Authors: Marni Graff
Overhead, a squawking flock of Greylag geese broke the quiet. Nora recognized them from a guidebook that she’d almost memorized over the last few months. The geese whirled overhead. Nora had seen them bathing and roosting in the area’s tarns and lakes. It had been windy last night, and now she wondered where they went in poor weather. Farther up the shore, the huge, white steamship
Swan
stood tethered to its dock, too early for the crew or for the strings of tourists who eventually would cram on board. Nora decided she would ask if Kate would take the cruise with her later this week, as the boat passed Belle Isle on its way up and back to Waterhead. That island in the middle of the lake was home to her imagined fairy family, and seeing it again from all sides would be stimulating and help in her story planning.
Across the road, the back door to Ramsey Lodge opened, and Nora slowed her steps. Darby darted out followed by Kate, with a basket slung over one willowy arm. Simon followed, and the siblings made their way down the remaining rows of their extensive vegetable garden, stopping at times to confer, making selections of squash and late greens that would appear on tonight’s menu. Nora admired their energy and determination to keep the lodge running after their parents’ deaths. Kate had been a set designer in London and now enjoyed decorating the lodge rooms according to different themes. She refinished most of the furniture and gathered objects that fit each room’s motif. Simon continued painting in the studio in his part of the lodge. An Oxford gallery was the lucky recipient of most of his landscapes and portraits. Now, Nora thought, he had the additional pleasure of illustrating her books. Life had a way of presenting change when you least expected it, but these two seemed to roll with the punches. Resilient, she decided.
Nora turned back to the water and continued her walk, swinging her arms to loosen up. Kate had recently become engaged to a local detective, and Nora was excited for her friend. Simon, she knew, would be overjoyed if Nora would be willing to pledge herself to him in the same way. His affection stirred feelings that Nora found comforting at times and overwhelming at others. He was so creative and patient, very kind and understanding. Sometimes his perfection grated on her. She didn’t understand her convoluted feelings toward him and wasn’t ready to explore them.
Nora heard Kate’s raised voice and looked back to see Simon playfully throw a carrot at her before returning to the lodge. Lately, Nora had sensed friction between the siblings—not open confrontation but more of a dissonance. Kate was in favor of expanding the lodge, but Simon feared expansion wouldn’t allow time for his art. Just last night at dinner he’d pronounced: “I think you’re going to see that all of these changes won’t be necessary.”
Nora wasn’t on either side—she didn’t have experience in their kind of business. As an only child, she’d often wished for the kind of companionship and understanding she thought a brother or sister would have provided, the comfortable relationship Kate and Simon usually enjoyed. She was confident they would work through this hitch. People can’t agree on everything.
Nora drew in great gulps of fresh air—deep, cleansing breaths to expand her lungs. Her baby waved inside her, kicking during his own morning calisthenics. As she rounded the corner of Bowness Bay, her gaze flitted across the shallow water along the pebbly shore. Simon had explained that the lake dropped to well more than two hundred feet at its center, but here the water was clear, and Nora searched for small fish among the waving grasses at its edge. A few yards ahead, the tip of an overturned green scull caught her attention; it was wobbling up and down at the stony shore, disturbing its neatness.
As she came abreast of the scull, the next slopping wave nudged it higher onto the pebbly shingle. Without pausing, Nora left the path and reached out to pull on the scull’s tip to keep it on shore. Someone would be looking for it later today. She was surprised when it barely budged, and she heaved harder, throwing her small frame into the effort. It must be filled with sand and water, she thought, and tugged harder. There was a sucking sound, and suddenly the scull slid up the bank, knocking Nora off balance and onto her knees on the damp sand. She was abruptly opposite the swollen, glassy-eyed face of a very dead man, partially covered in muck. He lay curled on his side, half-hidden by the scull. There was a greenish cast to his skin, mottled with gouges and missing pieces of flesh. His swollen, purple lips grinned grotesquely at her; one eye socket was empty. The distorted features shifted with the next wave.
