Laura decided to give Imogen a bit of time to run the bath and submerge herself for a few minutes in peace. Throughout their teens and twenties all their troubles seemed to have been sorted with one or the other of them lying in the bath. Neither apparently wanted to break the habit, and a long soak seemed to cure most ills.
She sliced some lime to add to Imogen’s drink, just the way she liked it, and some lemon for her own. Adding a quadruple measure of Bombay Sapphire and just a hint of tonic, she put the glasses on a tray. She was desperate to know what had happened, but she knew that Imogen wouldn’t be pushed.
Knocking lightly on the door, she pushed it open and was pleased to find that Imogen had taken up her offer and the room smelt fragrant and inviting. She had clearly dunked her hair under the water for fear of lingering odours there, and her face was scrubbed clean. Not at all like Imogen’s usual subtly polished look, but stripped bare like this Laura saw evidence of the earlier ordeal in her eyes. Or perhaps, she reflected, what she was witnessing was simply an indication of the agony that Imogen had endured since losing Will. Hugo had a lot to answer for, but her own conscience was far from clear. Never a day went by that she didn’t regret the fact that she had chosen not to believe Imogen.
Forcing her face into a reassuring smile, Laura placed the drink within easy reach on the side of the bath, and perched herself on the bathroom stool.
Imogen broke the silence.
‘Thanks for giving me a bit of space. I’m sure you’ve been going out of your mind! But it’s okay. Really it is. There’s a problem because they know that an Imogen Dubois caught the train from Paris to St Pancras, and then back again with only a few hours in between. They’re convinced it was me, but they can’t prove it. Even if they could, all they could prove is that I was in London. I could have had an urgent need of something from Harrods, for all they know. There is nothing to tie me to Hugo at all. The only thing they were hoping for was a confession.’
Laura quietly sipped her drink, waiting for Imogen to continue.
‘Of course, there can be no evidence at the apartment, and they’ll never find any trace of me talking to Hugo. So what can they do? Oh, they’ve got CCTV footage of the person they ‘want to interview’, and this person apparently looks like it could be me. But of course it’s not a clear picture, and there’s nothing on any of the other cameras - so I denied everything.’
Imogen’s act of bravado was impressive, but Laura knew her too well.
‘Was it really awful, Imo? I’m so sorry that you’ve had to go through this. I could have prevented it - and I
would
have, without a moment’s hesitation. I hope you know that?’
Imogen reached out a hand covered with suds, and patted Laura on the knee.
‘Don’t be silly, Laura. If I’d done as I should have and got on that plane to Canada, everything would have been fine. So it’s my own fault. I know that, and I’m sorry. And I didn’t only put myself in danger, did I?’
Before Laura could answer, a shout came from downstairs.
‘Laura? Where are you? Any news from Imogen?’
Will had returned, clearly as upset and worried as ever. They heard his feet pounding up the stairs. The door to Laura’s bedroom flew open. As Laura hadn’t bothered to shut the bathroom door, Will could immediately see that somebody was in the bath.
‘Oh sorry, Laura. I’ll stand outside and you can shout to me - just bring me up to date with what’s happening with Imo.’
‘It’s not Laura, it’s me you chump. Don’t you even recognise your own wife? You can come in - there are plenty of bubbles.’
‘Sorry. You looked just like Laura with your hair scraped back like that.’
Will couldn’t disguise his delight at seeing Imogen safely back, and Imogen’s face took on a glow that had nothing to do with the warm and damp atmosphere of the bathroom. Laura was constantly amazed that Imogen still referred to herself as Will’s wife, and equally that he didn’t seem to mind. She thought that this was probably an appropriate time to leave them, and gave up her space on the stool for Will.
‘Much as I know you two are extremely familiar with each other, if you don’t mind I find it vaguely uncomfortable to sit here while my best friend lounges naked in the bath talking to my brother. No doubt it’s another indication of my frigid nature, but there you go.’
Laura smiled to take any possible sting out of her words, and as she left the room she wasn’t surprised to hear Will’s note of puzzlement.
‘Frigid? What’s all that about.’
‘You don’t want to know, Will.’
Laura took herself down to the kitchen where she was certain she would find Stella concocting something to tempt them all with. Her nerves were shattered, and she wondered what the next bombshell was going to be.
She didn’t have to wait long to find out.
