Chapter twenty-eight

‘O

h! I knew it must be in the area around Jerbourg from reading Madeleine’s diary and the police report but…’ Charlotte said, giving him a hug. She gazed down at the rocks and shuddered, remembering Madeleine’s words “I’ve seen his poor battered body with my own eyes”.

‘Seeing the actual spot brings home the awfulness of what happened,’ she whispered. The sea, whipped up by the wind, crashed angrily against the rocks which had once held Edmund’s broken body.

Andy’s jaw tightened and she could sense the anger below the surface. They simply had to find out what happened if he was to let it go. Turning, he pulled her away from the edge and said, ‘You might think it strange, but ever since I was a boy, I’ve known it was up to me to solve this mystery. It’s gnawed away at me for years, getting worse since I’ve seen Mum and Dad struggling to survive. But now, thanks to you,’ he said, a smile playing around his mouth, ‘I think I’m nearly there. This puzzle will be solved, and soon.’

Charlotte nodded, a lump forming in her throat as she wondered how it could be achieved.

The walk back along the cliffs restored the earlier happy mood and they arrived back at the cottage looking forward to a quiet evening in, eating supper in front of the television.

The next morning Charlotte woke late, to find Andy sitting on the bed fully dressed and with a mug of coffee in his hand. For her. ‘Oh, you should have woken me. I was going to make breakfast…’

‘No problem. You looked so peaceful, I hadn’t the heart to wake you. Any plans for the day?’

‘I’ll ring Mother to make sure she’s okay and then crack on with my writing. But I might be glad of a break so could we meet for lunch?’ she asked, sitting up to relieve Andy of the mug.

‘Yeh, I’d like to, but it will have to be a quick sandwich in Town, as I have a deadline to meet.’ They agreed a time and place before Andy kissed her and left. Charlotte sipped her coffee, trying not to dwell on the fact she had only a few days left to spend with him. They had talked about the future again last night, agreeing they wanted to continue their relationship, even if it was long-distance for the foreseeable future. So much depended on her mother…Thinking of her now prompted Charlotte to finish her coffee before heading for the shower. She could have phoned her mother while still in bed, but it jarred. You did not phone someone such as Lady Annette Townsend, a stickler for proprieties, while sitting naked in a man’s bed. Even more so if he wasn’t your husband.

Half an hour later Charlotte cleared away the remains of breakfast before picking up her phone.

‘Good morning, Mother. How are you?’

‘I’m quite well, thank you. I made an appointment to see Dr Rowlands last Friday and told him about my new treatments. He seemed surprised and, I think, shocked about this, and still wanted me to undergo further chemotherapy as originally agreed.’

Charlotte bit her lip. This had been expected but Paul and Gillian had been adamant chemo could do more harm than good. ‘So, what did you say to him?’

‘That I didn’t see any reason to have more chemo, which would undoubtedly make me feel worse, if it can’t cure the cancer. He did, in all fairness, admit he could not guarantee any further treatment would prolong my life.’

‘Well said, Mother! Does it mean you’re continuing with the natural alternatives prescribed by Paul and Gillian?’

There was a silence on the line and Charlotte waited impatiently for her mother’s answer.

‘For the moment, yes. I do admit I’ve been feeling a little better since taking the herbs and supplements, so it would be foolish to stop. And Mrs Combe has been zealous at providing fresh, organic food without animal protein, as prescribed by Gillian. However, Dr Rowlands wasn’t happy about my decision and we did not part on good terms.’

Relief flooded through Charlotte and she went on to say she would be back in London on the coming Saturday, and again invited Annette to come and stay if she wished. Her mother thanked her and said she might do so as Gillian wanted to see her about a new treatment and would be back in London for a few days. Charlotte finished the call feeling she had at last made a breakthrough with her mother. This was the first time she had ever taken notice of something she, Charlotte, had suggested. Definitely a result! And with her relationship with Andy growing stronger, life was looking up.

