Father Dalgliesh pondered the rapid passing of time. It had been five years since Celestria had gone to live in Italy. Little had changed in Pendrift. Merlin still told bad jokes in the Snout & Hound, and Trevor still laughed at them. Julia had begun to redecorate Pendrift Hall, and Archie had made some good investments for a change, with which he bought more land without the need for a loan. Wilfrid and Sam were at university, and in the summer, when Harry came to stay, they still set traps and still failed to catch anything, though they boasted great heaps of corpses to the pretty girls they met on the beaches of Rock. Elizabeth and Bouncy had grown very close. Now that she was going blind, he would sit with her on the lawn outside the dower house and tell her what he had learned at school. Often he would read to her from his school books, and she never grew bored.
Father Dalgliesh often thought of Celestria. They always toasted her at dinner up at the Hall. She had saved it, and for that they would be forever grateful. Monty’s death was never discussed, not because of shame but because they all liked to remember him in their own way, quietly. Occasionally, Father Dalgliesh would catch one of the family staring wistfully out to sea and know instinctively what was on his or her mind. But he never asked. He rarely thought about Monty himself, except for that one time in Mexico.
Father Dalgliesh had traveled to the remote village of Zihuatanejo on a charity mission, to spread the word of God. On the second day of his visit he had taken a walk along the beach.
He was alone, savoring the solitude after the rigorous demands of the day. He was standing with his hands in his pockets, looking out to sea, when a man sitting on the sand caught his attention. He was waving to two dusky-skinned children who were playing down by the sea with their young mother in a red cotton dress. They waved back before continuing their project.
Father Dalgliesh walked closer. There was something strangely familiar about the man. He wore a panama hat set at an angle on his head, and in his hand he held a smoking cigar, toying with it between his fingers. He looked up at the priest. His eyes lingered on him for what felt like a very long time. Suddenly he raised his hat. Father Dalgliesh caught his breath, for he had surely been recognized. He had seen Robert Montague only once, at Archie’s fiftieth birthday party, but this man, with his insouciant air, had to be him. It can’t be, he thought to himself, stunned, trying to decide what to do. But the man had gotten up from the sand and was striding over to his children. Father Dalgliesh shook his head. It couldn’t be. It was impossible.
The evening sun was still very hot. The priest began to sweat. Should he go and talk to him? Or should he pretend that he hadn’t recognized him? Was the similarity between the two men perhaps a horrendous coincidence?
While he deliberated, the man stood a moment, gazing out to sea, lost in thought. Then he crouched down and dragged his finger through the damp sand. He hesitated a moment, then turned to the priest, his eyes squinting in the sun. Father Dalgliesh watched in amazement as he got up. Taking the smaller child’s hand, he left the beach and wandered up the track, followed by the woman and the other child. He didn’t look back.
Father Dalgliesh watched them go with regret. Then his eyes turned back to the place where the man had written something in the sand. Something he clearly wanted Father Dalgliesh to see. He wandered over, his stomach churning with the sense that he had missed an opportunity that would never come around again.
It was then that he noticed two words written in the damp sand: Forgive me. Just as soon as he had finished reading it, a rogue wave surged up the beach and washed the words away.