Beth made herself a coffee and took it out to the veranda. Sitting in her wheelchair she lit a cigarette, drawing in the smoke hungrily, and exhaling through her nose. She felt numb. The thought that Miranda had gone and would no longer be there for her was an alien concept. Mirri was her best friend, her confidante, her moral compass. Life without her was going to be unbearable, but at the moment she was finding it impossible to absorb the depth of her loss. All she felt was an anger that was cancelling out every other feeling.
Coming there to Stillwater had been a huge mistake. Initially it was Miranda’s idea, but one that Beth had embraced with a passion. Moving away from London, the life she experienced there, the people she knew there, and all the negative feelings that enwrapped her on a daily basis, seemed so appealing she hadn’t thought deeply about it. Carried away on a wave of optimism, and the buzzing excitement of a new, different life, she let herself run with the tide of change. Now she was paying the price.
She flicked the ash from the end of her cigarette, blew on the tip until it started glowing red, and then ground the cigarette into the back of her hand.
As the skin charred, tears sprang to her eyes, and pain surged through her, banishing the numbness and making her cry out. She dropped the cigarette to the floor, and held the burn to her mouth, sucking the raw, blistering skin. The pain was excruciating. It was no less than she deserved.
A few moments later she was aware of the purr of a car’s engine, gradually growing louder, and watched as a black Bentley appeared at the head of the lane and trundled slowly toward the house. The car reached Stillwater and stopped. The driver’s door opened. A chauffeur wearing a gray livery stepped out, and went around to the rear door, pulling it open, allowing the passenger to climb out.
Bernard Franklin climbed out of the car, and stood there in the late morning sun, peering up at the house. His gaze swept over her with barely a pause of acknowledgement before he stared at the upstairs windows, a look of rapt concentration in his eyes.
The pain from the burn had settled to a steady throb. “Can I help you?” she called.
The sound of her voice seemed to break his reverie. He blinked, and then turned his attention on her.
He was dressed in a light brown sports jacket and cream chinos, and looked as if he’d just driven in from the golf links.
“Ms. Alvarini,” he said, and approached the house. After two paces he glanced back at the chauffeur. “Wait here,” he said.
Beth wheeled herself to the top of the ramp, and sat waiting for him.
He looked up at her, his face neutral. “I think we need to talk,” he said.
She looked at him steadily for a moment or two, before nodding sharply, and pulling back from the top of the ramp.
He looked down at the ramp disdainfully, and climbed the steps running at the side of it. Once he reached the veranda Beth spun around, and led the way into the house.
“There’s something going on in the lane,” he said. “Police everywhere.”
“Car accident,” Beth said flatly, not wishing to elaborate, hoping he didn’t ask her to.
“Can’t say I’m surprised,” Franklin said. “People use the lane like a racetrack. It was only a matter of time before somebody paid the price.”
Beth felt her hackles rise. “Why are you here, Mr. Franklin?” she said, once they were inside.
He walked past her and looked around. “I want to know why you came to my house yesterday and made such an outrageous statement. It wounded me deeply. I was this close to phoning my lawyer.” He described an inch between his thumb and forefinger.
“And yet you didn’t. Instead you’ve come here to see me.”
“Yes,” he said. “To try to understand what led you to such a mistaken conclusion.”
She held his gaze, but said nothing.
“No explanation?” he said, went across to one of the chesterfields and sat, leaning forward in the seat and resting his elbows on his knees. His hands were clasped together, and he stared down at his thumbs. “The people who rented Stillwater before you left early, you know. Before the tenancy expired.”
“I know,” Beth said.
“They weren’t happy here.”
“So I understand.”
“He was okay, but she…well she was the hysterical type. Living in the countryside—the isolation, the quietness—doesn’t suit everybody, you know? Dolores, my wife, never settled here; could never get on with village life, even though she was from a semirural background herself. I think there’s something about the Suffolk villages that some people find oppressive. Dolores certainly did.”
“So that was the reason she left you,” Beth said, the words weighted with skepticism.
“Partly that,” he said, still staring at his thumbs. “There were other factors.”
Beth waited for him to elaborate. Instead he lapsed into silence.
Finally she said, “Mr. Franklin, I don’t know what you hoped to achieve by coming here, but I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed.”
He looked up at her suddenly, his gaze penetrating. “You said you’d seen Jessica, my daughter. What did you mean by that?”
“Just that,” Beth said. “I’ve seen her. She’s spoken to me. She’s shown me things.”
“And the things she’s said, the things she’s shown you, have led you to believe that I killed my wife?”
Beth nodded.
Franklin let out a long sigh, and sagged back into the chesterfield. “I see,” he said quietly—almost a whisper. “I see.”
