The larger pieces of furniture had gone now. All that remained were boxes and a pile of paintings leaning against a wall.
I worked quickly, searching one more time. I wanted to be sure. No more pictures of Gabriella. No art equipment either. I flicked through the paintings. They were framed prints, a mix of traditional and modern, and nothing that resembled the portrait. I was now satisfied that Edward Lily wasn’t the artist. But who was? How would I find that out?
I’d been in the House of Flores since dawn and by the time I’d finished searching and was locking up the shop, the village was awake. Men and women dressed for work waited at the bus stop, or hurried to the station. The cafe was full for the breakfast shift. I joined in, ordering coffee from the girl with the magpie hair.
The night before, I’d left David in the pub, although he’d wanted me to stay. He’d made me promise to ring him if I needed to and I’d been glad to do that. When I’d got home, I’d drunk as much wine as there was in the house and collapsed on Gabriella’s bed.
I used to do that when I was small – creep into Gabriella’s room crying after bad dreams. She used to ask me what they were about but I never said. How could I have done when they were about me protecting her, releasing her from funeral pyres, fighting usurpers with clashing swords? And yet, I would think, as I lay there and listened to her breathing and the murmur of the TV downstairs, wasn’t it the wrong way round? Gabriella was the oldest. Shouldn’t she have been protecting me?
And if I’d told her about those dreams, would she have listened and been warned? Would she have avoided whatever it was that had taken her, and been with me now, drinking coffee, telling tales about her job, the one she’d fantasised about: a writer for NME or Time Out? Maybe she’d have children – a set of mini-Gabriellas skipping along the thorny path she’d spectacularly beaten down.
I finished my coffee. I had to move on. What next? Who else could I speak to? If Uncle Thomas had been alive, I’d have gone to him. And then there was Donald and his sudden disappearance to America. Had he died or was he still a geologist? I remembered Uncle Thomas finding an article he’d written about dinosaur finds in Montana. So they must have been in contact for a while. Maybe I’d find him online.
I sighed. What a lonely, pathetic figure I cut sitting in the window of a cafe, attempting to dredge up names of people from the past. I could barely think of any school friends, not ones I’d feel comfortable contacting anyway. I’d not so much drifted away, but vanished on a tidal wave.
As if to remind me, a group of teenage girls barrelled past the window. One of them stumbled and almost fell against the glass. Our eyes met as she righted herself and she smiled shyly. The girl was dark, her hair in plaits. Nothing like Gabriella. Even so, my heart beat a little faster as she hurried to catch up with her friends.
A woman in a belted raincoat walked past. Martha. I drew back instinctively, full of the sense that she was following me again. But the woman hurried on and I realised it wasn’t her. Martha had said what she’d wanted to say. You should have kept your sister close. Well, she was right about that. If only I’d insisted on waiting for Gabriella that day after school. If only I hadn’t left her on her own.
I finished my coffee and pressed my palms against my eyes. I had choices: go to the police, show them the portrait and ask them to reopen the investigation; give up on everything and go back to Athens; speak to the only person I could think of now who’d known my sister at school.
Dragging on my jacket, I shoved back my chair and stood up. I’d try one more time to uncover the truth before I went to the police.
I knocked on Martha’s door. Moments passed. Stepping back, I scanned the windows searching for a shape, then knocked again more loudly, and pressed the bell. Still no answer, or stir from anyone inside.
Hitching my bag on my shoulder, I wandered around the side of the house. There was a gate that opened with a creak and a gravel path leading to the garden, edged with rose bushes and splashes of colour from trees with scarlet leaves. I rapped on the back door and tried the handle. The door pushed open and I closed it again quickly, backing away and almost falling over a ceramic pot. As I righted myself, a face peering across the fence made me jump. It was the old lady next door, her short white hair combed flat against her head. I smiled politely. ‘I’m looking for Martha, but she doesn’t appear to be home.’
The woman stared at me blankly. ‘What do you want her for?’
‘Just a social visit. But it doesn’t matter. I’ll come back later.’ I walked away but was halted by her voice.
‘Are you a social worker?’
I stopped. ‘No. Why?’
‘Martha doesn’t get visitors. Only social workers.’
I nodded as if I knew what she was talking about. ‘Well. Never mind. If you see Martha, perhaps you could tell her Anna Flores came to visit.’
‘Anna Flores.’ There was a new interest in her voice. ‘I know your mother. She’s always been good to me. She visits sometimes.’
