WE’RE ALREADY UP when Adam leaves, and Sylvie says she will go with him. She wants to ride in the tow truck.
I walk down to Barry’s to buy a postcard for Lavinia, and linger for a moment by the window admiring one of Erin’s cakes that has just been put on display. It’s covered in glossy dark chocolate, with a border of marzipan trumpets. A scrawl of scarlet piping says MANY HAPPY RETURNS.
Erin is there, with her copy of Galway Now spread out on the counter in front of her.
“That’s a fabulous cake,” I tell her.
“Well, what a coincidence,” she says. “You know how you asked about Alice? That cake is for Alice’s daughter.”
I stare at her. Her words hang there between us, but they don’t seem to make any sense.
“Alice’s daughter? Alice Murphy, you mean?”
Erin nods. Her dark eyes glitter through the lenses of her glasses.
“She’s seventeen on Sunday. She’s a genius on her clarinet—so I thought a musical theme.”
“Well, it’s beautiful. She’ll love it,” I say lamely.
Brigid is in the entrance hall at St. Vincent’s, arranging pots of hyacinths along the windowsill. Their smell spills everywhere.
“Brigid. I want to ask you something.”
“Of course, Grace.”
“I was talking to Erin at Barry’s. And there was this cake that she said she’d made for Alice Murphy’s daughter . . .”
Brigid nods. “Of course, it’ll be her birthday. She’s quite a little woman now.”
“But—I thought that Alice’s daughter disappeared . . .”
“Didn’t anyone tell you? Didn’t Brian explain?”
I stare at her blankly.
“Jessica was a twin,” she says. “She had a twin sister, Gemma.”
“Nobody said . . .”
“Well, Brian should have told you,” she says in a reproving voice. “They were close as anything, those girls, you couldn’t prize them apart. Well, Alice did try, of course. She wanted to put them in different things, but they always wanted the same. They were sweet together, Jessica and Gemma.”
“I didn’t know,” I tell her.
“They were often down here in the village,” Brigid tells me. “I used to see them playing at Kinvara House when Alice was working there and the girls were off school. She used to take them with her. Marcus was easy like that. As long as she got the work done, he didn’t mind what she did.”
“They used to play at Kinvara House?”
“That garden is heaven for children,” she says.
“Yes, it would be.”
I remember the garden glimpsed from the windows of Marcus’s car—the velvet lawns, the glimmering drifts of narcissi.
“Alice said it was magic for them,” Brigid tells me. “I could sometimes hear them laughing, when the sea was still. If you walked past the house, you could hear their shouting and laughter . . . Of course, after her mother and sister went—to be honest, I don’t think Gemma ever laughed like that anymore.”
The sadness of this tugs at me. The hyacinth scent is all around me, clingy and drenching and a little claustrophobic. I’m never sure if I like the smell of hyacinths.
“So where was Gemma?” I ask her. “On the day it happened?”
“She had a clarinet lesson.”
This shocks me—it seems so random, and somehow so banal. Gemma didn’t die, because she had a clarinet lesson.
I remember something Brian told us.
“But—nobody seems to have raised the alarm till the Wednesday afternoon. Why didn’t Gemma ring the gardai?”
“She didn’t go home that day,” says Brigid. “I had this from Polly O’Connor—she was Alice’s closest friend. After the clarinet lesson, Gemma went to a sleepover party at a friend’s house. You know the kind of thing—they’d paint each other’s nails and stay up sharing secrets. Alice hated sleepovers, I remember. She said the girls never slept and came home horribly grouchy. She said her heart always sank when they got invited to a sleepover.”
“Just Gemma? Why not the two of them?”
“Jessica had a cold; her mother wouldn’t let her go.”
It’s that terrible randomness again—that it could so easily have been different. The hyacinth scent is so thick it’s hard to breathe.
“And afterwards?” I ask her. “What happened to Gemma?”
“She lives in Barrowmore now. Gordon travels a lot, and he couldn’t always be there for her, and Deirdre Walker said she’d give her a home. Deirdre is Gordon’s sister.” She lowers her voice; she has a conspiratorial look. “To be honest, Gemma’s probably better off with that arrangement. You remember what I told you about Gordon?”
“Yes, I remember.” I don’t say that we’ve met him, though maybe she knows already.
“She’s a good-hearted woman, Deirdre Walker,” says Brigid. “A bit of a worrier, but I guess that’s not surprising, after everything that’s happened.”
“D’you have her address? D’you think she’d see us?” I say.
Brigid nods. “I’m sure she would. Like I say, she’s got a good heart. I’ll find her number for you.”
I ring Adam. He’s still at the garage with Sylvie. I tell him about Deirdre and about Jessica having a twin.
“Full marks, Grace.” There’s a thrill in his voice. “That’s a huge step forward.”
I like him praising me like that.
He says we should try to see Deirdre at once. The car should be ready by lunchtime.
“What was wrong?” I ask him.
“Some problem with the brake fluid. They’ve topped it up and replaced a damaged pipe.”
“Did they say how it could have happened?”
“Well, you know what people are like round here. Someone could have siphoned it off, but then again, maybe they didn’t.” He puts on an extravagant Irish accent. “I’m ruling nothing out and I’m ruling nothing in . . .”
I feel a vague unease when he says that.
I ring Deirdre from our bedroom.
“Deirdre Walker speaking.” A formal, rather cautious voice.
“My name’s Grace Reynolds,” I tell her.
There’s a whole careful speech worked out in my head. But she responds before I can begin.
“Oh yes. Grace Reynolds. I thought you’d be in touch.”
This startles me.
“You’ve heard about us?”
“Of course I’ve heard about you. Gordon told me. That you’ve got a little girl who’s psychic, who seems to remember this place.”
Her voice is measured and pleasant, but I can hear the anxiety in it.
“She’s four,” I tell her. “She’s called Sylvie. She seemed to recognize Flag Cottage.”
“Yes, Gordon told me that,” says Deirdre.
I breathe in deeply.
“Deirdre. I wondered if we could possibly come and see you?”
There’s a long, tense silence. I hear the thud of my heart.
“I’ve been thinking about this,” she says then. “What I should do if you called. I’ve given it quite a lot of thought, to be frank with you. And this is what I’ve decided. I don’t mind seeing you as long as Gemma isn’t here. You could come this afternoon when she’ll be at college.” She clears her throat, as though it’s hard to say this. “But Grace, you mustn’t bring Sylvie. I absolutely don’t want Sylvie to come.”