First thing the following morning, Marnie asked Mr Wemyss to pass on a message to the mystery owner of Wychwell that she would not now be meeting the builders until after Emelie’s funeral. Mr Wemyss was sad to hear the news of her death. Emelie had lodged her will with him, he said, and so he would be in touch with Lionel Temple to ensure that her final wishes were taken care of.
In the afternoon, she went over to the vicarage to ask if she could do anything for Emelie, knowing that she had no living relatives. Her brother had died years ago and had been childless; the Taubert line had come to an end. She found Lionel talking to Derek in the churchyard, standing by Lilian’s grave. The closer to the men Marnie got, the more blurred her vision became. She burst into tears when she reached them and Lionel put his arms around her.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I came over here to offer help, not take it.’
‘We have all been a little rocked by Emelie’s passing,’ said Lionel. ‘Two extraordinary women gone in a ridiculously short time. She will, of course, be laid to rest here, next to her friend Lilian.’
‘That’s a lovely idea,’ said Marnie.
Derek sniffed, pulled a handkerchief the size of a quilt cover out of his pocket and blew his nose. He was clearly very upset too and gave his eyes a discreet wipe.
‘We thought we should have the funeral on Saturday – the sixth of August. That was the day that Emelie came to live in Wychwell in 1941.’
The sixth of August. Of all days.
‘That’s nice,’ said Marnie, immediately cross with herself for saying something so lame. But Lionel agreed with her.
‘It is nice, Marnie. A balance. We take comfort in balance and serendipity when there is none other to be found.’
‘Is there anything you need? For Emelie?’ she asked.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Lionel. ‘Herv has taken Pammy to the funeral home with an outfit. Mr Wemyss has communicated Emelie’s wishes for the service. It’s all in hand, but thank you.’
‘We should have a tea back at the manor, Lilian would have wanted that for her,’ said Marnie.
‘That would be very kind,’ said Lionel.
Marnie nodded. ‘Well, if you think of anything, you know where I am.’
‘Thank you.’
Marnie started walking away, then she turned. ‘Lionel, do you . . .’
‘Do I . . . ?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
It was not the time nor the place to ask about Lilian’s trip to Ireland or Margaret Kytson’s whereabouts. Later. She’d do it later, after they had laid Emelie to rest.
She went up to the manor then. No one was there, she could tell that as soon as she stepped inside. The house felt different when it was occupied, as if it were more alive. Ridiculous notion, she knew. She made herself a coffee and took it through into the dining room where the ledgers were waiting on the table. She found the one labelled 1980–1990 on the spine and flicked through the pages until she came to the 1983 entries and started there. Working forward she searched for something, anything, that might give her more clues about what was happening in the estate, the year she was born. She and Herv had stuck Post-It notes everywhere to remind them of how they had deciphered the ridiculous looping handwriting, or on the parts where entries had been written in pencil which had blurred or faded and they’d attempted to fill in the blanks.
There, in January of 1984, Marnie found an entry for The Sisters of the Immaculate Conception Hospital, Connolly, Ireland. They had seen it, but it hadn’t flagged up as anything more than a legitimate donation from the estate, albeit a large one. A charitable donation of ten thousand pounds, to be exact.