‘My mother . . .’ I stopped and looked away, disconcerted. ‘I’m afraid to say she passed away.’
The woman’s face clouded. ‘Oh dear. I am sorry to hear that. I am really very sorry to hear that. I would have come to the funeral if I’d known. I don’t hear things these days. I don’t speak to people. Housebound.’ She held up a stick as if to prove it.
‘Martha knew,’ I said gently. ‘Might she have told you?’
Her expression soured. ‘Martha doesn’t speak to me or anyone. She’s strange, like her mother.’
My interest was piqued. I walked a few steps closer to the fence. ‘How long have you lived here?’
‘For always. I was born here.’
‘Really? That’s incredible.’
She smiled at me. ‘Isn’t it.’
‘I’m sorry. I don’t know your name.’
‘It’s Eliza Davidson.’
‘Well, it’s lovely to meet you Mrs Davidson.’
‘Miss. But please call me Eliza.’
‘Thank you.’ I paused. Who was this woman? The name was familiar. Miss Eliza Davidson.
‘I used to teach your sister.’
My skin tingled. That’s how I knew her name. ‘Gabriella?’
‘Yes. I taught her geography.’
‘So you remember . . .’ I paused.
She produced a handkerchief and blew her nose. ‘Yes, I do. Your poor mother. I don’t know how she survived.’ She looked at me. ‘Or you, my dear. Or you.’
I blinked hard and looked away for a second. ‘Do you recall,’ I said, hesitantly, ‘that day?’
She knew what I meant. She blew her nose again and dabbed her eyes. ‘Yes, I do. I remember it very clearly indeed. How could I forget such an awful thing?’
‘Mrs Ellis said she saw Gabriella. Did you see her too?’
She shook her head. ‘No. I didn’t. And I told the police that when they interviewed me.’
‘What about Martha? Did you see her?’
She shook her head again. ‘Not then. Not after school. Only later.’
‘Later?’ I prompted.
‘She was on the front steps, crying. She’d been to the shops, I think. She’d bought something. I can’t remember what it was.’
‘Why was she crying?’
The woman shrugged. ‘Who knows? It was quite usual to see that little girl sitting on the steps. Her parents used to lock her out. They were awful people. Both of them. It’s no wonder Martha turned out the way she did. But that day she was there for longer. I remember it was quite dark by the time they let her in. I was putting the bins out. Late. And she was still there. Awful people.’ She looked around and over my shoulder as if she might see them still. ‘He killed her guinea pig.’
I started. ‘What?’
‘He killed her guinea pig, battered it with a hammer. It was after he lost his job as an electrician. He was angry. Even more angry than he’d been before.’
‘Oh my God. How awful.’ I covered my mouth as I remembered. The damp earth, the smell of the dead, the taste of the bile I vomited onto the ground. I’d been convinced it was Martha who’d done that. I’d left no room for the idea it might have been someone else. How stupid I’d been. How jealous and stupid.
‘Did you see it happen?’ I said.
‘No, but I heard Martha screaming about it. That scream. It was worse than her mother’s. I called the police several times, you know. He used to beat his wife; everyone knew that. Do you know what the police did?’
I shook my head.
‘Nothing. They said it couldn’t be proved. Unless there was a complaint from Mrs Ellis, nothing could be done. She always defended him, you see. Lied about it. Said she’d fallen down the stairs. The usual.’ Eliza sighed. ‘I saw that with the girls at school. So many of them did the same. They were too afraid, you see. They thought if they told it would make things worse.’
‘Like Martha.’
‘Exactly like Martha. The only time there was any peace in that house was when he was away with his job.’
‘That must have been a relief for his wife. And for Martha.’
She nodded. ‘Indeed. They should have taken the chance of those times to leave him. But they didn’t. The house was quiet for a few days, but as soon as he was back, it all began again.’ There was silence. ‘Well then,’ she said at last. ‘I’d better go inside. Mind out for Martha. She isn’t right. None of it’s her fault. But she isn’t right. And, my dear, I’m so sorry about your mother. So very sorry.’
I waited until Eliza’s door banged shut. I was wondering exactly how angry Mr Ellis had been. Angry enough to beat his wife and child, angry enough to kill an animal. What else had he been capable of? I glanced behind me and back up at the windows of Martha’s house. Might he have been angry enough to kill a girl? I took a step towards the door, my mind whirling.