Oh dear. These slender glasses get bumped so easily.”

“Here, let me.” Kate took the tea towel off the rack beside her. She sopped up the mess, lifting a ceramic bowl filled with berries to sweep beneath. The china felt delicate in her hand. There was already a chip in the floral chinoiserie border. Something soggy and tangled caught Kate’s eye. She lifted it by one end and held it up. “What’s this? A shoelace?”

Great-aunt Roselyn nodded. “Elaina found it outside, caught on one of the bushes by the terrace. Is it yours?”

Kate shook her head. “It looks like it belongs on a dress shoe, or a man’s business shoe.”

“Possibly.” Great-aunt Roselyn looked doubtful. “Do you think it belonged to Mr. Wendell?”

“I would bet my edition of Four Faultless Felons, in the Arthur Hawkins art deco dust jacket, that the man didn’t go a day without trainers.”

“It must be the doctor’s then.”

“I suppose.” Kate draped the black shoelace over the edge of the sink to dry. She could have sworn the doctor had been wearing loafers, but she could be wrong.

Isra slid from the shadows and wound between their feet. Roselyn reached down to stroke the Siamese cat absentmindedly. Almond-shaped blue eyes narrowed to contented slits. The cat purred.

“I went by the hardware store and got the tools to open Mr. Wendell’s door.” Kate leaned back against the counter. “I couldn’t resist. I went downstairs and tried it.” Rocked the hook up and down in the keyway, gently at first. Arms already aching from moving books around. Applied pressure, adjusted the pick hook painstakingly until she felt the pins give. “It’s unlocked.” The door had swung upon. “I glanced inside, but that was all.”

“You unlocked the door?”

“I think it was brute force rather than skill, but it worked.”

“Nobody seems to know if the man had family.” Roselyn frowned. “I tried calling the number he gave me for the offices he worked at, but they had never heard of him before. Can you imagine?”

“You mean, he lied to us?”

“I should have checked up on him more thoroughly, but he was very polite. Perhaps the mystery will be solved when we clean out his room.”

“Just wait. We’ll go into that room tomorrow, and all secrets will be revealed.”

“Nothing scandalous, I hope. I’m going to bed. Sleep well, dear.”

“Good night.”

Great-aunt Roselyn turned and began to make her way upstairs. A current of cool air swept across Kate’s ankles. Where had it come from? All the windows were closed. Isra arched her back, her eyes narrowed and feral.

The door to the orchard. It was open. A narrow gap. Enough for a person to slide their fingers in. Grasp the edge. Push it back. Enter the house.

Isra gathered her muscles and leapt through the opening, out into the night. The hunter now, intent on her prey.

Kate closed the door and secured the lock. The wings of a moth thrummed against the glass, seeking the light.

The only scandal was her aunt walking the orchard at night. Barefoot. In her nightdress. If anyone heard about this, the rumors would spread. If someone had seen her, it would be worse than before. She wished she could phone home. Mom would know what to do. But she’d be at her book club now. She wouldn’t be home for hours yet, not with the way that group could talk when they got started. The five-hour time difference made spontaneous calls across the Atlantic impossible, and sometimes that was harder than Kate wanted to admit. Made the distance seem farther.

She rested her forehead against the glass and listened to the moth. The rain began to fall.

****

Gary listened, head tilted, every muscle held still.

It was dark, well past ten now. He should have waited longer, but the rain would have washed away any traces. Not that he had found any. A few blurred footprints. Barefoot, too small and more recent, heading to the house. A broken twig. Lichen scraped from the trunk of a tree at shoulder height. Without the beam of a flashlight, he’d searched carefully, thoroughly. He found nothing. No proof that another man had been in the orchard before him.

Tiny noises echoed in the space around him, hard to pinpoint. Scrabble of a rodent. Hoot of an owl, somewhere above. A latch catching.

Gary looked toward the house, through the tangle of greenery between. A light in the kitchen. The silhouette of a woman. She was standing, her fingers pressed against the glass of the sliding door.

She couldn’t see him. The yellow circle of light touched the terrace and not much farther beyond. Kate should have been asleep, or reading a book in her room. Not standing in the kitchen, looking out at the orchard.

Something leapt out of the hedgerow beside him. A breath escaped between his teeth. Slanting blue eyes, like chips of ice. The Siamese cat. She wound through his legs, warm fur against his jeans, and he bent to stroke her head. She purred, rubbing against his fingers.

The damp was beginning to soak through to his bones. Get in, get out. Tidy up the loose ends. Then he’d be done with it all. Gary straightened. The kitchen was empty. The light off.

He eased between the trees, to the basement door, staying well away from the thorns of the climbing rose. The flowers gave off a strong smell of musk and myrrh.

Gary glanced over his shoulder. Not a sound now. A few deft movements, and he was in.

He paused. His damp shoes would leave prints on the carpet. He slipped them off, carrying them in his hand. Moved soundlessly down the stairs. The third step creaks, he reminded himself. Slow and steady.

Gary dropped to one knee in front of the door. He pulled on the surgical gloves he’d brought with him and took a leather pouch from his pocket. The Bogata rake would do. The keyhole was large enough. No need to worry about security pins on this door. He gave the handle a twist. Always worth a try.

The door swung inward.

One second to process it. Kate. She’d gotten there first. Had unlocked the door. Been in the room.

Gary stood, stepped inside. An undercurrent in the air, stale and vacant. Across from him, a pinprick of light flashed in the dark. A laptop or phone charger. The blind was down. He could hear the rain against the window, heavier now. Gary slid the pouch of tools back into his pocket. He nudged the door closed behind him.

The penlight would have to do. He swung the small beam, brightest setting but still not strong enough, around the room. Heaps on the floor. He bent down, careful not to touch anything. The light picked up plaid print, checkered squares. Discarded clothes. Unwashed, from the smell of them. The bed was unmade, one pillow on the floor.

If only he knew what Kate had seen already. How thoroughly she’d gone through the dead man’s things when she opened the door.

He kept moving, searching for anything that might reveal who Chris Wendell really was. For any items that needed to disappear.

He shifted his focus to the desk, and the blink of yellow. He resisted the urge to power the laptop up. Kate and her friends would never get past the security.

Glint of gold on the dresser, dead ahead.

Scrap metal stored in an empty tin of travel sweets. Bought once a month, like clockwork. Faint scent of caramel and barley sugar rose as he tilted the tin, shone the light on the contents. Two dental crowns. A bracelet, small, broken at the link. A tangled necklace.

It was the glittery strand that knocked the breath out of him. The last time he’d seen something similar, it had been around Adriana’s neck.

He lifted it out. The chain dangled off his hand, swinging in the air. The pendant turned on the end of the chain. Fourteen karat gold. An orchid on one side. The impression made from a Victorian era wax seal.

A flower that can survive the powers of my black thumb! That giddy lift to her tone. The smile that was better than winning the lottery. It looks like something from another time. Can you just imagine, using this image to seal a letter? Who do you think used it? A lady of the manor, before sipping her afternoon tea.

He’d gone over that street, again and again after she died. Looking for the necklace.

And the bastard had it all along. He must have picked it up off the pavement. Her blood still fresh on the ground. Too fucking scared to sell it. Stored away in a collection of old and broken metal, to be melted down. Cash for gold. His hand fisted on the necklace.

It was evidence that could tie him to the dead man. But it was more than that, too. It was hers.

The pendant lay in the palm of his hand.

Gary closed the door, retraced his steps up the stairs and out to the orchard, into the rain.