Cheered, she settled down with her laptop to add a few thousand words to her opus magnus. The quick sandwich with Andy turned into a slightly longer and much tastier moules frites, accompanied by a small glass of wine and followed by coffee. They had reassured each other they needed quality time together, asking what difference would half an hour extra make. Back home, Charlotte happily wrote another thousand words before the warbling of her phone broke the flow. Annoyed, she picked it up meaning to switch it off, but saw it was Martin Kite’s number. The thought he might have another parishioner eager to talk changed her mind.

‘Hello, Charlotte. You haven’t left Guernsey yet, have you? Only I remember you saying you might be leaving soon.’

‘No, still here for a few more days. Is something the matter?’ she asked, picking up a note of anxiety in his voice.

‘I’m not entirely sure. I called in on Maud Batiste at the weekend, as usual, and she was quite distressed. She wanted me to ask if you could visit her again, saying it was important. Do you know what it could be about?’

Charlotte thought back to their meeting. Maud had become upset when she mentioned Edmund’s death, but surely, two weeks later, she wouldn’t still be distraught? Pangs of guilt knotted her stomach at the unwelcome thought.

‘Not really. I can only think she’s remembered something she thinks would be useful for Jeanne’s book. Although why this would distress her…’

‘Perhaps I shouldn’t say this, but under the circumstances I think you should know Mrs Batiste may not have long to live. You must have seen how frail she is and her doctor’s confided in me it could be anytime. I believe she knows this, but I agree it seems strange she needs to see you urgently.’ He sighed and Charlotte wondered again how someone like Martin coped with the dying. She knew she would be utterly hopeless. ‘It might not be anything after all, but if you could spare the time to see her I’d be grateful, Charlotte.’

‘Of course I’ll see her. Has she said when?’

‘Yes, Wednesday afternoon, at three. Again she wants it to be when her husband is out. You know,’ he added, reflectively, ‘I do wonder if she’s afraid of him, which is sad.’

‘Mm, it is. Anyway, Wednesday’s fine with me, Martin. Bye.’

Intrigued by the request, she took a few moments to get back into the head of her characters, but once achieved managed to finish the chapter feeling pleased with her progress. Perhaps writing a novel wasn’t going to be as hard as she had previously found, which was a relief. Jeanne’s encouragement had made her see the process in a different light and she so wanted the chance to be a published author like her. Recognised for her own creation.

As Andy listened to Charlotte explain about Maud’s request, he became more and more excited, waving his arms around while they prepared supper.

‘Whatever it is she wants to say, I don’t suppose it will help much. But I can’t help feeling intrigued. I only wish I could be there, but it would put the cat among the pigeons, for sure,’ he said, pouring them glasses of wine.

‘I’m only glad I’m still here. By the sound of it, the old lady might not survive much longer and we would never have learnt what it is she has to say. Which reminds me, I had a chat with Mother and she’s continuing with the natural treatments.’ Charlotte explained how Annette was now putting her faith in the combined efforts of Gillian and Paul and would stay clear of chemo.

‘We all know there’s no guarantees, but apparently some new protocols have had good results on liver tumours and Gillian wants Mother to take part.’

‘I’m so pleased.’ He gave her a keen look. ‘Will this have any bearing on what you decide about moving here?’

She sipped her wine, knowing he was likely to ask. ‘If Mother continues to make good progress, then I’d feel happier about leaving England. But I doubt we’ll know anything more concrete for a few months so…’ she shrugged.

Putting his glass down, he then flung his arms around her. ‘That’s okay, as long as you continue to spend more time here with me, then we can make it work, can’t we?’ he said, adding emphasis with an ardent kiss. For a moment she wished she could just cut loose from her old life and move in with Andy. But it wasn’t the right time.

‘Yes, of course we can make it work. But in the meantime, perhaps we should concentrate on getting supper ready. All the writing I did today has made me hungry.’