Nora’s stomach roiled, and her breakfast threatened to come back up. She sucked in air and gasped. Then she heard her own screams echoing across the water as she realized the dead man was someone she knew.
Chapter Two
“But surely the study of fingerprints and footprints, cigarette ash, different kinds of mud and other clues that comprise the minute observations of details—all these are of vital importance?”
— Agatha Christie,
Murder on the Links
9:20
AM
From his porch across the curve of Bowness Bay, hidden by a stand of juniper bushes, Daniel Rowley watched the commotion as a crowd gathered near a pregnant girl. She waddled like a duck, and her screams had woken him far too soon.
He had reluctantly opened his eyes, then had felt the pressure on his bladder and had swung his thick legs over the cot’s edge to land with a heavy thump on the bare wooden floor. There was a chill in the room this morning, and he knew he must have fallen into bed again without banking up the fire. A glance down at his still-clothed body had confirmed this. He’d wiped his grimy hands across his face and had staggered to the toilet, ignoring the dull headache he’d come to expect.
The screams had stopped, and after splashing cold water on his face, Daniel had toweled off with a corner of the torn bathrobe he’d thrown over the bathroom door. He’d crept to the rickety porch, careful to stay out of sight.
A police siren announced official business. A police car skidded to a stop near the footpath. Thankfully, the constable turned off the siren before running over to the screamer—that American writer, Daniel realized, who’d been staying at the lodge. She sat huddled on a bench between Kate and Simon Ramsey. Simon had his arm around her, and all three were speaking to the officer.
Simon stood and walked the officer over to an upturned green scull. The policeman knelt, then came quickly upright and ran at a brisk trot back to his vehicle, speaking into a radio clipped to his shoulder. Simon stood with his hands on his hips for a moment, then returned to the bench.
Daniel enjoyed the way the blue-white-red light bar on top of the panda car reflected off the water’s surface. Too bad his pal Jack Halsey wasn’t here to see it. They would raise a toast to the whirling lights. That Jack, he was ready to raise a toast to anything at all. It was one of the reasons they got on so well.
Daniel chose kindling from a stack on the porch. Inside, he lit the fire, then set up his kettle on the two-ring hot plate for a good cuppa. He sloshed water into a huge mug and dropped in the tea. When it had steeped to a point dark enough for him, he poured three overflowing tablespoons of honey into it and carried the sweet brew back to the porch.
In his absence, a second official car had arrived, its beam chasing that of the first car across the lake’s surface. Making his tea, Daniel had also missed seeing the blue-and-white crime scene tape being spread over a portion of the footpath, blocking access from either end. Two constables now stood watch along the path.
The Ramseys and the pregnant woman had disappeared, but Daniel knew more cars would arrive, soon to be followed by the SOCOs—Scene of Crime Officers—who would look like giant insects scouring the scene in their lint-free suits. It was amazing what you could learn from television these days. Minutes later, a police van pulled up, and a photographer gathered his equipment from the back. The uproar attracted villagers and tourists, all kept at bay by the tape and the constables on guard.
Daniel sipped his tea, and the liquid burned its way down his raw throat. He glanced at the sun and knew he had time before he had to be at Clarendon Hall. He balanced his chipped mug carefully on the porch railing and, heading back inside, inspected his three chairs. He chose the one with the sturdiest legs and dragged it out from the cottage to the porch. Placing it in his vantage point behind the screen of bushes, he settled back to enjoy the show.
Chapter Three
“All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.”
—Edgar Allen Poe, “A Dream Within a Dream
”
9:45
AM
Nora sat in stunned silence at the pine table in Simon’s kitchen. She flashed on the memory of Bryn Wallace’s death in Oxford and shivered. A death like this would set the wheels of an investigation into motion and would engulf her. She
would
have to be the person who had found the dead man—and not just any man, either.
By the sink, Kate tapped her foot impatiently. She’d called her fiancé, Detective Inspector Ian Travers, and was waiting for him to pick up the phone at the main police station in Kendal. Grabbing a fluffy, loomed shawl from a peg near the door, she draped it over Nora’s shoulders.