Having barely found time to tell a relieved Stella that Imogen was back, the fragile peace was shattered by the ringing of the intercom. Laura picked up the receiver on the kitchen wall and glanced at the video screen. She was surprised to see a rather unkempt looking middle-aged woman with slightly wild grey hair.
‘Hello, can I help you?’
The face peered right up to the camera, obviously not at all familiar with this type of technology. It was fully dark outside now, and the white face against the black background looked eerie, the nose distorted to twice its normal size as it pressed against the lens.
‘I am here to see Lady Fletcher.’
The voice had without a doubt an upper class edge to it which didn’t sit well with the image on the screen. Laura decided to be cautious.
‘Could I ask your business, please?’
‘No, you may not. I wish to speak to Lady Fletcher, and Lady Fletcher alone.’
Stella, who could hear all this as a result of the booming voice coming from a mouth possibly less than in inch from the microphone, raised her eyebrows as she looked at Laura.
‘Lady Fletcher isn’t taking visitors at the moment, I’m afraid.’
‘I’m not a visitor. I’m family.’
Laura gave Stella a questioning look, but Stella just shrugged. It was certainly nobody that she recognised from their side of the family. But Laura didn’t want to appear rude.
‘Could I give Lady Fletcher your name, please?’
‘Just tell her that it is imperative that I speak to her. Tell her it’s Beatrice.’
Wondering if this day could become any more surreal, Laura pressed the entry bell to open the gate, and turned to her mother.
‘It’s Hugo’s sister.’
‘I didn’t even know he
had
a sister. She wasn’t at the wedding, was she?’
‘I’ve never met her. She ran away when she was about fifteen, and she’s been missing for the last forty years!’
Laura made her way towards the front door, and opened it to greet Beatrice. She was surprised by the person she saw approaching the house. Her clothes were casual and inexpensive, bordering on the scruffy, consisting of some floppy black trousers and a long sleeved white cotton jumper with a dark red anorak over it, and she tramped heavily up the drive in what looked like a pair of old trainers, a green duffle bag slung over her shoulder. Her intonation may have retained some of its upper class British edge, but her clothes and general appearance were at odds with the voice.
‘God, I’d forgotten how bloody cold England is. And what a dreary place this house is. How can you bear it? May I come in?’
Speechless, Laura stood back holding the door wide.
She walked into the hallway and stood looking around her. Then she shuddered.
‘How absolutely vile and depressing. Not a thing has changed, except that revolting stoat has gone. Ghastly place.’ She visibly shuddered.
‘I never thought I would be back here in a million years. Do you have any gin in this mausoleum?’
Laura still hadn’t spoken. She wasn’t quite sure what to say, but there was something about this rather odd woman that she liked. Perhaps it was the shared opinion of the house.
‘Yes of course. Please do go through to the drawing room and I’ll organise something for you. Would you like something to eat?’
‘It was you on that phone thing wasn’t it? Don’t blame you for not wanting visitors. I wouldn’t either. I’d say sorry for your loss, but you seem a sensible girl so I’ll save my breath. And no, I’ll not go into the drawing room - a dismal, gloomy place if I remember rightly. I’ll come to the kitchen, if it’s all the same to you.’
‘Yes, of course. But my mother’s in the kitchen. I hope you don’t mind.’
‘Came to console you did she?’
Beatrice barked out a laugh.
Laura really didn’t know what to make of this at all, and was quite glad that Stella would be there to help.
The introductions made, Stella busied herself pouring the drinks, and there was silence for a few moments. How did you begin a conversation with somebody whose brother had just died, but who as far as she knew hadn’t been in contact for years? Beatrice seemed to be taking it all in; Laura’s discomfort and the meticulous care that Stella was taking in preparing a simple gin and tonic. Anything rather than make uneasy conversation, it would seem. In the end, Beatrice broke the strained silence.
‘I heard about Hugo this morning - well, lunch time for us, but still morning here. I went straight to the airport and got a flight this afternoon. I thought I’d better.’
Beatrice looked at the other women as if to gauge their reaction. Laura frowned at her mother, willing her to say something. But before Stella had a chance to speak, Beatrice continued.
‘No doubt you want to know a bit about me, eh? No doubt Hugo told you that I did a bunk all those years ago never to be seen again? It’s perfectly true. I had to get out of this dreadful house and away from the horrendous parents. I suppose you want to know what happened to me, eh?’
