The Death of Mrs. Westaway

As the train sped west, the sky darkening all the time, Hal knew she should have been reading, researching, googling names, preparing to plunge herself back into her part. There was so much she needed to know. Had Maud got to Oxford? What had happened to her after that?

But somehow she could not find the will. She let her head rest against the scratched glass of the window, and stared out at the countryside flashing past. It was cold, and getting colder as they left London and passed into the countryside, the bare trees rimed with frost, the grass white, and puddles black with ice. On any other day Hal would have found it beautiful, but today all she could think about was everything she had left behind and that, perhaps, she would never see again—the flat where she had grown up, all of her past. She was moving forwards now, with every mile the train covered, forwards into an unknown future, her only belongings the case of clothes and papers at her side.

But she was also going back, into her own past—and of all the unanswered questions that jostled at the back of her mind, there was one in particular that Hal kept returning to, poking and prodding with increasing unease, like a tongue returning again and again to a sore tooth.

Why had her mother lied?

The diary, everything in it, that was clear enough. Maggie could not tell her aunt the identity of her baby’s father, and risk never seeing him again.

But why had she lied to Hal herself?

Hal had been turning the question over and over in her head with increasing urgency, but she could think of only one reason—to protect her.

But from what?

It was dark when the train pulled into Penzance, and Hal was almost asleep, but she roused herself and picked up her case, feeling the weight of all the extra clothes and papers she had crammed into it. As she stepped off the train onto the platform, she had the strangest sense of déjà vu, mixed with the unsettling realization of how far everything had changed. There was the station platform, with the big clock and the echoing announcements, and there she was herself, with her torn jeans and shabby hand-me-down case, and her hair falling in her eyes.

But there too was Abel, standing on the platform, looking up at the arrivals board, and when he saw Hal standing on the other side of the barrier his face broke into a smile, and he waved his car keys in the air.

When Hal was through the barrier she found herself engulfed in a completely unexpected hug, and then Abel released her, and grinned, his tanned face creasing into lines of relief.

“Harriet! It’s so good to see you. You gave everyone quite a fright. We’d barely got used to having you around and then—well.” He broke off, his face twisting in a rueful smile. “Let’s just say, it’s good to know you’re okay.”

“I’m sorry.” Hal found herself studying his face from the side as they walked slowly up the platform. Do you know my father? she wanted to ask. Is he Edward? But the words were unthinkable. “I didn’t mean to make everyone worry. And I’m sorry my train was delayed.” She glanced up at the clock. Nearly half past nine. The train had been supposed to arrive at eight thirty. “Were you waiting long?”

Abel shook his head.

“Awhile, but don’t worry. To be honest, I was glad of the excuse to get out—I had a surprisingly good coffee in the station café. I’m not sure I could have taken another one of Mrs. Warren’s cups of gray dishwater.”

In the station light, Abel’s eyes were uncompromisingly gray themselves, but Hal couldn’t stop herself checking again when they reached the car park, trying to make out their color beneath the floodlights as Abel paused to unlock a sleek black Audi.

He caught her staring, and Hal flushed and looked down.

“Something on my chin?” he asked, with a laugh. Hal shook her head.

“I’m sorry. No—it’s just, I . . .” She swallowed and felt her cheeks flush. “I’m still trying to get used to the idea that I have all this family. It’s so hard to compute.”

“I can only imagine,” Abel said lightly. “We’re finding it a bit of an adjustment ourselves, and there’s only one of you. It must be ten times stranger for you, finding a whole family you never knew.” He opened Hal’s door and took her case, before shutting her inside. When he came round to the driver’s side, he shut the door, turning out the internal light and throwing everything into shadows, illuminated only by the green glow of the dashboard.

“Abel,” she said slowly as they pulled out of the space. “I—I wanted to thank you again, for that photo of my mother. I don’t have very many pictures of her at my age and it means . . . well, it means a lot to me, that’s all.”

“That’s all right,” Abel said easily. He glanced in the rearview mirror, and then put the car into gear. “You’re very welcome. I don’t have many pictures of that time either, unfortunately. I had more, but they didn’t always come with very happy memories, so I didn’t keep as many as I should. But I’ll have a check when I go home, see if I can find any more. If there’s any with your mother in, you’re welcome to keep them.”

“Thank you,” Hal said quietly. They were winding through the narrow streets behind the station when she plucked up her courage.

“Abel, can I ask something?”

“Of course.”

“Who—who took that photo? The one you gave me?”

“Who took it?” Abel frowned. “I’m not certain. Why do you ask?”

“Oh . . .” Hal’s stomach turned as they rounded a corner slightly too fast. “I don’t know. I just wondered.”

“I honestly can’t remember. . . .” Abel said. He was still frowning, and he rubbed at the bridge of his nose as though giving himself time to answer. “I think . . . yes, I’m almost sure it was Ezra.”

Hal swallowed, feeling like she was taking her life in her hands.

“It wasn’t . . . it wasn’t . . . Edward, was it?”

“Edward?” Abel glanced sideways at her in the darkness of the car, the unearthly green light from the LEDs on the dashboard making his expression strange and hard to read. “Why on earth would you say that?”

His voice was suddenly completely unlike that of the warm, solicitous man she had grown to know over the last few days. There was something cold and bitter in it, and Hal felt herself grow very still, like a mouse that has seen a snake rise up from the grass. She knew suddenly and with certainty that it would be very, very stupid to mention the diary.

“I—” She had no need to make her voice sound small. It was already a squeak in her throat. “I—I don’t know. I just wondered.”

“It was Ezra,” Abel said flatly, turning back to the road, closing off the discussion.

But that could not be true, Hal thought, as the car swung around the corner. Ezra was in the photograph.

“It’s just—” she tried again, but Abel cut her off, and this time his voice was cold with what sounded like anger.

“Harriet, that’s enough. It wasn’t Edward. I didn’t know him back then. End of story.”

You are lying, she thought. His name is in the diary. You must be lying. But why?

CHAPTER 33

* * *

When they arrived at Trepassen House, Abel parked the car and Hal followed him round the house to the main entrance. There were no lights visible, and the house looked almost deserted, the blank windows like black, expressionless eyes. Hal had a sudden premonition of how it might look in twenty, thirty years’ time—the roof caved in, the windows cracked and broken, leaves gusting across the rotting parquet.

“We’re back,” Abel shouted as they entered the main door, his voice echoing along the corridor, and Hal felt her stomach flip, before she could analyze why. But when the drawing room door opened and Harding’s head came out, she realized. It was Mrs. Warren she was afraid of. Before she had time to dissect the realization, she found herself in Harding’s stiff embrace, her cheek against his tweed-upholstered shoulder, as he patted her awkwardly and uncomfortably firmly on the back of the head, like a cross between a Labrador and a child.

“Well, well, well,” he said, and then again, “Well, well, well.” When he pulled back, Hal was astonished to see that his jowly face was ruddy with some kind of suppressed emotion, and his eyes were watering. He dashed at them, and coughed. “Mitzi will—hrumph! She will be very sorry to have missed you, but she has already left to drive the children back home. They have school tomorrow.”