Nora roused herself to thank Kate. The scent of strong black tea was helping her maintain her grasp on reality in a surreal situation. She stared into the depths of the mug, forcing her mind from dwelling on the atrocity at the water’s edge. As though he sensed the tense mood, Darby kept quiet watch at Nora’s feet under the table. Her baby had waved an arm, so she felt reasonably confident the shock hadn’t hurt the child.
“Ian, thank goodness. Something awful happened, and Nora”— Kate threw Nora a tense look as she listened. “Yes, she’s right here with me. … No, I won’t. … Nora and Simon both did. Ian, it’s Keith Clarendon.”
*
As they waited for Ian, Kate brought a mug of tea to the female police constable on duty outside the door, then poured her own and sat across from Nora.
“It’s awful—all I can think of is our conversation at breakfast, and how enthusiastic Keith was about my winning the contest.” Nora wrapped the shawl tighter around her shoulders.
“It
is
awful. Ian said you’re to stay inside, away from the reporters milling around. Simon will keep them at bay,” Kate explained.
“Thanks.” Nora put her face in her hands. “I don’t think I could handle reporters right now.” She looked up with a wan smile. “It’s odd because I used to be one and never realized how intrusive I might be.” She shook her head, the reddish waves bouncing. Somewhere in the fuss her clip had come off, and long strands fell forward, partially covering her face.
“You have every right to be upset,” Kate said. “Poor Keith. His family has already faced so much tragedy.”
Kate didn’t explain, and Nora was too upset to ask. She looked past the kitchen to the living area, with its cozy fireplace, at the far end of the large room. Two sets of French doors in the wall opposite her led to Simon’s studio and to his bedroom suite. Her own suite was just across a wide hallway. Once it had belonged to the head housekeeper, who had lived at the lodge during the senior Ramseys’ tenure. What had become a haven of comfort for her now appeared unfamiliar and strange.
She contemplated her cooling tea where she’d set it down. With her huge belly keeping her at a distance from the table, it felt like too much effort to lean that far over to sip it; she didn’t think she had the strength in her hands to pick it up.
“I keep seeing Keith’s face, at least what was left of it,” she told Kate in a low voice. “I wonder if he committed suicide? Why not try to get out of his scull, if it sprang a leak or started to sink? It doesn’t make sense.”
Kate shook her head. “I don’t know, Nora. I hope Ian will sort it out quickly. He’s very good at his job.”
Nora sighed. “Now Keith will never finish his book. Instead he’s out there, waiting for the coroner.” A chill coursed through her body.
Kate looked up at the clock. “It’s getting late. I have to talk to Agnes about the dinner menu. Do you mind staying here alone, or would you rather come with me?”
“No, you go ahead.” Nora rested one hand lightly on her belly and remained rooted to the chair.
“Come on, Darby. Let’s go see Agnes.” The dog obediently followed Kate out through the pocket door.
The room was quiet. Nora could hear the clock tick. She co
uldn’t hide any longer from the memories of the night her father drowned. She remembered how her mother’s face, blotched and red from crying, had turned white when they’d been allowed into the emergency room cubicle to say goodbye. Then she recalled her father’s body, cold and slack, his lively, hazel eyes dulled. Closing her own eyes, Nora willed the images back to the dark corner of her mind she rarely visited.
She couldn’t sit there any longer; she carried her mug over to the sink, pouring out the cold tea. Eventually, she knew, the police would have to interview her. She looked out the window and saw the crowd that the flurry of activity had attracted, along with several news vans already parked along the road. At least they’d had the good grace to arrive after she was safely inside, and she wouldn’t see her face on the evening news.
The constable at the door saw Nora standing by the window and brought in her own empty mug. She nodded toward the scene outside. “First thing of this kind we’ve had in the area in some time. How are you feeling?” She was a polite girl, with a neatly ironed uniform and hair carefully braided to stay out of her way during work.
“I don’t know,” Nora replied truthfully. “This feels like a dream, you know—so real it seems unreal.”
The woman nodded thoughtfully as they watched the photographer packing up, then said, “I expect poor Keith would wish it were someone else’s dream.”