The Death of Mrs. Westaway

She was still crouched there in the snow, gripping the handle of her case as though it was the only thing that could keep her safe, when a car horn beeped loudly, making her jump to her feet and almost lose her balance in the snow.

It had grown very dark—too dark to perceive anything more than a dazzle of headlights and the growl of an engine.

And so it was with a flood of relief almost overwhelming in its warmth and physicality that she heard the sound of an electric window and Ezra’s laconic voice saying, “What the hell are you doing crouched in the snow like the little match girl?”

“Ezra!” Hal stumbled through the slush, her feet slipping, towards the car. “Oh, Ezra, I’m so glad to see you—what are you doing here?”

“I had to turn the car to head back to the road. More to the point, though, what are you doing?”

“The line’s closed. No trains are running. I thought I was stranded.”

“Hmm . . .” She could see his face now in the light from the dashboard, brow furrowed, thinking. “That is a problem . . . you’d better hop in.”

“But where will you take me?”

“We’ll figure it out. I can drop you at Plymouth, maybe, if the track from there is okay. Or . . . you live in Brighton, don’t you?”

Hal nodded.

“It’s not a million miles out of my way, if the worst comes to it.”

“Really?” Hal felt a hot wave of relief wash over her. “But—but I can’t ask you to do that, Ezra. And I don’t have any money for petrol.”

He only shook his head.

“Just get in, would you? It’s perishing out here. And we need to get going.”

CHAPTER 43

* * *

Ezra drove in silence for the most part, the snow growing heavier and heavier as they made their slow way north. Soon the deep-sunk single-track country lanes were covered with white, and Ezra slowed to a crawl as he rounded the tight bends, making only slightly better time on the main roads, where lorries had already carved dark tracks.

As they approached Bodmin Moor, the snow grew thicker, and condensation began to mist the inside of the windscreen in spite of the heaters. Up ahead, the traffic slowed, drivers dropping their speed as the visibility grew poorer and the slush began to build up at the sides of the road. Ezra started to tap his fingers on the steering wheel, and Hal shot a sideways look at him. He was frowning deeply, his dark eyebrows knitted, and his eyes flickered from the windscreen, spattered with falling snow, to the speedometer, hovering around thirty, to the clock, and then back to the windscreen.

At last, without warning, he pulled into the left-hand lane and began to indicate.

“Are we stopping?” Hal asked, surprised. It was gone six. They had been driving for almost three hours. Ezra nodded.

“Yes, I think so. My eyes are getting tired. I think we’d better stop for coffee . . . maybe a bite to eat. Hopefully it’ll be better going by the time we start again. At least they’ll probably have salted the roads.”

The slip road was dusted with white, crossed with the tracks of motorists who had made the same decision, and he drove slowly, parking the car in an empty space near the service station. Hal got out, stretching her legs, and looked up in wonderment at the dark sky above, the flakes spiraling down. In Brighton, snow rarely settled, and she could not remember the last time they had had a fall this heavy.

“Come on.” Ezra hunched his shoulders into his jacket. “Don’t stand there, you’ll freeze. Let’s get inside.”

• • •

THE SERVICE STATION WAS QUIET, full of empty tables covered in the debris of the day, and they didn’t have to queue. Hal tried to pay for the coffee, but Ezra shook his head and pushed his credit card across the counter.

“Don’t be silly. You don’t have to be a—” He stopped, suddenly awkward.

“What?” Hal asked, feeling defensive.

Ezra carried the coffees to an empty table before he answered.

“You’re young,” he said at last. “And broke. Young people shouldn’t pay for drinks. I firmly believe that.”

Hal laughed, but took the cup he proffered.

“You’re not offended?” he asked, sipping at his black Americano. Hal shook her head.

“No. I am young, and broke. I can’t be offended at the truth.”

“Thank God for proper coffee after Mrs. Warren’s muck,” Ezra said with a lopsided, rather dry smile. They sipped in silence, and then he said, “I just wanted to say I . . . I wouldn’t blame you. If you had known.”

Hal’s heart seemed to slow and still inside her, and she put down her cappuccino.

“What . . . what do you mean?” she said at last.

“Forget it,” Ezra said. He swallowed another gulp of his coffee. Hal saw the muscles in his throat move beneath his stubble. “It’s none of my business. I just meant . . .” He stopped, drank again, and then said, “If you had known, about . . . about your mother not being . . . I wouldn’t have blamed you . . . for not saying something straightaway.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Hal said, but she felt a tide of blood beginning to climb from her breast up her throat to her cheeks, a great flush of guilt, like a tidal wave of shame.

“That’s okay, then,” Ezra said. He looked out of the window at the falling snow, deliberately not meeting her eyes, giving her time to compose herself.

“So . . .” he said after a minute or two, speaking still as if to the night sky outside. “You’re Maggie’s child. I’m still getting used to that fact. Did you . . . did you know . . . that she lived here for a while? With us, I mean.”

Hal felt her breath catch.

“Before I came here, I didn’t know that, no. But Abel told me about a cousin Maggie. That’s what made me add two and two together afterwards. I—I wish she’d told me about Trepassen.”

He looked back at her, meeting her eyes. His were dark and full of understanding.

“It wasn’t a very happy time for any of us. I can understand why she would want to forget about it.”

“Ezra.” Hal felt a lump in her throat, and she took a deep breath. “Ezra, can I show you something?”

He nodded, puzzled, and Hal dug in her pocket and pulled out her tarot tin. Inside was the photograph Abel had given her, folded in half. She unfolded it carefully, and watched as Ezra’s face split in a smile of recognition, though there was something sad in his eyes too. He reached out, and touched the cheek of his twin, very gently, as if she could feel it through the paper.

“Ezra, did you—do you know . . . who took this photo?”

He looked up at her, frowning slightly, as though he had been somewhere very far away, and the effort was in dragging his thoughts back to the present day.

“Sorry, what did you say?”

“Who took this photo?”

“I’m not sure if I remember,” he said slowly. “Why do you ask?”

“Because—” Hal took a deep breath. “Because I think—I think he might be my father.” The words felt like a confession, and she felt a great release of some kind of tension she had been hardly aware of holding back, but they provoked no reaction in Ezra; he just continued to look at her, puzzled.

“Why do you say that?”

“I found my mother’s diary,” Hal said. “She talks about this day—about the person taking the photograph. That’s all I know about him—that and the fact that he had blue eyes.”

“Blue eyes?” Ezra said. He frowned again, not following her logic. “But yours are dark. How did you work that out?”

“It’s in the diary too,” Hal said. It was such a relief to talk it over with someone that she felt the words tumbling out in her eagerness to explain. “There’s this line she writes, his blue eyes meeting her dark ones. And she mentions someone called Ed, says that he was there the day the photograph was taken. I asked Abel, but he said there was no one else there apart from the four of you—but—”

She broke off. Ezra’s face had changed. He looked fully in the here and now, and there was a touch of something Hal could not place in his expression. She thought it might be a kind of dread.