Beatrice had perched herself precariously on a high kitchen stool, her short legs dangling and her head pivoting from side to side as she looked first at Laura and then Stella.
Laura nodded mutely. She knew she was being impolite, but she didn’t have a clue what to say to her guest. She needn’t have worried.
‘I ran away to Newquay to start with. It was summer. Lots of people around and easy to blend in. A few months later, I moved to Rhodes - Lindos to be precise. People were camping out on the beach there in the 60s, and it was an easy life. I worked in bars, and just did what I could to survive. Then I met my husband - he’s Greek - and we moved to Crete. We’ve been there ever since. Most people think I’m Greek now, and I never explain. I avoid Brits at all costs.’
Beatrice leaned against the wall behind her, and crossed her arms over her very ample bosom. Her plain, round face was devoid of makeup, and her grey hair was cropped short. But despite her lack of both style and adornment, Laura found her strangely appealing. She was the sort of person who prided themselves on calling a spade a spade, and given the prevalence of dishonesty and deviousness that surrounded this house and its inhabitants, it was a breath of fresh air.
‘How did you find out? About Hugo, I mean,’ Laura asked.
‘I make it a rule never to check English newspapers, and we don’t watch British television, so I don’t usually have the first idea what’s happening. But even Crete has a grapevine, usually passed on by odious tourists. I’d heard about Hugo’s charity. Just what I expected, really, given our father’s tastes and predilections.’
Her mouth was pulled into an expression of distaste, as if she had a bad smell under her nose.
‘But I only heard today about his death. Some loud English people were gossiping about him. They pretended to be concerned, but clearly were more interested in any possible scandal!’
Laura was horrified. Obviously she should have tried to find out if anybody knew how to contact Beatrice. Perhaps the lawyers would have known. The least she could have done would have been to find his last remaining relative.
‘I’m so sorry you had to hear that way,’ she said. ‘It must have been a dreadful shock. If I’d known how to contact you I would have let you know personally, but I had no idea you were in touch with Hugo. He certainly never mentioned it.’
Beatrice barked out another laugh. She wagged a stubby finger at Laura.
‘You think I’ve come back to bid farewell to my long lost brother? We haven’t been in touch since the day I left, and frankly if he was the person that I suspect he was, I would rather raise a glass to his passing. No. I didn’t come for him.’
Beatrice looked keenly at Laura, and her voice softened.
‘I only learned today that he has a daughter. I understand she’s eleven or twelve - something like that. I was concerned about her. I need to know what’s been happening, and how she’s faring. If Hugo was anything like his father…’
Laura’s eyes opened wide. She didn’t know what Beatrice was going to say, but with her mother there she really didn’t want to take the risk. Fortunately, Stella missed her look but Beatrice didn’t. Nodding her understanding, she continued.
‘She is, of course, my own flesh and blood - and I just need to see what I can do to help the girl.’
Beatrice took a rather noisy sip of her gin and jumped down from the stool.
‘Laura - I’d like to reacquaint myself with the old place if that would be possible? Is it okay if I bring my drink with me?’
Two minutes later they were walking from the kitchen into the hallway. At the bottom of the stairs, Laura paused.
‘Would you like to look upstairs first, or go through the downstairs rooms?’ Laura asked.
‘Don’t be bloody ridiculous. I haven’t the slightest interest in the house, but it was pretty clear to me that you didn’t want me discussing your husband in front of your mother. Where’s the girl? Is she okay?’
‘Yes, Beatrice, she’s fine. She’s with her mother. She is a truly delightful girl and you must meet her while you’re here. Whatever your worries are, it’s all in hand.’
Beatrice nodded slowly. Neither felt the need to explain more, and they fell into a brief silence. When Beatrice spoke again, her tone was harsh.
‘My father and mother were complete bastards, you know. Strange would be a polite word, but as a boy Hugo was shaping up just to be like my father. Odd really, because Hugo hated him. I never really understood that, given their similarity. I was so blinded by my own hatred of the whole bloody family that I really wasn’t bothered what Hugo was going through. He was a self-obsessed boy who clearly thought that, as Mummy’s favourite, he was something special. Never missed the little sod for a minute. But I don’t suppose it was his fault entirely.’