Charlotte was on a roll. Her writing flowed and she began to look forward to sitting at her laptop each day. She could now empathise with the writers signed to her publishing company. Although their work was non-fiction rather than fiction, they had told her of the joy of seeing their word count build up and the buzz when the ideas flowed. Even if her novel was not successful, she could not imagine returning to being solely an editor. She would need to write.

It was with some reluctance Charlotte switched off the laptop on Wednesday afternoon, ready to go and see Maud. Her head hummed with the sounds and smells of eighteenth century Naples as the new Lady Emma Hamilton, wife of the British envoy, awaited the arrival of Horatio Nelson, her future lover. A far cry from twenty-first century Guernsey.

Charlotte picked up her notebook and pen, pushing them in her handbag, before grabbing her keys and leaving. The drive along winding lanes brought her back to the present with a bump, with the need to concentrate and avoid hedges, walls and other vehicles. She arrived at La Vielle Manoire unscathed and five minutes early.

Sal opened the door.

‘Afternoon, Miss Townsend. I’m glad you could come as Mrs Batiste’s been in a bad way these past few days. Really upset about something, she is. Let’s go up, shall we?’ She started for the stairs and Charlotte followed.

‘I bumped into Mr Batiste last time I was here, did he say anything to you?’

‘He asked who you were and I said a friend of the rector’s, thought it was for the best. He doesn’t generally like visitors, doesn’t Mr Batiste. Hope that was all right?’

‘Of course, thank you.’ Charlotte breathed a sigh of relief. Harold could hardly have made a fuss about someone connected to the rector.

Sal stopped outside Maud’s bedroom and before opening the door, whispered, ‘She’s worse than when you last came, so you might have problems hearing her.’ Charlotte nodded and followed her into the room. This time Maud was in the hospital-style bed; one which could be levered up and down and with safety rails to keep her from rolling out. Propped up on several pillows, she looked even more wizened than last time and her eyes were closed. A sweet, musty smell hung in the air. Charlotte’s heart sank.

‘Maud? Your visitor’s here. That Miss Townsend you’ve been expecting.’ Sal gently touched the right arm resting on the bed cover.

The old lady’s eyes opened slowly and she turned her head towards Sal. ‘She’s here? Good. Bring a…chair round…could you, please,’ she said, in a voice so quiet Charlotte strained to hear the words. Sal set a chair right by the head of the bed and motioned Charlotte to sit down.

‘Would you like any tea? Maud can only drink cold drinks at present and there’s a beaker of water by the bed if she needs it.’

‘I’m all right, thank you.’

Sal left and Charlotte turned to face Maud. ‘How are you, Mrs Batiste? I’m sorry to see you’re not able to sit in the chair.’

Maud grimaced. ‘I don’t think…I’ve long…to go, dear. The doctor’s been visiting…more this past week than…for months. And I want…need…to tell the truth,’ she said, her rheumy eyes staring at Charlotte. Her twisted hand twitched on the bed.

‘I’m so sorry to hear that. But are you sure it’s me you want to talk to? Not the rector or someone?’

The old lady’s head nodded slowly. ‘Yes, I have to…tell someone who’s not…involved…not know the family. And I like you…feel I can trust you.’ Charlotte sucked in her breath as Maud went on, ‘It’s too late to make things…right. That wretched grandson of mine…he shouldn’t be inheriting everything. Should have been…Edmund’s son.’ She tossed her head side to side, her mouth twisted in despair.

Charlotte felt a pang of guilt; she was hardly “not involved” with the family. Likening herself to the proverbial Trojan Horse, she said, ‘Please, Mrs Batiste, don’t upset yourself. It was a horrible thing which happened to Edmund but it was hardly your fault–’

‘There’s the rub. It was my fault. In a way. I could have…stopped him. But…I was afraid. Afraid he would hurt me, too.’

Charlotte’s heart thumped hard in her chest. Was she saying what she thought she was?

‘I don’t understand. Who could you have stopped? Who was being hurt?’

Maud took a deep breath. ‘I should have…stopped Harold hitting…Edmund. Killing him.’