He seemed to wither under her gaze, aging in front of her eyes. He finally unclasped his hands, and rubbed his eyes with the balls of his hands.
“It was the manner of her passing,” he said. “A tragic accident; a young girl, a child, wrenched from life. It left a desperately sad spirit, who can’t move on and find peace on a higher plane.”
“So you believe I’ve seen her?”
“Oh, yes, I believe you,” Franklin said. “I just think she’s misled you.”
“But why? Why would she do that?”
He drew the back of his hand across his lips. “Could I trouble you for a glass of water?”
She went across to the sink and came back with a tumbler filled with water. He took it from her and sipped it gratefully.
“Jessica was a troubled child,” he said. “She never really recovered from her mother’s death.”
“I thought Dolores…”
“Dolores was my second wife. Sheila, Jessica’s mother, died when Jess was five years old. It hit her badly. It was cancer, and Jess had to watch while her mother just faded away. I’m afraid Dolores could never fill the gap in her life, and Jess withdrew into herself.”
“So the relationship with Dolores was strained.”
“It was difficult. Dolores was a wonderful stepmother, who tried so hard to bond with Jess. Eventually she had to admit defeat, and I’m afraid it was then she left us.”
“Wonderful is not an adjective I associate with Dolores,” Beth said.
Franklin’s eyes narrowed. “Really. What do you know about her?”
“Only what I’ve been told by people who knew her.”
“Then you’d do well to avoid listening to local gossip,” Franklin said, an edge to his voice. “Perhaps if you had done so we wouldn’t be having this conversation now.”
“Now, hold on.”
“No, you hold on. Yesterday you asked me if I killed my wife. Well, the answer to that is no. Dolores left us for reasons I’ve just outlined. She left me, and went to live with her family in Devon, where she remains to this day. Alive and well and, I think, happy. I spoke with her yesterday.”
Beth sat stunned. “Yesterday?”
“Indeed. She left because of the intolerable situation at home, but we never divorced, and remain on good terms.”
Beth fell silent, trying to absorb what Franklin was telling her. Could she have got it so wrong? She realized Franklin was still talking.
“I’m sorry, what were you saying?”
“I was saying that Dolores never fitted in with village life. It was too parochial for her. Oh, she tried—joining this and signing up for that—but she was never accepted by the locals. Dolores was a free spirit, and I think some of her attitudes were deemed a little too radical for people around here, and they shunned her. It was very sad. But she did try.”
“So she wasn’t a mystic,” Beth said.
“A mystic? How fanciful.”
“I was told she used to boast that she was. Some people have even said she used to curse them.”
Franklin got to his feet. “I can see I’m wasting my time here if you’re prepared to give credence to garbage like that,” he said. “I believed I was discussing this with someone who had a modicum of common sense and intelligence. Now I see I was not.” He walked to the door.
“Wait,” Beth said.
“It’s pointless,” Franklin said. “I see now that you’re as small-minded, and as gullible, as the rest of the idiots around here. Worst thing I ever did, bringing Dolores to live here. She never stood a chance. A mystic!” He made a noise of disgust in his throat. At the door he paused. “Once you leave here I’m putting Stillwater on the market. I kept it on because of the memories it held for me. Now I see those memories were corrupt. This was never a happy family home, no matter how much I kid myself. I’ll let the developers move in and pull the damned place down.” He opened the door and turned back to Beth. “A word of warning. If you ever repeat your spurious allegations to another soul, and I get to hear about it, I’ll slap you with a writ for slander so quickly you’ll regret opening your mouth. Do I make myself clear?”
“Crystal,” Beth said.
Outside, the chauffeur was leaning against the hood of the car. He straightened up as Franklin emerged, and hurried to open the back door. As he climbed into the car Franklin barked an order at him. He slipped in behind the wheel, and started the engine.
Franklin settled himself the rear of the car, and didn’t look round at her as the Bentley turned and headed back along the lane.
Beth drew in a deep breath and let it out in a low whistle.
“That didn’t seem very pleasant.”
Beth spun around to see Arthur Latham standing at the end of the veranda, arms folded, a frown on his face.
“Arthur! I didn’t see you there,” she said.
“I dropped by, but I could see you had company,” he said. “I heard about that awful business by the lake and came to offer my condolences. She was a friend of yours, I understand.”
“Miranda? Yes, she was,” Beth said, and marveled at how rapidly news spread around there. She started to feel some sympathy for Dolores Franklin. “Would you like to come in for coffee?” she said.
“If I’m not intruding.”
“No,” she said. “That little run-in with Bernard Franklin has left a nasty taste in my mouth. I could use a coffee to wash it away.”